#do you think it was an act of mercy or do you think he wanted her to die? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lovebugism · 7 hours ago

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✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all.

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water.

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls.

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him.

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you.

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura.

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes.

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you.

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him.

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now.

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you.

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that.

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath.

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is.

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames.

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended.

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now.

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way.

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before.

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens. “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame.

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs.

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands.

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath.

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air.

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in.

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now.

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more.

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward.

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours.

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…”

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor.

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’.

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure.

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away.

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver.

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

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smalltownduck · 11 hours ago

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tw discussions of su1cide and death ideation

Sometimes I think about this post and others that shed light on Vecna's (albeit twisted) compassion for struggling living beings, particularly the four victims of '86. Obviously he had something to gain from those murders (compared to the 79 massacre, on top!), but 1) it has never been explained why and how exactly those killings created so much energy to open gates and 2) in a not too similar parallel to those animals caught in traps and eventually killed around the Creel house (put a pin on whether you think Henry, One and Vecna -hell, or even show Henry and TFS Henry- are one and the same or if you subscribe to the Edward/Henry theory), perhaps the whole 'prey on the weak' wasn't necessarily 100% malicious, but rather (in Vecna's mind) a merciful act.

Aligning to the "vecna's curse was a sui allegory", he might have thought that each of the '86 victims were hopeless in regards to their living situations AND their inner strength/coping mechanisms to deal with them and their own futures. In fact, that might have probably been the only reason why he could create a psyonic connection with them in the first place. For example, even if Chrissy's or Patrick's parents, "the ones" (obvs not the only) that were causing them pain, were removed from the equation, their impact and presence would still remain in everyday life and haunt their children forever. They didn't really have anybody (seems like therapy wasn't working either, or they might not have commited to that process by openning up) to rely on, and they weren't in a place to willingly look for companionship at all.

The sad reality is that sometimes, even in a supernatural universe, it's impossible to make trauma and triggers dissapear for good and begin anew with a clean slate. For instance, it wouldn't be enough to undo Billy's death for Max to heal, but also undo his previous abuse of her, her mother not protecting her, her dad emotionally abandonning her, and so on, or stopping Fred from running off after the accident, the accident in the first place, him having done anything prior to prevent him losing control of the vehicle in the first place, etc. It's a cycle that would go on with them lacking a support system and/or not having developed have the skills to cope and seek for community and love on their own terms. I guess that, for Vecna, that was just the system (everybody around you) being rigged as usual -those four were not only dealt a bad hand, but they didn't (and would never have) have what it takes to play and come out on top.

Turns out a very powerful supernatural being is as capable of rewriting the past (or at least he can't yet), along with all its individual strings and webs, as us normal humans are irl. It's natural to wish that getting rid of those things, those people who seem like the biggest obstacles between someone and a fullfilling life would fix everything, but there are too many variables at play; it takes changing too many minds for real and for good. Perhaps Vecna, underestimating/ignoring the power of a support system and willpower (hence why only Max escaped the first time and continues to cling to life -because, unlike the others, she had a chance and the support to realize that she did want to live and that there was a way out of the darkness), thought that the four couldn't make it on their own into the future anyway. They were weak, isolated by their own doing, too broken, and in so much pain to go on -it was pointless and more cruel for them to continue to exist. Like the trapped and wounded animals in the Creel house, he "facilitated" the ending of their suffering in earnest-ish.

or maybe he thinks that far too many people are lazy cowards for not putting time and care into committing to make systemic changes nor break the cycle of abuse so he doesn't have any faith in anybody and they were easy targets idk

sorry this derailed so far away from will's vanishing. all i can say is that i, too, don't believe in that the "main villian" of ST is 100% evil. that'd reductive and scapegoat-ish to the ideas that began it all: forced comformity, perpetuating cycles of abuse and systems that fail everybody.

Deducing what may have actually happened to Will Byers on Nov 6, 1983 using evidence from the show.

Trigger warning: M*rder, s*icide.

part 2. part 3.

Before I begin, I just want to remind everyone that this show has many layers to it. What I mean is, if you watch carefully, a piece of dialogue can actually mean two (or more) things. The dialogue can be meaningful for the specific scene (surface level) and it can be a sneaky way to foreshadow something else entirely (subtext).

From this specific moment, we can assume that moving forward: any and all mentions of JFK’s assassination will actually be about Will’s disappearance (subtext).

So when the writers gifted us with these mentions, they are actually referring to the conspiracy surrounding Will’s disappearance. So let’s investigate, shall we?

Here’s the briefest overview of the JFK assassination: Oswald was convicted of assassinating JFK. Oswald denied his involvement stating that he was “a patsy”. Many conspiracy theories believe that Johnson was actually the one responsible.

Both Mrs. Driscoll and Dustin do not believe that Oswald assassinated JFK. Mrs. Driscoll is an outcast; she’s an older woman with schizophrenia. The guys who work at the newspaper are quick to dismiss her for these reasons. Now remember, this is Stranger Things, the show about outcasts being right and those fitting the norm being wrong. Then there’s our beloved Dustin, who states that “Oswald was a patsy”. Thus we can conclude: Johnson assassinated JFK, and Oswald was a patsy.

So… who if Will is JFK in this equation, who are our “Johnson” and “Oswald” counterparts?

Well right now, I assume most people believe Vecna is responsible for Will’s disappearance. He is our “bad guy”. So my guess is that he is our “Oswald”.

Who is our “Johnson”? Now remember, Johnson was someone close to JFK, he was the vice-president. He had something to gain in this. I believe Lonnie fits the bill the most for our Johnson.

So many clues surround Lonnie that tell us he was actually responsible. Plus, remember, he has something to gain from Will’s death: life insurance.

Though to be far, I am definitely not ruling out Brenner and Hawkins lab being involved in this too.

So… what happened exactly then? I’m not certain but this is my theory:

Lonnie was prepared to kill Will that night, but his plans were thwarted by our “Oswald”. Vecna swooped in and saved Will from his fate. His “come with me if you want to live” moment.

Moving further into the theory territory… here is a prediction:

- Our characters believe that the only way to defeat Vecna is to travel back in time and “stop him”.

- They travel back, stop him, then return finding out that the alternate present is much worse. By this I mean: Will was murdered, Mike ended his life by suicide, Joyce got admitted to Pennhurst Asylum, Jonathan was struggling with addiction, Lonnie got his payout, etc.

- Thus realizing that “killing” Vecna is and never was the solution here.

Now you may be thinking: but Vecna is 100% evil, why are you trying to redeem him? Well, the thing is, he’s not. Vecna is a villain but he’s not 100% evil. The show isn’t that simple friends. Plus, remember, nothing is exactly as it seems in this show.

#tw sui talk #cw death ideation #only by accepting the good and the bad within ourselves we're whole <- hate the guy but he's right #st5 speculation #weirder stuff #stranger things #not vecna apologism #<- just in case

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familiarscars · 2 days ago

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Lost In Control | Bad Omens | CHAPTER 09

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Bad Omens X ex-girlfriend and singer!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Noah had a difficult ending, but you still need to support each other for the band.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, ex-boyfriends, difficult relationships, alcohol abuse, swearing, drug addiction, violence.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind, and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

NOAH

If that punching bag could speak, it would beg for mercy. Sweat heated my skin, and with every punch against the rubbery surface, an overstrained grunt sliced through the air.

"I think that's enough for today, Noah," someone said from a distance, but my focus was locked on the back-and-forth motion of my clenched fists, ignoring how they throbbed painfully with each strike.

This was the only way to unload everything consuming me without smashing my head into some random passerby while walking down the street.

The past few days couldn’t have been more hellish. I couldn’t write, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and all I was left with was being forced to see that woman at every rehearsal and act like she didn’t exist.

Impossible when she was everywhere.

"I just said it seems like enough for today, Noah!" The same voice broke the short space between me and the punching bag as it pulled me away from it. "What the hell is wrong with you today? You seem like you're on another planet!"

The trainer stood in front of me, arms crossed, while I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor. My chest heaved uncontrollably as I stared at his calves through the strands of sweat-soaked hair hanging over my face.

Training at night was good; I liked the empty gym, especially when I used it as an escape.

"My head's full of crap, that's all," I spat, removing the wraps around my fists.

"Anything I can help with?"

"Only if you can hit me hard enough to induce permanent amnesia," I tried to joke, but my voice came out more morbid than anything else.

"Actually... I might be able to do that!" The tall, bald man with bulging veins on his temples shrugged. "But forgetting, even temporarily, won't make your crap disappear."

"And who said I want anything resolved? The sooner everything goes to hell, the better."

I definitely didn’t mean to be so harsh, but it came out automatically, and he should ignore it. My good moods were so rare that, to him, this probably felt like just another normal day.

"It might be a relief for a while, but the body reacts differently than your mind. Even if your mind didn’t remember anything, you'd live with the feeling that something’s missing every time it relives memories, habits, interests, and tastes," he added. "Like when you touch an object and your body reacts instantly, or when you visit a place and your insides speak for themselves."

What utter nonsense, for God’s sake.

"Got it," I said, giving him a thumbs-up with a straight smile, as if that load of crap actually made sense.

"Fine, fine, call me crazy, Mr. Know-It-All!" He rolled his eyes, turning his back. My gaze swept the room, watching as he picked up gloves and bags scattered on the floor, placing them on the shelves.

Leaving the gym, I regretted not grabbing a jacket earlier as the wind hit me on the street. Walking to the parking lot, I unlocked the car with a click, and before getting in, I heard a brief cluster of voices in the distance. Turning around, I saw a group of four girls bundled up in band hoodies, phones in hand.

I couldn’t explain why, but a discomfort seemed to envelop me as they approached, realizing I wasn’t about to flee.

“Noah, would you mind taking a picture with us?” asked the tallest girl, her short hair tucked behind her ears.

Well, maybe there was no harm in that.

“Of course! Let’s do it!” I forced a brief smile as they gathered around me.

A guy passing through the parking lot helped take the photo, and I held the smile until he finished.

“Thank you so much, Noah. I hope you’re doing okay!” said another girl with colorful streaks in her hair, stepping aside.

“I am, thanks for asking.”

I just wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t that I hated my fans or anything. In fact, I’d always been able to separate those who genuinely appreciated the band’s work respectfully from those who felt entitled to my personal life, as if it didn’t belong to me or as if I wasn’t an adult capable of handling my own decisions.

But I couldn’t deny that most of the time, I wished to be a voice without a face. I loved writing music, I loved singing, and I never doubted it was for me since the first time I did it. I just wasn’t so sure that back then, I’d also wanted everything that came with it.

The way I felt uneasy in most recent social interactions made it clear how I felt.

“We just wanted to let you know that no matter what happened, we’re on your side. Always!” she emphasized, and my brows furrowed as my expression darkened.

“What are you talking about?”

“It was on a news channel—speculations that the Bad Omens vocalist’s overdose was her ex-boyfriend’s fault.” The information came with a phone placed in my hand. “They dug up videos of you two arguing at the festival, and now they’re blaming you.”

“They’re piecing together moments from shows where things seemed tense and comparing how she’s been since your breakup,” added a redheaded girl, taking the phone from my hand. “But we’re rallying in your defense. We know she was always the problem, and we won’t let her fans drag your name like that.”

Every misfortune seemed to fall short of what I deserved.

“Look, I’m sure you all have better things to do than worry about this,” I assured them, stepping back closer to the car. “I don’t need lawyers for the internet court. Take care.”

With a final fake smile, my eyes narrowed as I turned my back on them and got in the car. Before starting the engine, I still caught one last complaint.

“It’s incredible how he defends that girl even in the middle of this circus. I don’t understand what the hell she has!” she fumed, stomping her feet and crossing her arms.

That was an excellent question.

I was far too focused on the traffic, humming Sicko Mode by Travis Scott, tapping my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel. I couldn’t help swaying in a little dance as if nothing was wrong. The sunlight was strong, so I pulled my sunglasses from my hair to better see the road.

For a fleeting moment of distraction, I glanced in the rearview mirror, and a chilling sensation washed over me for no reason. Behind my car, a dark-windowed SUV waited at the same red light. There was no reason for concern—I knew cars like that were common around here.

But the unease grew, gnawing at me, as I decided to test my suspicion when the light turned green. Casually, I turned the first corner to shake it off, but it didn’t take long for the driver of the SUV to appear on the narrow street, blatantly trailing me.

I pressed the gas pedal moderately, and the bastard matched my pace. He didn’t seem intent on cutting me off, maintaining a safe distance—just enough to let me know he was there, aiming to unsettle me.

I tried to keep control, ignoring my sweaty hands gripping the steering wheel, my gaze fixed on the mirror. Accelerating down the second avenue, I ran a red light, weaving through the crossing traffic to shake the pursuer, my pulse racing in rhythm with the car’s speed.

No time to think. I veered sharply into the opposite lane, narrowly avoiding a collision with another vehicle that slammed on its brakes. The blaring horn couldn’t even dampen the sinister adrenaline coursing through my veins, heating my blood alongside my labored breathing.

I yanked the wheel, swerving into the first open alley I spotted, slowing just enough to notice the SUV caught in the chaos I’d caused at the intersection, freezing the traffic behind it.

But what the hell was that?

After another meeting in the office, everyone was ready to leave. I was really determined to keep my promise when I said she had died to me yesterday.

Today, I only thought about her three thousand times.

When I passed through the door, I saw that she was right behind me, and it was incredible how every time things were tense between us, she somehow managed to look six times more stunning, as if just to provoke me.

The funniest part was that she didn’t have to try very hard to do it.

“Are you okay?” My steps instinctively halted when I heard her voice. “You seemed agitated when you got to the meeting, and…”

If I were speaking to her, I would’ve surely said that a big part of my irritation came from people spreading lies about us online again and some lunatic racing me on the road just a few minutes earlier.

“I really wanted to talk to you about something,” she insisted, gently touching my back, which I quickly pulled away from. Her fingers carried electricity, and just the slightest contact with my skin was enough to turn my brain into useless mush.

But I wasn’t about to break the silence game.

“Noah?” Gerard poked his head out of the room, interrupting the moment. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.”

Relieved, I exhaled deeply, keeping my back turned to her as I walked into the room. I hated the smell of cigars and strong alcohol that filled the place, and I couldn’t stop glaring disgustedly at the leather furniture, worried the scent would stick to me.

“Just seeing the number of attendees in today’s meeting told me your conversation didn’t go well, did it?”

“Did you call me here to talk about work, or are you looking to catch up on gossip? I’m sure any website could keep you more updated than I could,” I retorted as I slouched in the chair, legs spread, letting my head fall to the side.

Fortunately, I wasn’t very expressive.

“I called you because I care about you two, and of course, this news shook me—not just because it’s a sad decision coming from someone young like her…” Gerard paused dramatically, and I raised a single eyebrow. “But because I’m worried about you in all of this.”

Fascinating.

“It happened exactly as I imagined. There’s no way she could’ve handled another wave of hate after all these months being labeled as problematic. Noah, I knew she’d eventually find a way to drag you into it, to share the blame!”

“I don’t follow the news, so I’m out of the loop,” I lied shamelessly.

“So you haven’t noticed she hasn’t defended you or denied anything being said about you? Noah…” He took a deep breath, clasping his hands with a thick gold ring on his ring finger over the messy desk. “I’ve been your age, and I know what love does to people, especially when it’s one-sided.”

Nothing annoyed me more than people circling endlessly around a topic instead of just saying it outright. We weren’t at a lecture or a sermon, and outside this place, dragging things out made no sense.

It was impossible not to stare at him with more disinterest as I rested my hand on my chin.

“I know you probably think this is all nonsense, but I can’t let you forget what happened the last time an issue between you two crossed personal boundaries and hurt the band,” he stressed, drawing a line on the desk. “I took the hit, and you… well, no need to comment—just search your name online.”

“Every day revisiting the same topic. Don’t you have a new, important agenda to make my visit worthwhile?”

“This will remain the topic until you stop behaving like you’re ready to throw it all away for that disturbed girl again!” He finally bared his claws. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t, even for a second, think it was betrayal for her to throw you to the wolves and save her own skin?”

I’d reached my limit for the day, clearing my throat into my fist before standing and stretching my back. Slowly, I leaned over the desk, bringing my face close to his while locking eyes and moistening my lips with my tongue.

“Gerard, dear…” I whispered so softly it almost sounded like a song. “You can take my band, my money, my rights, my songs, even the damn socks I sell. But my personal life? That’s still none of your damn business!”

“It becomes my business when she manipulates every thought in your head and keeps you from doing your job!”

“As you’ve noticed, we’re no longer together. She made her choice yesterday, and now our relationship is purely professional. I couldn’t care less about what she does from now on, as long as it means she sings properly and does her job!” I declared. “Now, please stop bothering me with things that aren’t my responsibility or interest. I’ll keep ensuring my part is done.”

A strangely triumphant smile formed on his lips, and I watched as Gerard nodded slowly.

“Perfect!” he exclaimed, giving two light pats to my cheek. “I knew I could count on you!”

Breathing outside that room again felt like being reborn, if such a thing was possible. The entire way out of the office, I tried to push his words out of my head, though they carried a shred of truth.

I couldn’t forget that when everything fell on her shoulders, I had the same reaction, if not worse, staying silent, waiting for the chaos to subside. But it never did, and now it made sense for her to use a winning hand against me.

She knew I couldn’t do anything on my own, and that gave her free rein to do whatever she wanted. But it was undeniable how bitter it tasted to feel like a stepping stone for her unstable ego.

Outside, I paused at the entrance as rain washed over the dry, empty streets of the city. It wasn’t heavy, but the few drops that hit my face were cold and powerful enough to conjure a mirage before my eyes.

Ahead on the road, there was nothing but trees past the shoulder. In the middle of the asphalt, two people—a couple—smiled as they ran, chasing each other like there was no fear of tomorrow. They danced even without music, and it seemed like the first time the boy had ever felt truly happy about something. He looked free.

Shaking my head to push away the revisited memory, I headed toward the studio, which wasn’t far. Outside, amid the laughter and the sound of guitar riffs, there she was, her voice like a spell capable of putting me in an automatic trance every time I heard it.

Passing through the gate slowly, I walked toward the back of the vast yard. She and my friends were gathered, Jolly and she doing a duet—more precisely, a cover of Decode. Even as they seemed to be having fun, she didn’t go off-key once.

The raspiness of her voice, the beginnings of delirium watching her sit there smiling between verses on a bench with the microphone in hand—it took me back to the bar’s back room, watching her sing in absolute silence. There was no technique, no production, no effect—nothing could compete with the absurd talent I desperately wished the world would know.

The same place where I first saw her and swore I’d never seen anything like it, the same place where I fell hopelessly in love with the insane woman who had a desperation for life, for proving how free she was, enough to infect me with the same poison.

I hated her.

I hated her so much.

⭑ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lma1986 ; @chey-h ;

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bandtrees · 12 hours ago

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the thing about curly is that it feels like a copout to describe him as "too nice" but i think that really is the situation with him. i feel when talking about him as a leader there's a lot of talk about the anya and jimmy stuff but i feel not a lot about the parts that show his passiveness causing problems before then.

most notably, that he let daisuke aboard a ship not made for five people, and that he told the others about the layoffs before he was meant to. both very well-intentioned, interpersonally Nice things to do, that were welcome as a friend who cares about the crew, but less so as an authority figure who's supposed to have a spine about those sorts of things.

he's not really thinking about the repercussions for revealing this information, or the impact it'll have on his crew's mental states in the months they have left for their last haul, because in his eyes - and this is something he tells both anya and jimmy - they'll Get Through It Together. curly is someone who reassures the people around him a lot in his dialogue. he cares a lot about people but does, in fact, care too much, and when it comes down to it, he can't do much except care.

an important thing to note with the anya situation (specifically in contrast to the "curly only cared about jimmy" take i see around) is that curly does reassure her, and i think did genuinely believe what he was saying when he told her everything was going to be okay and that they'd figure it out together. it's just that he also told those things to jimmy, and when you're a person as passive as curly, if you don't put your foot down people are going to weasel in and use that as an opening.

curly was a good friend, but not a good leader. there's only so much that reassurances without tangible action can do for someone in the state anya was in. he likely let daisuke board because he felt for and liked him, disregarding the fact it was literally unsafe for him to do so because of the pod situation. he told the crew they were getting laid off because it felt right for him to do so, he acted as a "friend" and not as a "leader".

and this is really cool contrast to jimmy, imo, who has no sense of compassion and is quick to take impulsive, ruthless decisions he expects praise for by sole virtue of being hard. jimmy would rather mouthwash someone's open wounds and force another to commit cannibalism than mercy-kill them - because someone dying under his care means he failed, and he can't have that, and so he will drag out their suffering for as long as humanly possible. he can't actually face the consequences of his actions.

both of them have this mantra of "i can fix it" without actually fixing much of anything - however i think curly differs in that he's a compassionate person who doesn't mind being on the same level as his crew (for better or worse), meanwhile jimmy can never shake the title of "captain" and the inflated sense of importance it gives him and that he projects onto curly. curly cares but doesn't act, jimmy acts but doesn't care.

BUT - i think a really interesting thing here too is how they act in the immediate danger of the crash. jimmy hides with his hands on his head, catatonic, while curly rushes in to try and salvage the ship even when it'll endanger him. jimmy is unable to face the gravity of what he did, while curly - even if he's not a good captain socially - is willing to put himself in danger to fix it. it gives the impression that while curly can't raise a hand against other people, he's willing to go down with his ship and put others before himself.

and putting others before himself is his entire relationship with jimmy, no? curly's dialogue with his crewmates is very reassuring, with a generous "we'll fix it together" attitude (see his patience with daisuke in the foam scene, and how he offers to do jimmy's psych eval when anya doesn't want to (compared to how jimmy would likely handle those situations, as we see when he yells at anya when asked to do tasks for her)) - BUT i would argue it's even moreso apparent with jimmy.

curly's povs, in my mind, offer the views on characters we don't see from jimmy's perspective, as jimmy cherrypicks scenes to paint anya as incompetent, daisuke as stupid and spoiled, swansea as mean and unstable - with curly, we see anya is gossipy and likes to joke around, daisuke is willing to fix problems by himself even if he struggles, et cetera. and with curly, we see, in how he talks to and about jimmy, he's very... concerned for him? and walks on eggshells around him.

^^^ after jimmy has pivoted a conversation curly was having about his life to be about his insecurities, and curly takes the bait and reassures him.

in general, he seems wary of jimmy as someone who will blow up if not reassured.

and he talks to, and about him, like he's taken on this quasi-therapist "responsible" role for him. he has this very... mental health-centered way of talking to jimmy - we'll fix it together, one day at a time, hey i believe in you, etc. which gives me the impression of, and this happens very often, a very trusting and overly-empathetic guy who's been roped into a relationship with someone whose safety and actions have been made his responsibility.

(i obviously don't mean this to woobify curly, or to diminish the game's commentary on rape culture, but rather to express that there's more to curly's behavior around jimmy than "shitty men cover for eachother".)

and i think one of the ultimate tragedies of curly's character is that, in the end, what jimmy projects on him -

-was true. this is how curly thought, before he was forced to come to terms, via experiencing jimmy's abuse of him, witnessing anya's suicide and the others' bodies, that jimmy was a monster who was never going to care about curly the way curly cared about him.

but, because jimmy views curly, now disabled, as a complete blank slate because he physically cannot speak for himself, jimmy continues to project upon him the dynamic that did exist between them - no matter the horrors he puts curly through, because if curly let him get away with it then, he'd let him get away with it now, right?

and when curly didn't put his foot down when it mattered, he now no longer can - and so jimmy's words, as long as he's as unable to speak for himself as he was back then, will be in his mouth forever.

#long posts #babbles #mouthwashing #mouthwashing game #mouthwashing spoilers #captain curly #this has been a long time coming. it is nobody's surprise who my favorite mouthwashing character is #but i was always nervous to actually talk about my opinions lol #he means a lot to me auauuuuaauuaghhhh augh.#im not proofreading this this is just (checks) 1k words of my autism opinions #rape mention #ableism mention

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cosmicjoke · 2 days ago

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The Student Becoming the Teacher:

You know what I realized about this moment?

Kenny is envious of Levi.

He asks Levi, with naked derision, "What are you?! A hero?!", because Levi is what Kenny always wanted, but never managed to be, which is a good person, and Levi managed it without ever needing to gain ultimate power.

Kenny believed that the only way to be a good person was if you were so powerful, you could simply afford to be good. In other words, as long as it cost you nothing to be so. As long as you were untouchable and not at risk of losing anything through your acts of kindness. And that really exposes Kenny's own, selfish nature, that he believed goodness could only be attained through being in a position of total power. That he couldn't conceive of there being someone who would willingly sacrifice their own well-being for the sake of someone else. He sought the power of a Titan like Uri had because he thought that would allow him to be a good person like Uri. And, ironically, in his warped philosophy of how to achieve goodness, fueled by his selfish nature, and in his pursuit of that goal, he only became a worse and worse person, murdering whoever got in the way of him achieving what he wanted for himself.

And of course there's a fundamental flaw in Kenny's thinking.

He didn't understand that what makes someone a good person, what makes someone a hero, more specifically, isn't simply bestowing acts of kindness and mercy, such as Uri showed to him, but an ability and willingness to sacrifice something of ourselves for the betterment of others. Someone who is willing to give up what's most important to them if it means helping someone else.

A hero is someone who's willing to lose so that someone else can win.

And nobody embodies that willingness, that heroism, more than Levi.

Kenny accuses Levi here of "killing when it benefits (him)", too, and Levi agrees, but that's actually not true.

Levi never actually does anything in the story for his own benefit. He never acts toward self-advancement, but always toward the advancement of others. He's the only character in the series who doesn't carry a personal dream that he's fighting for, but instead fights for the dreams of others.

That selflessness is what defines him, along with his compassion, empathy and kindness.

Levi is willing to do bad things, things which take a personal toll on him, like killing, like committing acts of violence, as long as it means other people don't have to also carry that burden, as he explains in his monologue to the 104th. Levi is willing to lose one of the most important people in his life in Erwin, a person he's relied on for so long to guide him, because it means saving Erwin himself from becoming a monster and giving him peace. Levi is willing to give up a physical memento which would have brought him comfort in his grief, in order to bring comfort to another, grieving soldier, like he does when he gives Petra's patch to Dieter. Levi is willing to repress his own, natural instinct to save lives and carry the burden and pain of that choice because it means more lives will be saved down the line and because it's what his comrades chose to give their lives for, like when he makes the choice for Erwin and the one hundred other scouts to charge to their death against the Beast Titan, or when he stays the course of their mission to lead the Female Titan into Erwin's trap, even as he knows the soldiers behind him are being slaughtered. Levi is willing to destroy his body in order to save the lives of his comrades, like when he rescues Mikasa, when he rescues Jean, when he rescues Connie, and ends up disabled and needing the use of a wheelchair for the rest of his life as a result.

That's a large part of what differentiates Levi from Kenny. Kenny kills to advance himself, to achieve greater personal strength because he himself wants to be "good", all while being so blinded by that personal ambition and selfishness that he fails to see how his actions take him further and further from being what he wants to be, while Levi kills to save the lives of other people, to honor their choices and allow them agency, even when it costs him his own, personal comfort and may even cost him the ability to call himself a "good person". Ironically, of course, it's that very willingness that makes Levi a good person, that makes him a hero.

Again, that willingness to lose in order for someone else to win.

Nobody taught Levi that he could use his strength to help others, Kenny least of all. Kenny never taught Levi anything but how to use his strength for personal gain, how to be selfish with his strength, the same way Kenny himself was, wielding his gift only to get what he, personally, wanted, unwilling to lose or sacrifice anything for the benefit of others. Levi discovered on his own that he could use his strength to help others, and on his own, that's what he decided to do, because unlike Kenny, Levi's nature is one of selflessness. He instinctively understood, once he realized his strength could be used to help people, that because he had this thing that others didn't, he should share it and use it for their benefit. He felt an obligation even to use it for others, to give them what he had, the same way we see Levi give what he has to others all throughout the story, even when it leaves him with nothing for himself. Kenny only understood that the thing he had should be horded and used for further self-gain.

That's the difference between someone with great, natural empathy, with great, natural compassion and kindness, and someone without any empathy at all, someone who at their core is selfish and self-serving. The difference between someone who's good and someone's who's bad.

And what's so interesting about this, then, is that it wasn't ever Kenny who taught Levi how to be a hero, or how to be good, but Levi, in the end, who instead teaches Kenny.

Through his encounter with Levi during the Uprising arc, Kenny realizes that Levi has managed to become on his own what Kenny always strove to be. A good man. And he sees how that goodness expresses itself through Levi's selfless actions. Kenny learns, through Levi, that to be good is to sacrifice, to be a hero is to help others even when, and most especially when, it comes at great, personal cost.

It's no coincidence that at the end of his life, after he's born witness to Levi and his genuine heroism, that Kenny finally learns what it means to be a good person, and we see him commit the only, truly selfless act of his life, by giving up his dream and giving the serum to Levi.

Because he learns through Levi that it's not power or invincibility that makes someone good. It's not a lack of desperation or being in a position of having nothing to lose that makes someone's generous actions heroic. It's easy to do good when it costs you nothing. It's easy to be generous when you have more than enough. It's when being merciful, being kind, being compassionate actually costs you personally, and you do those things anyway, that someone can truly be defined as being a good person. As being a hero.

Earlier, Kenny bragged about "teaching (Levi) everything he knows", and talked about his pride in that, wanting to take responsibility for the person Levi was. But Kenny didn't teach Levi this. He didn't teach Levi how to be good. He didn't teach Levi how to be a hero.

Kenny's tone implies sarcasm when he asks Levi if he's a hero, and it's because Kenny is actually envious of Levi, and maybe even in awe of him. He's angry, because Levi managed to become the man Kenny could only ever dream of being, and he did it totally on his own, without Kenny's help or example.

It's a case of the student becoming the teacher.

In the end, it was Levi who taught Kenny the most important lesson of all, by showing him what it truly means to be a good person.

#Levi Ackerman #Kenny Ackerman #analysis #meta #commentary #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin

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the-authoress-writes · 3 days ago

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Until Every One Comes Home

Synopsis: Duke Mitchell finally comes home.

Warnings: Family member death, grief, funeral planning, funerals, slight cursing.

Author’s Note: I meant to post this for Veterans Day—obviously, I wasn’t able to, but hey, better late than never.

Are there going to be military inaccuracies in this story?

Absolutely.

Am I still posting this?

Absolutely.

I dedicate this story to all those who served their country, especially to those who made the ultimate sacrifice, and to those who have yet to come home.

Early morning sunshine shone through a small kitchen window, upon a certain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, though it wasn’t a patch on the affection warming the very marrow of his bones.

Earlier, he’d come down the stairs, toweling his hair dry from his shower, to see the front door of his half of his and Bradley’s duplex open, admitting a goose-patterned fleece blanket-draped Bradley.

“Morning, Dad,” he yawned, using the free hand not clutching his blanket to scratch his curls, causing his blanket hood to fall off his head. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Joining me, huh?” Mav ducked his head, trying and failing to keep back his touched smile.

Ever since they reconciled, Bradley had been making sure to eat and spend time with him whenever he could, and when they purchased the duplex together last year, some part of Mav wondered if the time they spent together would decrease, less absence making the heart grow less fond, and all that, but if anything, it increased—in fact, Bradley spent more time in Mav’s half than he did in his own half.

That Bradley made sure to spend time with him was something he’d never fail to cherish.

“Yeah, isn’t visiting the aged a corporal act of mercy?” the younger man smirked.

Despite the memory of the immediately-thrown AARP letter he got in the mail yesterday saying otherwise, he shot back, “I’ll show you aged, just you wait until hops today.

And are pancakes good enough for you, Baby Goose?”

“Say less, Dad,” Bradley replied, striding to the kitchen, and Mav followed, throwing his arm around his boy’s shoulder.

So, there he was, stirring his homemade pancake mix in front of the stove, waiting for the pan to heat up, while beside him, a more-alert Bradley leaned back against the counter, watching the coffee he prepared brew in the maker.

Mav quietly took in the scene, basking in all the warmth from inside and out, before smiling and laughing quietly.

“What?”

He looked across at his boy, “Nothing—all this just reminded me of something.

I’d come back from deployment, and you’d always ask me to be the one to make breakfast; you’d sit on the counter, calling yourself my “‘sistant”.”

Bradley chuckled, “Yeah, actually—you’d pick me up and set me on the counter next to you.”

“Can’t do that anymore,” Mav laughed, as he poured the pancake mix into the pan.

“Don’t you dare, Dad.

And I don’t think the counter would be able to handle it, for another thing.

You, maybe, me, no.”

Though it was a fact that Bradley had nearly six inches and at least fifteen pounds on him, he protested on principle. “Calling me ancient, and now short?

Getting the shots in early, huh, kiddo?”

“You were the one who said short, not me, and I called you aged, not ancient—I could call you venerable if it makes you feel any better,” Bradley smiled.

Mav was helpless to stop his chuckle. “Call me a classic, then we have an agreement.

Now be my ‘sistant and hand me a spatula, will you?”

Later, while washing the dishes, Mav noticed Bradley intently filling out a form at the table. “What you up to, Roo?”

“Uh,” Bradley shifted, idly twirling his pen, “it’s a form to volunteer for honor guard if any deceased Navy personnel come through North Island.”

“Oh.” A sad smile touched Mav’s face. “What made you want to do that?”

“I…” his son scratched the back of his neck, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said about your father, and then my father… I, I don’t know—I just, someone should be there for them, you know?

Those who come home.”

He had told Bradley the story of his father while they were growing back together, learning how to be father and son again, but he never expected this kind of reaction to that story. “That’s great,” he nodded.

Bradley ducked his head almost bashfully before looking up, a gravity in his eyes. “They still haven’t found Duke yet, have they?”

Mav inhaled and exhaled evenly while drying his hands on a dish towel. “No.

Not yet.

Maybe one day, though.

I’m just happy that he’s no longer called a traitor,” he nodded, remembering the day Viper and the other members of VF-51 had managed to get the record set straight, Duke having been posthumously promoted to Commander and awarded the Navy Cross.

“He’ll come home too one day, Dad, I’m sure of it,” his boy confidently said.

“That would be nice,” Mav said wistfully. “Anyway, any special requirements for volunteering?”

“Nah, just gotta keep my uniforms close at hand, probably will have to buy a set for base, just in case, but nothing else, really.”

“That’s wonderful that you’re doing this.

I’m even prouder of you, Bradley.”

Bradley’s mouth twisted, and he sniffled a little bit, “Thanks, Dad.

Love you.”

“Love you more, Baby Goose.”

Mav didn’t think much more of this, other than when Bradley would come down for breakfast or in the middle of the day in uniform, or when he spotted Bradley come out of the locker rooms in them.

They would just exchange grave nods, the older aviator immediately understanding what was going on.

And then, very early one day, even by navy standards, Mav woke up, not sure what had roused him.

A moment later, his phone dinged with a message; a grope around the nightstand later showed that the message was from Bradley.

“Hey Dad, got an early arrival.

I’ll see you on base.

❤️🐓”

He smiled, admiring how dedicated Bradley was to his honor guard duties, sending off a “❤️” of his own.

Just as he was about to doze off, his phone rang again, this time with a call, the tornado siren ringtone indicating that it was Cyclone.

The thought of ignoring the call flitted through his mind, but he thought better of it, not wanting to risk his posting as a TOPGUN instructor and CO of VFA-223, the “Black Cloaks”, consisting of everyone selected for the uranium mission detachment training.

“Mitchell,” he spoke into the phone.

“Maverick.

You’re required on base ASAP.”

The words were familiar, but the tone was new: it was… almost gentle?

“Sir?”

“Be here by 0630.

Wear your blues, Captain.”

And with that, the line went dead.

He’d be lying if he said that dread wasn’t making boulders sink in his stomach as he buttoned the jacket of his blues, tucked his cover under his arm, and grabbed the keys to his infrequently-used Jeep, given the dress blues.

Eventually, he arrived on base at 0625, and the dread in him increased tenfold when he spotted Cyclone and Warlock standing outside NAWDC Headquarters, in their own blues.

He exhaled bracingly before he picked up his cover, and placed it on his head as he stepped out of the car.

Given the seeming gravity of the situation, Mav deemed it prudent to stand to attention and snap off a smart salute, once he was within four steps of the admirals. “Sirs.”

“At ease,” Cyclone nodded. “With me, Captain.”

It took a while longer than it would have for him to realize the three of them were heading towards the hangars.

Cyclone stopped them inside the hangar where Mav sometimes had classes, and just stood there, watching the runways, facing the longer one, being used as runway 36 today.

In a few moments, a C-5M became visible, landed on 36, and turned onto the apron, halting there.

From another building, preceded by a vehicle, twelve dress blue-clad officers in two single file lines stepped solemnly onto the apron.

Even at a distance, he rationally knew Bradley was one of those officers, but was still perplexed as to why he was here.

“With me, Captain,” Cyclone repeated, and they walked to the honor guard.

As they got closer, Mav saw that Bradley was indeed one of the honor guard, the head of the line closest to him, in fact, and the emotion on his boy’s face was puzzling, but he didn’t have much time to make sense of Bradley’s expression, because three things happened at the same time.

One, he realized that the other eleven members of the honor guard were all the members of his squadron—his kids—every single one of them was here.

Two, he realized too late that he was in a position of precedence over Cyclone and Warlock, in their line perpendicular to the honor guard.

Three, a flag-draped casket was carried out of the C-5, preceded by an officer in dress blues, a Lieutenant Commander, by the sleeve braid.

The Lieutenant Commander stopped in front of the trio of Mav, Cyclone, and Warlock, and saluted.

The three of them returned it, and in a shocking turn of events, the Lieutenant Commander addressed Mav first. “Captain Mitchell.”

“Commander,” he said, managing to keep most of the confusion out of his tone.

“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, it is my honor to return the remains of Lieutenant Andrew “Duke” Mitchell to his family, and to the soil of the nation he died for.”

Mav felt his eyes widen, and his knees weakened in shock, but before he could hit the ground, he felt two pairs of hands supporting his body.

A glance up showed that it was Cyclone on his left, Bradley on his right.

“See, Dad?” Bradley tearfully murmured, “I told you he’d come home.”

“That’s him?

He’s home?” he asked imploringly, his grip on his boy’s arm tightening.

“Yeah, that’s your father, Dad.”

He took a few calming breaths, then nodded determinedly. “Let me up.”

The Vice Admiral and his son lifted him to his feet, and he stood to his full height, facing the Lieutenant Commander. “Thank you,” he murmured.

With a solemn nod, the Lieutenant Commander stepped aside, allowing Duke’s casket to pass between the honor guard, Bradley calling the squadron to attention as they all saluted.

The casket was carefully loaded onto the waiting vehicle on the tarmac, Mav magnetically drawn to the flag-draped casket.

He placed a hand on the sun-warmed fabric, head bowed between his shoulders. “Welcome home, Dad.”

He struggled to keep his composure, but the reality of the situation was hitting him hard, and against his not-insignificant will, a sob escaped his lips, and he swept his cover off his head to rest his forehead against the casket, tears falling onto the red and white stripes like a benediction.

How many years had he dreamt of this, hoped for this, prayed for this?

Now, it was no longer a dream, a hope, or a prayer—his father was here, home.

And that just made the tears come all the harder, silent, trembling sobs now wracking his frame, as Mav gave his father the loving embrace he’d been saving for over fifty years, the bill of his cover in his opposite hand hollowly ringing against the metal of the casket, like a bell finally tolling half a century late.

What could have been an eternity or seconds later, he felt himself tugged into Bradley’s strong embrace, hearing, more than seeing, the squadron close ranks around him, shielding his renewed grief from any prying eyes.

The next thing he knew, he and Bradley were seated in Cyclone’s office, the Vice Admiral talking about the funeral arrangements. “Your father will be buried with full honors, regardless of where, with provision for a flyover, location and weather permitting.

However, should you like him to be interred at Fort Rosecrans, all expenses will be paid by the Navy, up to and including re-interment of your mother in an adjacent plot.”

“Oh,” Mav breathed.

Fort Rosecrans was where everyone special to him was buried.

Goose.

Carole.

Ice.

It also meant that he’d be able to visit his mom and dad a lot more than if he had his father buried next to his mom in his hometown. “I’d like that—both of them together again.”

Cyclone nodded gravely. “I’ll start making the arrangements.

There’ll be some paperwork you’ll have to sign for the exhumation of your mother, among other things, but I’ll do my best to take care of as much as I can, make things easier.” Cyclone paused. “My condolences, Maverick.

He’s home now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You and Lieutenant Bradshaw are dismissed for the day, as is your squadron.

Go home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mindless, and still in shock over the whole thing, Bradley guided him out of the office and back to the parking lot, where he helped Mav into the Bronco.

The drive back home barely registered in his mind, and eventually, Mav found himself on his couch, in his usual white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with red and black-striped fluffy socks (gifted by Jake), practically burrito-wrapped in Bradley’s goose-patterned fleece blanket, a hot bowl of spaghetti in his lap, Bradley himself next to him.

“Eat up, Dad, come on,” the younger man gently encouraged.

“How?”

“Uh, fork to mouth is how most people do it,” his son chuckled.

“No—I mean—my dad?”

“Oh.” Bradley swallowed, continuing, “well, the Commander in charge of organizing the honor guards asked me why I volunteered, and I said that my godfather’s dad had gotten shot down during Vietnam, and that they never found him.

He asked me for your dad’s name, said he’d look into it.

I was hoping for good news, but even I never expected this.

They found him on the side of a mountain.

It seemed painless, by the way, according to the report, based on what they could see on the remains.”

He nodded, grateful for small mercies, idly twirling the noodles onto his fork.

A gentle silence fell on them both, punctuated by the clinking of Bradley’s fork against his bowl, and his chewing.

Mav eventually wormed his hand out of his burrito, to rest it on his boy’s arm. “I can’t thank you enough, Baby Goose,” he breathed, voice breaking on the last word.

Bradley froze and slowly turned to face him, brown eyes shining, “Don’t thank me, Dad.

It’s the least I could do; after all, you brought me home—it was only right I bring someone home for you.”

Tears welled in his eyes again. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Come here, Dad.”

It didn’t take much convincing for Mav to lean into the offered hug, tears he didn’t know he still had in him spilling over.

“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking mess,” he sniffled, however long after.

“You’re not a mess, Dad,” Bradley spoke into his hair, “you’re grieving your dad.”

“He died decades ago,” he protested.

“And he’s only come home now.

It’s not like you had time to process Duke’s death properly, Dad.

You had to take care of your mom, then you had to survive shitty foster home after shitty foster home, then you had to survive NROTC, then you had to survive flight school, and then—”

“I think I get the point, Brads,” he smiled through his tears.

“My point is, this is normal; don’t beat yourself up for feeling… feelings.

Lord knows you don’t deserve anything else to feel bad about.”

Incomprehensibly, his heart swelled with even more love for this kid, his son in everything but name and blood. “You know I love you so much, right, sweetheart?”

He felt Bradley’s smile on the crown of his head. “Mm-hmm—you only tell me a million times every day, Dad.”

“Only a million, huh?

That’s a horribly low number; I feel like that’s something I should say more—remind me, will you?”

“Ugh, fine.”

The warmth in his son’s tone was a clear contradiction of the seemingly-exasperated reply.

Swiping a hand over his puffy eyes, Mav glanced down at the now-cool bowl of spaghetti. “You worked hard on this pasta and I’m not even eating it yet,” he guiltily muttered.

“No problem, I’ll just stick it in the microwave for a minute.

And it’s jar sauce, Dad, it’s not like it’s your Nonna’s nine-hour marinara.”

“It’s made with love, so it’ll taste just as good.”

“Say that again when you tell me there’s not enough basil, okay?” Bradley chuckled, easily taking Mav’s bowl to the kitchen to heat it up again.

(There wasn’t enough basil in the sauce, but he didn’t mention it.)

As the days progressed, despite all of Cyclone’s help, planning his parents’ funeral was still a to-do—there were so many things to be decided; what date, what time, what caskets, what kind of rails for the caskets, what flowers, what photo (or hell, photos?) to display at the funeral, what chaplain, and most importantly—for Bradley, at least—who would be invited.

“Dad, come on, you got to invite the Flyboys and the Squadron.”

Mav sighed for what felt like the umpteenth time; Bradley had been pushing this for the better part of a day. “Brads, no, I don’t want to be a bother or a nuisance, okay?

I don’t want them to feel like they have to take time to go to the funeral of people they don’t even know.

For God’s sake, Baby Goose, even you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, I’d never force you.”

Bradley indignantly opened his mouth, closed and opened it repeatedly, before taking a deep breath. “You’re crazier than I thought if you think I won’t be there for your parents’ funeral, Dad.

I’m going, and that’s final.

Please tell me you’re inviting someone though?”

“Your Grandpa Viper, he deserves to say goodbye to his wingman.”

“Anyone else?” His son practically begged.

“Penny, because she’d probably throw me overboard the next chance she gets if I don’t, and she can even bring Amelia if she wants.

See?

I’m inviting people, Baby Goose.”

“Dad—”

“Bradley,” he evenly replied, a stern edge in his voice.

After a brief staredown, the younger man’s petulant sigh could probably be heard on the other side of the country. “Let it be known that I highly object to this, Dad.”

“Objection noted, kiddo,” Mav smiled weakly, reaching out to pat Bradley on the arm before changing the subject. “I like these for the flower arrangements—what do you think?”

Mav stared at himself in the mirror; today was his dad and mom’s funeral.

He carefully looked over his medals, making sure the order was correct—he still berated himself for, in his grief, screwing the order up for Ice’s funeral—only noticing the mistake when he took the jacket off that night.

Confirming that his Global War on Terrorism Service Medal was in the fifth row where it belonged, he stared at himself, wondering if his father would be proud of him.

It was pointless dwelling on what ifs and could have beens.

But, the fact remained that he was the only 86er still in the service who didn’t have at least one star.

From everything he knew, he and his father were so alike, even down to the way they flew, so maybe his father would also loathe the idea of stars taking him out of the skies.

A gentle knock snapped Mav out of his thoughts.

Bradley stood just outside his room, also in his blues. “You ready?”

“Yeah, just… thinking.”

“That seems dangerous, coming from you, Dad,” Bradley grinned.

“Well, I am dangerous,” Mav smirked in reply, quickly sobering.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, just… I’m a Captain,” he admitted.

“Yyyeah… you are, Dad.”

Mav sighed, “I—I’m the only 86er still in the service who isn’t flag rank, that—that’s the point.”

Bradley stared at him, the pieces snapping into place, and he approached, raising a hand to Mav’s shoulder. “I don’t know exactly what your dad was like.

I can’t.

But I know that he went down saving the lives of his squadron.

And I think… that he’d be so proud of how you always make sure everyone comes home.

I know I am.

I am proud of you, Dad.”

Tears, love, and old guilt welled up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring your—”

“Stop.

It’s not your fault, and it never was, no matter what stupid shit I said before.

It was an accident.

I don’t blame you, and my father never would.

Now, let’s get off this guilt trip, and get your dad and mom some rest, huh, Dad?”

“Okay.”

Bradley nodded, pulling him into a brief hug. “Alright.

Get your cover, and I’ll grab mine, then we can hit the road.”

The fact that Mav knew the route they would take by heart, able to tell even with his eyes closed, just when Bradley would take a turn, was a little bit depressing, and he prayed that this would be the last time for a very long while that he would have to go to a funeral, most especially a military funeral.

Even his first of those was one too many, he bitterly thought, glancing towards the section where Goose was, as they entered the gate of Fort Rosecrans.

Despite his somber thoughts, he was grateful that it was a beautiful day, with perfect weather for a flight, as he got out of the Bronco to approach the minuscule group of people standing behind the hearses containing his parents’ caskets.

Giving solemn nods of their own, Cyclone and Warlock waved off the salute he and Bradley were about to snap off, allowing them to instead turn to Viper who was with his granddaughter, Erin.

“Mike,” Mav warmly greeted the man who was like a second father to him.

“Kiddo,” the venerable aviator rasped, creaking forward to embrace Mav.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I’d have to be six feet under to miss this, Pete.

But even then, I’d find a way.”

His former CO had gasped in shock when he called the man several days ago to tell him his wingman had been found. “They found Duke?”

“They did.

He’s going to be buried at Rosecrans with my mom.

I’d like you to be there.”

“I’ll be there, no matter what I have to do to get there.”

“Hi, Uncle Pete,” Erin greeted, bringing him back to the present.

“Hey there, Diamondback,” he replied, using the nickname he’d given her years ago, moving to hug her too, mindful not to knock her cover off, the young woman having worn her Air Force blues for the occasion. “Thanks for coming.”

“We know how much this means to you, Uncle Pete, we wouldn’t miss it; and someone had to make sure Grandpa wouldn’t do something stupid to get here, or at least help him if he did.”

Mav laughed, smile only widening when Viper humorously interjected, “Quit talking about me like I’m not here, will ya?” as his still-sharp gaze landed on Bradley. “Bradley Bradshaw—it’s been much too long since I last saw you.

I remember when you were a little booger of a kid; now look at you.

Your old man would be proud.

Rooster, right?

With the 87 'Warriors?” Viper knowingly asked.

Bradley proudly nodded, “223 Black Cloaks now, under Mav, but, yes, sir.”

The retired admiral smiled as if Bradley had passed a test. “Quit it with the sir, son, but you let me know if Pete gives you any trouble, huh, Rooster?

Not too old to whoop this kid’s ass in a hop.”

“Quit talking about me like I’m not here, will ya?” Mav grinned, throwing the venerable aviator’s words back at him. “Excuse me,” he continued, spotting Penny and Amelia making their way to them, the latter striding forward and aggressively hugging him.

“I’m glad your dad came home, Mav.”

He leaned down, returning the hug. “So am I, sweetheart.”

She pulled back, looking back towards Penny. “I’ll let you talk to Mom.”

“Okay.”

After he gave Amelia a final pat, she strode off, declaring, “Hey, Chicken!”

Mav snorted, catching sight of his son’s expression at the moniker, but then his attention was drawn by Penny’s soft, “Pete.”

They had been taking it slow ever since the Uranium Mission, but seeing her never failed to make something in his chest flip flop. “Pen.

Thank you for coming, you and Amelia.”

“Of course.

Why wouldn’t we be here?” she murmured, placing her palm against his cheek.

He leaned into the contact, and her eyes softened even more. “You’re looking at me like that again.”

“Like what?” he smiled.

“Like I’ve hung the stars or something.”

His smile widened, “Only look I’ve got for you.”

She blinked, stepping closer to wrap her arms around him and gently kiss him.

Mav gladly leaned into the embrace, a sigh escaping his lips when she drew back. “Stay with me?”

“Didn’t have any other plans.”

A moment later, Mav decided to get the proceedings started.

Led by the honor guard and the hearses, they began the solemn walk towards the plots where his parents would be buried, Penny tightly grasping his right hand.

Eventually, he distantly saw the wreaths of flowers, the chairs, the twin holes the caskets would be lowered into, the easels with the photos of his parents, and Mav felt his breath hitch with emotion—reality was striking him more intensely than any G’s he’d ever pulled.

He clenched his jaw, willing the emotion back, and just as he felt like it was beginning to turn into a losing battle, he felt someone take his heretofore free left hand.

A glance in that direction showed Viper had replaced Bradley at his left, the older man sending him an understanding look, similar emotion shimmering in his own eyes, the two of them sharing a fortifying nod.

A further glance back showed his boy walking behind him and Viper, strong and steady, a sad smile on his lips, love and blade-sharp understanding in his eyes.

After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at the plots, and had just settled into their seats, when Mav started in surprise; a large hand had clasped his shoulder and a familiar voice whispered into his ear, “What do you think you’re doing, starting without us, Shortstack?”

Mav turned in shock, seeing Slider right behind him, with all of VFA-223, Hondo, Hollywood and Wolfman, Chipper, Cougar, and Merlin approaching, one and all in dress blues.

Here, more familiar faces started to arrive—the Darkstar team, a couple of his fellow TOPGUN instructors, various NAWDC personnel, and then various North Island staff.

Mav couldn’t believe it—at the end, there had to be at least thirty people assembled around the gravesite.

Dots immediately connected. “Why are all these people here?

How did they know?” Mav whispered to Bradley.

“Well, word gets around, Dad—and it’s not like North Island’s that big,” Bradley nonchalantly replied.

He hissed, “Bradley Peter Bradshaw.”

The younger man squirmed in his seat, sheepishly muttering, “The squad and I might have… facilitated certain ears hearing about this.”

“Brads—why—I told you—”

“Dad,” Bradley reached out, “People care about you—the Flyboys wanted to be here for you. Despite what that nasty voice in your head tells you, and like, ninety percent of the brass hating you, a lot of people like you and want to be here for you.

Everyone here clearly wants to be here for you.”

Slider huffed, “You’re not a nuisance, Mav.

You’re family.

The real nuisance was you not calling to tell us all, but good thing the Baby Goose went behind your back.”

Mav rose from his seat, “Sli, I’m sor—”

Slider gently tugged him into a tight embrace. “It’s ok, just promise you’ll remember what brothers are for next time, huh?

Not a lot of us left, we gotta stick together,” he said, referencing the loss of Sundown not long after Ice’s passing—a harsh blow to the Flyboys. “Don’t listen to that voice in your head anymore, Mav.”

Wordless, he nodded. “Thank you.” Mav lifted his head to see his brothers, Hondo, and his squadron surrounding him, not a trace of anger in their faces. “All of you.”

Warm smiles and reassuring murmurs came from them all, and Slider patted him on the back. “Let’s get to work, Shortstack.”

“Okay.”

The ceremony proceeded according to plan, and eventually, it was time for Viper and him to hammer their wings into his father’s casket, but to his shock, before anything could happen, Omaha and Halo rose instead, unpinning their wings of gold as they went.

They hammered their wings into the dark wood of his father’s casket, then saluted.

Next to stand was Yale and Harvard, then Fritz and Coyote.

(Thump)

Two by two, his squadron went up and hammered their wings into his father’s casket, then saluted.

Payback and Fanboy.

(Thump)

Phoenix and Bob.

(Thump)

Bradley and Jake.

(Thump)

As Bradley circled back to his seat, Mav caught his eye, a shocked and wondering expression on his face. “I know we’re not your dad’s squadron, but hopefully we’re good enough,” he softly said in response to the unasked question.

Tears were already tracing Mav’s cheeks at seeing his squadron give his father this honor, but it didn’t stop there.

He was just about to tearfully thank Bradley when his attention was drawn by Slider and Chipper striding forward as they too, unpinned their wings.

(Thump)

Then Wood and Wolf stepped forward.

(Thump)

Cougar and Merlin.

(Thump)

One and all, his brothers hammered their wings into the casket, tightly grasping his shoulder in affection as they moved back to their places at his wing while he struggled to maintain his bearing, his heart swelling with love for this family who’d chosen him.

When no one else stepped forward, it was here, that Viper rose and drew a battered pair of wings from his jacket pocket, steps slow but even as he approached the casket, now covered in gold wings.

He gazed at the wings, a small, proud smile on his lined face, then with a gentle nod, he lifted his hand to place his own wings on the casket.

The sound of his fist hammering the wings in resounded through the air, the elderly man snapping to attention to salute his late wingman one last time.

When Viper turned, Mav rose for his turn, gently setting down the neatly folded flag in his chair.

It was this part he hated the most in all the military funerals he’d gone to, even more than the flag presentation, because it made everything feel so definite, the proverbial final nail in the coffin.

But this time, it felt almost like a relief—for once, his hands didn’t tremble as he unpinned his wings, and as his fist struck the metal into wood with the rush of wind and roar of F-18s overhead, Mav felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders; with his final salute to his father, he felt one of the oldest wounds in his soul beginning to heal.

The next thing he knew, the funeral was over, and he was standing before his parents’ graves.

Everyone was filtering back to the road, but he was seemingly frozen to the spot, staring down into the freshly dug earth.

He felt like he was waiting for something, the expectation in the air so thick he could almost taste it, but Mav didn’t know what it was.

Unbidden, the words “Talk to me, Dad, Mom,” slipped from his lips, barely audible even to his own ears.

Just then, a rushing sea wind blew through the cemetery grounds, and in the distance, he could see two birds dancing in the currents of air, soaring upwards into the sky, gradually disappearing in the distance.

The wind abruptly gentled, and though his cover had stayed on during the flyover and through the rushing burst of wind, it suddenly flew off his head.

He turned to follow its path, finding it already in Bradley’s grasp, who had a hand held out towards him, Penny, his brothers, Hondo, and his squadron—his kids, all standing behind his boy, who had a careful, expectant expression on his face.

“Hey Dad, let’s go home?” Bradley called out.

Mav cast a final glance into the distance that the two birds had disappeared into, a profound peace now in his heart.

He stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Bradley.

“Let’s go home, Baby Goose.”

He did not look back.

The title is taken from the USO motto.

The Navy Cross is the second-highest military decoration given by the US Navy, second only to the Medal of Honor.

Mav’s maroon Jeep can be seen in a corner of the hangar during the first hangar scene.

NAWDC: Naval Aviation Warfare Development Command, under whose umbrella TOPGUN belongs.

The C-5M is a US Air Force aircraft, but the Air Force is tasked with bringing home repatriated remains, no matter what branch of service the deceased is from.

The speech given by the Lieutenant Commander to Mav is an adaptation of what is said at a military funeral, when the flag is presented to the next of kin.

I made use of my Italian heritage!Mav headcanon here, which I am quite fond of.

The order of Mav’s medals at Ice’s funeral was incorrect, and even though I didn’t have to mention it, I found a way to explain it!

I’m quite pleased with myself for that one…

VFA-87, the “Golden Warriors”, based in NAS Oceana, VA, is Bradley’s squadron in TG:M, as seen by the patch on his flight suit.

The procedures detailed for the funeral are a rough approximation of the protocol for burials at Arlington National Cemetery.

Clarence Gilyard Jr, who played Marcus “Sundown” Williams in Top Gun (1986), passed away on November 23, 2022 from an undisclosed protracted illness.

Technically, hammering wings tridents into the casket is a SEAL tradition, but 1), this is a thing in canon, 2), it’s supposedly spreading to the other warfare qualifications, and I don’t know, I think Duke deserves it after the Navy crapped all over his reputation.

Bonus: They had a potluck at the duplex later, because Bradley thought ahead and had the Daggers bring food to his/Mav’s place.

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