#drag . be so fucking for real . if you like cops if you believe you know a ‘good cop’ they don’t last long.

[glitterhoof]

i want all cops dead in a ditch

[sissa-arrows]

The French cops killed yet another other young man…

Wanys an 18 years old North African (Allah yarhmou) was on his scooter with a friend. A police car hit him from the front and killed him. The friend ended up on the floor he saw Wanys, his friend, dying in front of him and you know what the police did? They fucking handcuffed him before dragging him on the side and they eventually took him in police custody for being an accomplice of whatever lie they accused Wanys of (for the record you CANNOT be an accomplice of that it’s impossible).

In the video you see Wanys driving normally. On the side a taxi that was parked starts moving and instead of doing the normal thing and hitting the brake, the cops behind the taxi fucking turn on the other lane and end up facing Wanys and hitting him. Even if hitting the brake meant touching the taxi and breaking both cars it would have been way less risky for the two cars. The cops say they were there because Wanys refused to stop and was running away but in the video you see him FACING the police car and going towards it so he is clearly not running way. So after the video got out the cops changed their stories and said he wasn’t running away from them but from an other police car and they were called to help (for the record the 2nd police car is nowhere to be seen in the video and Wanys was driving normally).

Cops are known to lie all the fucking time. Just a couple months ago while investigating on a female cop being corrupted and taking money to sell information from the police file to people who steal identities, they found text on her phone in which she admits and brag to her parents about hitting a Black man (he survived) on a scooter and how she was at fault but her and her coworkers lied on the report to make it look like the man was the one at fault. The judge ended up dismissing the case they found within the first corruption case saying without any investigation that the real lie wasn’t in the report, the real lie was her saying that she lied in the report… They lie all the fucking time so I don’t believe their version but EVEN if it was the reality, you don’t kill someone for refusing to show their fucking licence or ID.

[athena-writes-i-guess]

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Prompt: “How’d we get ourselves into this?”

This is a short friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions of love, fluff piece. Maybe a little angst too?

A/N: I never really write stories that are happening in the canon of the actual show so I had this idea of what if Eddie and his best friend (who are in love with each other) are stuck in the Upsidedown(the first time), thinking they have no time left. What would they do?

I hope y’all like it!

You jumped as a particularly loud crash of red lightning lit up the dark sky of the Upsidedown. You couldn’t believe this place existed -that monsters existed- yet, here you were; bloody, bruised, and bitten after fighting off those damn bat things. All because you couldn’t let Eddie go alone, not again.

Eddie and you were inseparable, best friends since kindergarten. He was your first real friend, your first date to a middle school dance, your first kiss during spin the bottle, and unbeknownst to him, your first and only love. You were so in love with him it almost hurt to be around him. But it hurt so much worse to be apart. So you stayed by his side in any way he’d have you.

Your group had found some cover at this world's version of Skull Rock, trying to recover a bit as you came up with a plan of how to get out of this mess. Wanting to give Steve some privacy as Nancy patched him up, you had walked over to a fallen log that was somehow almost completely vineless and sat down, losing yourself in your thoughts as the others talked behind you.

“Hey sweetheart.” You jumped, startled, as Eddie plopped down next to you with a small smile. “Whatcha thinking about in that beautiful head of yours?” He asked, nudging his shoulder into yours lightly.

You nudged him back as you shook your head, “Just-” you sighed, “how’d we get ourselves into this Eds?” You said with a disbelieving chuckle.

“Bad luck. As usual. Sorry I dragged you into this sweetheart.” He said, disappointment lacing his words, he hated that you were now in danger because of him.

You scoffed at that as you looped your arm with his and leaned your head on his shoulder, missing the way his breath hitched in his throat, “You didn’t, you dork. I dragged myself into it. There’s no way Eddie Munson was gonna get to have all the fun without me.” You joked.

“Oh, so much fun.” He chuckled, “This is exactly how I wanted my spring break to go. Running from the cops is so much better than the theme park we were gonna go to.”

“I’m sorry this happened to you Eddie.” You said, looking up at him as he turned to look at you, “You don’t deserve this.”

“Thank you doll. I gotta say, I’m glad you’re here.” You raised your eyebrows as you looked at the forest around you and then back at him. He grinned, “Well not glad that we’re here, but that you’re here with me. I-I don’t think I could do this without you.” He said, some newfound bravery lighting up in his chest. “I need you sweetheart.”

Your heart was beating so hard in your chest you were worried it might break though your rib cage. “I need you too Eddie.” You said as you removed your head from his shoulder to look at him properly.

“I thought I was going to lose you out there, you know. I was worried we weren’t gonna make it out before I could tell you.” He started, confidence rushing through his body.

“Tell me what?” Your mouth felt dry and you knew your hands would be shaking if they weren’t gripping on to your best friend so tightly.

Eddie looked at you like you had hung his moon and stars as he brought a shaky hand up to cup your cheek, his calloused thumb rubbing gently into your soft skin, “I love you sweetheart. Always have. You’re fucking everything to me.”

You felt a spark of electricity run through your body much like the lightning striking around you as you rushed forward and crashed your lips to his in long overdue kiss. He didn’t react at first and you panicked, thinking you might have done something wrong, and tried to pull back but you were stopped by Eddie as he chased your lips and kissed you back desperately.

You broke apart, breathless, “I love you so fucking much Eds, it’s always been you.” You admitted, “I’ve loved you since we were kids.”

A big smile broke out on Eddie’s face, the largest he’s had for days as he saw the stars in your eyes. He leaned his forehead on yours and bumped your noses. “I’m yours, if you’ll have me, be mine? For however long we have left.”

“I already am, I’ve always been yours Eds.” You smiled, kissing him again as you both ignored the monstrous world around you- even if just for a moment- and melted into each other.

Taglist: @srapalestina @yvonneeeee @aroseinvelaris @anaisweird @mrslovesmayahawke @harrys-titties @becca-alexa @catacina @lma1986

[reallyromealone]

A request from patreon

Derek and Spencer were surprised that they were doing Intel gathering only a town off from spencers but didn't think to much of it as they walked into a small diner with a few customers scattered around and an older woman refilling sugar containers behind the counter "excuse me" Derek said smoothly as the woman looked up with a bored expression, analyzing both men as they held up their badges "you have a moment?"

The men asked her some questions, the woman answering to the best of her abilities before pausing and looked at Spencer almost confused before speaking "you look familiar" she said as if trying to remember something "whats your name?"

"Spencer Reid" Spencer said awkwardly, he had never been to this diner so he was a tad bit confused, maybe she saw him on tv from a case or something.

It was almost like a lightbulb flashed over her head "you're that kids dad!" She said almost proud of her realization and Spencer looked confused as he spoke "I'm sorry what?"

"Yeah that one kid whose always hanging here, orders off the breakfast menu and god he puts an insane amount of whipped cream on things"

Yup.

That was his kid alright.

"He's always hanging with with this kid whose dad's real bad news, if you want answers you may wanna talk to them but be warned rumor has it they got into a real nasty fight with some asshole with a knife"

And like that, Spencer was out of that diner dragging Morgan with him "ohoo, that kid is in shiiit!" Morgan said as Spencer began calling his kid frantically.

(Name) hissed as he looked over himself, his friend doing the same as they hid in an alleyway "I can't believe you took him down" he said as he held his hoodie to his nose "for a pacifist, you sure know how to throw a punch"

(Name) checked his phone and visibly paled at the missed calls and texts "oh fuck..."

Spencer and Derek walked to the alleyway after Penelope pinpointed the teens exact location (Spencer was thankful he put a tracker in his kids phone, his job made him justifiably paranoid) to see his kid bloodied and bruised and the other with what looked to be a black eye and broken nose.

"(Name)?!" Spencer said panicked rushing to his kid "jesus Christ, what happened?!" Morgans cop voice slipped out as the teens jolted slightly "I'm calling an ambulance then you boys are gonna answer some questions"

After the ambulance came and the boys were cleaned up, Spencer and Derek took them off to the BAU for questioning.

(Name) looked at his Aunt AJ, the blonde looking at the teen pointedly "you're lucky your dad felt he was to close to ask questions"

"Now spill"

(Name) explained the situation that happened and how the two teens like going to that specific diner because the lady there adds chocolate chips to their pancakes for them and how when they left this guy tried cornering them when (name) and his friend were walking to his friends home as (friends name)s dad--who was trying to be better for his son (name) added-- would drive (name) home.

"I kind of just panicked and did what you guys taught me" (name) said softly and Penelope confirmed his story from the camera footage she had gotten, the boys were genuinely just hanging out when attacked "do you remember what he looked like?"

"Yeah, he looked like..."

When the boys were freed from their individual questioning, Spencer was waiting for the kids "hi dad..."

Spencer checked into he teen before glancing at the other kid "your dad is here to pick you up, him and I spoke so you're not in trouble"

(Name) hissed as the stitches from a cut he got in his arm stretched "now let's get you home, you look like hell" Spencer joked as the boys said their goodbyes and to see each other at school.

[ohbo-ohno]

you’re obsessin’ (just confess it) [tashi x patrick x art]

summary: Tashi convinces Art to let her invite Patrick into their bed for just one night, but Art hadn't quite realized he wasn't invited too. (or: shameless cuck art pwp)

word count: 7.6k

cw: dubcon cuck kink (art is ambiguously into what's happening but he does give clear consent), degradation, humiliation, a second of foot kink, dubcon oral sex (tashi doesn't consent but she would), somnophilia, rough domme tashi/switch-dom leaning patrick/pathetic sub art

author's note: this is @alnilaem's fault. also read this fic and this fic. inspo posts are here, here, and here!

read on ao3 - see the (small) pinterest board

“Tashi…” Art hedges, hovering behind his wife as another knock at the door rings through their entryway.

“What?” She hisses, turning sharply to look over her shoulder at him. He can’t even really begrudge her the annoyance, he knows he’s been pestering her just a bit too much all day. But sue him, he’s not exactly confident about inviting his college best friend to fuck his wife. 

Tashi sighs, dragging a hand down her face. Art can see the way she talks herself out of snapping at him, the very intentional softening of her shoulders as she takes a few deep breaths and turns to face him fully. “What?” She tries again, still irritated but softer.

“It’s just…” Art starts, crossing his arms over his chest to keep from fidgeting. Tashi usually can’t tolerate more than one nervous habit at a time, and he’s been chewing gum since he finished brushing his teeth this morning. “Are you sure about this?”

She gives him an incredulous look, one eyebrow arched high. “Are you serious right now, Art?”

He jerks his head to the side a bit, trying to convey well, yeah with his body language in a way that doesn’t make him look like a total pussy. He’s not sure why he keeps thinking Tashi will call this all off when it was her idea in the first place, but until there’s another man in front of him Art’s choosing to believe she could.

“Listen,” she sighs, stepping forward and grabbing him by the biceps. “If you have a real objection, tell me now. I’ll open the door and tell him to fuck right off, alright? But I want this, and I think you do too.” She looks deep into his eyes, in that piercing, demanding way that always makes Art go weak for her and agree to anything she says. “I want to do this. Are you with me or not?”

He’s nodding before he can quite make himself talk. “Yeah,” he says, chomping again on his gum. Tashi manages not to comment on it, but he can tell she wants to. “Yeah, ‘course. Anything you want, Tash.”

Her smile is less grin and more smirk, but she moves her hands from his shoulders to his cheeks and gives him a long, sweet kiss, and Art is suddenly sure that he can, that he will do absolutely anything for her. 

“Good,” she says once she pulls back, scratching his jaw lightly with her sharp nails. Another set of knocks rings through the house, decidedly impatient now. Tashi rolls her eyes, looking at Art like they’re in some sort of inside joke and he’s not about to jump out of his skin. She ignores how tense he is and squeezes his shoulders before turning away, finally going to open the door.

Art forces himself not to close his eyes, but he lets himself lean against the wall so he doesn’t have to hold himself up. He feels a little weak in the knees in a way he hasn’t in a very long time. He’s been feeling this sort of nervousness far too much lately – it’s been with him for what feels like every second since he retired, and he gets the sense he’s not getting away from it anytime soon. 

“Stop knocking so loudly unless you want the neighbors calling on the cops on us,” Tashi scolds, finally opening the door. Art can see Patrick’s curly hair above her head, and he has to fight not to turn away.

“Yeah, well, if you don’t want so much noise you should open the fucking door faster, huh?” Patrick snarks, and suddenly Art’s a lot less sure he can do this. 

Patrick shoulders his way past Tashi, shrugging off his worn hoodie and throwing it messily onto a coat hook Art had to measure and remeasure at least five times before hanging. The hook he chooses is two centimeters below the other four – Art didn’t notice, even with his measuring and remeasuring, but Tashi never lets him forget.

“Hey, man,” Patrick says, his smile quirking up on one side.

Art swallows thickly, tongue suddenly bone dry. His gum sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Hey.”

Patrick’s smile grows as he moves closer to Art, completely bypassing Tashi to lean on the wall across from him. The positioning is out of place inside a house instead of in a back alley somewhere, but Patrick’s confidence manages to make everything look natural. “You know, when Tash told me you’d agreed to this I was sure she was full of shit.”

Art tries to smile, knows it ends up as more of a grimace. Gives it up after just a second and lets his face go flat again. “Then why’d you come?”

Patrick’s downright beaming now, folding his arms over his chest, shoulders loose. It feels like the more uncomfortable Art is, the more delighted Patrick becomes. “Why’d you say I could?”

“I asked first.”

Patrick laughs, and Art feels like it’s ten years ago and they’re just kids talking about a terrible first date that Art wasted a Friday on, not two men on the wrong side of thirty about to fuck the same woman. About to fuck Art’s fucking wife.

Jesus. Why did he ever agree to this?

“Really, Art?” Tashi says, rolling her eyes in a way that Art has come to recognize as teasing. “Are you fucking twelve? I asked first – I can’t believe you two.”

“Both of us?” Patrick teases, turning his head towards Tashi but keeping eye-contact with Art. “I didn’t do a thing. We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet, and you’re already that fed up?”

“Because of you,” Art corrects, beginning to chew nervously on his gum again. “You’re the only new variable here.”

“Well, maybe you’re the one who used up all her patience, huh?”

“That’s not–”

“Boys,” Tashi interrupts, one of each of her hands gripping their shoulders. Art can feel her nails wrinkling the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He forces his shoulders to loosen as much as he can. “If you can’t play nice before we’re even in the bedroom, you won’t be playing at all. Yeah?”

Patrick glances between Tashi and Art, smile sharp and knowing. He doesn’t answer.

Art shifts so he’s standing straight up, arms still crossed protectively over his chest. “‘Course, Tashi,” he repeats again, his life’s mantra these days. “Anything you want.”

But Tashi’s not looking at him, she’s giving that same piercing, demanding look to Patrick. Art’s not sure it’ll work as well for her with him, but then Patrick laughs and uncrosses his arms, and Art’s not sure about much of anything.

“Happy wife, happy life, right man?” Patrick says. Ten years ago Art would’ve said his tone was affectionately teasing. Now it just sounds mean. “Anything you want, Tash. You want me and the hubby here to play nice, I’m sure we can manage it. Right, Art?”

Art’s gum is tasteless and stretched thin, but he knows that chewing it feels better than punching Patrick would right now. “Right.”

“Alright then,” Tashi says, nodding like they’ve actually managed to resolve anything. “Let’s go.”

Patrick stares at Tashi’s ass as she walks down the hallway. Art thinks again about punching him and toys with the gum between a one sharp canine and a molar. 

Before he can turn away to follow his wife to their bedroom (to have another man fuck her, oh God, how has Art’s life brought him here?), a hand appears beneath his chin, palm up.

Art looks up at Patrick, and feels again ten years younger. His knee throbs in phantom pain. He doesn’t move.

“Well?” Patrick pushes, lifting his hand more so the skin between his thumb and the rest of his fingers is pushing against Art’s chin. 

He spits the gum out. Makes sure to soak Patrick’s hand with his saliva too, just to be a dick. Patrick’s smile only grows, and he dumps the little wadded up ball in a tiny trash-can Tashi keeps under all the tables. 

Patrick slaps Art’s cheek a few times, a little too rough to be friendly, a little too soft to be mean, and follows after Tashi. “Still as obedient as ever, huh?”

Art’s glad Patrick’s back is turned, because he’s not sure he could force down the way his face twists and this whole situation is already humiliating enough. He swipes quickly at his cheek with one sleeve pulled over his hand, trying to get all of his own spit off of his face. His chest is tight and his cheeks burn, but he turns to follow Patrick anyway.

Anything for Tashi, he repeats to himself again. You can’t let her leave, not over something this stupid. If watching Patrick fuck her is what keeps your marriage together, then so be it.

His pep talk doesn’t make it any easier to see Patrick spread out on his bed like a king, Tashi moving an armchair from the corner of their bedroom – their bedroom, because Patrick is on their bed – to just a few feet away from the bed. 

“Took your time,” Tashi comments, giving Art a look that says I’m not in the mood for your shit right now, Donaldson. Art chooses to ignore it, and Tashi chooses to let him get away with ignoring it. 

A marriage is made up of sacrifices. Tashi sacrifices her patience, and apparently Art sacrifices his wedding vows.

“You sit here,” Tashi says, patting the back of the chair as she moves towards the bed, towards Patrick. When Art doesn’t move, she gives him an expectant look, saying everything Art knows she wants to say with just the movement of her head and the angle of her eyebrows.

You said you’re fine with this.

Why aren’t you listening?

Just sit in the fucking chair, Donaldson.

You agreed already. I even double-checked with you. Stop embarrassing me.

Art sits in the chair. His hairline is already damp with sweat, even though nobody has done anything yet. He can see Tashi’s nipples through her shirt – through his shirt, because she’s always stolen his clothing. 

(Always stolen Patrick’s clothing too, a voice in his head says. Back when they were dating. And that night, when she came back home wearing a shirt you swore you saw before–

He cuts the voice off before it can say anything else.)

“We getting this started then?” Patrick says, the anticipation thick in his tone, already rubbing one hand over his crotch. Art can’t quite bring himself to look for long enough to see if he’s hard yet. He’s laid back on their pillows, legs and arms spread and his feet planted on the comforter.

Tashi doesn’t respond, but she does pull her top off. Quick and smooth, not for either of the men in the room to get a good show. The only place Tashi has ever cared about putting a good show on is the court, and Art knows tennis is the furthest thing from even her mind right now. 

Art’s hands rest on the armrests on either side of him, his fingers digging into the floral fabric as Tashi kneels on the bed, quickly crawling over to settle herself on Patrick’s lap. Patrick quickly shifts, legs falling down to the bed as he sits up more and rests his hands on Tashi’s hips.

The pale skin of Patrick’s knuckles is a beautiful contrast to Tashi’s tan skin and black panties, as much as Art hates to admit it. Patrick’s hands stroke quickly over her hips and down to her ass, trying to yank her forward. 

“Wait,” Tashi commands, hands planted firmly on Patrick’s shoulders to keep her position. “I’m not riding you. I want you to eat me out.”

Patrick groans as he immediately shifts down the bed so he’s lying on his back, hands kneading at Tashi’s ass. He shoots Art a look, smirking. “She always this demanding in bed with you?”

Tashi answers for him before Art can even open his mouth. “Don’t talk to him,” she says, twisting one hand through Patrick’s curls as she situates herself over his chest, pushing her panties down and off quickly and leaving them on the bedspread. “You have better things to be doing with your mouth.”

Art can just barely hear Patrick’s snarky “Yes ma’am,” before Tashi sits on his face, one hand planted firmly on their headboard and the other in Patrick’s hair as she starts working herself over his face.

Everything feels like it’s moving just too fast. Art’s boxers are tight, his erection straining against the tight fabric. He holds tight to the chair, unwilling to so much as brush himself and be giving away his desperation so early into what he suspects is going to be a long night. It feels like he hardly took a breath between Tashi stripping her shirt off and her fucking Patrick’s face, hips working harshly over him as the sounds of an eager tongue against a slick cunt fill the room. Art’s cock throbs between his legs. 

“Fuck,” Tashi hisses, her back arching and her head thrown back as her movements smooth out, each of her thrusts stronger against Patrick’s lips. Art knows from experience that Patrick’s lips will be numb when she pulls away, that he can hardly breathe under her. The strong line of her back is tense as she takes her hand from Patrick’s head and brings it up the front of her body, doing something that Art can’t see.

She rides him for several long minutes. Art can’t help but wonder what Patrick’s doing – Art’s always found that Tashi gets off fastest with his mouth on her cunt, it always takes more work to give her an orgasm with his cock than it does with his tongue. But Patrick’s been beneath her for far longer than Art would’ve needed.

It makes him feel a bit better, in all honesty. Tashi may have wanted to invite another man into their bed – and Art tells himself it’s not because he’s not enough for her, and he has no choice but to believe it – but at the very least, Patrick can’t make her feel as good as Art can. 

Another few minutes later, Tashi leans even more of her weight onto Patrick’s face, her legs spreading wider as the hand gripping the headboard leaves, dragging down to, Art can only assume, finish the job Patrick can’t.

“Tashi,” Art croaks, shifting forward in his chair. “I can–”

“No,” she snaps, jerking her head to the side so she can glare at him over her shoulder. Art immediately crumples back, very familiar with her no-bullshit tone. “Don’t you dare leave that chair.”

Art barely manages to trap a whine behind his teeth. He grits his jaw, nodding jerkily and rubbing his hands roughly over the armrests, his palms stinging. Patrick’s hands flex on Tashi’s ass, leaving pale red lines behind as he drags his nails down her skin. 

“Say it,” Tashi insists, her movements losing their rhythm. Art knows she’s getting closer and closer to the edge from the way her thighs and ass clench, and he knows he could get her there, he just knows it. “Tell us you’ll listen or get the fuck out.”

Art’s panting, open-mouthed. “I’ll listen,” he repeats. “I won’t leave the chair.”

She grunts in recognition, shoulders hunching in and hitching with her breaths. “Then shut the fuck up.”

Art’s eyes sting with tears. He’s harder than he’s been in years. Tashi doesn’t bother to quiet her noises as she comes, throws her head back and lets her mouth hang open, moans and keens flowing freely. Art wants to kiss her so fucking badly, he aches with it.

After a long moment of hovering over his face, Tashi finally falls to the side of Patrick, both of them panting, ribs pressed together.

“Fucking finally,” Patrick sighs, his chest heaving even faster than Tashi’s and the bottom half of his face covered in her slick. Even his nose is shiny. Jealousy makes Art’s stomach cramp and his jaw is starting to ache from how tight he’s clenching his teeth. “You used to be easier to get off, you know.”

Art nearly flinches.

Tashi only scoffs, stretching her legs out languidly and her arms above her head, like a sated cat. “You’ve never been any good at eating pussy, I just used to lie to make you feel better.”

Patrick props himself up on one elbow, eyebrows furrowed in offense. “Really?” 

Tashi gives him a look like he’s an idiot. “Duh. You’re terrible with your tongue. Clumsy and selfish.” She smirks and pats his cheek condescendingly, and Art can see the way her nails dig divots into his cheeks. His fingers twitch. “Don’t worry, I’ll train you in this too.”

Patrick mimics her smile mockingly before turning his head enough to nip at her fingers, following her when she pulls back with a yelp and a snicker. Patrick crawls over her, His own chest shaking with his laughs as he presses their nude chests together.

Art can hardly breathe.

“Well, I know at least one way to make you feel good. Without any training,” Patrick says. Art can’t see his face or Tashi’s from this angle, just the lithe line of Patrick’s body covering hers and her knees coming up on either side of his hips. He can just barely see the shine of her cunt, with Patrick’s leaking cock bobbing right in front of it.

They look so good, Art can’t quite choke back his whine. Watching Patrick pump his hips, his cock slotting perfectly between Tashi’s swollen lips as he coats himself in her. He can hear the slick sound of it, can see the way Tashi’s toes curl against Patrick’s back.

They’re still speaking, but too quietly for Art to make out their exact words. He can hear the way Patrick’s voice curls up in that mocking-teasing-affectionate way Art used to be so familiar with, can hear the husky rumble of Tashi’s as she uses her hold on his shoulders to work her hips against his. Art’s breaths are loud and wet in his own ears, and his cock has its own heartbeat. 

“Need my fingers?” Patrick asks, pulling his head up. From the way he’s panting, Art can tell he and Tashi had been kissing. “Or are you already wet enough, huh?”

“Just fuck me, you asshole.”

Patrick laughs, a rough sound but so happy it’s palpable. “Yes, ma’am.”

Art sinks down in his chair a little further. He tells himself it’s to ease the pressure on his balls, but the new position gives him a perfect angle of Patrick’s cock disappearing inside of Tashi. He runs his tongue over his teeth, his eyes wet.

“Fuck,” Patrick moans, his head thrown back as his balls settle against the split of Tashi’s body. “God, you’re still so fucking tight. Does he not fuck you good enough? Your hubby over there not giving it to you right?”

Art blinks rapidly, his lashes clumping together.

“Don’t talk about him,” Tashi groans, dragging her nails down Patrick’s freckled back and leaving streaks of pink in her wake. 

“God, shit, Tashi,” Patrick huffs, working his hips just a bit, pulling out only a few inches and pushing himself back in. Art can’t see much more than his balls, and he feels bereft without a look at his wife’s cunt. “If you don’t want to talk about him, why do you get so much tighter when I bring him up?”

Art can’t hold back his whine this time, the sound of it loud and high, breaking halfway through. “Tashi,” he pleads, feeling more desperate right now than he ever has before.

He can see that Patrick’s really fucking Tashi now, pulling out more fully before bottoming out again. Patrick’s hips snap forward harshly, dragging matching moans from his and Tashi’s throats. Neither of them acknowledge Art’s sounds. 

Patrick drops to one elbow, his other hand creeping between their chests to do something Art can’t see. Whatever it is pulls a high-pitched moan Tashi’s chest, a sound Art knows is entirely involuntary. 

“Do that again,” she orders, tapping Patrick on the back a few times. Her other hand drags down his back until she can grab his ass, doing her best to guide him into fucking her the way she wants. She moans again a moment later, the sound full of heat and passion and so much pleasure. “Good, that’s so good. Good boy.”

Art whines again, jerking forward in his chair. He knows first-hand just how stingy his wife is with praise – it took weeks for her to call him a good boy in bed for the first time, endless lessons on exactly how he could make her feel best, hours spent with his face buried between her thighs or his cock stuffed in her cunt, Tashi playing a sick game of red-light-green-light to show him exactly how she liked to be fucked.

Patrick fucks her for the first time in a decade, and he gets more praise than Art’s gotten this month. It makes Art’s stomach twist and his dick twitch in his boxers.

Patrick snorts at Tashi’s praise, pushing himself back up on two hands and slowing his hips so he’s thrusting more deeply, a little more force behind each push. “Good boy?” He pants, head falling enough that Art can see the top of Tashi’s head. “Since when do you say shit like that in bed?”

Tashi’s nails are digging so deeply into Patrick’s ass that Art almost thinks she’ll make him bleed. He almost hopes she does. “Stop fucking talking about him!” She nearly shouts, her voice strained. “I’m close.”

Art’s nearly drooling. He presses his hands tight to his hard dick through his pants, eyes rolling back in his head at the relief it gives him. 

Patrick manages to keep his mouth shut now, fucking into Tashi’s cunt a little faster, a little messier. The muscles in his back and ass flex with every thrust, and Art thinks briefly that he wants to run his tongue over the hills and valleys appearing there. The thought slips away when Patrick pushes himself up just a little more, taking Tashi’s body with him and letting Art see the way her cunt is absolutely dripping wet.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Art is on his feet, then kneeling on the bed and lowering himself to his stomach, squirming closer to them. One hand grips Patrick’s calf as he slides himself between his spread knees, heartbeat ticking somehow fast when he hears Patrick’s ensuing groan. 

Art’s chest slides against the sweat-damp sheets, and he breathes deeply enough that he can nearly taste the mix of Patrick and Tashi on his tongue. There’s hardly any room beneath Patrick, but he obligingly kneels even further up on his knees to make room for Art. Art nudges forward enough that he can dart his tongue out and reach Tashi, Patrick’s balls dragging across his forehead and scalp.

He can’t help but moan at the first taste of her, his sound almost drowning out the near-yelp from Tashi herself. He strains to lick around where she’s stretched on Patrick’s cock, all three of them moaning at the contact. She tastes like ambrosia on his tongue, sweet enough that he can almost ignore the heat of Patrick’s thighs on either side of him. 

“Fuck!” He hears her curse, and his eyes neary roll back. Art’s licking Patrick’s cock as much as he is Tashi’s cunt, but he can’t bring himself to care. The euphoria of just being with her, touching her again is enough to drown out the feelings he can’t quite decipher about Patrick. 

Art manages to wiggle forward another few precious inches, pressing his tongue flat to the crease between cunt and thigh, lapping at sweat and slick. He tries to nose high enough to reach her clit, can’t quite manage it in the tiny space he has beneath Patrick.

“Get off,” he suddenly hears Tashi growl. Patrick grunts above him, whining about something, and a moment later there’s a foot on his shoulder.

He reaches one hand up to stroke the top of Tashi’s foot, but she just shoves him back with as much force as she can nearly when she’s bent in half. Art makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, and the foot moves up to shove at his cheek instead.

“Tashi,” he moans, turning to mouth at her toes. She ignores his kisses completely, instead planting her heel solidly on his forehead and shoving him back.

The sound that rips from Art is so pathetic, it makes the first tear finally streak down his cheek. He paws it away with the back of his hand, looking up at Tashi where she’s looking at him around Patrick’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” She sneers, digging a hand into Patrick’s hair and guiding his mouth down to her chest. Art can hear the sound of his lips against her breast. He works his hips against the sheets, just once, giving himself enough pressure that he can’t help but moan.

“Are you humping the bed?” Tashi asks, shock and what he thinks might be disgust loud in her tone. He presses the side of his face into the bed, lowering himself as much as possible to look up at her in supplication. Patrick’s hips work slowly as he grinds himself inside of her, but Tashi’s expression doesn’t even twitch. “Fucking pathetic. Can’t listen to a single order and you’re so needy that you won’t even use your own hand.”

“I’m sorry,” he whines, worming one hand beneath his stomach and pressing it against his cock. It makes his face go a little numb, so much pleasure after so long denying himself. “You just- he wasn’t getting you off.”

Patrick makes an offended noise but Tashi just pushes him further into her, not letting him get even a centimeter of space between his lips and her skin. Art thinks he might hear Patrick rumbling, but it isn’t anything close to words.

“I don’t need you to get me off,” Tashi huffs, and Art bites back a whine when he sees her hips start working against Patrick’s again, giving him more room to fuck her better. “There’s a reason I told him to fuck me and told you to stay in that chair.”

“I can make you feel good,” Art swears, fighting to keep his eyes from screwing up as he beats his own dick. Tashi is still looking at him, and he doesn’t want to miss a second of eye contact with her. “Promise, Tash, I can be good for you.”

Patrick finally pulls his head away from Tashi’s nipple, turning enough that Art can see his eyes over his shoulder. “Well, I see why you started talking like that.” He’s making eye contact with Art but his words are for Tashi. “You’re not being a very good boy right now, are you Art?”

God, Art hates the way he moans at that, but he can’t help but want Patrick to just keep talking. His dick kicks up in his hand, even pressed against the bed as he is. 

“Oh, you like that,” Patrick nearly purrs, his tone far too close to sensual for the cocksure man Art has always known him to be. “You really are pathetic, huh?”

Art whines, hips working erratically into the sheets. He squirms just a bit closer on his stomach, not daring to lift himself even an inch. Patrick laughs and kicks back with one foot, clipping Art’s shoulder and sending him sliding back several inches. He grasps the sheets desperately with one hand, feeling for all the world like a kicked dog.

“Get on the floor,” Tashi commands, turning away from Art and running her hands over Patrick’s shoulder until she can wrap her arms around his neck. “You’re ruining the mood.”

(Somewhere deep in his mind, Art knows that isn’t true. He knows it isn’t true because he can’t help but cry out at Tashi’s dismissal, and immediately after the sound rips from his throat both she and Patrick moan. He knows they’re getting off on torturing him, but that doesn’t stop the tears from slipping down his cheeks as he desperately humps the bed.)

When Art doesn’t move, Patrick shoots him a snide glance. “You heard her. On the floor, where you belong.”

Art’s hardly breathing as he forces himself to slide back, the fabric against his skin suddenly burning. His knees knock when he finally stands, and he practically falls into the chair as he stumbles backward, unable to tear his eyes away from the flex of Patrick’s ass.

He’s slumped low over Tashi again, covering almost her entire body with his. Art tries his best to get a glimpse of her, but the most he can see are her arms, knees, and Patrick’s balls and taint.

“Patrick, stop – Art!” Tashi suddenly snaps, and Art jerks to attention. Patrick freezes above her, pushing himself up so their torsos are fully separated and he can turn to look at Art. He guiltly tears his eyes away from Patrick’s swaying balls and to Tashi’s eyes where she’s glaring over his shoulder, unable to believe he missed her gaze in the first place. “Are you stupid?”

Art blinks at her, looking all the idiot she accuses him of being. “Huh?”

Tashi rolls her eyes. “I told you to get on the floor. Are you on the floor right now?”

Art shakes his head slowly, frozen in her gaze.

Tashi only cocks an eyebrow expectantly.

Art slides to his knees in front of the bed, lips trembling. He curls his hands around the footboard, gripping as tight as he can to keep himself still. From this low of an angle he can see Tashi’s cunt again, can see the slick smeared on her thighs and the vein running along the bottom of Patrick’s cock.

“Finally. Now stay,” Tashi commands, falling back to her back and pulling Patrick over her. “Ignore him. If I don’t get off soon, I’m kicking you out.”

Patrick laughs, and Art can hear the kiss they share. “You haven’t gotten less demanding, that’s for sure.”

There aren’t any more words shared between them, not that Art can hear at least, as Patrick plants his hands on either side of Tashi’s head and starts to thrust inside of her at a consistent, quick pace. He fucks with all the confidence he carries on the court, movements sure and practiced as he keeps himself at the exact angle that’s jerking moans and whines from Tashi.

It takes a while for her to finish, still. Only a few minutes into their new pace, Patrick’s groans start drowning out Tashi’s. Art watches as his old friend falls to his elbows again, then even further as he buries a hand between their bodies, presumably to work at Tashi’s clit.

It’s hardly a minute after that when Tashi comes. Art can’t see her face but he knows the exact expression she’s making – eyes squeezed tight, lips curled back to show her teeth, eyebrows pinched, looking more like she’s in pain than exquisite pleasure. He could probably count on one hand the amount of times he hasn’t been looking at her face when she comes, he loves nothing more than the sight of his wife surrendering to the pleasure he’s giving her.

To know that it’s another man giving her an orgasm, an orgasm that Art can’t even properly see…

It makes his cock throb and his eyes water. The only thing keeping him from jacking himself off along with Patrick is the sense of shame burning bright in his stomach.

Patrick is loud when he comes. Art remembers that, from dark nights in shared rooms filled with feelings he’s spent years repressing. He remembers the way Patrick’s voice had cracked on a moan, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head when he hears it again now.

They’re all silent once Patrick pulls out of Tashi, falling to his back beside her in a mirror image of how they laid earlier. The loudest sound in the room is Art’s panting breaths, but the buzz in his head nearly drowns it out for him, and he’s miles away from composed enough to try and hide his desperation.

Art leans forward just enough to rest his chin on the footboard, chest pressed against the cool wood. He lifts up just enough that his cock is pressed against it too, albeit with his sweatpants keeping him from actually feeling it. 

Tashi’s splayed like a starfish on her back, limbs akimbo in a way that would unflattering on anyone else, but somehow looks perfectly posed on her. Her legs are spread enough that Art can see the mix of her slick and Patrick’s come dripping slowly out of her. He feels a little faint at the sight, saliva gathering beneath his tongue. 

Patrick’s laid back on the pillows, reclining instead of laying down. His cock is soft and wet against his thigh, limp and satisfied like the rest of him. When Art looks over at him, he catches Patrick already staring. His gaze is intense enough that Art can feel his cheeks flame hot, feel his cock throb in response where it’s trapped between wood and skin. 

He feels like he should say something, but can’t quite bring himself to, his gaze sliding back over to Tashi’s body. She’s sleeping now, he can tell by the slow rise and fall of her chest and by the fact that she hasn’t sat up and started shooting off commands again.

“Art, c’mere,” Patrick bids, jerking his head towards Tashi’s prone form. Art glances at him, wide-eyed and mute. Patrick’s lips are curled up in a smile that Art hates that he can still read even all these years later – he looks satisfied, and so painfully affectionate. The tightness in Art’s chest eases, just a bit. He doesn’t move though, only glances between his wife and Patrick.

“Come on,” Patrick encourages, reaching over just enough to pat Tashi’s thigh enticingly. She shifts a bit in her sleep, making a low sound and spreading her legs even more. “One of us should clean her up, and I’m exhausted.”

Art knows it’s a lie. Patrick’s already cupping his balls with the hand not on Tashi’s thigh, rolling them in his palm idly. But Art can still taste the hint of pussy he got earlier, and he’s too desperate to care about Patrick’s pity. 

It’s easy to haul himself over the footboard, keeping himself on his stomach to satisfy some animal instinct that demands he keep himself small. He keeps his hands underneath his body, tucked in front of his chest as he lays himself in front of his wife’s thoroughly fucked cunt, watching with awe as her hole winks at him.

“Pretty, huh?” Patrick rumbles, and a moment later Art feels a hand comb through his hair. He jerks back at the contact, looking over at his old friend with wide eyes and pushing away just enough to be out of his reach. Patrick only rolls his eyes, leaning forward enough to get a good grip in Art’s hair and yanking him until his cheek rests on Tashi’s thigh.

Art whines quietly, blinking rapidly with wide eyes up at Patrick, who just smirks and softens his hold, running his hand through Art’s hair. “Quiet, you’re fine. We both know you like a little manhandling.”

Art closes his eyes for a moment, forcing his gaze back to Tashi when they open.

“Like a little more than that too, huh?” Patrick goes on, fingers not hesitating for even a moment as Art flinches. Part of him wants to speak up in defense of himself, but words feel miles away from his reach right now. “Wish I would’ve known that, before. Might’ve actually gotten to fuck you if I’d known I just had to be a little mean.”

“Patrick,” Art breathes, squirming forward more so he can bury his nose in Tashi’s stomach, tongue darting out to taste her sweat-soaked skin. 

“Art,” Patrick mocks, scratching Art’s scalp with dull nails, just on the wrong side of rough. “You know I’m right. It’s why you’re quiet right now – either that, or all the blood in your brain is between your legs.”

Art lets one arm creep up, wrapping around Tashi’s waist so he can force himself as close to her as possible. He sinks a little lower again, nosing at the crease of her thigh. He can smell the mix of her and Patrick still dripping between her legs, and his tongue darts out instinctively. For the first time in his life, he’s disappointed to taste Tashi’s sweat.

“So go on,” Patrick encourages, pushing Art’s head even lower with the heel of her palm. “Clean her up. Then you can pass out.”

Art doesn’t wait any longer for permission, burying his face in Tashi’s folds. Her clit in his mouth, his tongue in her hole offers him the mercy he’s needed all night. Everything else fades away with her taste drowning him – he’s not so hard he hurts, he can’t feel Patrick tugging on his earlobe, his bicep isn’t squeezing Tashi’s thigh, he’s just a pair of lips and a tongue put here to make one woman feel good.

Tashi’s always careful with how responsive she is, only rewarding Art with moans and touches when he’s particularly good with his mouth. But in her sleep she’s limp, only the occasional moan slipping unrestrained from her chest. It’s heaven.

“She taste good?” He hears Patrick ask distantly, and he’s got enough of his wits about him to nod into Tashi, dipping lower so he can fully tongue her hole with his nose brushing her clit. 

He can fully taste Patrick now, the salty tang of his cum coating Art’s tongue. He moans as the taste mixes with Tashi’s, eyes rolling back as he shoves himself as far into her as he can get.

He hooks his other arm underneath her leg, hitching her up just enough that he can almost shove himself down and into her, trying his best to mimic fucking her with his tongue. He knows she won’t be bothered by him eating her out, but she’d never let him fuck her with her in some form of control. He so rarely gets to do what he wants with her body, the treat of it is almost worth the show he had to watch to get it.

Art moans into her, drunk as he laps at her desperately, cleaning every inch of her he can reach with his tongue. He licks broad stripes from hole to clit, coating his taste buds in Tashi and Patrick. They’re all he can taste, and the bliss he feels is overwhelming.

“Man, you are gone,” Patrick says, laughing affectionately. He scratches behind Art’s ear lightly, and Art can’t help but lean into the contact. “Can you even breathe in there?”

Not really, but Art doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need to breathe right now, not with unrestricted free access to his wife’s cunt for what’s probably the first time in their entire marriage. 

“You don’t even care about your dick, do you?” Patrick continues. “You’re hard as a rock, man, I can see it through your pants. But you’re not even humping the bed anymore.”

Art whines, flushing. His eyes flutter open for just a moment, glancing lazily at Patrick before he gets another rush of his taste and his eyes roll shut again. The hand on his ear shifts to his nape, helping guide him like he really is fucking Tashi with his tongue.

“Guess it’s good that you’re not too bothered. I’m not getting you off and risking Tashi’s wrath in the morning. Maybe if you give her those puppy dog eyes she’ll finish you off in the morning, huh?”

A part of Art wants to cry at the thought of going to sleep without relief, and another part relishes in just the idea of waiting for Tashi’s permission to come. She’s always a little softer with him when he follows her lead, and the bedroom is far from the exception to that.

Tashi’s breath hitches as Art focuses in on her clit, her moans cracking as her hips work subconsciously against his face. Art is happy to follow her lead, going where she guides him and relishing in the way he noises only kick up higher and louder. 

He can tell the moment she comes because the rush of her taste washes away Patrick’s completely. A few tears slip down Art’s face as she humps him, locking his mouth over her hole to make sure he doesn’t miss a drop of her pleasure. 

He keeps licking at her, sucking on her clit and breathing her scent in deep, until Patrick gets a hold on his hair again and tugs him off.

“Alright, you’re done,” Patrick says, ignoring Art’s bereft whimper and forcing his cheek back to Tashi’s thigh. “You put on a good show, but we don’t want her waking up and getting all bossy again, do we?”

Art would like nothing more, actually, but he doesn’t have it in him to do anything more than blink dumbly up at Patrick. With Tashi’s orgasm fresh on his tongue, he finds all of his worries slipping away. His cock is still hard and sore between his legs, but it’s a distant sort of feeling, one he finds himself capable of ignoring. He lets his eyes flutter shut for a bit, basking in the scent of Tashi and the feel of a heavy hand on his head.

“You gonna sleep down there?”

Art lifts his head at Patrick’s question, dragging himself away from the brink of sleep. “What?”

Patrick shifts closer to Tashi, rolling her onto her side and subsequently forcing Art to back up even further, until he’s on his stomach at the foot of the bed. Patrick tucks himself close behind Tashi, lifting her head so she can use one bicep of his as a pillow. 

Patrick looks over at Art expectantly, reaching back to pat the bit of empty mattress behind him. There’s really not much room, since Tashi’s still in the center of the bed, but there’s some. 

“Come up here,” Patrick says, turning to wrap himself fully around Tashi and laying his head down, eyes closing. She shifts to the side a bit, laying on her stomach with her arm and leg laid out to take up the rest of the bed.

Art can tell that he fully intends to go to sleep, regardless of what Art chooses to do.

He briefly considers staying where he is, curled up at the foot of the bed like a spoiled dog. He pushes that thought away quickly, with a quick flare of panic at the way his cock kicks up at the image. 

He could crawl on Tashi’s other side, tuck himself into her. But Tashi’s always been a bed hog, and always been particular about personal space at night. At least once a month Art wakes up to her kicking and shoving him back over to his side of the bed after he got a little too clingy in his sleep, her hair a bird’s nest but her glare just as fiery as always. He figures if he’s got any chance of earning an orgasm in the morning, it’s not going to come from an annoyed Tashi.

Art reluctantly drags his limbs up behind Patrick, forced to stretch his legs out straight so that he’s not curling them behind Patrick’s. His shirt and sweatpants stick to his skin from sweat, but he refuses to press himself skin-to-skin to Patrick like that.

He shifts over to his side so that he’s not on the very edge of the bed, one hand resting on the pillow. Just as he settles a bit, feels his heart rate finally begin to slow, he hears Patrick’s voice.

“Can you not, man?”

Art tenses again. “What?” He whispers, like they’re kids at tennis camp again and he doesn’t want to get caught awake after light’s out.

“I can feel your dick on my ass, Art. Hard to fall asleep with that.”

Art is on his back again before he can even blink, breaths hitching. He has to fold his hands over his stomach to keep one from hanging off the edge

“Thanks,” Patrick hums, and Art can feel him shift his hips back a little bit. His ass rests against Art’s thigh now.

“No problem,” Art manages, though his whisper is shaky.

He stares up at the smooth ceiling, simultaneously more exhausted than he’s felt since he retired and kicked up on so much energy that he feels like he’ll never fall asleep.

Patrick’s breaths deepen beside him, and a moment later soft snores fill the room. Art closes his eyes and smiles, safe in the dark. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

He counts his breaths, times them to match with Patrick’s. He does his damndest to ignore the erection tenting his pants. He thinks of morning orgasms and his beautiful wife, sleep-soft and mild before the day’s responsibilities settle over her.

He’s asleep in minutes.

[sparrowsarus]

A defense of Ulder Ravengard

Ulder Ravengard starts his life as the 4th son of a blacksmith, and it is implied that Ravengard Senior talks in grunts, and hardly acknowledged his children.

So with that foundation, a young Ulder fucks off and joins the Flaming Fist--a mercenary company with an identity crisis, cops and soldiers and mercs, and damn is Baldur's Gate's government dysfunctional.

At some point, he falls in love with a woman named Francesca, who dies in childbirth. That's all we get of her--and that only if you happen to read some flavour text on Ulder's sword. He tells his crying son that it will be alright, and he doesn't seem to believe it.

It is much, much easier to get the other flavour text on Ulder's mace--how he didn't want to be like his father, but felt a distance between him and his newborn son. Some people say this is proof that Ulder never loved Wyll--I think it says he just lost the woman he loved, and was now facing single parenthood with no baseline to work off of. He was going to be doing this from scratch, with no help nor role model. He's going to be a little distraught!

But. He has his son. Who he takes to the harbour, and teaches to swordfight, and is really a very hands-on guy! His kid runs a little wild (having the childhood Ulder never got to have; maybe being a little too lenient, since Wyll's only a boy.)

And then he watches his boss, a beloved figure in the Gate and son of Bhaal, get ripped apart--and he can do nothing. Even as the new Marshal, trying to run an investigation with the God of Murder whispering paranoia in his ear.

There is hysteria. There are riots.

There are tribunals, and I won't defend them, but--Bhaal, trying to corrupt and coerce. It is important to remember--Ulder is a hero to the people of Baldur's Gate. He will go to the Gods when he dies. What a fantastic prize for the God of murder.

But Ulder manages to escape that fate, and at some point he becomes Grand Duke. A real success story--the poor blacksmith's boy becoming the leader of one of the Sword Coast's biggest cities. A position he had to fight for, because Baldur's Gate's politics are run by hereditary gentry and the wealthy guildleaders. Ulder Ravengard is an outsider, and the last commoner duke was aligned with devils.

And Wyll, his boy, learns to dance, and charm the Upper Crust of the Gate, and get into fights with his father--who had to learn politics, and to work with people he hated, because no, the Glorious Revolution will never come to pass. You need to work with people towards a common goal even when you hate them.

And one day, Ulder leaves for a meeting with another city's leader--

and when he gets back, his 17 year old son, his boy, the child his wife had died for--

has a devil with him and won't (can't, but Ulder doesn't know that yet) tell him what is going on. Wyll takes him to Dusthawk Hill, to see nothing.

So Ulder exiles him, because, again, devil.

(Sidenote: Devils in D&D are Ontologically Evil. Full stop. People who ally with them are generally assumed to be evil. Take it up with WoTC. UIder did nothing wrong regarding the exile, because he has to look out for an entire city, and Wyll was considered a grown man in his society by 15. This is not the actions of a child, and to treat it as such is a disservice to Wyll.)

(Wyll would always have to leave.)

And seven years later, Ulder Ravengard goes on a diplomatic visit, and gets dragged down to the Hells, along with the city of Elturel. He tries his best to save the city, to fight the demons, to manage the defenses. He tries so, so hard.

And once Elturel is restored, Ulder heads home.

(The tiefling refugees are headed to Baldur's Gate; I wonder if Ulder had promised safety? Sanctuary? A home less judgemental than Elturel?)

But on the way back to The Gate, Ulder is kidnapped, forcibly mind controlled, and damn near scrambles his brain fighting that control.

(Note: he tells Florrick to look for Wyll. He still believes there is some good in him, that Wyll is not wholly the devil's creature. But he's afraid, too, because if Wyll did it for a good reason? Ulder has failed. And you do not go from blacksmith's son to Grand Duke if you are tolerant of you own failures.

Wyll saves his father. Wyll proves he did what he thought was right.

Wyll gets an apology, and his father's support, either becoming a duke or becoming a ranger--everything Wyll wanted from his father..

And a family is rebuilt--different from before, but there is no harm in that. Both of them putting in the work to fix things, because you need to meet each other halfway--give the other person space to apologize, and forgive, because that's what they both wanted.

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter three

[ 3k words ] [ prev chapters: one, two ] [ masterlist ] "it’s an unfamiliar sensation, not being able to completely read him. it skitters over you like static electricity." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

you’re on call every day from eight at night to eight in the morning, so by the time richie rolls up, you’ve usually just eaten a late breakfast and he’s heading home after work. there’s a consistency to his late night appearances, a rhythm that becomes comforting.

there’s no pretending and no politeness—what would be the point? they should invent a word for this. maybe childhood-friend-in-law would do, except you had a snowball’s chance in hell of ever marrying michael and you always knew it. that’s the feeling, though. familiarity comes built in. even when he gets truly infuriating, you don’t leave feeling worse than you did. more pissed off, sure, but never worse. it’s a distinction worth noticing. 

some nights are easy. you talk about questionable obscure music in which you really do not overlap or middling mainstream music in which you do, running out of concerts and context. sometimes it’s pure bullshit, gossip or make believe, starting up elaborate jokes too lame to admit to in front of anyone else, then discarding them when they’re outworn. sometimes it’s old stories, sometimes it’s pure speculation.

hand to god, some nights are good.

and then there’s this night.

.

.

.

you’re barely out the front door when richie calls out, hey. where the hell were you?

you got called in real early yesterday, so you missed seeing him last night. but that’s no cause for him to yell, the entitled little jerk. you shoot him a baleful glare. then, as you take in the sight of him, you settle a little.

he’s not truly angry. you’ve spent enough time with him now, you’d know.

with a shrug, you shove your hands deep in your pockets and come stand beside him. 

last night i had to smoke all by myself like a fuckin loser, he says. 

that's your cue to say, you are a fuckin loser, but you don't take it.

he offers you a drag on his own cigarette, and you shake your head. you want it bad, but you can’t. you all but smoked yourself to death between crises yesterday, and you’re trying to convince yourself now that giving it up will somehow fix things. 

but nothing will be fixed, and it’s not your responsibility anyhow. this is not your city. you’ve felt that acutely of late, as each of your last links to it is broken one by one. coke or the cops, what difference does it make? the caruso kid didn’t listen to you, didn’t listen to anyone, and once his infection got bad enough, his wife called an ambulance. it’ll be the cops for him if he survives, and his father after that, the next domino to fall. you yourself are somewhere in that long line, just waiting for your turn. 

work sucks, huh, richie says. 

you look over at him to find that he’s already looking back at you, a little sleepy but not good enough an actor to hide the keenness in his observing eyes. it’s dangerous that he noticed you were gone and it’s dangerous that he’s noticing you now, but it feels really, really fucking good. 

yeah, you say. i thank god every day that i am a woman of leisure.

he laughs. well, i’m just grateful that you allow yourself to associate out with me, you know. me in my rags and you in your pearls and finery. he gestures at your sweatpants and gigantic parka.

once my tiara’s back from the cleaner’s, it’s over for you, you say.

sure, and i’ll be crying my eyes out in a pint of cherry chocolate chip. 

with that, he launches into a long, winding tale about the shenanigans he pulled at the beef today, installment nine hundred and seventeen of his neverending battle with a guy named fak. you’re not following, but you’re not trying to follow particularly hard, either. you’re too tired, and you’ve got other shit on your mind.

that’s the closest richie has gotten to mentioning your job in weeks. 

used to be that he’d poke around with dogged persistence, as though he thought he could needle you into submission. he asked after your boss’s health, your credit score, your childhood high school. he complained he had to take a shit or that it was too cold out to stand around. all that. anything to invade, get inside, get a little more information. 

michael was like that, too. the difference between the two is that michael won. conquered you, most if not all of your secrets, and fell asleep in your bed long before even a month had passed. but richie’s been at it for a few months now and he seems to have given up. he doesn’t know your job, your last name, or your phone number. he could pick you out of a lineup but he could never track you down. and he’s decided to let that go.

it’s just as well. you’ve got leftover dim sum in the minifridge right now, and if he pushed hard enough, you’re pretty sure you’d take him up to share it. siu mai re-steamed and slices of lo bak goh re-fried in hot oil in a pan, savory and delicious, nothing better. you can’t cook, but you’d still feed him well if given half the chance. you’d arrange the table with takeout napkins and your only two sets of matching cutlery, you’d—

the real richie rudely interrupts your thoughts. 

you’re not even listening to me, are you, he says. 

no, i’m not, you admit without an ounce of compunction.

just like everyone else, hey? fan-tastic. there’s a real bite to the way he breaks the word in half.

you look at him, startled and stung. don’t be such a fucking baby.

man, fuck you, he says. real anger, rocketing out from his chest. 

fuck you! you stare at him, legitimately astonished. maybe it’s your fault for not paying attention, but you really have no idea where this is coming from. you’ve been good. maybe your mind strayed for a while tonight, but what about every other night? you’ve always listened, or at least pretended to listen, to the travails of his divorce, his money problems, his insane workplace, his dysfunctional quasi-adopted family. and there’s a hell of a lot of it. you’ve been really fucking good!

apparently, not only has he not noticed this, but he thinks he’s entitled to even more.

you say, what do you expect here when you’re going on for eons like fucking always. do you think this is fun for me?

well, someone has to talk since you won’t say shit about shit with that paranoid secret agent—

oh, fuck. something about the way richie cuts himself off. you dread whatever he’s got to say next.

he says, what’s that supposed to mean, do you think this is fun for me?

jesus christ. you fumble in your coat, only to remember that you threw away your last pack. i don’t speak in fucking riddles, richie, this is not that type of situation.

then what type of, like. his face wrinkles in horror and disgust. am i a charity project? 

this is like having a migraine, but worse. i never said… truly, what the hell is going on? how did you even get here? 

dredging up the last of your energy, the emergency fund, you turn it into bravado, your default response to an unexpectedly angry man. you give it your all cause that’s the only way to do it, turning and facing him head on, putting your shoulders back and standing square over your own two feet. 

what is this, richie? you wanna fight? you really wanna fight?

yeah, i think i do actually, says richie, alarmingly ready. i think i really fuckin do. 

fine, you spit. 

you tilt your chin up so you can look him square in the eye and you give him the worst you got, spiteful already, and then you start trying to anticipate his next move.

there’s a lot of things he could say, as it turns out, a lot of things that only he could say, because he was there for everything. he witnessed the aftermath and attended the funeral. he could have you skinned like a caught rabbit given half the chance, and you just handed it to him on a silver platter. 

besides, he has a right. he loved michael even more than you did.

the realization dawns on you far too late, and then the dread sets in. can he see it in your face? when he opens his mouth, you’re setting your jaw so you don’t flinch. 

forget it, he says flatly. he turns away a little, steps back to lean against the building, and in the shadow of the building all you can see is the shape of him. if you concentrate, you can make out his profile against the gray concrete. 

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at first, you can’t quite believe it. it’s mercy, after all, and that’s rarely reliable. but after his last cigarette, richie folds his arms tight across his chest and tilts his head back, eyes looking up towards stars that neither of you can see through the city lights.

eventually, you do start to think the mercy is real. you test it.

can i have one? you say.

richie doesn’t even hesitate. he reaches into the left pocket of his tracksuit pants, produces a pack, and hands it over. it turns out to be brand-new box of menthols. 

you look at it for a moment. your throat’s doing that thing again. he really did notice that you weren’t here last night, huh.

i don’t do charity, you say, after a second.

it’s fine, forget it, he says. 

i don’t, though. you don’t know what to say, but you know you can’t leave things there, so you keep pushing, and the words just come out. richie, i’m—i’m really a piece of shit. 

he looks at you directly again, but this time it’s a question. he doesn’t try to negate it with a brainless autoresponse like ‘no you’re not.’ he just listens, plain and simple. for a second, you’re at a loss. 

sudden and frightening as a car crash at the next intersection, the impulse flashes through you: tell him the truth, the whole truth. test him for real, watch that mercy melt away, inevitable as ice on hot pavement. teach him to hate you like he should. it’s like strong hands digging their fingers into your shoulders, the thought, and you’re reeling.

i… you swallow, smash it down, yank the car back onto the road. i hate ice cream and babies and long walks on the beach, i hate old ladies and libraries. you look over at him. i kick dogs every chance i get. 

there it is, at the corners of his mouth.

heartened, you go on, nearly tripping over your words. like, small dogs, richie. puppies. right in the head, i kick them. 

now you’re both smiling, and the relief is so fucking crazy. you’ve fought with him so many times before, but you’ve never gotten scared by it before. this is a first, and you have no idea what to do. all you can do is repeat, i don’t do charity.

okay, he says. okay.

you lean against the wall, and you’re absurdly heartened when he does the same right next to you. something about the symmetry, something about the weight off. you finally light up one of the menthols, and you have the night with richie back again. the breeze brushes by, chilly but not unbearable. it’s perfect.

what happened today? you say.

i thought you’d like it, he says. it was funny. 

go on, then. 

you wonder if richie might try to make you say please, but he doesn’t. he walks you through the whole day of catastrophes, from the broken toilet to the loss of electricity, from the loss of electricity to the fucked-up fridge, from the fucked-up fridge to the outdoor grill—

that’s really cool, you say.

he grins. right? 

whose idea?

from his crooked, exasperated smile, you know it wasn’t his. 

syd’s, he admits.

you raise an eyebrow. so i take it the culinary institute is good for something.

he scoffs. no way they taught her that. that—he points at you—was pure chicago.

oh okay, so we’re giving the credit to the city.

yeah, we are, cause it’s like—

the city, not the woman.

it was very chicago of her! that’s a compliment. don’t make it a feminism thing. his voice matches yours, a near-laugh ribboning through it like fudge in ice cream.

alright, okay. you’re smiling like a fool and you couldn’t care less. so then what?

so turns out fak’s connect isn’t much of a connect, surprise surprise, and it’s gonna cost us fifty-five hundred just to get the fridge back up and running. so he and carmy come to me, all hat in hand, and they’re like—shit. i didn’t tell you about the dealing, did i? you got me all turned around.

didn’t tell me bout the what now?

fak snitched on me earlier, told carmy i was dealing in the alley back behind the beef. i’m not moving much weight, just like. he gestures vaguely. covid, he adds, like that’s an explanation. please don’t have a fit about this, i’ve had all i can take from carmy already.

you shake your head once, thinking hard, processing. the more you think on it, the more it unsettles you. 

i knew he was dealing, obviously, but i didn’t know about you, you say. after a second, you add, richard edgar jerimovich?

jesus, he mutters.

is that right?

and here i thought carmy was going full mom. edgar, jesus fucking christ. richie’s torn between aghast and amused. where’d you get that from?

that’s your middle name?

yeah, but—

you hold up a hand, not rude, just asking him silently to let you finish, and he does. 

richie, you broke your wrist when you were twelve trying to play tackle football with the big boys on asphalt. at some point in your thirties, you started getting a rash every time you ate shellfish, but you still do it anyways, ‘cause fuck it’. and to this day you hate nightmare on elm street cause he convinced you to watch it with him when you were both way too young. 

none of this richie told you himself. it all came straight from michael. 

you say, how do i know all that, but i didn’t know you were dealing? 

richie says nothing, so you look over and find him watching you already. it’s an unfamiliar sensation, not being able to completely read him. it skitters over you like static electricity. 

you got a pretty good memory there, huh, he says.

it’s coke, right?

it’s just coke, yeah. was coke. it’s over now. richie shrugs wearily, turns away, and stubs out his spent cigarette on the concrete wall. mikey and his fucking secrets. i don’t know what to tell you. 

you can say that again. 

richie says nothing for a beat, then: mikey and his fucking secrets, i don’t—

okay, okay. 

he breaks into a small smile as you watch him, and then you keep on looking at him even as the smile subsides. a car goes by, and you look down at the pavement as the headlights sweet over both your faces, only looking back up at him once the car is gone.

the thing is, you really did think you knew him. what a crazy thing to think, when this is a mistake you’ve already made before with michael. you thought you knew him too. 

there could be so much of richie you don’t know, because michael didn’t know—or because michael didn’t tell. and yet richie isn’t a stranger. at any moment you could close your eyes and picture his face, imagine his voice. he’s in you that much, at least.

so here he is, through your own eyes. you’re determined to fix him in your mind, not richie from the stories, but richie as he really is. his hair is dark and close-cut, his beard too. his eyebrows are scant, and there’s a ridge on his forehead as if to make up for it. his nose is straight and straightforward. there are bags under his eyes, because of course there are, but his eyes themselves are as blue as summer, so blue they’re barely believable. that’s him, that’s his face.

then there’s the eternal black leather jacket, oversized and complete with unnecessary shoulder straps for all the bags he’ll never carry. he stinks of kitchen in general and arby’s curly fries in specific. he’s allowing you to stare at him, an indulgence that you can’t question without being a dick. he makes you want to not be a dick. all this is here, all this is real. 

he rubs his nose with the side of his wrist. 

you must be tired, you say quietly.

when he smiles like that, it’s almost like you can look down past a few decades and see the teenager you never got to meet. i’m never tired, he says.

he’s always tired, you realize. of course he would be. you only ever see him after his long-ass shifts. go to bed, richie.

that was too gentle for sure, because he says a little curiously, getting some real weird vibes off you right now.

you take one last drag, then push off the side of the building, gathering yourself to go. you want normal, don’t come to me. 

heard, he says with a chuckle. g’night.

goodnight.

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[ chapter four ] [ masterlist ]

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@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1 — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

[seth-burroughs]

Hot take incoming but Makoto is one of the characters where everybody focuses on only one of his crimes, which is arguably actually the most justified out of all his actions, while ignoring pretty much. Everything else.

Like sorry but I don't think turning people into food was That Bad considering homunculi need human meat in order to live, they literally die if they don't eat it - it's either A. no humans get killed, and in turn all of Kanai Ward dies, or B. humans die and get turned into meatbuns, and Kanai Ward gets to exist. You could argue that the defective homunculi weren't really supposed to exist anyway but like, they do now so what. Makoto is also a homunculus, of course he probably sympathizes more with the other homunculi instead of the humans (that put them there in the first place) of course he's gonna choose KW over approx. a million humans.

If that was me in that situation I'll do the same thing fuck them bun filling lmao sorry I'm not saying it would be the best choice but it's one literally most people would choose anyway because like. What can you do, it sucks, moving on.

Substitutes for human flesh are possible to create (thank you ramen guy) but it'd require him to seek help from others which would require him to tell them the truth which fuck no. Like in that regard I believe he should be allowed to kill whoever he wants actually!

What actually makes me go 🤨 about him is everything else he's doing. Or not doing - aside from providing food and rain clouds, aka only a portion the bare necessities, he's doing absolutely nothing for Kanai Ward, especially Dohya District. He lives in the most expensive looking penthouse I ever laid my eyes upon, there is so much he could do with all of his billions, like, I don't know, at least unflood the Dohya District do you remember the Dohya District it appeared once in chapter 3 I believe.

Also your city has a poverty crisis the population's like 10% rich bitch working for ✨Amaterasu✨ 90% i live in a sewer i have like 8 shien. Please stop saying you love KW like every othet sentence and actually do something I'm begging you I'm poking you with a stick right now.

Say what you want about Yomi but he was so real for telling Makoto he's not doing shit, only ever instance in rc where the guy is like.... somewhat correct. I was about to say something else but I stopped myself because I have a healthy amount of Fear.

Apparently Makoto's love for all homunculi doesn't extend to Kurumi though, a teenage girl, after he just dumps her along with Yuma in the restricted area for no reason whatsoever, endangering her severely. He also risked her finding out she was eating human flesh for three years straight, the only reason she didn't go into the freezer was because Yuma was there to tell her there was nothing there. There was no reason for Makoto to drag her along to be the audience to his epic showdown with his DNA donor.

I'm not mad at him for that though, that was so fucking hilarious, the fuck?? What is wrong with him <3333

Since I know somebody is going to say that Yomi existing severely limits what Makoto can actually do, which is fair to some extent, but like... Was Yomi holding a gun to his head and telling him he's gonna execute the hostages if he tries to unflood Dohya? Was he? Yomi controls the peacekeepers, he doesn't control where Amaterasu money gets donated. Yomi (and by extension, the peacekeepers - Yomi is, as I see it, the personification of everything wrong with the Amaterasu Corporation cops peacekeepers anyway) can be blamed for a large portion of everything wrong with Kanai Ward, but not the entirety of it; and Makoto can't be, either. Blaming everything on Yomi is not only just wrong, but also the most boring answer possible.

Speaking of -- Makoto didn't even care about all the abuse of power Yomi was commiting the entire time. According to him, "If all Yomi did was throw his weight around, that would have been fine, but [forgot the exact phrasing, but he says him trying to leak homunculus information was where he had to step in]", so you can't even give him points for being a Yomi hater! Sad. Anyway here's how makoyomi worsties can still win

Do I dislike Makoto? No not really. I don't really care about him as much as other people tend to, but he's fun when you let him be his silly (ominous) self. The atrocities are a part of him and I decided they're funny. Actually wait I changed my mind I love him now.

[galaxyseclipse]

alright, gonna try to be slightly more organized than last time about my thoughts/theories/observations about Side Order also this might be a shorter post than last time because there isn't a whole ton of trailer, it'll mostly be about the artwork tbh

so I'm just gonna start this by saying I really dislike the "it's all New 3's dream" theory, it feels like a cop-out. I'm not saying it is 110% untrue, just that I don't like it and hope it isn't

how do I explain the transition from the train to Inkopolis Square? New 3's on the train to Inkopolis Square(which is fully unlocked after beating Side Order; the option just takes you to SO until then) and falls asleep, one matrix-y transition later and we're in Eight's pov inside of whatever simulation they got dragged into. it's purely to transition the player from New 3 to Eight, and the events are completely unrelated

or I'm utterly, wholly wrong! who knows!

---------

another thing I noticed on my millionth trailer rewatch was this

it's just to the right of the tower in the shot where everything materializes. it looks like a filling cabinet? it's in the last trailer we got too, I checked, but not the first teaser(granted, a lot of stuff wasn't)

I dunno, probably not anything super important, but it's not there in the Square in 2, so I thought I'd point it out

edit: look at reblogs, it's probably actually a set of lockers

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I've seen a shockingly small number of people bring up this guy

so far(maybe there's more talk of them on twitter or something idk)

they're clearly pretty prominent, they're next to Acht, Pearldrone, and Eight, so they have to be important, right?

my first guess is that they're something a la CQ Cumber or ORCA, just the one who explains the rules of each level and splats you if you fail. but it feels redundant to have both them and Acht, who already knows a good amount about this place, explaining stuff to you

I dunno I also see twist villain potential from them, just because we haven't seen them before now. like, "hahaha! It was I who fucked up this place, and now that you've helped me hack the mainframe, I can take full control!" or something idk lol

I'm not even gonna try to guess what kind of sea critter they are lmao

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now onto the real stars of the show

these fuckers

hopefully y'all already know that I am a firm believer that the one in the center is Agent 4, seeing as they're the only one of the group with ears and tentacles, and those two features bear resemblance to "canon" Agent 4. the rest don't have those, so that one is clearly important, right? am I being delusional? probably

setting that aside, what are these things in the first place? they're most likely related to the fish guys in some way, both being covered in black goo with glowing red eyes

I personally think that they're either mobile versions of the copy machine from the lobby, or some weird, goopy creation of the simulation used to replace enemy Octolings in gameplay(which is a fun twist, haven't had enemy Inklings before) otherwise I have no idea lol. they're enemy units and that's all I've got

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there's also this thing

featuring a lot of Acht's head

kinda looks like the Octowhirl to me, but like, less octoweapon-y and more coral-ish, with the same red eyes as the fish; probably a boss of some stripe, or tougher enemy

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something else that's probably inconsequential I noticed in the artwork

the different colored color chips have different text on them, probably stating what kind each one is?

notably, the blue one(the one used in the trailer) doesn't have the same text on it, that moved to the red one

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I think that's it for now; I have picked apart the artwork as much as I can/want

I'll bet if we get a direct before the 22nd, we'll get one more small trailer or maybe just a repeat of this one. though judging by the trailers Nintendo's been releasing lately, that feels oddly unlikely to me

but idk I'm just a weirdo who likes staring at fictional cephalopods

[drabbles-mc]

Worse Before It's Better

Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Written for the 2023 Hurt/Comfort Exchange

Warnings: 18+, angst, blood/injuries, scars, ptsd

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: I just really fucking looooove writing for these two. I love letting them be angsty together and soft together. They're so good for that.

Marvel Taglist: @garbinge @artemiseamoon (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

There had only been one real exchange of words between them the entire time. When Natasha had finally found him, finally gotten to him, she could hardly believe the state of him. She recognized him, because she would always be able to recognize him, but he hardly looked like himself.

“Barnes?” the name fell from her lips like a question, like a plea.

Eyes red from tears and pain, his face littered with cuts and bruises, he looked back at her, his voice grated but just as desperate as he said, “Natasha?”

That was the only thing he’d said to her. Everything else that was said, was all Natasha. It wasn’t as though she even said all that much, but what little she did say, Bucky didn’t offer any responses for. With his metal arm slung across her shoulders and her arm braced against his lower back, the two of them made their way towards freedom as quickly as they could. Natasha gave directions and quiet reassurances as they walked, none of which Bucky replied to. What little energy and strength he had was going into keeping himself upright. At that point, Natasha was all but dragging him along as she went, but they hadn’t tumbled. The adrenaline amplified her raw strength, and they were both lucky for that otherwise Bucky wasn’t sure if they would’ve made it out, if he would’ve made it out.

But then they were in the car. Natasha was behind the wheel, speeding down roads so fast that it wouldn’t have mattered if the cops tried to pull her over, because they never would’ve caught up to her. Her hands were wrapped tight around steering wheel, grip so severe she wondered if the wheel was going to be permanently formed to her hands after the fact.

Meanwhile, Bucky sat in the passenger seat. Natasha had buckled him in since he hadn’t made any move to do it for himself when he had sat down. For as large of a man as he was, he had never looked as small as he did right then. He sat there, nearly motionless except for the clenching and unclenching of his metal hand. Everything else about him was eerily still—it was hard for Natasha to even see the rise and fall of his chest even though she knew that he was breathing.

When the car came to a stop, it was the first time that Natasha really saw Bucky turn and try to look around at where they were. She didn’t know if he would recognize it. The area, maybe, but to the extent of her knowledge, he’d never been to this particular safehouse before. It wasn’t one that was sanctioned by anyone—it was one of her personal hideaways, of which she had precious few now.

“Come on,” she said as she cut the ignition.

She knew that Bucky wasn’t really going to make any move on his own, but she still had to say it. She unbuckled herself and quickly strode around to the other side of the car, head on a swivel to make sure that no one was around and watching them as she pulled the passenger door open. She saw Bucky turn to look at her, but he didn’t say anything or move at all as she reached across him to undo his seatbelt.

Looping her arm behind him once more, she pulled him towards the edge of the seat. He didn’t fight her on it, swinging his legs so that his feet landed on the blacktop. It took him longer than it normally would, but he did eventually get himself upright onto his feet. Once he regained a bit of his balance, he could’ve walked in on his own. He allowed himself the small comfort of Natasha’s arm being around him, though, the sound of their footsteps being in-sync with each other’s. It was all he had for the moment.

He watched as Natasha took out her keys. He leaned against the wall beside the door as she unlocked it. His eyes were glued to her hands, unable to focus on more than one thing at a time as she slid the key into the lock. Key in the palm of one hand, Natasha put her other into Bucky’s giving him a gentle tug through the door so that she could shut and lock it behind them, putting them in to as much safety as they could be afforded given everything that had happened.

Even though Bucky didn’t seem any more comfortable or relieved than he had a few moments before, Natasha’s shoulders slumped in relief once the door was locked and they were alone. She flipped a few of the lights on, not all of them as an act of mercy to Bucky who seemed like he was on the brink of flinching at just about any and every change. It was more light than she’d had up until that point, though, and it was enough for her to get a better look at his injuries, how bad they were.

Before she could stop herself, she whispered, “What did they do to you?” as she reached, fingertips brushing against the cold metal of his arm.

He didn’t answer, could hardly bring himself to meet her eyes when she asked him the question. Part of him wanted to tell her. If anyone would understand what he’d been through, it would be her. But he knew that if he opened those floodgates, started to talk about what they’d done, he’d shatter in a way that would take too long to be put back together.

Clearing his throat, despite how raw it felt, Bucky didn’t his best to sound as level as he could as he asked, “Shower?”

Natasha nodded instantly, her brain kicking back into gear. She went to take his hand again, purely out of habit, but she noticed how he flinched away this time. She tried not to let the emotional sting of that linger, tried not to think too much into it because of the circumstances.

Allowing her hand to fall back to her side, she nodded towards the other end of the house. “Yea, this way.”

Bucky followed her dutifully through each room. Normally he’d be more observant about where they were, what Natasha had in her house, but he didn’t have enough spare energy for that. All he could afford to focus on was her, and where they were going.

The bathroom was small. It felt just this side of cramped as the two of them both standing in it. Bucky kept himself pressed back against the closed bathroom door, waiting and watching as Natasha maneuvered around the room getting things set up for him. She grabbed fresh towels and facecloths for him. She said something about helping himself to whatever soaps and shampoos and whatever else she had in there, but Bucky wasn’t particularly listening.

The sound of the water sputtering for a few seconds out of the shower head, warming up after going so long without use, made Bucky's head snap towards the sound. Every muscle in his body tensed, and even when he realized what it had been, he couldn’t fully relax.

“Here,” she said, holding her hand out in an offer for him to take it, “let me help.”

He didn’t take her hand, but he did pry his back away from the door. It only took one step on his part to put the two of them nearly chest to chest. Looking past all the bruises and cuts, Natasha could see that there was still fear in his eyes. She wished that she could just reach up and wipe it all away, the injuries, the panic, the memories, all of it. Bucky looked down at her, and he could’ve sworn that he could feel the warmth radiating off of her even though they weren’t touching. He wished that he could feel the comfort that it should’ve been providing him. Everything that she’d done to rescue him, all that she’d risked, and he felt too blocked up to even properly try to thank her.

Feeling like if she didn’t prompt him somehow, he wasn’t ever going to actually undress and get into the shower to try and clean himself off, Natasha reached for the bottom hem of Bucky’s shirt. Her fingertips lightly grasped the fabric between them. She started to gently pull it upwards when suddenly Bucky reached, snatching her wrist in the cold, harsh grasp of his metal hand. His grip tightened enough to not only cause Natasha to let go of the cloth between her fingers, but to make her let out a shocked whimper of pain.

Bucky realized what he was doing as soon as she made the sound, and he tried to get himself to let her go, but he couldn’t. All the fear that was causing him to crumble from the inside out was making it impossible for him to fully let her go. The best he could manage was slightly loosening his grip, saving her from snapping any bones.

Despite the tears of pain in her eyes, when Natasha breathed in and spoke, it was all steady. “You’re safe here, James.” She nodded when his grip loosened just a little bit more. “It’s okay.”

Finally wrenching his hand open, he pulled it away from her just as quickly as he’d reached for her. He shook his head, trying to make himself sound much more assured than he really was as he said, “I’m good. Sorry.”

She frowned, seeing how much effort it took him to try not to fall apart in front of her. She couldn’t blame him, really, not when she was usually doing the same thing. But after everything that he had just gone through, it would make more sense if he fell apart rather than not. And if he didn’t feel safe doing that in front of her, who else was there?

“It’s okay if you’re not,” she said, tempted to reach out to try and offer a comforting touch but unsure about what response it would trigger in him.

“I am,” he lied again with a nod.

She didn’t want to turn it into an argument. So, instead, she just gave in as she tried to slip past him towards the door. “I’ve got some extra clothes for you in the car. I’ll grab them while you’re, you know…” she trailed off as she nodded towards the shower.

He tried to hide the tremble that was starting in his bottom lip as he nodded. “Thanks.”

By the time that Natasha came back to the bathroom with a spare set of clothes for him, Bucky was already in the shower, his clothes in a tattered heap on the floor. The entire room was filled with steam, mirror already fogged up as she set the t-shirt and lounge pants on the counter of the sink.

“Clothes are on the counter,” she said, her voice quiet but just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the running water.

She waited for a response that never came. Turning to look at the tub, she could just barely make out Bucky’s silhouette on the other side of the curtain. She could see that he was sitting down, and it broke her heart. She wished that she could say or do something that would make it all better. She wished she could slide in with him, wipe away the blood and the dirt and the pain. Since she couldn’t, she just took a deep breath and quietly grabbed his clothes from the floor as she slipped back out of the bathroom, lightly shutting the door behind her as she went.

Bucky heard the door click shut behind Natasha, and he let out the breath that he had been holding, one that nearly turned into a sob as he dropped his forehead forward so that it rested against his knees. The second after he’d stepped into the shower, he’d crumpled to the floor. Arms wrapped around his legs, forehead pinned against his knees, he felt the water beating down his back and against his hair. He could see the first layers of blood and filth darkening the water that flowed towards and then down the drain. He wanted to have the strength, the wherewithal to scrub the rest of it away, but he didn’t yet. So instead, he let the water do what it could, which would have to be enough for now.

He lost track of how long he had been sitting there, but it must’ve been longer than he realized because he heard another knock at the bathroom door, followed by Natasha’s voice saying, “Just making sure you didn’t drown in there.”

He wished that he had the energy to smile at that. His voice came out heavy as he said, “Not yet.”

“Are you…” she trailed off before deciding to rephrase, “Do you need help?”

He shook his head for a moment before remembering that she couldn’t actually see him. “No.”

Taking a deep breath, Natasha nodded to herself as she said, “Okay. Let me know if you do.”

When he heard the door shut again, he finally forced himself to actually make use of the shower. Even when he was done, though, he still didn’t feel clean. He didn’t know when he would again, if he would again. But at least the dried blood was gone now. All of his injuries were visible now, and so were all of his scars. There was no filth to cover up the bruises and the cuts anymore—it was almost enough to make him wish that he hadn’t cleaned himself off in the first place.

Shutting the water off, he pulled the curtain back and dried himself off. He tried to move quickly, desperately wanting to cover himself up, but any movement that was too fast sent a jolt of pain through him. Finally tossing the towel aside, he dressed himself in the clothes that Natasha had set out for him. There was a tiny twinge of comfort that went through him at the fact that everything fit the way he liked, that Natasha had somehow come to know him like that. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Once he hung up the towel, he finally opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, releasing a slew of steam along with him. Raking his fingers back through his hair, he pushed it back out of his face, still able to feel some of the water dripping onto his hair and his shoulders. He couldn’t deny that he felt the tiniest bit better, just a touch more human thanks to hot water and the soaps in Natasha’s shower.

As he wound his way through the house, he wished that he had paid closer attention on their initial walk through so that he would have a better idea of where she would be. He jolted slightly at her clearing her throat, turning himself towards the direction of the sound. Sure enough, she was sitting at the small table in her kitchen, coffee mug in front of her. There was still steam coming off of it, but it didn’t seem like she’d drank any of it, more just made it out of habit.

“Any better?” she asked.

He gave a small nod. “I think so.”

A weak smile crossed her face for a moment. “Good.” Standing up, she gestured to the table. “Sit, I’ll make you some coffee.”

Bucky knew that he wasn’t going to be drinking the coffee that she made him either, but he didn’t fight her on it. They could sit at the table together, both not drinking their coffee, both not quite sure what to say to the other about any of it.

When Natasha was walking back to the table with the mug, she saw that Bucky was starting to bleed through the shirt he was wearing in a couple different places on his back. Taking a deep breath, she fought the urge to reach out and move his shirt to see what was going on. Instead, she set the mug down and waited for him to finally look up at her.

For a moment she almost couldn’t see past the bruises and cuts on his face. Pressing her lips into a thin line for a second, she got herself together enough to say, “You’re still bleeding.”

“What?” his hand was hovering above the coffee mug, just close enough to feel the steam off of it.

“Your back,” she specified, “it’s still bleeding.” When Bucky didn’t move, didn’t say anything, she asked, “Can I look?”

He didn’t want her to. It was bad enough that she had seen him in the shape that he’d been in when she rescued him. Still, there was a part of him that knew that he wasn’t going to get out of this one. It wasn’t that he really owed her for what she’d done for him, but to make himself feel a little better, he could still try to tell himself that he at least owed her this.

“Okay,” he finally forced out.

He peeled the shirt off before she could reach and try to do it for him. Natasha was glad that he wasn’t looking at her as she looked at his back. It was easy to tell which cuts were the ones that were staining the shirt he’d had on. A couple of them would be fine with a bandage over them. One she could tell just by looking at it was going to need some stitches. Those weren’t what were unsettling her, though. What was causing her stomach to turn were the litany of bruises, of burns, of old scars that she’d never seen before, marks that weren’t ever going to go away.

“How bad?” Bucky’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

Clearing her throat, she tried to push her emotions back down as she said, “Not bad. I can take care of them for you.”

“Yea?”

“Yea.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment, warm palm to warm skin. “Be right back.”

When Natasha reappeared with the first aid kid, Bucky had repositioned himself on the chair. He was sitting on it backwards, arms braced across the top of it and his forehead resting against his forearms. Despite the sadness of the scene, there was also something about it that caused Natasha to let slip the tiniest bit of a smile.

“Didn’t think you’d be such a good patient,” she joked softly as she pulled her own chair over so that she was sitting behind him.

He hummed, the best he could do in place of a laugh. “Didn’t think I had a choice.”

She opened her first aid kit, which had grown and expanded over the years. It was no surprise to anyone that the standard kit wasn’t going to meet her needs, or the needs of anyone else that might find themselves within the walls of her safehouse. A lot of modifications and additions had been made over the years.

“You know the drill,” she said as she put a pair of gloves on.

“Worse before it’s better,” he muttered as his fists clenched, preparing for the incoming sting of alcohol, of stitches.

She nodded even though he couldn’t see her. “Worse before it’s better.”

They were both silent as she worked. For a few brief moments, she wondered if the circumstances had been different, if they would be talking, joking even. She wondered if there would be snarky banter between them if he hadn’t been in so much pain, if there wasn’t such a heavy emotional sitting in his chest.

Natasha didn’t need a long time for what had to be done. Within a few short minutes, she was packing up her kit and tossing her gloves in the garbage. She was telling him what she’d done as she ran her fingertips along his back, skating around her work and over the old scars, ghosting over the fresh bruises. Bucky tensed, keenly aware of the stark difference between the feeling of the gloves against his skin, and the pads of her fingers.

“Sorry,” Natasha apologized as she pulled her hand away.

“No,” he said, not lifting his head from where it was still perched against his forearms, “it’s, it’s okay.”

She hesitated for a moment, but then she allowed her palm to come back and rest against the skin of his back again. She expected him to flinch again, to pull away, but he didn’t. She could feel the way that he sighed, trying to breathe into the feeling, let it be comforting rather than something he was supposed to be avoiding. The entire reality of it all made a lump start to build at the back of her throat as she ran her hand up and down, careful not to aggravate the scatterings of fresh injuries.

Her silence spoke volumes, and Bucky couldn’t stop himself from saying, “That bad?”

“What?”

“You’re not saying anything,” he said, “so it’s gotta be…”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her palm flattening against him.

“You didn’t—”

“For all of it,” she said, her voice soft.

He sucked in a deep breath at that. It wasn’t on her to apologize for what had happened to him, not this time around, not all of the times before, either. But there was something in the weight of her voice, the genuineness behind it, that he hadn’t heard from anyone in a long time, especially not about something like this. Most things that happened to him, people assumed were his fault, or that in some way he deserved them. Most of the time he felt that way about it all too, and the mess that Natasha had just saved him from was no exception to that. But now she was sitting with him, cleaning his wounds, trying to smooth over his scars, and apologizing to him for things that weren’t her fault. It was hard to find hate for himself in a moment like that.

“Nat?” the word came out, so soft and small as he felt her hand running over the ridges and scars where the metal of his arm bound itself to his shoulder.

She stilled her movements, not sure where the next sentence was going to go. “Yea?”

He tried to clear his throat, but his response still came out raspy, tears still gathering at the edges of his closed eyes as he said, “Thank you.”

Natasha couldn’t stop herself as she leaned forward, her forehead pressing against his back as his forehead rested against his arms. The breath she let out was ragged, uneven, bubbling over with all the feelings that she had been trying to keep under control because it hadn’t been the right moment for her to be emotional.

She slowly pulled herself away from him before standing up. Her hand was still resting on his shoulder, fingertips still brushing along the scar tissue that lined the metal of his arm. “I’ll get you an extra shirt.”

He finally lifted his head, turning to look at her as her hand began to fall away from her shoulder as she went back through the house. It took him a moment, but he forced himself up out of the chair that he had been sitting in. His movements were stiff, slow, but he managed to follow Natasha and catch up to her when she stepped into what he assumed was her bedroom.

Even though she’d heard him following her, she couldn’t stop the look of surprise on her face when she turned around and looked at him. The spare shirt that had been in her hand fell to the floor when she took in the sight of him. It shouldn’t have been surprising to her that his chest and stomach were just as bruised and battered as his back, but for some reason it still knocked the wind out of her. She’d never been one to shy away from things like that, but there was something about seeing him standing there like that, that put her back on her heels.

Bucky watched as she walked closer, finding himself fighting the urge to take one step back for every step that she took forward. Despite how badly he wanted to, his feet seemed rooted to their spot. She materialized in front of him, head tilted back just enough so that she could look him in the eyes. Bucky’s eyes darted back and forth between hers, and her hand that he could see coming up to rest against his chest.

Even with the purple blemishes blooming across his chest, Natasha could still see the goosebumps that rose up across his skin as her palm rested against him. His hand came and wrapped around her wrist again, but this time it was a gentle hold. The metal was still cold against her skin, but it didn’t feel as harsh this time. She started to pull her hand away, thinking that that was what he was going to do, but instead he applied more pressure, pressing his palm against the back of her hand, and her palm against his chest.

The action was practically a green light. Bringing her other hand up, she gently rested it on the side of his face, thumb tracing along the bottom of his jaw. Unlike all of his prior hesitations, his recoils, Bucky found himself melting right into the touch that she was offering him, eyes closing as he leaned into the soft warmth of her palm.

With one hand on his chest, Natasha could feel the newfound steadiness of Bucky’s heartbeat. It was impossible to not feel relieved, accomplished even. There was so little that she could do for him at this point, now that so much damage had been done, but she could still give him this.

Tilting her head up just a little more, Natasha closed the distance between them and brushed her lips against Bucky’s. She didn’t linger, pulling away almost as quickly as she’d leaned in. Before she pulled too far, Bucky reached and placed his other hand on the small of her back, pulling and guiding her back to him again.

It was difficult for him to wrap his head around for a moment, the fact that he was experiencing something so soft and gentle after everything for him had been so harsh. But he tried to soak it up. He leaned a little deeper into her, arm wrapping a little tighter around her back. When he felt her bring her other hand up to cup the other side of his face he didn’t pull away, didn’t even flinch.

He relaxed into her, shoulders dropping their tension as he kissed her back. Underneath all the marks on his face, the worry lines began to fade as Bucky felt Natasha’s hands slide from he sides of his face to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the damp locks of hair that rested there. Part of him wanted to pull her closer, hold her tighter, but whether it was the lingering physical pain, or the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time someone had ever been so careful with him, he didn’t try to make it into anything more than what it was.

Bucky had been more than ready to sleep on the couch, or even on the floor. But it felt like he’d blinked and suddenly he found himself lying on Natasha’s bed with her, faces so close that their noses brushed if one of them shifted at all. He could feel her breath against his skin as she exhaled, could feel her hands still moving, roaming over his chest and sides. He wondered if she was checking to make sure nothing more was broken than what she already knew of. A small part of his brain was still trying to get him to recoil from her touch, to not let anyone know him like that, but he fought it. Natasha already knew him like that. He took a slow, calculated breath, trying just to think about the warmth of her body against his, imaging that each time the pads of her fingers traced over a scar, she got a little closer to smoothing it away.

Bucky’s eyes might’ve been closed, but Natasha’s weren’t. Even in the darkness of her room, she was still studying his face. “James?” she whispered.

Eyes still closed, he mumbled out a soft, “Mm?”

She didn’t know what she had thought she was going to say, but instead of trying to figure it out, she pressed her lips to his again in another soft kiss. He still didn’t open his eyes, but for the first time all night, the ends if his mouth tried to lift up into a smile against all the exhaustion and pain. Natasha took the win, letting her forehead come back to rest against his and finally letting her eyes close too.

[marksbear]

Randomly thought pf this. But Aaron x his framed boyfriend (reader). His boyfriend is a simple bartender but after some murders that pointed towards his direction (all the victims being those who had hurt reader in the past. Old high school bullies, homophobic ex coworkers, strangers who made snide remarks to him in public)

You can choose if the real unsub is found or if Reader is successfully framed UwU (ooooh maybe the unsub could be Haily haha. Some jealousy of Reader stealing her man)

AHH good idea my friend! I haven't written something like this in a while so I am happy to write this! @real-levyanno hope you enjoy!

AARON HOTCHNER X FRAMED MALE READER

"Fuck me." Y/n cups his face in his hands sighing.

This is one of the places Y/n doesn't wanna be in. Hand cuffed and being interrogated by your own boyfriend and his co-workers.

Before all of this you were having a great day. It wasn't a slow day at the bar but it wasn't busy. It was just how you liked it. Everything was going perfect. No creeps were showing up, drunks who had gotten kicked out from a different bar and showed up here. Just some of your favorite regulars and a few new people.

Your favorite co-worker Liam was here too. Both of you cracking jokes and just goofing around with each other. Your boss was here to Kate and even she was chill and in a happy mood joining the fun from time to time.

Some new guy even showed up yelling to everyone drinks on him. Wow everything was just great.

Until police sirens and yelling came from outside. They all barge in at once aiming their guns at you while you clean a glass. "What the fuck----" "HANDS IN THE AIR FBI!" Derek shouts at you look you were a total stranger. "Guys cmon what is this?!" Y/n puts his hands in the air putting the glass down.

immediately cops circle around him arresting him dragging him outside. Loads of people are outside screaming at him and people takes pictures and videos of him. To top it all off there are interviewers trying to ask him questions and their cameras everywhere recording every single moment.

TIMESKIP IN THE INTERROGATION ROOM.

The whole team is in the room all quiet barely moving standing all around the room while Hotch is sitting across from Y/n. Y/n looks around confused as fuck as to why hes cuffed and why is he here.

"I can sit here and be quiet all day. Until one of you tells me why the hell i'm here." Y/n asks everyone in the room with his voice serious.

"Y/n we know it was you. We know you did it" J.J finally says something after a long break of silence after Y/n first question.

"What the hell are you talking about J.J?!" Y/n says with confusion on his face. "We know you killed those people Y/n." Reid says opening a file takes the photos of the victims placing them on the table for Y/n to see.

Y/n hearts drop once he realizes who they are. "That's Blake Jackson with his goons or his best friends really." Y/n suggests to photo where all of the boys are on the floor dead next to each other. "And that's Randy and Faith. My ex-coworkers. What the hell even my ex's and that one cheesy couple in highschool..."

"Y/n. What did all those people have in common?" Gideon questions crossing his arms.

"That they all hated me... Every single one of them hurt me in the past. All was homophobic even my ex's who dared me as a prank or a dare. They all hurt me" Y/n says remembering everything they done to him in the past closing his eyes.

"So that was your motive then huh?" Y/n eyes shoot straight open in shock and the same time betrayed. "What!? I could never do something like this!" Y/n shouts.

"I don't know Y/n. They made your life hell. And your story gives you a reason to give them the same hell they gave you." Morgan says shaking his head disappointed at Y/n.

"I-I can't believe y'all. Aaron say something! Tell them it wasn't me!" Y/n begs his boyfriend tears threatening to fall out. "We have your fingerprints on the murder weapon Y/n. We found your DNA in the crime scene Y/n." Aaron tells his boyfriend his heart aching once he sees his boyfriend teared up eyes.

"Aaron...y---you gotta believe me. I could never do something like that Aaron please. WHY! would you believe I would do something like that! You're supposed to trust me! Isn't this how this damn relationship is supposed to work!?!"

Y/n can't hold back his tears anymore. They fall onto the table and his lap as he cries softly. He wants nothing to just let this day be a dream. A nightmare or something.

Without anymore words the BAU leaves the room since their job here is done.

TIMESKIP

Y/n went to court weeks later after the interrogation. The whole team shows up in court to watch Y/n. Hotch stares at Y/n empty eyes that were once filled with hope. Y/n looks like hes been crying for days and neglecting himself from food and water only taking showers.

Once Y/n was found guilty he didn't cry. Its not like he didn't want to it was just nothing came out of his eyes. Y/n sees the team in the back of the court house. He locks eyes with Aaron before turning his eyes around to Liam giving him a smile.

As Y/n gets shown out not making an effort to fight back from the cops as they take him out. Haley comes up slowly from the way back of court and wraps her around Aaron comforting him with an evil smile on her face.

ANOTHER EPIC TIMESKIP

Years later!

Y/n was finally released early after years of investigation by his bestfriend Liam who didn't give up on him and proved to everyone that Y/n was innocent and Haley was the one who did the murders and framed Y/n.

Once the team found out about everything they immediately told Hotch about everything and all went to the prison where Y/n was held while waiting for him to be released.

Of course Hotch was a nervous wreck the whole team was. They all felt too bad and carried so much guilt about sending him to prison not even hearing him out. And not even sparing him a single visit only Penelope sends him monthly gifts.

Everyone freezes once they see Y/n step out wearing a wife beater with some sweatpants carrying a bag looking around. He looked way different he had scars on his arms some on his shoulders and he got a haircut even some tattoos on his arms and wrist.

Liam pushes past the team running to his friend full speed tackling him to a hug. The two laugh and scream rolling around finally at peace. "You bastard I love you Liam!" Y/n shouts at his best friend.

Those words made Hotch's heart ache. He never heard Y/n say those words to anyone besides him but once he heard him for the first time right now they hurt like hell.

As they get up Y/n sees the team and freezes. All the sudden Y/n begins to remember how much he cried and screamed in the interrogation room. His pleas and begs for someone to just believe him. Someone who can just listen.

Your heart swells when you lock eyes with Aaron. Liam visited you every week and told you what was going on with Aaron and Haley. After you went to jail they got back with each other fairly fast. From Liam's stories they sounded to be in a committed relationship and you were just some summer fling.

You take Liam by his hand telling him lets go, but gets stopped by Aaron getting in your way his arm out waiting for your hand to shake it. "Hi nice to meet you i'm Aaron Hotchner and you are?"

You feel yourself about to cry and smile at the same time. Aaron and you always do that every time the two of you argue and get in a fight. It's a way to start over only you and him can understand. You hated how weak you are for this man who made you lose yourself. You took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

"My name is Y/n L/n. Nice to meet you Aaron."

THE END

I may probably make another ending when the reader is the unsub or the reader doesn't take Hotch back! Hope you enjoyed and let me know if I should do it!

[sodalitefully]

Duff & Slash vs. The World – a selection of quotes:

"One night Slash and I went out to the Rainbow, a restaurant next to the Roxy on Sunset that was famous as a rock-and-roll hangout. They gave us a booth. This was a new level of deference. A booth! At the Rainbow! As we proceeded to get blasted, a really big, drunk guy wandered over to our table. Though he looked like an overgrown hick, he was in fact the guitar player from a band considered quite big just then — much bigger than Guns. He addressed himself to Slash:

'N*****s shouldn’t wear tattoos,' he said.

What? Was this his idea of a joke or something?

He wasn’t laughing.

I stood up.

'What the fuck did you say to my friend?'

'You heard me. N*****s shouldn’t wear tattoos.'

I slugged the guy. Then I slugged him again. And again. He reminded me of the bullies back in Seattle, the meatheads who beat up punks in packs, who called everyone f*****s. I’m not sure how many times I hit him—I just completely lost it—but he went down. I found out later that three of his ribs had broken."

It's So Easy: And Other Lies, by Duff McKagan (2011)

"D: [Goes into a long incoherent rant about a fight he got into at a club on New Year’s Eve] … and the guy was bigger than I was, but I just went CAH-BOOOM! And… his eyes crossed, like you see in the cartoons, like that? And he went down. And then everybody dragged him back and dragged me back, but they were dragging him past me and I fucking biffed him three more times in the head! They said I broke his jaw…

S: Nasty [Suicide – former Hanoi Rocks guitarist] stuck his arm in through the crowd and got one in there too!

D: So we go through this shit all the time, people trying to fuck with us. I was telling you earlier, if anybody fucks with my homeboy here, Slash, – and it’s happened before, like if a big guy was gonna hit him – I’ve stepped right in front of him.

S: Sure, and I can hide in the crook of his knee…

D: I beat up a guy for him once. And he’d do that for me.

S: But not to sound stupid, because we’re starting to sound stupid…"

Last of the Giants: The True Story of Guns N' Roses, by Mick Wall (2016)

"Slash: [Sam Kinison and I] got into a really big fight. It was real violent, and Duff punched him out, the cops were involved, too, and it was a big deal.

Stern: Who won the fight though? Who could beat up who? I bet you could take Sam in two seconds.

Slash: Well, no. He actually – I don’t want to... Duff punched him out. He gave him a black eye. But, before that, he was sitting on me. And I had no way of getting out, because he had my elbows pinned down. I couldn’t get my arms up, you know?

Stern: How did he get you down on the floor?

Slash: He jumped me from the blue and just landed on my chest. I was gonna be dead. He was choking me. I was history. I was, like, sitting there going, 'I’m going out this way? I can't believe I’m gonna go out this way.'

He just showed up at my hotel room one night. I didn’t even – you know, a knock on the door and, like, it’s Sam, and I’m like, 'Okay.'

And so he got on my case about all this stuff, and he called me a dickhead. And I got pissed off and I jumped off the bed, and I didn’t expect him to react the way he did. And I turned my back – you know, I turned around for a second – and he just jumped on me.

He got me by the throat and my arms were underneath his knees. And I was like, 'Oh, this is it. I’m going out.'

Robin: And then Duff came to the rescue.

Slash: Then Duff woke up in the other room.

Stern: Hey, you owe Duff, man. I’ll tell you, that’s kind of funny, too. And leave it to Sam to jump Slash from behind. I mean, that is a low blow. That’s not right.

Slash: I was just this little guy with no clothes on. I mean, cuz I was in bed when he came."

The Howard Stern Show (April 30, 1992) (edited)

Additional details, related quotes, & discussion:

The first quote is from Duff's autobiography, obviously. The "big, drunk guy" in question was Chris Holmes of the band W.A.S.P. Slash's autobio (2007) recounts the incident somewhat differently:

"One time at the Rainbow I got into a fight with Chris Holmes from W.A.S.P. Duff overheard Chris saying that n*****s shouldn’t play guitar. He didn’t say it to me, but it was obviously about me. As I remember, Duff told me about it later and the next time I saw Chris I went up to confront him and he took off running. Aside from insulting me, it’s one of the more ridiculous and untrue things a musician, of all people, could ever possibly say."

Aside from the obvious discrepancies in their versions of events (pretty much par the course for rocker autobios... Chris Holmes has shared his own take as well and rest assured it's very different), it's interesting to compare how they described their responses. Slash glosses over the fight entirely, he almost makes it sound like he was going to "confront" Holmes by giving him a lecture on the history of rock music – the last sentence is by far the most emotionally charged.

Duff's account is just shy of a brag, his sense of righteousness is evident.  Fighting is a significant theme in his book, Duff chronicles his journey from scrapping with school bullies, to drunkenly picking fights, to discovering martial arts in sobriety:

"Those beatings were also probably a factor in why later I would see red every time I perceived a wrong done to me or someone close to me and would fight at the drop of a dime. Justifiably or not, I saw myself as the protector, and the street-fighting skills I was forced to learn while getting my ass kicked as a teenager meant that I was not reluctant to perform that role with my fists."

"From then on, I wanted to kill anyone who crossed me at any club or concert. In my mind I was still fighting for righteous reasons—not just to hurt people but to protect, to make bullies stop doing bad things. But it’s pretty clear in retrospect that I was taking out aggression about the situation with the band. I would find offense in the stupidest little things and then I’d just flip and go street."

Slurs aren't a trivial offense, but we can see how Duff's protectiveness has been both a strength and weakness at times. In this scenario, Slash is "someone close," and Duff is eager to assume the role of his protector.

-

The second passage is in excerpt from an unaired interview (1990) transcribed in Mick Wall's biography of GNR, a secondary source. (That is, the more recent biography he wrote about GNR, not the one that supposedly earned him a scathing mention in UYI II's Get In The Ring.)

Anyway, Duff was a little less eloquent in 1990, but the pride he takes in standing up for himself and his friends is consistent.  He mentions a time he defended Slash against an aggressor, and I wonder if the incident with Chris Holmes is the one he's referring to.  Whether it was the same event or a different one, Duff's statements in this interview are certainly in line with the behavior he described in his book.

Slash's sarcastic comment made me laugh – I couldn't say for certain if he meant it in good (or self-deprecating) humor, or if he was getting a little miffed by the way Duff was characterizing him as someone who needs defending. I also included his last line because it seemed to me like he was trying to change the subject – while Duff could have happily gone on, perhaps Slash was conscious of playing into the dumb drunk rocker stereotype, something both of them have a history of struggling against. He’s also conspicuously not jumping at the chance to chime in and tell the world what he’ll do if anyone tries to mess with them.

-

The third excerpt might call for a little more context: Sam Kinison was a comedian and a friend of Slash's who passed away shortly before this interview. Earlier in the interview, Slash described how he was supposed to make a guest appearance in one of his shows, and Kinison didn't take it well when he had to cancel. 

This incident was never talked about much — as far as I know Duff never publicly shared his version of events — but another guest (comedian Andrew Dice Clay) on the Stern show recounted a phone call with Duff about the incident prior to Slash's interview:

"So, he's choking him to death, and the girl that Duff is with wakes Duff up, and she goes, 'I'm not sure, but I think somebody's killing Slash.'"

I wonder if the girl was the same one who was with him in Duff's chat with Howard Stern from around the same time. Slash said it happened in San Francisco, Clay said it happened at the Chateau Marmont in L.A., and Duff didn't specify, but I wouldn't put money on the accuracy of that detail in any of their accounts.

Anyway, this excerpt is a little different than the other two.  It has less to do with Duff's protector complex — instead we can examine the way that Slash talks about a fight, where in the previous examples he tended to dodge the subject.

I edited the excerpt for readability (and I made pretty significant cuts, so click the link above if you want the full picture), but this was an interesting conversation all around.  It's a bit awkward, because while Slash and Stern are ostensibly sharing memories of their mutual friend, Kinison is clearly the antagonist in Slash's story.  Slash didn't really react much to Howard Stern's enthusiastic assertions that Slash could take Kinison in a fair fight, and while he made a point of explaining that he was caught off guard, he seems pretty content to tell the story as it was: he got his ass kicked.

The way Slash talks about himself ("just a little guy with no clothes on"!) leads me to believe that his comment about "[hiding] in the crook of [Duff's] knee" in the Wall interview was meant as a self-deprecating joke.  He seems comfortable characterizing himself as harmless and nonaggressive, perhaps even uncomfortable with the idea of playing up his prowess.

Slash doesn't mention too many altercations in his book, but he does describe one friendly brawl with Nikki Sixx:

“[...] but I do remember doing what I always liked to do when I was drunk—wrestle some guy who was much bigger than me. In this case it was Nikki, whom I tackled, bar stool and all, out of nowhere. Nikki is pretty tall, and at that time he was pretty heavy, too, so he ended up turning it around: he slammed me on my back and sat on me.”

He goes on to explain how he passed out and woke up to find that he'd "dislocated four vertebrae in his back" and, to add insult to injury, he got teabagged by Tommy Lee.

Obviously we're working with a small sample size here, but like with Duff, we're starting to get a consistent picture.  Slash's tales of getting into fights are distinctly lacking a certain rock-n-roll bravado. His accounts aren't very serous, he comes across as terrible in a physical fight and he doesn't seem to care.

All of this isn't necessarily to say that Slash didn't get in fights – just because he doesn't like talking about it, doesn't mean it didn't happen.  But he's also made it pretty clear that he doesn't consider himself a violent person.

“I hate violence. At our shows, people hit each other and throw things, and I don’t know why. I love the energy of it, but everyone needs to be considerate of those around them, and that usually doesn’t happen.”

I don't have a source for that quote, so take it with a grain of salt if you choose.  Either way, you get the picture.  Slash is an image-conscious guy, yes, but he's not overly into fighting (or arguing, or yelling... but that's another set of quotes) and he doesn't try to pretend to be.  It's not an image he's actively trying to project (perhaps one he's trying to avoid?) — but in some ways it's one he was labeled with anyway, thanks to GNR's reputation.

-

Clearly I have a lot of thoughts on this, but I'm going to put a pin in it here because honestly, I think it would be pretty presumptuous to try to make too strong of a claim about the personalities of two real people that I don’t know based on just a handful of quotes (from questionably reliable narrators...). All I’m trying to do here is show a pattern, and to point out the contrast between the respective ways that Slash and Duff view/talk about physical conflict.

When Duff talks about fighting, it's important to him: he fought to deal with his emotions, he fought to protect the people he cares about, and he fought to get sober. When Slash talks about fighting, he laughs, makes a self-deprecating comment, and brushes it off. Duff wants to project that he’s more than capable of defending himself and others, Slash prefers to distance himself from the topic. It's interesting to see this juxtaposition in their relationship, and the way it translates into Duff acting protective of Slash.

-

Alright, thanks to those of you who stuck with me this far, lol. Feel free to let me know your thoughts, and of course keep in mind that this is just my take on the subject!

[celestialsyndicate]

**General trigger warning for talking about people who support @ b*se/fakeclaiming **

It really feels like I only come on here to vent but it seems like so much of the community feels confined to not speaking. I spent enough time feeling trapped with no voice.

I heal in spite. What do you get for surviving? You get people who side with your abusers "oh they never would have done that" "don't drag a dead mans name through the mud"

You get fake claimed or live in fear not speaking up about the horrors of survival due to people thinking they are judge and jury on what happened to you. Like someone who hasn't suffered could even think to understand. It's pathetic and weak. You have to dig for answers no one else will tell you. You fight more battles alone than understood. It's learning to support yourself because everyone is actively fighting against what is best for you. It's learning there is true evil; and becoming a face for it when you say survivor. Meaning people leave you behind when they're too terrified to believe in a world where people choose to be cruel for fun. It's being laughed off when you have fought through the unimaginable. It's begging for recognition and aid from doctors who should know fucking better but often align with truly evil people or even are themselves. It is sheer fucking terror, and bravery. It is rage and malice, and fucking bravery. It's learning to live from scratch. Teaching yourself love and frienship and trust while knowing the world will hurt you and can. It's being so cripplingly alone because there's so much pain inside you can't voice. Pain you don't want to hurt others with but that eats at you like acid. It is healing in spite. What do you get for it? Fuck off with fake claiming. Fuck off with your stupidity of thinking these things aren't real. Fuck off with your constant support of abusers. Fuck off with your belittling people who are SO MUCH STRONGER THAN YOU COULD FUCKING IMAGINE. Do you know what it takes to look at death and survive? To wish you could have died and live? To continue living? It is pure fucking agony, and you don't understand the word. You are weak. To think we are lying. To want to live in your pretty rainbow world where none of this happens. Where no one gets dissociative disorders and RAMCOA. In your bubble wrapped fantasy life. You are so. Fucking. Lucky. Shut the fuck up, sit down, and listen. You don't know. You don't know what it's like. You waste of fucking thought. You get nothing for all this trauma. You heal in spite. You heal for you. You heal to have a life at all. You build yourself from the ground up. I didn't get supportive parents. I didn't get supportive therapists. I wanted those things. I deserved those things. I didn't even get cops who helped me. I got survival. And you know what? I MADE SOMETHING OF MYSELF.

Stop and think. Look at the fucking words coming out of your mouth. See yourself for what you are. If you stand with abusers and belittle victims, what are you? Do you want to be on the side that treats people like play things? Do you want to be evil? Your words are nothing in comparison to what we are capable of. You will never understand.

[radioactive-mouse]

top 5 lifeseries seasons

RAAHHH 🔥🔥🔥‼️ wow it is so funny there’s exactly 5 of them tgat’s so crazy. unfortunately this is a question that plagues me

1. 3rd life. that feels like a cop out because it is The Classic and i truly didn’t think anything would dethrone last life but ? i’ve reflected on it (by which i mean i’ve rewatched last life a million billion times as part of the completionist grind) and i’ve realized like. i don’t think i super love last life as a season, i just remember the completely insane fandom atmosphere that the time with a lot of fondness. so 3RD LIFE 💥💥💥💥 i’ve been thinkin a lot about treebark recently…… also look at my pfp cmon brother

2. secret life. maybe it’s just because it’s the most recent full season but genuinely it was SUCH a riot, by far my favorite season to rewatch, everyone’s got something uniquely stupid going on and also like ? usually when it becomes to alliances there’s always a couple duds for me, like at least one per season that i just never had much to say about, but i genuinely think i could have a paragraph prepared about any of the groups in secret life. this may be subject to change but ❤️

3. limited life. im sorry who would i be if i didn’t put martyns winning season in at least top 3. i know limlife is divisive but personally the time gimmick Really did it for me, the fact that death was cheaper meant it’s by Far the season with the most carnage, that map was complete fucking rubble by the time it was over. i know a lot of people didn’t like skynet and truthfully i would’ve hated it in any other season, but it added such an interesting landscape to the season, having to always reach for higher ground and watch the skies all the time made the combat incredibly distinct and just. ugh. when the pvp changes as a result of the seasons themes ❤️ limlife i love u im sorry nobody appreciates you you’re my darling forever

4. double life. genuinely double life used to be my least favorite season?? idk the soulmate pairs made alliances a little too insular for my taste but it has grown on me a LOT as of late. divorce quartet you were iconic. ranchers you will always be famous. forfeit all mortal possessions to pearlescentmoon.

5. i cannot BELIEVE last life dropped from first to last since the last time i ranked them. that would’ve been fucking unthinkable to me a year ago. but i just. don’t super love rewatching last life? i have a LOT of good things to say about it, and i think it laid a lot more groundwork than anyone gives it credit for, and OHHH MY GODDDD sorry i have NEVER seen a season quite as completely steeped in dread as last life was. i just. feel like it kind of drags a little bit too much for me, and maybe i’m just bored of it because i’ve seen it a million times. however EVERYONE SHOULD GO WATCH MARTYNS LAST LIFE NOWWWW GO WATCH IT NOW 💥💥💥💥💥 OR DIE BY MY HAND.

honorable mention real life was the funniest shit i’ve ever seen and i wouldn’t have wanted cleo to win any other way. fuck em up queen ❤️

[currentlyfckingurmom]

Her Song part 33

"I'm just gonna go take a quick walk around the building. He might be here," JJ announces.

"Okay. Be safe," I reply. She nods and exits the apartment, leaving Florence and I alone in the living room.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about any of this," Florence starts. "I mean, we're in a relationship, are we not? I know we haven't really had this talk yet, but I'm not gonna dance around it with high school bullshit. I really care about you, Y/N, and that means no keeping secrets from each other."

"I know, Flo, I know I should've told you. But I was just so focused on getting you and Syd out of here, I wasn't thinking. I just want you to be safe, mon amour. Je t'aimerais jusqu'à la fin de mes jours."

Her glassy eyes look into mine and I smile softly. "I have no idea what the fuck you just said, but it was really hot," she says. We both laugh and I pull her body close to mine, wrapping her in a tight hug.

"It doesn't matter," I whisper into her neck, pressing a kiss to the soft skin. "I wanna do this. I wanna be all in with you. As soon as Ben is gone, I want you. For real. I want the world to know that I am head over heels for Florence Pugh. I want Syd to know. I just want you."

"Head over heels, huh?"

"From the second I laid eyes on you."

"Let's tell the world, Y/N."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." We smile like teenagers in love and kiss fervently, forgetting the troubles surrounding us, just for a moment. My phone dings in my pocket. I ignore it and hold Florence closer. It dings again. I sigh and dig it out.

JJ: SOS JJ: ROOF ACROSS THE STREET

"What the hell?" I mumble, jumping up from the couch. I get out on the balcony and squint my eyes to try and see the rooftop of the building across the street. I can't see anything. My phone vibrates with an incoming call from JJ.

"JJ, what's going on?"

"Well, I caught your friend here lurking around the building. Not very nice," a male voice gravels through the phone. "Don't worry though, sweetheart, I took care of her for us. See you soon."

"Ben, I swear to god if you touch her-" He cuts me off by ending the call. "Shit!" I yell.

"Y/N, what's going on?" Florence asks shakily. 

"Stay here, call the police," I instruct as I throw on a pair of shoes.

"Are you fucking crazy? You're not going out there alone! Tell me what's going on!"

"Flo, there's no time! Just trust me, okay? Call the cops. I'll be back." I open the apartment door and step out, looking back as I exit. "I love you, Flo." And then I close the door, running through the apartment building. Down the stairs. Down. Down. Faster. Down. Across the street. My lungs are burning. I don't have a fucking plan. I reach the building across the street. The doors are locked. I run around the side, trying every door in sight. They're all locked.

"Fuck!" I grunt, pulling on another door. I run around the back of the building, tripping over the cracked concrete but quickly getting back up. I see the fire escapes, and I take my chance. I climb up and up until the black metal stairs end. There's still about ten feet to the roof. Fuck. I glance over at the metal pipe attached to the side of the building and swallow thickly. Before I can change my mind, I grab ahold of it and swing my body off the fire escape, placing my feet on the rivets in the pipe. I take a few shaky breaths, then force myself to climb. Up and up, until I reach the top and heave my body onto the roof. "Holy shit," I breathe, standing shakily. I glance around but don't see anything. 

I pause, thinking I heard something. A man's voice. I can't make out what he's saying, but I know it's him. And it sounds like he's dragging something. JJ. I step quietly across the roof, pausing when I reach the corner of what looks like a small utility room. I peer around the corner and immediately jump back, seeing Ben dragging JJ's motionless body across the roof.

"Y'know, it's not very nice to spy on people, Agent Jareau. You couldn't have just left us alone, huh? It's too bad...You were a pretty one," he mumbles.

My heart lurches in my chest and I step out from the corner. "Ben!"

He looks up with wide eyes, momentarily looking ashamed to be caught red-handed. "Well hey there, darlin'. Glad you could join us. Wanna lend a hand?" I don't say anything. "No? Okay then. Why don't you sit pretty and give me a few minutes okay? Then we can talk, yeah?" he says brightly with a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Fuck you," I spit, but I'm frozen to my spot. My legs won't move forward. I'm scared of this man. I don't want to be, but, fuck, I am.

"Oh, we'll get there, baby, trust me. But right now I'm busy," he grunts, dragging JJ's body once again. I lunge forward and push him, but he barely budges and now I'm only a few inches from his huge body. "See now that was just unnecessary, sweetheart," he says tightly, grabbing my arm.

I wince, already feeling the bruises forming on my arm. "Ben, you're hurting me," I say through clenched teeth.

"If you want me to play nice, then you're gonna have to behave," he spits.

"Hey, douchebag!" someone yells, and then Ben collapses to the ground. Florence is standing there holding a pipe, her mouth agape.

"Holy shit, Flo. I told you to stay there! What the fuck!" I yell, panicking.

"Oh, yeah, you clearly had the situation under control here. I'll just go then, yeah? You can deal with the big stalker-man by yourself, hm?" she retorts, visibly panicked.

"I was working on it!" I scream.

"You cunt!" Ben seethes as he staggers into a standing position, clutching the back of his head. He stumbles toward Florence and I jump in front of her. He steps closer and I slap him across the face as Florence and I both scream. "I'm gonna kill you both, I swear to god!" Florence knees him in the nuts and he crumples to the ground, his face bright red. He grabs her ankle, pulling her to the ground as he punches the side of her face, and she falls unconscious. He lunges at me with a knife, tackling me to the ground and holding the blade to my throat. "I didn't wanna have to do this but I'm running out of options, sweetheart. I'm giving you one last chance to behave. Are you gonna be a good girl for me?"

"Go to hell," I grit out as I feel a line of blood trickling down my throat. He puts more pressure on the blade and I feel it cut deeper, but then his face goes slack and he falls to the ground beside me. I don't even register the gunshot. I only stare into his glassy eyes. Everything is ringing and I'm getting dizzier. He's dead? They're safe. It's okay. He's dead.

I faintly hear yelling. Someone is kneeling over me, tapping my face. "Hey,  Y/N, baby, c'mon. Say something, please. It's Flo, can you hear me?"

"It's, yeah...I can- I can hear you," I mumble.

"She's losing a lot of blood," Flo says tightly.

"I know. The ambulance is on the way," JJ answers, blood dripping down the side of her face.

"Flo? Am I- Am I gonna die?" I cough, blood spilling from my mouth.

"No, darling, you're not gonna die. I promise, okay? You're gonna be just fine. Syd needs you, Y/N. Just keep your eyes open, okay?"

"Okay," I whisper, but everything's getting heavier and I'm just so tired. My eyes start slipping closed.

"Hey, don't do that. Stay with me, Y/N. Y/N? Hey, I love you, asshole. Keep your eyes open. Just for a few more minutes, okay?"

"Okay," I promise, and then my eyes close and everything goes black.

[waitingforwinterwinds]

ASOS; Steel and Snow: 12 TYRION II (pages 161-172)

Tyrion visits Varys to arrange a date with Shae, then sics Bronn on a bard.

-

The eunuch was humming tunelessly to himself as he came through the door, dressed in flowing robes of peach-colored silk and smelling of lemons.

lemon(s) = 🥛

also I have just had the best mental image of Modern Day AU Varys as a Drag Queen. Probably runs a club with all the best gossip.

"I am full of surprises. Are you cross with me for abandoning you after the battle?" "It made me think of you as one of my family."

Ha! that is both a sick burn, and also really sad.

... damn. Maegor: 3 x Grand Maesters by Axe Aegon II: 1 x Grand Maester by Dragon Digestion

That "maesters wrecked the Targaryens actually" theory sounding more and more likely. Look at all this extra motive.

Bronn had turned up all he could on Ser mandon, but no doubt Varys knew a great deal more... should he choose to share it. "The man seems to have been quite friendless," Tyrion said carefully. "Sadly," said Varys, "oh, sadly. You might find some kin if you turned over enough stones back in the Vale, but here... Lord Arryn brought him to King's Landing and Robert gave him his white cloak, but neither loved him much, I fear. (...) Ser Barristan was once heard to say he had no friend but his sword and no life but duty... but you know, I do not think Selmy meant it altogether as praise.-"

OOOHHHH!!!! I just had a conspiracy theory.

Cersei didn't hire Moore to kill Tyrion, Moore was taking a chance to kill who he believed was responsible for Jon Arryn's death after getting news from the Vale from on old friend who still lives there re: the very rigged Trial and Lysa's (very loud and false) claims. Moore was taking the first opportunity for vengeance that he thought he could get away with.

What do you think? Feasible? Too much crack?

One day, I am going to come up with a conspiracy theory that contains so much pure crack, the cops will break down the door for a drug bust.

But also, given how this series uses perceptions and assumptions, even if we're in some one's POV, we don't always get the full story, but it is the best way to be sure someone actually did something for realsies.

... You know, I'm actually kind of surprised they let Lollys keep the foetus (or are forcing her to keep the foetus) to term. You'd think, given how they treat bastards and such, that they'd remove 'such a stain' before it became a problem.

(Or at the very least they wouldn't force a young woman who's been violated to carry a baby she never asked for. But then again this series does not care very much for the female members of the cast. The kind ongoing of trauma and dysphoria that is probably giving her, whether it looks that way or not in her current mental state...)

"To guard the king's life, you surrender your own. You give up your lands and titles, give up hope of marriage, children..." "House Tyrell continues through my brothers," Ser Loras said. "It is not necessary, for a third son to wed, or breed." "Not necessary, but some find it pleasant. What of love?" "When the sun has set, no candle can replace it."

D&D suck at their job = 🥛

I'm sorry, but can we just take a moment and appreciate the depth of Loras' grief? Like, I have no trouble believing Book!Loras loved Renly for real. Truly, honestly loved him first and foremost before he saw him as a pawn to get at the throne.

Show!Loras and Renly? I forgot they even fucked.

Loras being gay in the show felt like a background joke. "LoL, Sansa has a crush on a gay boy," or "LOL, Cersei is getting married to the gay boy."

Even between Loras and Renly, in the show, the first time we really saw them together, Loras was talking Renly into vying for the crown and Robert wasn't even dead yet. It was manipulation and titillation. Were they in love or was Loras just using him? Who knows, but after Renly died no one really cared, and I forgot they fucked, forgot Loras was even gay until it was shoved back in my face like a poor tasting joke.

Book!verse though? I can believe those two were in love, I can believe Loras is grieving that loss so quietly because he can't say what he's lost, what he feels, he can't express the depth of it and he has to listen to everyone around him belittle that affection and connection, and oh my gosh that poor boy.

A woman sidled into the light; plump, soft, matronly, with a round pink moon of a face and heavy dark curls. Tyrion recoiled. "Is something amiss?" she asked. Varys, he realized with annoyance.

Drag Queen!Varys is canon. Pry it from my cold dead hands. Just cross-dressing, I know, shhhh, let me have this.

"He's gone," Shae said. Tyrion turned to look. It was true. the eunuch had vanished, shirts and all. The hidden doors are here somewhere, they have to be.

You wanna bet they're under the giant stone slab of a bed? You know, that thing that our attention was directed to the last time he was talking about hidden doors?

(also, it made me think of that scene from the animated Secret Garden, with the secret door under the window seat when they were talking about it earlier, but it probably slides like that giant coffin door from... oh gish, what's the movie... it's going to come to me right as I'm drifting off to sleep. It's like an entire trope to be fair, "giant stone altar/coffin is actually a sliding door" so I'm probably thinking of several movies.)

Her cunt gave him a little squeeze, and he started to stiffen again inside her.

'cunt' = 🥛

... you know, the longer Shae talks about Lollys, the more I prefer Show!Shae to Book!Shae, just for the fact that the show version has some level of empathy for other people. I understand it's probably a coping mechanism for some kind of hidden backstory trauma (no one in this series is without), but damn the way book!Shae treats sexual assault is icky AF.

Then he made a round of the walls, tapping on each in turn, searching for the hidden door. Shae sat with her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, watching him. Finally she said, "They're under the bed. the secret steps." He looked at her, incredulous. "The bed? the bed is solid ston. It weighs half a ton." "There's a place where Varys pushes, and it floats right up. I asked him how, and he said it was magic." "Yes." Tyrion had to grin. "A counterweight spell."

Ha-ha! I was right... about the location. Not the door type, though. The magic in this series is so low key or background I tend to forget it's a thing.

This does explain how he got out of the room without being heard. half-ton stones are not quietly moved, even if they have mechanisms to help them.

!! Alayaya made it back to her mother's brothel! Phew, I was low key worried something had happened to her on the walk back. you know, after she was whipped and kicked out the Keep naked?

"There is a singer who calls himself Symon Silver Tongue," Tyrion said wearily, pushing his guilt aside. "He plays for Lady Tanda's daughter sometimes. "What of him?" Kill him, he might had said, but damn the man had done nothing but sing a few songs.

You'd think Bards would do better in life, what with being a Charisma class, but no, no one likes Bards here.

And fill Shae's head with thoughts of doves and dancing bears.

... well now I have "Once Upon a December" from Anastasia (1997) stuck in my head.

Dancing Bears Painted Wings Things I almost remember. And a song someone sings Once upon a December.