#except for my air port-

[not-decided-star]

WHY IS

FOLLOWING ME?

I feel threatened in my shadow realm

[ghostarii]

SILK STRINGS & PEARL RINGS, SCARAMOUCHE

ʚɞ kisses with the weight of pain and bruises colored like love — his heart hits like a punch and you’re the sucker to catch it.

WARNINGS ݈݇- fem!reader, referred to as kuni, impact play, asphyxiation, biting / marking, hair pulling, degradation, name calling, praise, creampie, overstimulation, more scaramouche than wanderer, minors & dc antis do not interact!

NOTE ݈݇- hey . . hey . . how y’all doin ^w^ ive been gone a while becuz tumblr wasnt it anymore nd life was lifeing ! am back now bc i missed u guys nd missed being a freak :c theres sm of u now — thank u sm for 900+! ! i loveee youu loads xoxoxooo Anywayyy i hope u enjoy this quick littl drabble to flex my muscles :3

WORD COUNT ݈݇- 1.1k

LIMBS LIKE STRINGS OF silk: soft, pliable, and delicate, all in the hands of an unworthy sinner. His rough callouses rub burning patches on your skin as he runs his hands across your supple skin. Even the finest silks blemish under unclean hands and you are no exception — you're the example.

The name he bears stumbles out of your mouth in broken gasps and he only wishes you would shut up; he tells you again and again in hopes of your compliance, to no avail. Your voice is a constant reminder of who he is to you and, otherwise, who he’s destroying for superficial, fleeting pleasure. He’s far too deep to pull away now and scurry away—he has no choice but to double down and bump the sense out of your brain in hopes of fogging your memory. It works in a skewed way: condensing your mind to the two syllables of his name. “Kuni! Kun—i!! God, Kuni—!!!” Your pitiful screeches play on broken recurrences.

And as the master weaver he is, your pleasure is sewn up to its peak for what feels like the millionth time. Your body quakes and trembles, quivering under his weight and attempting an escape jaggedly. A hearty, choked-up whine jumps out of your chest, “Sto—I can’t! K-Kuni, please—!”

Deaf ears ignore your cries and pound deeper, harder—slamming his pelvic bone against your twitching clit. His hands move from the expanse of the mattress to your neck: pressing you into the mattress with pressure on the sides of your neck just right. “Shut the fuck up,” he grits, rolling his hips into you. “Just shut up and take it.”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, lashes fluttering rapidly as, quickly, your brain computes nothing but pleasure.

His hips snap against you with such intensity, that it makes you feel like he hates you. It borders on painful, eliciting sharp lightning rods to pierce and prod around your body. The sheer weight of this impassioned thrusting has you jolting up the bed and thrashing around under him, looking to escape the white-hot harvest of pleasure pulsing in your pussy.

On top of you, he burns a pretty rose that can only be described as fire. The tight grip around his cock fills his head with foggy air—but it's the wetness that spools around his length: splat, splat, splat, that sings out the lost orgasms from rounds previous and ample arousal. It’s that that has him grumbling out blurbs of pleasure, chasing his orgasm that rests in your depths.

Every sensation is heightened tenfold with the ever-demanding charge that is being fed in your tummies. Every pulse, squeeze, leak, prod—all of it is akin to plugging you up to an orgasm charge-port and capping off the battery.

It’s too much; you scream that out enough until you can't gather enough air to breathe, let alone speak. Kuni agrees with you but he really, really, wishes you would shut up. He can't think and with every sound you make, he’s urged on in this unshakeable, carnivorous desperation to fuck harder. He's not immune to pleasure; he may be more susceptible to its threats, in fact. Knitted brows and screwed eyes blind him to the overstimulated writhing you enact, wriggling under his touch in vain hopes of reprieve.

Tears stream down your cheeks to mix with a layer of slobber splayed on your skin—a pitifully nasty mess, born out of the relentless palms of your man. He has the liberty to see you at your most vulnerable: degeneracy painting itself all over your body. A beautifully disgusting mess, you are, and he only makes it worse.

Stirring around your guts is his angry hard-on, circling your walls in shaky rolling manners, letting you both rest against the other and heave out deep breaths. The tip grinds against your g-spot and has you whimpering weakly, slapping his forearms and rolling your stomach. “I’m gonna—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He grits, grabbing a fistful of hair and tugging your head to the left. The stinging burn that dances at your roots has you wincing and whining, scrunching your face up. “Hold it.”

“I c-can’t, Kuni!” Just as the words leave your mouth, his hips are re-angled to push up into your pussy, the right-bound hook he sports curving right up to a gummy cushion in your walls. They contract around him and he groans, tightening his grip on your hair.

He dives into you, letting his hands grip your waist as his head wedges itself between your chin and shoulder. “Get it through your thick fucking skull,” he berates, nipping your collarbone. “You can't cum until I say so,”

His hips grind upward, drilling his dick deep into your depths that the hoarseness in your voice is shaken off for a shrill yelp to be squeezed out. He laughs at you menacingly, sinking his teeth into your shoulder to then circle the mark with his tongue. “Take it like a good bitch and I may be nice to you.”

Not a word he said will be upheld. You're so good—the best girl for him and he still dangles your release in front of you. Like a dog to a thick bone, you pant and whine in anticipation of being thrown your Achilles heel.

Exhaustion catches up to him and he can only lazily rock into you. His left hand presses on your stomach as he does so, trapping pressure in your tummy and mixing deliciously with your pleasure.

Heat swims beneath your skin and spills out beads of perspiration, gluing your bodies together.

Proximity; your bodies are so close and burning up fervent flames that swallow you down. Like the pliable silk you are, you slip around under his hold and that knot your stomach is tied up in easily unwinds.

“You’re coming, aren't you?” He shakily asks, exhaling deeply. If you aren't, he is.

Your non-answer is answer enough—he moans pathetically in your ear, falling apart as he ruts into you.

Holding on is a thing of the past as he slams against your sweet spot, unfurling his orgasm into you in milky ropes. Simultaneously, you release your biggest orgasm yet, splashing against his stomach and streaming down your legs. The pressure pushes him out with a grunt, a sadistic laugh of his echoing in your head.

Your swollen pussy is shining in pearlescent, bubbled strings, rolling out of you in a gushing mix. Oh, it's nasty; and you're utterly destroyed—flushed and blemished and patterned in bites, bruises, and prints. Your lips are swollen and bitten; your eyes are low-lidded and teary; your face is sweaty and tear-stained; your body quivers and spasms and Kuni thinks that you've never looked better.

Reprieve only lasts a mere moment before your legs are pushed up to your shoulders, spreading and stretching your limbs to their limits. Drawing out a whine, you speak hoarsely, “What’re you doing? No more..”

“I never told you to cum, did I?”

A break quickly becomes a distant memory.

[annievrse]

robbers

chuuya x pm!reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic w/c: 0.9k c/w: chuuya calls reader 'doll', guns & murder (ur literally a sniper) a/n: this was gonna be a lot more angsty, but I wanted some cutesy gross relationship shit, so here u go, my babies. enjoy!!

Zooming in your scope, your eye is trained on a familiar redhead. You watch as he tries to talk his way out of an infiltration mission that had gone awry 10 minutes earlier, and with you as the Port Mafia's sniper, it's your job to ensure Chuuya gets out of there unharmed.

The earpiece lodged in your ear fizzles a string of words you can barely focus on, but you press it and talk anyway.

"Yes, Aktuagawa is on the roof," you mumble, lifting your head to confirm the questions streaming through your ear. Squinting into the setting sun, you see the younger boy walking along the edge of the building, hoping to get a better angle to attack. "Will take my shot. Over."

As you try to get comfortable, the leather of your vest and pants drag along the concrete roof you lay on. Steadying your breath, you aim for the head of the mastermind behind the organisation that had been killing ability-users for sport.

Now, you hold your breath and squeeze the trigger. There's no sound, but your hurried exhales, and you begin packing your gear instantly. There's no need to look to confirm your kill.

"—inside is clear—"

"—building empty, return to headquarters—"

The silence is deafening. The subtle ringing in your ear punctuates as such. A sudden crackle through your earpiece startles you as you descend the 38 flights of stairs to the street.

"You could've aimed a little more to the right. I got rat blood on me."

You shake your head. "Be grateful you're alive."

Chuuya scoffs, and you imagine him rolling his eyes. "He was an easy target; I would've easily taken him out."

"Just meet me downstairs, please," you sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The stairwell is humid, and you're starting to sweat under all the leather you sport.

"Yes, ma'am."

You twist the device from your ear and shove it in your pocket.

Emerging from the building, you're hit with a gust of cool night air, the feeling both relieving and chilling. You squint into the darkness. The door behind you slams, and you jump, tripping over your foot and falling to the ground. You put your hand out to stop yourself and brace for the impact.

Except you don't make it to the dirt and are, instead, held mid-air by a familiar force. You roll your eyes when the commander of said force appears before you in the shape of a five-foot-something redhead.

"Careful, doll, don't need you breaking your trigger finger."

You give Chuuya a deadpan look, still surrounded by a red aura. He stalks toward you, the hem of his coat flapping in the wind. You look at him through your lashes and wish he'd let you fall—he gazes at you so intently that if he weren't Chuuya, you'd have punched him by now.

You feel yourself move upwards and stumble once you're on your feet again. Chuuya walks ahead, but his hand hovers behind him slightly.

"Well..." you say, grasping his fingers. You walk toward the PM car, which is parked in the distance.

Chuuya gives you a side look. "Well, what?"

"Well," you say. "Make yourself useful and kiss me."

Chuuya's eyebrows fly up and he stops. "Useful? I just saved your ass from—"

You drop your bag and cover his cheek, smiling as your lips meet his. It's messy, and you swear you felt his teeth nip your bottom lip by accident, but it's nice. Chuuya's fingers tickle the sides of your neck, and he mumbles something incoherent.

You pull back an inch and peck his lips once more when he chases after you. "What?"

Chuuya sighs and leans his forehead against your shoulder, his hands moving to your waist. "Thanks for getting me outta there."

You laugh softly, burying your hands in his hair, moving his hat onto your head so it doesn't fall on the ground. He doesn't thank people often; he doesn't need to with his hatred of initially putting himself in that position and his constant obligation to save everyone.

You don't need his thanks; you never have, but you just kiss his cheek and reassure him. "Always."

Chuuya turns his head, and you feel him press delicate kisses on your neck. He trails his lips to your earlobe before laughing lowly in your ear, squeezing your sides.

You put your hands on his cheeks and pull him out of your neck. His face is squished between your palms, and you stop yourself from kissing him silly. Chuuya wraps his hands around your wrists, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your pulse points. His blue eyes stare into yours, and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to settle.

“You can stop staring now,” Chuuya mumbles, his cheeks blooming red. He'd blame it on the breeze if you tease him about it.

You shake your head, smiling bashfully. “No, you look pretty."

"Oh, please," Chuuya scoffs, eyes sweeping the building behind you. The subordinates deemed the perimeter clear before, but Chuuya scowls at the place anyway. "Let's go."

Sighing, you pluck his hat off your head and put it back on his. "Lead the way, pretty boy."

Chuuya begrudgingly fixes his hat and swings your bag onto his shoulder. "Only if you stop calling me that."

You tsk, wrapping your arms around his middle. "Can't deny what's true."

Grumbling, Chuuya throws his arm over your shoulder and draws you into his side. "Whatever."

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[rafesapologist]

the setback ─ rafe cameron (sequel to the set up)

summary: it's been two years since your departure from the outer banks and rafe cameron has seemingly convinced himself that he can go on with his life as if you never happened, except now more than ever his addiction is at an all time high. whether he was snorting lines of cocaine at wild parties or drowning himself in alcohol to numb the pain, rafe couldn't escape the memories of you. despite his efforts to bury his feelings, your absence lingered like a shadow, haunting him at every turn. meanwhile, you've been navigating life outside the outer banks, trying to carve out a new path for yourself. but no matter how far you've traveled, the memories of rafe cameron still linger in your heart, leaving you with a sense of unfinished business. as you find yourself facing new challenges and opportunities, you can't help but wonder if fate will eventually bring you back to the place where it all began.

warnings: not much, angst, mentions of addiction and drug use, mentions of alcohol

author's note: the sequel is here!! thank you guys for showing so much love for the set up and i can't wait for you guys to read the continuation of the series! mwah

Rafe wiped the sweat from his brow as he hoisted another crate onto the ship's deck, the muscles in his arms straining against the weight. The salty tang of the sea filled the air around him, mingling with the scent of freshly sawn wood and the metallic hint of the gold hidden within the crates. His father, a rugged man with a weather-beaten face and a glint of mischief in his eyes, worked alongside him, his movements deft and sure.

"You're moving slower than a sloth today, Rafe," Ward teased, his voice carrying over the sounds of the bustling port. "Pick up the pace, boy!"

Rafe shot his father a mock glare before responding with a grin. "Maybe if you'd stop distracting me with your incessant chatter, old man, I could actually get some work done."

Ward chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, but where's the fun in that? Besides, a little banter makes the time go by faster."

As they continued their task, Ward's tone shifted, his voice taking on a more serious note. "You know, Rafe, I've been hard on you over the years. Pushed you to be better than you thought you could be."

Rafe paused, surprised by his father's admission. He glanced up, meeting Ward's gaze with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.

"But you've turned out to be my best child," Ward continued, his expression softening with pride. "Strong, capable, and fiercely loyal. I couldn't ask for more."

Rafe's heart swelled at his father's words, a rush of emotion flooding through him. For so long, he had sought his father's approval, yearning for even the smallest sign of acceptance. And now, here it was, offered freely in the midst of their everyday routine.

"Unlike your sister," Ward muttered, his voice heavy with regret. "Sarah always had a wild streak in her. Ran off two years ago, couldn't handle the life we lead. Sometimes I wonder if I pushed her too hard."

Rafe's heart clenched at the mention of Sarah, his sister who had always been their father's favorite. He'd watched with a mixture of resentment and envy as Ward showered her with praise and affection, leaving Rafe to feel like an afterthought.

"Yeah, well, maybe if you'd paid as much attention to me as you did to her, she wouldn't have felt the need to run," Rafe blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ward's gaze snapped to Rafe, his expression a mix of surprise and hurt. For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension, each of them grappling with the weight of their unspoken words.

But then Ward's features softened, his gaze filled with a mixture of regret and understanding. "I'm sorry, Rafe," he said quietly. "I never meant to make you feel like you weren't enough. You're my son, and I love you, no matter what."

Rafe swallowed past the lump in his throat, his eyes burning with unshed tears. In that moment, he realized that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for their fractured relationship after all.

Rafe wiped his forehead with his shirt, the midday sun beating down relentlessly as he and his father continued their task under the sweltering heat of Figure Eight's early summer. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and sweat, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the dock providing a backdrop to their labor.

"So, how're things with you and Sofia?" Ward asked, his voice cutting through the oppressive heat as he glanced over at Rafe.

Rafe paused, taken aback by his father's sudden inquiry. He hadn't expected Ward to broach the subject of his relationship with Sofia, not after their last conversation had ended in a heated argument about Rafe's antics.

"Uh, things are good," Rafe replied cautiously, unsure of how much he wanted to divulge. "We're… figuring things out, I guess."

Ward nodded, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "She's a good girl, that one. Strong-willed, like you. You two make a good match."

Rafe couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his father's words, a warmth spreading through him despite the oppressive heat. It was rare for Ward to offer his approval so freely, especially when it came to matters of the heart.

"Yeah, she's something special," Rafe agreed, a fond smile playing at his lips as he thought of Sofia. "I'm lucky to have her."

Ward clapped him on the back, a grin spreading across his weathered face. "That you are, son. That you are."

As Rafe continued with his work, his thoughts drifted back to the early days of his relationship with Sofia, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. They had been through so much together, weathering storms both literal and figurative, yet somehow emerging stronger each time.

But as memories of their first meeting flooded his mind, Rafe's smile faltered, replaced by a pang of sadness. He remembered the excitement and nervousness he had felt as he approached her that day, the thrill of possibility mingling with the uncertainty of the unknown.

And then, like a sudden storm cloud on a clear day, another memory intruded upon his thoughts. A memory of someone else, someone who had once been a constant presence in his life but had vanished without a trace.

"You were still here," Rafe whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the din of the bustling port. "Before you ran away."

The pain of your disappearance still lingered, a wound that had yet to fully heal. Rafe couldn't help but wonder where you had gone, what had driven you to leave without so much as an explanation. Had it been something he had said or done? Or had you simply grown tired of waiting for him to change, to become the person you had hoped he would be?

As the memories threatened to overwhelm him, Rafe shook his head, banishing them to the recesses of his mind once more. There was work to be done, and he couldn't afford to let himself be consumed by thoughts of the past, no matter how painful they might be.

But deep down, in the quiet corners of his heart, he couldn't shake the feeling that he would never truly be able to move on until he had unraveled the reasoning of your disappearance and found closure once and for all.

With a determined shake of his head, Rafe pushed aside the tumult of emotions swirling within him and focused on the task at hand. He hoisted the final crate onto the ship with a grunt of effort, the weight of it a physical reminder of the burdens he carried both on and off the dock.

"Finished up here, Dad," Rafe called out, wiping his hands on his trousers as he made his way over to where Ward stood overseeing the loading process.

Ward glanced up, his brow furrowing in mild surprise at the sudden interruption. "Already? Well, I'll be damned. Looks like you're finally starting to earn your keep around here."

Rafe grinned at his father's gruff praise, a sense of satisfaction settling over him despite the lingering ache in his heart. "Guess I'm good for something after all."

Ward chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder with a rough hand. "Don't sell yourself short, son. You've got more potential than you give yourself credit for."

With a nod of thanks, Rafe stepped away from his father and headed toward the gangplank, eager to escape the confines of the dock and lose himself in the familiar streets of Figure Eight once more.

"I'm heading out to meet up with Sofia," he called over his shoulder, his voice carrying on the breeze. "I'll be back later."

Ward waved him off with a casual salute, his attention already turning back to the task at hand. "Take your time, Rafe. Just don't keep the girl waiting too long, or she might start thinking you've forgotten about her."

Rafe laughed, the sound ringing out clear and bright against the backdrop of the bustling port. "Trust me, Dad. That's the last thing I'd ever do."

As Rafe cruised down the sun-drenched streets of Figure Eight in his trusty old truck, a sense of freedom washed over him. The wind whipped through the open windows, tousling his hair and carrying with it the scent of salt and sea. He couldn't help but feel a surge of joy bubbling up inside him, the promise of the afternoon ahead adding an extra spring to his step.

But as he idly flipped through the radio stations, searching for the perfect soundtrack to accompany his journey, his heart skipped a beat when he stumbled upon a familiar melody. The haunting strains of "Gold Dust Woman" by Fleetwood Mac filled the cab of the truck, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

For a moment, Rafe's finger hovered over the buttons, torn between the desire to switch the song and the inexplicable pull of nostalgia that tugged at his heartstrings. It was a song you had loved, one that had become intertwined with memories of lazy afternoons spent driving aimlessly along the coast, lost in each other's company.

With a sigh, Rafe let his finger fall away from the radio, surrendering to the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swept away by the bittersweet melody, the lyrics weaving a tapestry of emotions that mirrored the tangled mess of his thoughts.

In that moment, you felt closer to him than ever, your presence lingering in the spaces between the notes, in the warmth of the sunlight on his skin. And as he drove on, your memory by his side, Rafe couldn't help but wonder if somewhere out there, you were listening to the same song, thinking of him as he was thinking of you.

As Rafe pulled into Sofia's driveway, he couldn't shake the feeling of being haunted by your presence, like a ghost lingering in the shadows of his mind. He sighed heavily, trying to push aside the memories that threatened to overwhelm him, focusing instead on the task at hand.

He turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, the familiar comfort of his truck offering him a brief respite from the turmoil within. But even as he tried to clear his mind, he found himself unable to shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him from within.

With a shaky breath, Rafe closed his eyes, willing himself to find some semblance of peace amidst the storm of emotions that raged inside him. He reminded himself that he was here for Sofia, that she was the one who mattered in this moment, not the ghosts of his past that threatened to consume him.

Minutes passed like hours as Rafe waited in silence, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him like a heavy burden. But just when he felt like he couldn't bear it any longer, the front door of Sofia's house swung open, and she emerged onto the porch, a bright smile lighting up her face.

Rafe's heart skipped a beat at the sight of her, the warmth of her presence chasing away the shadows that had threatened to engulf him. With a sense of relief washing over him, he pushed open the door of his truck and stepped out onto the gravel driveway, ready to leave the ghosts of his past behind and embrace the promise of the present moment with Sofia by his side.

Sofia's cheerful voice broke through the haze of Rafe's thoughts as she opened the passenger door and greeted him with a warm smile. The kiss she placed on his cheek sent a flutter through his chest, dispelling the lingering shadows that had haunted him moments before.

"Hey, you," Sofia said, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Ready for tonight?"

Rafe returned her smile, the weight of his worries easing at the sight of her infectious enthusiasm. "Absolutely," he replied, his voice laced with anticipation. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

As he stepped out of the truck and joined Sofia on the driveway, he felt a renewed sense of purpose wash over him. Whatever demons lurked in the corners of his mind, he knew that as long as he had Sofia by his side, he could face them head-on with unwavering determination.

With a quick squeeze of Sofia's hand, Rafe followed her lead as they made their way towards the house, leaving the shadows of his past behind and embracing the promise of the night ahead. Whatever challenges awaited them at the party, Rafe knew that together, they could conquer anything that came their way.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were sprawled out on a hammock with JJ, the gentle sway of the hammock lulling you into a state of blissful relaxation. The warm summer breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and blooming flowers. You took a deep inhale, the fragrant smoke from the blunt swirling around you as you passed it back and forth with JJ.

"Man, this is the life," JJ said, his voice lazy with contentment as he took another hit before passing the blunt back to you. "Just kicking back, enjoying the sun, and getting high with my favorite person."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his words, the corners of your lips curling up into a lazy smile. "Right back at you, JJ," you replied, taking a long drag from the blunt before passing it back to him. "Couldn't think of a better way to spend the day."

As the two of you lounged in comfortable silence, the stresses of the outside world melted away, leaving nothing but the warmth of the sun on your skin and the soothing rhythm of the hammock beneath you. In that moment, surrounded by the peaceful tranquility of nature and the company of a good friend, you felt truly at ease, content to simply exist in the here and now.

JJ took another hit from the blunt, his gaze distant as he reminisced. "Life was wild back on the cut, huh?" he mused, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air. "But I gotta say, we're much better off where we are now."

You nodded in agreement, the memories of your past life tugging at the corners of your mind. "Yeah, definitely," you replied, your voice soft as you passed the blunt back to him. "It's been a crazy journey, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

As you took another hit, however, your smile faltered, a shadow passing over your features. Memories of your time on the cut flooded back, and with them came thoughts of Rafe. "Remember those days at the chateau?" you said, your voice tinged with nostalgia. "Those were some good times."

JJ's expression softened, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, they were," he said quietly. "But you know what they say about nostalgia… sometimes, it ain't all it's cracked up to be."

You couldn't help but laugh at his words, the tension easing from your shoulders as you took another hit from the blunt. "True that," you replied, a wistful smile playing at your lips. "But hey, at least we made it out alive, right?"

With a shared chuckle, you and JJ settled back into the comforting rhythm of the hammock, content to bask in the warmth of the sun and the camaraderie of each other's company, even as the memories of the past lingered on the edges of your consciousness.

As you and JJ lounged on the hammock, lost in reminiscence, the sound of footsteps approaching drew your attention. You glanced up to see Kiara emerging from the house, a cooler full of drinks in her hands, followed closely by Sarah, a mischievous smirk playing at her lips.

"Hey, look who decided to join the party," Kiara said with a grin, setting the cooler down beside the hammock. "Thought you two could use a little refreshment."

You couldn't help but sit up in excitement, the prospect of cold drinks on a hot day too good to pass up. "Hell yeah, thanks Kiara," you said, reaching eagerly for a beverage as she offered them around.

Sarah followed suit, her smirk widening as she made eye contact with you. "Enjoying yourselves, I see?" she teased, her tone light-hearted as she handed you a drink.

You chuckled in response, taking a swig from the can and relishing the cool liquid as it slid down your throat. "Absolutely," you replied, a grin spreading across your face. "Nothing beats kicking back with good company and a cold drink on a day like today."

JJ echoed your sentiment, taking a drink of his own and offering a nod of thanks to Sarah and Kiara. As the four of you settled into easy conversation, the worries of the past and the uncertainties of the future faded into the background, replaced by the simple pleasure of the present moment and the warmth of friendship.

As you enjoyed the drinks and banter with Kiara, Sarah, and JJ, your attention was drawn to a nearby jacuzzi where John B and Pope lounged, seemingly lost in their own conversation. You couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of JJ's impulsive purchase, a jacuzzi that seemed out of place yet strangely fitting in the backyard of the house.

"Check it out," you said, nudging JJ with your elbow and gesturing towards the jacuzzi. "Looks like John B and Pope are living the high life over there."

JJ grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched his friends. "Hey, if we're gonna do this whole beach lifestyle thing, might as well do it right," he remarked, a hint of pride in his voice.

You couldn't argue with that logic, especially not when you saw the smiles on John B and Pope's faces as they relaxed in the warm water, their cares melting away with each passing moment. With a nod of agreement, you settled back into the hammock, content to bask in the simple joys of friendship and camaraderie, even as the world around you seemed to spin with uncertainty.

As you basked in the warmth and joy of the moment, a sense of contentment washed over you like a soothing tide. Here, in this idyllic setting, you were free from the debts and drama that had plagued your life back in the Outer Banks. The weight of those burdens lifted from your shoulders, leaving you feeling light and unencumbered for the first time in what felt like ages.

You couldn't help but marvel at the peace you had found in this new life, a life where you weren't constantly running from something or someone. Here, surrounded by friends who felt more like family, you finally felt like you belonged.

But even as you reveled in the happiness of the present, a twinge of guilt gnawed at the edges of your consciousness. You couldn't shake the feeling that despite the freedom and joy you now experienced, a part of you still felt tethered to the past, to the people you had left behind without a word of explanation.

Memories of your abrupt departure crept into your mind, casting a shadow over the tranquility of the moment. You couldn't help but wonder if you had made the right choice, if leaving had been the only option or simply the easiest one.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed aside the doubts and regrets that threatened to dampen your spirits, focusing instead on the warmth of the sun on your skin and the laughter of your friends echoing in the air. Here, in this moment, you were determined to embrace the peace and happiness that surrounded you, letting go of the past and embracing the promise of the future with open arms.

With a satisfied sigh, you finished the last sips of your drink and set the empty can aside. Feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin, you decided it was time for a refreshing dip in the jacuzzi. With practiced ease, you peeled off your loose t-shirt, revealing the vibrant bikini underneath.

As you sat up from the hammock, the cool breeze playing across your skin, you made your way over to the jacuzzi where John B and Pope lounged, enjoying the warm water. With a playful grin, you called out to them, "Hey guys, mind making some room for me?"

John B and Pope looked up, their faces breaking into wide smiles at the sight of you approaching. "Of course, come on in!" John B exclaimed, scooting over to make space for you beside him.

You slipped into the jacuzzi with a contented sigh, the warm water enveloping you in its comforting embrace. As you settled in between your friends, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the simple pleasures of life, for moments like these spent with good friends in the warmth of the sun. With a smile, you leaned back and let the worries of the world slip away, fully embracing the peace and happiness of the present moment.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Rafe leaned against the doorway of Sofia's room, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched her finish getting ready. She moved with effortless grace, her movements fluid and purposeful as she applied the final touches to her outfit.

"You look beautiful," Rafe said softly, his voice filled with genuine admiration as he took in the sight of her.

Sofia turned to him, a radiant smile lighting up her features. "Thanks, Rafe," she replied, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "You're not looking too bad yourself."

Rafe chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through him at her compliment. He couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for this girl who had stolen his heart, who had stood by him through thick and thin, who had helped him find his place in the world.

As Sofia put the finishing touches on her makeup, Rafe couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him. Tonight was going to be special, he could feel it in his bones. And with Sofia by his side, he knew that no matter what the night held in store, it would be a memory he would cherish for years to come.

With a final glance in the mirror, Sofia turned to Rafe, a playful glint in her eye. "Ready to go?" she asked, holding out her hand to him.

Rafe nodded, a grin spreading across his face as he took her hand in his. "Absolutely," he replied, his heart racing with excitement as they made their way out the door and into the night, ready to take on whatever adventures awaited them together.

As Rafe and Sofia headed to Topper's house party, the anticipation buzzed between them, filling the car with an infectious energy. With the windows down and the music blaring, they sang along to their favorite songs, laughter dancing on their lips as they shared the joy of the moment.

Rafe stole glances at Sofia in the passenger seat, his heart swelling with affection as he watched her sing her heart out, her laughter filling the air like music. Her happiness was contagious, and he couldn't help but smile as he soaked in the sight of her, the love he felt for her radiating from every fiber of his being.

But as he glanced over at her once more, something shifted. For a split second, he thought he saw a flash of your face superimposed over hers, your eyes meeting his in a haunting echo of the past. His heart skipped a beat, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinked in disbelief.

The moment passed in the blink of an eye, leaving Rafe shaken and disoriented. He shook his head, trying to shake off the strange sensation that lingered in the air. But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that your presence still lingered, a ghost haunting the edges of his consciousness, refusing to be ignored.

Sofia's sweet gesture snapped Rafe out of his momentary dissociation, her warm kiss on his cheek grounding him in the present. He blinked, the remnants of the strange sensation fading away as he met her gaze, her smile a beacon of light in the darkness.

"Can't wait for the party, huh?" Rafe echoed, a smile spreading across his face as he reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. "Me neither. It's gonna be a blast."

Sofia's eyes sparkled with excitement as she settled back into her seat, the anticipation palpable in the air between them. With a renewed sense of determination, Rafe refocused his attention on the road ahead, the memory of your face fading into the recesses of his mind as he focused on the promise of the night ahead with Sofia by his side.

As Rafe drove, the weight of what had just happened settled heavily on his shoulders, casting a shadow over his thoughts. Try as he might to shake off the strange sensation, the memory of your face superimposed over Sofia's lingered in the corners of his mind, refusing to be ignored.

With a heavy sigh, Rafe felt himself zoning out, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he lost himself in the rhythm of the road. The familiar longing for escape crept up on him like an unwelcome guest, gnawing at his impulses and filling him with a restless energy.

He couldn't help but feel trapped, caught between the pull of his past and the promise of the future. The road stretched out before him, endless and unforgiving, a tantalizing temptation beckoning him to leave it all behind and disappear into the unknown.

As Rafe navigated the streets towards the party, a sense of unease gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the feeling that this party was just another part of his plan to escape, a temporary reprieve from the weight of his troubles. And buried beneath that unease lurked the insidious craving for something more, something that promised to numb the pain and quiet the demons that haunted him.

Coke.

The mere thought sent a shiver down Rafe's spine, a mixture of desire and dread swirling in the pit of his stomach. He knew the dangers of succumbing to his cravings, knew the havoc it could wreak on his life and the lives of those he cared about. But in moments of weakness, the allure of escape proved too strong to resist.

As he pulled into the driveway of Topper's house, the bass thumping from the speakers and the laughter of the partygoers filling the air, Rafe felt a familiar sense of anticipation building within him. He knew what awaited him inside, knew the temptations that lurked in the shadows, yet he couldn't deny the pull they held over him.

With a heavy sigh, Rafe steeled himself for what lay ahead, determined to navigate the minefield of his desires with caution and restraint. But deep down, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling that tonight, like so many nights before, would end in a blur of euphoria and regret.

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[hardlyinteresting]

A thorough analysis of medals, ribbons, and awards in Top Gun: Maverick

Have you ever wanted to know what medals The Dagger Squad and company wear in TGM? I did, and then I just kept reading and then I started a google doc and now I have a list I can share with all of you! (I feel like my brain might actually be melting)

I have done my absolute best to identify as many of their medals/ribbons as possible based on the clearest images I could find, and I have tried my best to comment on how realistic they may be for these characters. The photos I referenced for this deep dive are included at the bottom of this post.

Analysis below the cut

LT. Jake “Hangman” Seresin He wears 9 ribbons on his uniform. 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Jake wears an additional device on his but it doesn’t look like a star. It is likely a bronze “V” for valour worn to denote that the award was given for combat heroism. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Jake wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) * The pin Jake wears on his ribbon looks like a Fleet Marine Force combat operation insignia indicates that he may have been assigned to a unit that operated under a Marine Corps attachment and carried out duties under the Marine Corps operational control 

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Jake wears two stars on his ribbon. I can’t tell if they are silver or bronze. Bronze would indicate he has met this criteria 3 times during his service. Two silver stars would 10. Both are possible for his character. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, Jake’s medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Natasha “Pheonix” Trace Natasha also wears 9 ribbons on her uniform. 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Natasha wears hers with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that she has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Natasha wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating she has been given this award 3 times.

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Natasha wears a pin/device on her ribbon, though it’s significantly smaller than the stars she wears on her other ribbons. The only devices authorized to be worn with this ribbon are bronze or silver stars, so I’m unsure what it is. 

NATO Medal (The NATO Medal is a decoration presented by the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) to recognize international NATO military members who have participated in various peacekeeping operations.) However, there are 10 different variations and versions of this medal and I can’t see in enough detail to confirm which one it is that Natasha wears. 

Again, from the research I’ve done, the ribbons that Natasha wears seem to make sense for her age, rank, and experience level. I have not been able to confirm if her NATO ribbon is in the correct order of presence, but I do believe it is. 

LT. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

I can find only one image of him in his uniform and wearing his ribbons. However, I would have to assume that it’s an older photo and would have been taken long before the beginning of the beginning of the TGM film timeline and that he would have more by the time we see him on screen. I would also expect that having his papers pulled and being held back in his career timeline may have changed things for him as well. But, he’s wearing 8 ribbons in the photo. This could be a continuity error but I have no way of knowing for sure. Alas, I can only break down what I can see. (But if anyone can find me a still from the film where we can see his current ribbons I’d be over the moon). 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Bradley wears his with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that he has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Bradley wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Bradley wears two silver stars on his ribbon which would indicate that he has met this criteria 10 times. 

Beyond the question of timeline, I would say that these ribbons all make sense for his level of experience, his rank, and his age. The ribbons all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia  Mickey wears eight ribbons on his uniform. 

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Mickey wears his with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that he has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Mickey wears 1 bronze star on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 2 times.

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Mickey wears two bronze stars on his ribbon which would indicate that he has met this criteria 3 times. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, all of these medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Reuben “Payback” Fitch  Reuben wears 9 ribbons on his uniform

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Reuben wears his with 1 star, but I can’t quite tell for sure if it’s bronze or silver. One bronze star would indicate that he has received the commendation 2times. One Silver star would indicate 5 times. Both would be possible. 

 Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (Awarded to members of the U.S. Armed Forces who, after July 1, 1958, participated in U.S. military operations, U.S. operations in direct support of the United Nations, or U.S. operations of assistance for friendly foreign nations). It is hard to tell from the photos I have if this is for sure the correct medal, but it’s the only one that fits the colour order I can see. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Reuben wears his with 2 bronze stars indicating he’s been given this award 3 times. 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Rueben wears one star on his ribbon. I cannot confirm whether it is a bronze star or a silver star. A bronze star would indicate that he has met this criteria 3 times. A silver star would indicate he met this criteria 10 times. 

If the third ribbon Rueben wears is the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal I am 95% sure it would be in the wrong order. I believe it should come after his Afghanistan Campaign medal and before his Inherent Resolve Campaign medal for them to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Robert “BOB” Floyd Robert wears seven ribbons on his uniform. 

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Bob wears his with 2 bronze stars which would indicate that he has received the commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Bob wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Bob wears a pin/device on this ribbon, though it’s significantly smaller than the stars he wears on his other ribbons. The only devices authorized to be worn with this ribbon are bronze or silver stars, so I’m unsure what it is. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, all of these medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

LT. Javy “Coyote” Machado Javy wears nine ribbons.

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Javy  wears his with 2 star bronze stars so he has been given this commendation 3 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Javy wears 1 bronze star on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 2 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Inherent Resolve Campaign Medal (medal may be awarded to members of the U.S. Army, Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Coast Guard, for service in Iraq, Syria, or contiguous waters or airspace) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Javy wears what looks like one bronze star on this ribbon which would indicate he has met this criteria twice. But I haven’t been able to find a clear enough image to confirm. 

From what I can tell, and the research I have done, all of these medals make sense for his age, rank, and experience level. They all seem to be displayed in the correct order of precedence. 

CWO Bernie “Hondo” Coleman Hondo wears 15 ribbons on his uniform

Purple Heart (Given to members of the US Military who have been wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing armed forces)

Meritorious Service Medal (presented to members of the United States Armed Forces who distinguish themselves with outstanding meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Hondo wears his with 1  bronze star so he has been given this commendation twice. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Hondo wears 1 bronze star on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 2 times.

Meritorious Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit who have shown Valorous or meritorious achievement or service, or exceptionally meritorious conduct and outstanding achievement or service, in combat or non-combat.)

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Hondo wears a silver wreathed E pin on his ribbon showing he has received this award 5 or more times. 

Good Conduct Medal (awarded to any active duty enlisted member of the United States military who completes three consecutive years of "honorable and faithful service," without any non-judicial punishment, disciplinary infractions, or court martial offenses.)

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Iraq Campaign Medal (The Iraq Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.)

Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal (For  military service members who have deployed overseas in direct service to the War on Terror starting from 2001 to a date to be determined.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Armed Forces Service Medal (Awarded to Service members who have participated in “significant action” for which no other service or campaign medal is authorized, ie. military operation that did not encounter foreign armed opposition or imminent hostile action)

Humanitarian Service Medal (Awarded to service members who partake in military acts or operations which are deemed to be humanitarian in nature) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.)

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal from what I understand would have later been replaced with the Afghanistan and Iraq Campaign Medals which he has also received and wears. He would not have received all three, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. However, I have less direct context and understanding of his role as a Chief Warrant Officer and what his career path may have looked like compared to the Dager Squad members and cannot comment on whether or not he is missing any that you may expect to see on a CWO. 

CAPT. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell Maverick wears 22 ribbons on his uniform

Silver Star Medal (awarded primarily to members of the United States Armed Forces for gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States. It is the third-highest decoration for valour in combat)

Legion of Merit (for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services and achievements.)

Defense Meritorious Service Medal (For members of the armed forces who while serving in a joint activity showed outstanding achievement or meritorious service in non-combat situations, but not of a degree to warrant award of the Defense Superior Service Medal.)

Meritorious Service Medal (awarded to those who have shown meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Air Medal (is awarded for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement while participating in aerial flight.) *Mav wears a bronze pin device on his ribbon on the second yellow stripe. This is usually a strike/flight numerals device. I cannot make out the number, but this would serve to indicate the number of Strike/Flight awards given for operations in hostile territory and count the total number of Strikes (operations that faced enemy opposition) and Flights (operations that did not encounter enemy opposition) added together.

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of of heroism or meritorious service) *Mav wears his with 3 silver stars implying he has received this award a total of 15 times

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.)

Combat Action Ribbon (Given to United States Sea Service Members who have actively participated in ground or surface combat)

Joint Meritorious Unit Award (given to joint units or units tasked with a joint mission where they have displayed meritorious achievement or service beyond what is normally expected, or for actions in combat with an armed enemy of the, a declared national emergency, or under extraordinary circumstances of national interest)

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Mav wears a silver E pin on his ribbon showing he has received this award 2 times. 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Armed Forces Service Medal (Awarded to Service members who have participated in “significant action” for which no other service or campaign medal is authorized, ie. military operation that did not encounter foreign armed opposition or imminent hostile action)

South West Asia Service Medal (Awarded to those who participated in operations in South West Asia between 1990 and 1995. Including participation in operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Operations and support may have been carried out in any of the following nations and/or areas: Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Bahrain, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Israel, Eygpt, Türkiye, Syria, Jordan, Persian Gulf, Red Sea, Gulf of Oman, Gulf of Aden) *Mav wears 2 bronze stars indicating he served in 2 of 3 major campaigns. His bronze stars are pinned in the incorrect positions however, they should not be centred side by side, but rather one on each of the inside yellow stripes. 

Afghanistan Campaign Medal (The Afghanistan Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Afghanistan (or its airspace) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) *Maverick wears two bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he served during 2 of the 6 campaign phases. Once again his stars are in the incorrect positions. Instead of being centred side by side, they should each be on each of the inner black stripes. 

Iraq Campaign Medal (The Iraq Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) *Maverick wears two bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he served during 2 of the 7 campaign phases. Once again his stars are in the incorrect positions. Instead of being centred side by side, they should each be on each of the inner black stripes.

Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal (For  military service members who have deployed overseas in direct service to the War on Terror starting from 2001 to a date to be determined.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.)

United Nations Medal (award for any action in which a member of the military participated in a joint UN activity)

Kuwait Liberation Medal (Awarded by the government of Kuwait to regional and foreign military personnel who served during the Gulf War’s “Liberation of Kuwait” campaign phase between 1990 and 1993. 

Navy Rifle Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Mav wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

Navy Pistol Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Mav wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal from what I understand would have later been replaced with the Afghanistan and Iraq Campaign Medals which he has also received and wears. He would not have received all three, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. I do have questions about how many years he’s been serving and only making it to the rank of Captain but he also has not received, or at least does not wear any ribbons for good conduct, and he is known to rock the boat so I will suspend my disbelief.

VADM. Beau “Cyclone” Simpson  Cyclone wears 19 ribbons on his uniform 

Bronze Star Medal (heroic achievement, heroic service, meritorious achievement, or meritorious service in a combat zone.)

Purple Heart (Given to members of the US Military who have been wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing armed forces)

Meritorious Service Medal (awarded to those who have shown meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Joint Service Commendation Medal (meritorious achievement or service in a joint duty capacity.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of heroism or meritorious service) *Beau wears his with 2 silver stars so he has been given this commendation 10 times. 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) *Cyclone wears 2 bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he has been given this award 3 times.

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism). *Cyclone wears a device on this ribbon, it’s not a star, but from what I’ve read there are no other devices authorized to wear with this ribbon.  

Navy  Meritorious Unit Commendation ( for valorous or meritorious achievement or service in combat or non-combat situations) 

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Cyclone wears a silver E pin with a wreath on his ribbon showing he has received this award 5 times. 

Good Conduct Medal (awarded to any active duty enlisted member of the United States military who completes three consecutive years of "honourable and faithful service," without any non-judicial punishment, disciplinary infractions, or court martial offences.) *Beau wears what looks to be 2 stars on this ribbon. I cannot tell what colour they are. 2 bronze would me he’s received this award 3 times for 9 consecutive years of honorable service. 2 silver would mean he’s received this award 10 times for 30 consecutive years of honorable service. However, before 1996 they were awarded every 4 years. So I think we’re likely looking at between 20-25 years of service, which makes sense for his rank. 

Navy Expeditionary Medal ( Awarded to enlisted Navy service members who were confirmed to have landed on foreign territory and engaged in operations against armed opposition) 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Iraq Campaign Medal (The Iraq Campaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have deployed in support of the War on Terror to locations beyond Iraq and Afghanistan.) 

Global War on Terrorism Service Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have supported operations to counter-terrorism anywhere in the world any time after 2001) 

UNIDENTIFIED SERVICE MEDAL

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Beau wears what looks like one bronze star on this ribbon which would indicate he has met this criteria twice. But I haven’t been able to find a clear enough image to confirm. 

Navy Rifle Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Beau wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

Navy Pistol Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Cyclone wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal, from what I understand, would have later been replaced with his Iraq Campaign Medal which he has also received and wears. He would not have received both, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. However, I have less direct context and understanding of his role as a Vice Admiral and what his career path may have looked like compared to the Dager Squad members, and cannot comment on whether or not he is missing any that you may expect to see on a VADM. 

RADM. Solomon “Warlock” Bates Warlock wears 22 ribbons on his uniform

Legion of Merit (for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services and achievements.)

Bronze Star Medal (heroic achievement, heroic service, meritorious achievement, or meritorious service in a combat zone.)

Purple Heart (Given to members of the US Military who have been wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing armed forces)

Meritorious Service Medal (awarded to those who have shown meritorious achievement or service to the United States.)

Joint Service Commendation Medal (meritorious achievement or service in a joint duty capacity.)

Navy / Marine Corps commendation medal (is awarded for sustained acts of heroism or meritorious service) 

Navy / Marine Corps Achievement Medal (awarded to those who have performed commendably in routine duties or exceptional achievements, that a higher award has not recognised.) 

Navy Unit Commendation (awarded to members of a unit that displayed outstanding acts of heroism).

UNIDENTIFIED SERVICE MEDAL

Navy E Ribbon (Awarded to service members who were on permanent duty aboard a U.S. Navy ship or in a unit that won a battle efficiency competition after July 1, 1974.)* Warlock wears 3 silver E pins on his ribbon showing he has received this award 4 times. 

Good Conduct Medal (awarded to any active duty enlisted member of the United States military who completes three consecutive years of "honourable and faithful service," without any non-judicial punishment, disciplinary infractions, or court martial offences.) *Solomon wears what looks to be 2 stars on this ribbon. I cannot tell what colour they are. 2 bronze would me he’s received this award 3 times for 9 consecutive years of honorable service. 2 silver would mean he’s received this award 10 times for 30 consecutive years of honorable service. However, before 1996 they were awarded every 4 years. So I think we’re likely looking at between 20-25 years of service, which makes sense for his rank. 

Navy Expeditionary Medal ( Awarded to enlisted Navy service members who were confirmed to have landed on foreign territory and engaged in operations against armed opposition) 

National Defense Service Ribbon (It was awarded to every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who served during any one of four specified periods of armed conflict or national emergency from June 27, 1950, through December 31, 2022.)

Iraq Campaign Medal (The IraqCampaign Medal is awarded to those who performed duty within the borders of Iraq  (or its territorial waters) for a period of thirty consecutive days or sixty non-consecutive days.) *Warlock wears two bronze stars on this ribbon indicating he served during 2 of the 7 campaign phases. Once again his stars are in the incorrect positions. Instead of being centred side by side, they should each be on each of the inner black stripes.

Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal (For  military service members who have deployed overseas in direct service to the War on Terror starting from 2001 to a date to be determined.) 

Global War on Terrorism Medal (Awarded to members of the United States military who have deployed in support of the War on Terror to locations beyond Iraq and Afghanistan.) 

Humanitarian Service Medal (Awarded to service members who partake in military acts or operations which are deemed to be humanitarian in nature) 

Navy/ Marine Corps Sea Service Ribbon (Given to a member of the Navy and Marine Corps who is assigned to a deployable unit operating away from its home port for 90 days or two consecutive periods of at least 80 days within a 12-month period; or six months stationed overseas.) *Warlock wears what looks like 3 bronze star on this ribbon which would indicate he has met this criteria 4 times. But I haven’t been able to find a clear enough image to confirm. 

Navy Overseas Service Ribbon (recognizes those service members who have performed military tours outside the borders of the United States of America. 12 months of consecutive or accumulated duty at an overseas shore-based duty station)

United Nations Medal (award for any action in which a member of the military participated in a joint UN activity)

Navy Rifle Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Solomon wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification.

Navy Pistol Marksmanship Ribbon (Issued to members of the Navy, Air Force, and Coast Guard who pass their weapons qualification course with an above-average score) *Warlock wears an E on his ribbon indicating that he has achieved an “expert” qualification. 

His Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal, from what I understand, would have later been replaced with his Iraq Campaign Medal which he has also received and wears. He would not have received both, so this is odd. Regardless, the ribbons he wears are in the correct order of precedence and make sense for his age and rank. However, I have less direct context and understanding of his role as a Rear Admiral and what his career path may have looked like compared to the Dager Squad members, and cannot comment on whether or not he is missing any that you may expect to see on a RADM. 

[originalaccountname]

Finally caved and did my perceived timeline of what happened to Chuuya, from being brought into the lab for project Arahabaki to being taken out of it.

I originally thought about mentioning it in my Chuuya's true original ability being to amplify others' abilities post, but it was way too long, and not as solid an argument to that specific topic.

Because this is about Chuuya being the original, not the clone, but more importantly the why and how that is the case.

Chuuya's humanity is the core question of SB, and the most important part is that in the end, Chuuya chose to accept himself despite it all, and that no matter what, he is himself and no one can take that away from him.

But once we have been given all the pieces of the puzzle, we can try connecting the dots and deduce the true story behind it all.

-

Project Arahabaki was built to create an ability weapon based on the recovered notes of Pan, a French researcher and Verlaine's creator. The technique uses the clone of a human with a "fake" psyche (persona model) who is fused with a singularity life-form. The clone's original should have an ability able to create a self-referencing singularity (to manifest gravity powers). Pan even had a special ability metal to brainwash that individual. Basically, this concept is supposed to create an overpowered flesh puppet.

So. Project Arahabaki. They needed an original with an ability that could produce a singularity on its own, which is super rare. Joy oh joy, there just so happen to be this boy, the son of a military doctor, who fits these needs! They just need his DNA/some cells to create a clone to use in their project. It's the middle of the war, ethics are disregarded, plus no "real child" should be harmed in the making of this weapon. No biggie, right? Lend us your son for the sake of the country!

Except we know that boy, officially at least, died during the war.

According to N's timeline, there once was this certain boy who managed to create a singularity with his ability while under the supervision of scientists, but got swallowed by the black hole it created, never to return.

He also had Chuuya's supposed "original" stuck in a tube full of mystery liquid, the same kind Chuuya once was in, but that one's flesh and organs melted when exposed to air (normal behaviour), changing it into a skeleton that can be ordered around like an overpowered puppet (literally on strings. The tubes in its back controlled it and kept it going, but would severely limit its range)

Back to our Chuuya:

All N does is lie, so we can't take his word as the simple truth. Chuuya was a miracle they never managed to reproduce. Why is that?

In Rimbaud's notes, he says how in their operation to retrieve the new ability weapon Japan was developing (based on Verlaine), they managed to identify the artificial being, aka the clone, A2-5-8. In the flashback, Rimbaud is absolutely positive it is him, so we have to assume this information was recorded as-is somewhere.

And yet, Dazai is the one to suggest later that, perhaps, the original and the clone had been swapped.

And wouldn't that make everything else make sense?

The clone(s) never managed to hold up to the quality standard necessary to be useful outside of their confines. The skeleton approach was the lab trying something different, like N admitted so to Verlaine. There ever only was one successful attempt, a "miracle", Chuuya. The original child is thought to be dead, yet N the liar supposedly had him in a tube, ready to turn him into a skeleton(???). Rimbaud and Verlaine thought for sure they had the artificial life-form, the clone, but they got Chuuya, who has a graphite scar from before he lost his memories, with a past that was able to be dug up by the Flags and Port Mafia.

My conclusion is this: N swapped out a clone for the original child. His research wasn't giving the proper results, but he had found a workaround, where he could use the original instead of his clone, for better/faster results.

Chuuya is the only one who could harness "Arahabaki" in any way that would remotely resemble "Guivre". Chuuya is the only one who could operate autonomously. That's why N wanted to remove "Arahabaki" and try to factory-reset Chuuya before putting it back in: because there really is only one of him, and he couldn't afford losing him if he wanted to continue his research.

[justagalwhowrites]

Days in the Sun: Part of For You - A Collection of Requests Benefitting Palestine

Oberyn returns victorious from King's Landing after defeating the Mountain and spends a day with his beloved wife and their daughters.

Event Terms: Commissioners could choose to donate between $15 and $50 via Ko-Fi for one fic of 1-2k words to be written by April 1, 2024. Payment due after completion of the fic. Donation with a match by the author to be paid to PCRF on April 2, 2024 in honor of Pedro Pascal's birthday ❤️ Commissioners had the option to choose to keep a fic private and all fics may not be shared here.

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader

Warnings: Basically none! No use of Y/N, Minors DNI 18+ only.

Length: 2.2k

A/N: Written for @aurasjournal, the OG Oberyn Girlie ❤️ She requested some soft, SFW Oberyn love. This fic takes place immediately after the fight with the Mountain in King's Landing, except Oberyn emerged victorious and unscathed to return home (as he always should have, fight me GRRM.) Enjoy!

For You Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Oberyn was tired of the sea. 

It was fine when viewed from Sunspear, when he was on dry land with the sand at his back. It hadn’t been bad from King’s Landing, either, where there was sun and heat that he could feel on his skin. But that warmth was a poor substitute for your touch as you were so far from him, safe at home in Dorne. 

The journey back to his beloved had not been an easy one, though. Even the satisfaction he had at killing the man who murdered his sister was cold comfort as storms bared down on his ship, bringing harsh winter winds and cold air from the north. 

It would have been better if you were there, you and the three daughters you shared with him. The soft, gentle comfort of your warmth and love would have eased the passage, as would have the high peels of laughter that was so common anytime your daughters were close. But the risk of bringing you to King’s Landing was too great in Oberyn’s eyes. 

Yes, he was traveling as a Prince of Dorne and yes, he was visiting for a state event, but neither title nor time had protected his sister. He could not risk losing you to the lions that prowled in the capital, he could not risk your children together. You had to stay behind and he had to make the journey alone. 

But while the storms early in the voyage had made the days on the water miserable, they had pushed the ship south faster and now, Sunspear was on the horizon, more than a day earlier than expected. 

Oberyn stood at the bow of the ship, a smile on his face as he watched his homeland draw closer. This, he thought, was where he belonged. Where he could feel the sun, where he and you were far from the cold calculation of the Westerosi. 

The port was unprepared for his arrival, dockworkers scrambling to accommodate his ships and the entourage that was necessary when traveling as a Prince of Dorne.

In other times, it might have bothered him. There were things he had become accustomed to in his position and the trappings of royal life were indulgences he much enjoyed. But today, ceremonial greetings and meals would have only gotten in the way of what he truly needed: seeing you and your children together. 

“My Prince,” his advisor who had remained behind greeted him on the dock with a bow of his head but there was no sign of you. Oberyn frowned. “My apologies, there was no raven to warn of your arrival, we were not expecting you for several days at least…” 

“My business in King’s Landing concluded early,” Oberyn cut him off. “I’m sure we will have much to discuss about our relationship with the new king when the time is right. But now, I need to see my wife and she is not here.” 

“No, your highness, I’m afraid we could not find her when we saw your ships on the horizon,” he said. “She left your chambers this morning with your daughters and their guard but did not say where they were going. I am sure you missed the princesses greatly but I’m afraid that there is much to attend to…” 

“If you were not expecting me for several days, surely business can wait,” Oberyn said, already walking away from him. “There are far more pressing matters that demand my attention.” 

He didn’t bother to wait for any of the others to follow nor did he ask anyone for help in tracking you down. He knew exactly where you would be. 

He heard you before he saw you, working his way to the quietest, most secluded part of the water gardens. Hidden away from the pressures and prying eyes of the palace and its stately visitors, the two of you had stolen away to this little place for many hours of your courtship. He had come to think of it as belonging to just the two of you long before your first daughter was conceived there. Now, it was the small homeland of the five of you, a place of escape and belonging and love. 

“Mara, Elia, my loves, you mustn’t play that rough,” you called as Oberyn approached, a smile on his face at the sound of your voice. The guards hovering on the path leading to your corner of the gardens snapped to attention when they saw him. He gave them a nod. “You are sisters, not enemies. Stop pulling each other’s hair.” 

Your back was to the path as Oberyn entered the clearing of palm trees and tall hedges. He took a moment to admire you when you couldn’t see. The curve of your waist as you sat on a blanket in the grass, the way the vibrant fabric of your dress draped over your frame, the arch of your neck as you watched your daughters dust themselves off, grass stains smearing the yellow of their clothes with green. The girls took off, chasing each other around the edge of a small pond and into the trees beyond. 

“I sometimes wonder if we are raising little vipers, not little princesses,” Oberyn said, smiling. You jumped at the sound of his voice, turning quickly to find him there. You all but leapt to your feet, throwing your arms around him as he caught you, holding you close to him. He pressed his nose into your hair, breathing the soothing floral scent of you deep into himself. 

“You’re here,” your voice was muffled, your mouth buried in the crease of his neck. Your voice was tender and wet. “Oh, how I missed you. You were so far from me, I was so worried…” 

“I know, my love,” he ran one large hand from the back of your head down your neck, your back, pausing at the exposed skin to relish the softness of you. “But I promised I would return to you, did I not?” 

“You did,” you said, pulling yourself from him to look him in the eye and he smiled as his gaze traced the familiar and beloved contours of your face. “But I was still afraid. What if they hurt you and I wasn’t there? The journey alone can be treacherous but King’s Landing…” 

He silenced you with a gentle kiss, your lips soft against his own. He resisted the urge to deepen it, to pull you tighter to him and feel all of you in every way he could. 

But there would be time for that reunion later, when he could take his time lavishing you with every ounce of and passion he’d had to set aside in your weeks apart. For now, he was happy to just know you were back in his arms where you belonged. He pulled away from you, cupping your cheek and running his thumb over the softness of your lips, pulling a small gasp from you as he did. 

“I’m back where I belong, my sun,” he said gently. “At your side.” 

You smiled and brushed your nose against his, closing your eyes for a moment. 

“And how were our little vipers?” He asked. “On their best behavior, I’m sure.” 

“If our daughters are vipers, they are vipers because of you, not I,” you smiled, stepping back from you before tucking yourself against his side. His arm slipped behind your back, finding its most comfortable home around you. The two of you began your slow walk around your favorite corner of the water gardens, the giggles of your daughters like chimes on the air. “But… yes, they were well behaved. Mostly. Though the maesters may say different. Alyse…” 

As if on cue, you and Oberyn’s eldest daughter, Alyse, jumped out of a tree, wooden spear in hand, shrieking like a warrior. Oberyn, however, was ready for her, catching her out of the air and laughing as he set her down. 

“Father!” She looked up at him, her wide, brown eyes so like his own. “You’re here! I learned a new attack while you were gone, with the spear, just like you! And if this were war I would…um…I would have…” 

He smiled and rested his large palm on the crown of her small head, bending to be on her level.

“You would have attacked me well,” he mussed her hair. “My little viper.” 

She beamed at him. 

“Why don’t you find your sisters?” He asked. “Have they been learning, too?” 

“Boring things,” she crinkled her nose. “Elia doesn’t like to fight and Mara likes a sword more than a spear…” 

Oberyn felt you tense at the mention of his youngest daughter’s name. You had been the one to suggest it, knowing how he had so dearly loved his sister. You’d proposed it during each pregnancy but he felt as though it wasn’t right, not until his third daughter. She had become the gentlest of his children and therefore the one most like his late sister. She was kind hearted and sweet and smart, loving fiercely and caring deeply. But that also made her the least like him and a constant reminder of what had been lost at the hands of the Lannisters. He tried his best to not let that cast a pall over his relationship with his youngest child but there was always an air of sadness in how he saw her, one that you could feel as well as he. 

“You know, my sister Elia didn’t like to fight, either,” he said kindly. “But we found other ways to spend our days. Can you find Elia and Mara for me, little viper?” 

She smiled a toothy smile and gave him a nod before taking her small spear and darting into the trees. Oberyn looped his arm around you again, beginning your slow walk through the gardens again.

“You spoke of Elia,” you said softly, looking at him with deep and gentle eyes. He nodded once. “You did so happily.” 

“I did,” he said. You watched him closely and he trailed his nose over your cheek to your temple. “I know it has been… difficult, the pain of her loss and how it has colored my life. Not just for me but for you and our daughters, too. But… I believe it will be different now. I killed Gregor Clegane and I forced him to admit to his crimes when I did. I forced the admission of Tywin’s guilt. No more are her killers alongside the iron throne so she can have peace. And so can I.” 

You stopped your slow walk, your eyes searching his before you reached out, trailing your fingers through his hair before kissing him softly. 

“Father!” Elia cried. Oberyn pulled away from you to find her standing beside the pond, the same glow of kindness in her eyes that he had so loved in his sister’s. 

“You’re back!” Mara ran alongside her little sister, Alyse coming right behind. 

“My little princesses,” he smiled and all three of his daughters ran for him. He let them tackle him to the ground, you stepping to the side just before they brought him down. They giggled and climbed on him and he tried to hold all of them in his arms but their squirming bodies and gleeful love were too much for him to bear. “Oh how I’ve missed you.” 

“We’ve missed you, too!” Elia propped her elbows on her father’s chest and smiled down at him. “Are you back for a long time, Father?” 

“Yes, my darling,” he kissed her forehead. “I am.” 

The five of you made your way back to the blanket, you against his side as the girls ran ahead, laughing and playing as they went. There was a spread of your and Oberyn’s favorite foods waiting for you there and the two of you settled in side by side as the girls played. 

“It’s good to see real food,” he moaned, taking a bite. “I sometimes think the Westerosi are sickened by flavor…” 

You laughed and leaned against him, sighing happily as you ate a piece of fruit, watching your children play in the sun. 

“Did you mean what you said to Elia?” You asked, looking up at him from your place against his chest. “That you will be in Dorne - where you belong - for a time?” 

“I did, my love,” he kissed the crown of your head. “There will be nothing to take me away from you or our three children…” 

“Four,” you said, leaning forward to pick up a goblet and take a sip. 

Oberyn paused. 

“Four?” He asked. You smiled and took his hand in yours, gently guiding it to your womb. 

“Four.” 

A smile broke over his face as he looked reverently at the place where his child was growing inside you. 

“Oh, my sun, my beautiful wife,” his thumb brushed against you there. “I’ll not leave my home with you, not for a very, very long time.” 

A/N: Thank you for reading my first foray into writing Oberyn Martell! I hope you enjoyed it!

[lanitalay]

At sea 

Rhysand x reader

a/n: Hi my loves!!!! I wrote this to break the ice after winter break. It will likely have one or two more parts. Wanted to write some Rhysand fluff after destroying his character in Before I say goodnight lol.

word count: 1k

warnings: none

Summary: reader returns home after months at sea.

Part 2

Salt coated the railings you clung to while walking down the stairs to the main deck. The summer sun had dried up the water that had crashed against the ship all night long. Now small crystals blanket every surface on board. You make it down the wonky steps, map rolled and tucked under your arm. It had been a rough passage last night, the shaking had kept most of the crew on board hugging buckets, unable to control the bile. It was the most dangerous part of the voyage, the captain had to watch out for jagged rocks that were mostly covered by water or mist, towering waves and fog overhead that prevented the guiding stars to be visible. 

It would be a matter of days now. If you squinted you could swear the shoreline of Velaris was on the horizon. This time it had been an entire season. The trek had started the day after the last of the snow melted and you would be back just shy of the summer solstice. You had never been gone this long from your home. The salt air was starting to stink, you yearned for green fields and pine scented breezes. 

You had collected more samples than ever before. The botany in the foreign lands you visited was truly magnificent and different to what you were accustomed to in the Night Court. In your private quarter you had managed to fit around one thousand dried samples of leaves, roots, flowers and a few insects along with some living plants, placed carefully near the port hole and a plethora of seeds. Your favorite treasure was an exceptional plant that you had meticulously looked after because the bright violet color of the flowers reminded you of a pair of matching eyes back home. Rhysand. You tried not to think of him. You really really did. But in the flowers you saw his eyes. In the stars you saw his smile. In dark waters you saw his fury. In the sea shanties you heard his drunken laugh. A sigh escapes your frowning mouth. 

He might have married or mated by the time you return. Not that anything romantic existed outside of your wildest dreams. But he was your friend. You had known him since the head researcher of the priestesses had sent for a field researcher, since she did not feel ready to be outside of the sacred library walls. You had been recruited because your father was a renowned explorer and you had grown up by his side. Every shore in Prythian and the Continent was familiar to your family. Every shore unknown called your name. 

Rhysand was the one who brought you to the library the first time. He had wanted to be present and even gave you a tour himself of the massive sanctuary. Since then, each time you return he flies you to the library and you tell him an abridged version of what you saw on your travels. Sometimes you think that he holds you a little tighter than the last time he saw you and you stop yourself before even thinking that there is a glint in his eyes that indicates something more than polite interest. 

The days pass slowly. Eventually, the familiar cliff sides and hilly landscape come into view. Relief floods your chest. You would be staying a while this time. Cataloging all of the new materials would take at least until the end of summer. Flapping sounds from above and you look up expecting to see the mast ripped but instead a gliding shadow figure high above. An inevitable smile forms on your face. 

It feels like docking the boat took forever. But once all the ropes are tied and the masts lowered, the bridge gets lowered and you all but leap to the wooden platform and to the young High Lord that’s waiting for you. Sprinting you pounce on him, wrapping your arms around his neck and relishing the feeling of being on solid ground. “Welcome home, explorer” his smooth voice soothes your racing heart. Seconds pass before you let go and look at him. He’s beaming, his hair has gotten longer since you’d gone,  his face is clean shaven and he smells of home. You open your mouth to speak but his smile- his smile is making it impossible for you to concentrate on anything other than his mouth. So you stall. Your hands ruffle his hair in the way you knew would annoy him and he laughs. 

“I’m so glad to be back” you finally say. 

Flying to the House of Wind was routine at this point in your career. You would land and immediately go debrief with your head researcher. But today Rhys had asked you if you were hungry. The grumble in your stomach told him you were. So now you were eating a lovely lunch prepared by the house. It felt decadent to eat anything other than fish and potatoes. You moan as you bite and the High Lord in front of you chuckles. 

“What else did you find?” 

“Besides the plants there were incredible creatures there. Some had fur and some had scales. I drew them in my books” you point towards the bag you had brought with you most precious items. He reaches for it and begins to flip through the pages of your findings. 

“This is fascinating” he breathes. 

“What about you? Is there anything new in the Court?” You notice his jaw clench for a fraction of a second.  “Is something wrong?” 

He shakes his head and closes the book “there are whispers of war”. Your blood drains from your face. “What do you mean?” 

His face is now the face of a High Lord, relaying important information to a court member “Hybern has been making some advances, Prythian is too fragmented to stand a chance”. The war that had put the wall between the human realm and the seven courts had ended not one hundred years ago. Villages were still recovering. The Courts were still shifting in new power dynamics. 

“What can I do?” You were no warrior. The amount of times you’d trained with the Inner Circle you could count on one hand and it had always been to appease Cassian. Rhys looks away “nothing, we are trying our best to unify and organize our armies”. Something akin to a thorn nestles itself in your heart “and how are you going to do that?” 

He swallows and looks straight through your eyes “I’m marrying the Princess of Autumn”. 

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HCs: Coming Home To You After the War

A/n: ahhhh my first time writing for a new fandom always makes me nervous. I'm rewatching BoB for probably the 5th or 6th time and just felt compelled to start writing for some of these incredible characters. please note all writings are based solely on the BoB TV characters and not the actual veterans. Let me know if you want any other BoB HC's or oneshots!

*Please refer to each character for warnings*

Dick Winters Warnings: angsty Major Winters, vague references to PTSD/war trauma

Dick is standing outside on the deck of the ship before the sun is up on the day they’re due into port. He can’t stop looking towards the horizon, waiting for the shoreline to swim into view.

He’s melancholy, thoughtful. Reflects on all he’s seen in the war. He feels different than how he was when he left almost 3 years ago. He thinks about all the men he left behind in Normandy, in Foy, in Bastogne, in Holland, in Hagenau, in Germany. And he looks around at the men whose bodies are coming home, but who lost pieces of themselves in foxholes, in the bombed out streets of Europe, on the beaches. 

He also finds himself wondering what it’s been like for you. He hasn’t thought about that much, hasn’t let himself think on it too hard. He feels ashamed that he never asked much in his letters about how you were. He knows it was to protect himself. If he’d asked, and if you’d been honest and told him about the rationing, the fear, how many of your friends were losing their brothers, husbands, and lovers overseas, the suicides of the men who couldn’t go… well, Dick knew he’d have been distracted. And distracted leaders got men killed. So Dick had sealed off his thoughts on that account. He knew it was the right choice. But now, he doubted. 

So as the ship pulls into port, he’s sad in a broken way. Like the war has finally caught up with him. And he’s terrified, suddenly. How is he going to see you like this? What are you going to see in him when you finally do? More importantly, what are you not going to see? 

He lets all of his men debark before him. Partially because that’s what a good officer does, but partially to try and collect himself. 

You know what to expect. You know Dick Winters isn’t going to really stop fighting the war until he sees every last man in Easy Company off that ship and safely home. So you wait. You’ve waited this long, after all. You can wait another thirty minutes.

When you finally see him in the thinning crowd, you call out his name and break into a beaming smile. He’s here, he’s home. He’s safe. 

As soon as he sees you, the ice in his veins thaws. The sun is warm on his skin, he’s surrounded by clean sea air far from the burnt out husk of Europe, and you’re there. You’re smiling at him. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen something so singularly beautiful.

He strives over to you, taking his cap off as he approaches. His stomach is flipping like a schoolboy and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face if he had an entire firing squad of Krauts in front of him. 

You run the last few dozen paces into his arms. He catches you easily, spinning you around with a long, languid sigh of contentment. Your laughter is like a peeling bell in his ear. 

Richard, how dare you make me wait? you tease him. 

He can’t find any words except to smile at you, looking into your eyes, memorizing your smile, reacquainting himself with the dusting of freckles across your nose, the scent of your shampoo, basking in the feeling of you in his arms. He smiles, then laughs. Your hands frame his face and suddenly he’s kissing you. 

Dick Winters’ mind goes blissfully blank. The harsh edges of all his worries, his responsibilities, the burden of leading a company of men and ordering some of them to their deaths. It’s all soft now. There’s just you. You and that piece of land he’s been dreaming about.

Lewis Nixon Warnings: alcohol abuse, war-time violence, detailed reference to parental suicide

Lewis Nixon came back from the front with an exorbitant amount of contraband, shadows in the back of his eyes, and a terrible drinking habit. You had no idea what to do with any of it.

Two months after his return and you found yourself staring out across a sea of boxes piled haphazardly in the foyer of the summer home Lew had bought you for your six-month wedding anniversary. Your home had never been more crowded, and yet you’d never felt so lonely. 

You wiped the damp tea towel you’d soaked in the kitchen sink against the back of your neck in a vain attempt to keep the heat at bay. 

Lew! you called up to him, although you knew he wouldn’t answer. A brief glance at the clock - 2:15 pm - told you as much. Since coming back, Lew hadn’t woken up before 3:00 pm and you’d yet to share a goodnight kiss with him because he was liable to stay out until sunrise. Doing what, you’d rather not know. 

With a weighty sigh, you decided you might as well pick a box and get started. Otherwise, this ridiculous maze of illegally shipped stolen goods would just go to rot in your foyer. And with your in-laws due in next month to visit your shell of a husband, you’d better try to clean up the mess. 

You chose the box closest to you. It came up to your waist. As you ripped into it, you realized it was incredibly heavy, and you heard the unmistakable tinkling of glass on glass. You sliced the tape open with the boxcutter, marveling at how sharply the instrument cut into the flesh of the tape and cardboard. One of the first few nights after arriving back home, Lew had managed to stay at home and get drunk rather than do so out on the town. Somewhere between bottle three and four of the Chateau Rhone that you’d served at the reception, Lew had started to talk. Once he’d started, he hadn’t seemed willing to stop, as if he had one chance to pour out all the misery and regret and terror he’d accumulated in Europe. You remembered that at one point - one of his more lucid memories, when the slur in his words was light enough for you to understand him - he’d told you that he had seen a whole platoon of men shredded to ribbons by a Kraut tank. He’d recounted in excruciating detail how one of their fingers had landed on him, the blood and sinew drying on his uniform like an adhesive, and he hadn’t noticed it until the next day. You’d never seen anything quite so distasteful or violent in your life, but you imagined that it might be something like watching someone get sliced apart the way your boxcutter glided through tape.

With a shiver, you sheathed the blade and set the boxcutter aside to rip into the contents of the box. Tipping the heavy box sideways a bit, you spooned out the top layer of packing peanuts to reveal a familiar sight. Four corked bottles of wine sat at the top of the box. You stopped, staring down at the wine in the box in disbelief. This was the precious contraband that Lewis had spent thousands on to smuggle out of Europe? Fucking wine?

Your temper flamed to life with a vengeance. You pushed the heavy box over, letting loose a scream of frustration as you did. One of the bottles shattered as the box tipped over, a puddle of red wine staining the white marble floor. Once again, your mind flashed back to the war. Not to Lew’s memories, but your own. To the black-and-white films you’d seen in the theaters, to the newspaper clippings, to the reports that had come out of Germany about the death camps and the killing fields and the brutality of the war, to the letters your brother had written to you before his death at St. Vith. You thought of all the men you’d known who hadn’t come home - your brother Johnny, your childhood neighbor Tim Viens, your cousins Luis and Giovanni, the florist’s son from your hometown, your girl friend Jill’s fiance… 

Your head was spinning and your blood was boiling as you summited the stairs to the darkened upstairs two at a time. When you flung open the door to Lew’s study where he’d taken to sleeping, you were seeing black at the edges of your vision.

Lewis fucking Nixon, you better wake the fuck up or so help me God I will strangle you in your sleep!

The words flew off your tongue faster than you knew what to do with. You’d never had a foul mouth, and you’d certainly never threatened your husband before. Despite his obvious hangover, he snapped to wakefulness faster than you’d expected him to. He regarded you with a wary, tired expression, and you wondered for a half second if he was going to ask you to make good on your threat. 

Saints above woman, what is it? he demanded, reaching around the graveyard of beer and wine bottles strewn about the floor next to him. You noticed a particularly foul smell in the room at the same time you noticed the stain of vomit caked on one of the pillows he’d propped under his head. 

The sight of your husband fumbling around for another drink at 2:30 in the afternoon with vomit caked on his cheek did something to you. You weren’t sure if the sight broke you or if it snapped you into form. Whatever it did, it took the wind out of the hateful words that had been boiling in your gut. You snapped your mouth shut as you became acutely aware that you had nothing left to say to him. You’d said it all already. You’d cried, threatened, screamed, pleaded, reasoned, demanded, and done just about everything you could think of in your power to bring Lewis Nixon back to something resembling sense. You weren’t without feeling - you knew that he wasn’t the only man who hadn’t fully come back from the front. Memories of your father’s glassy, empty-looking eyes flicked in your mind like a silent movie. Your father never really left the trenches, your mother used to say by way of explanation and apology. Some men just can’t come home after a war like that. 

The last memory you have of your father was the sight of him leaned back in his chair, his head bent away from his neck at an unnatural angle, with a ghoulish bloodstain on his chest from the hole his pistol had left where he’d fired it under his chin and up into his skull. You’d found him like that when you were just six years old. At almost twenty six now, you were resolved never to see someone you love waste away like that again. Yet here you were, watching someone who’d once been your brash, fun-loving, hot-headed husband fade away like a ghost.

As Lew braced for what he felt sure was going to be a proper dressing down, you felt yourself deflate like a punctured balloon. Something final and irrevocable had happened in those few moments since you’d come running up the stairs, and you knew deep in your bones that there was no going back. 

I’m leaving. 

It was all you could say. Lewis looked over at you through slitted eyes, stifling down an acidic belch as he tried to figure out your angle. Usually your arguments started with much more heat than this, but he wasn’t sober enough to hear the goodbye in your tone. 

After a few agonizing moments, he grunted at you by way of dismissal. Get me some Vat 69, while you’re out. Vat 69 was the only thing that Lewis Nixon had asked from you since he’d gotten back to the States. 

You didn’t have the heart to answer him, so you just turned on your heel, letting the boxcutter that you hadn’t even realized you’d been gripping like a vice slide out of your hand and land with a thump on the carpet. 

You descended the stairs with a strange buzzing in your head. You wondered if you should pack something, although you realized that all you really wanted to was to get as far away from the time bomb that was Lewis Nixon as fast as you possibly could. You called your mother from the kitchen phone. She didn’t need to hear you say the words to know what had happened. Come on home honey,  she said gently. I’ll make your favorite key lime pie. The kind and simple gesture brought tears to your eyes.

After a few minutes to gather the essentials - your wallet, your pearls, your father’s WWI medals - you thought of one more phone call to make. A parting kindness, you thought, as you sifted through the Rolodex you kept next to the phone until you found the card you wanted. 

The phone rang twice before a voice you knew well picked up. 

Hello? Dick, it’s me, it’s y/n Nixon. Listen, you better come get Lew. He’s… he’s not well. And I’m leaving. 

You didn’t wait for a reply before you clicked the receiver. If there was any saving of Lewis Nixon now, it wouldn’t be by you. 

With one final glance at the house and the sad trove of memories it contained, you closed the door on your past and left, hoping that both you and Lew would find some corner of peace to spend the rest of your days. 

Ronald Speirs Warnings: smut, sweet baby boy Speirs

Ron doesn’t even tell you that he’s coming home. You know it’ll be soon, and you’re waiting for a letter. None come. Years of waiting, years of him faithfully writing, years of dreaming and praying for this day. Now? Radio silence. 

So when this man shows up at your door, his duty bag in one hand and his hat in the other, the first thing you can do is scream at him. 

Ronald fucking Speirs! You didn’t fucking write me, I thought you were dead or lost or just done with me! Why didn’t you tell me! You fucking bastard, you utter fucking bastard! 

You’re hitting him and screaming and tears are everywhere. Ron just smiles. You’re precisely how he remembers you. Better even. 

He wraps you up in a hug, so tight that you can’t move. You’re still struggling, wiggling and sobbing into his shirt, trying to beat your fists against him. 

When you feel him kiss the top of your head, it all just melts. Your knees buckle and instead of beating on him you’re clinging to him. Realization hits you in waves. Ron is home. Those are Ron’s arms around you. Ron’s voice murmuring into your ear. Ron’s breath on your forehead. 

When you finally look up to him - eyes bloodshot, nose running, mascara streaking, cheeks tear stained and red - Ron smiles down at you. My beautiful girl, he says softly before catching your lips in a kiss. Everything breaks loose in that kiss. You practically want to crawl into his mouth. It’s all need: lips devouring each other, hands grabbing and nails dragging, tongues invading each other. Ron moans and you’re done, you’re a mess. 

He knows. He pushes you across the doorway, his hat and duty bag long forgotten on the porch, lifts you up and carries you to the nearest couch, undressing on the way. He rips your blouse, knocks over one of your side tables when he kicks off his shoe, and almost drops you to let you rip off his belt. 

Ron’s home to you when he slams inside of you. Your thoughts disintegrate as the two of you collide together, alternating between frenzied ferocious fucking and softer sweeter sensuality as lust, love, longing and whatever lives between those things rips open the walls you’d both built up around your hearts. 

But Ron isn’t home until after, long after, hours even. The house is trashed, clothes and pillows and furniture disheveled and everywhere. You’re both in bed, exhausted from countless rounds of tangling, with dawn threatening. You’re asleep, and Ron’s watching you dream. There’s a small crease between your eyebrows, and you’re muttering. You look troubled; and he wonders if he should wake you. He can’t stand the sight of you in anything resembling pain. But then, suddenly, you roll towards him, your head settling on his chest and one of your legs slung over his. 

Your face relaxes. You nuzzle into him. You sigh, a gentle smile on your lips. The crease is gone, your face smooth and peaceful. 

He marvels. His head tips back against the headboard, looking down at you in awe as a distinct wave of content washes over and through him.

Ronald Speirs is finally home.

Carwood Lipton Warnings: just Lip and his perpetual angel-status <3

Lip is standing with the throng of men on the deck, watching as they pull into port. The crowd below is cheering and waving American flags, popping off champagne, and the women are waving handkerchiefs. There’s a band somewhere playing patriotic songs and jaunty marches. Home has never looked so good.

‘Ey, Lip, I think I see your girl

It’s Malarkey who spies her - why and how he picked her out so easily, Lip didn't rightfully know nor want to know. But Malarkey was right, there she was.

White ribbons in her hair, white dress on, white handkerchief waving. She’s craning over the other sweethearts and mothers and fathers, eyes combing the deck of the ship. Her expression - impatient longing - snaps Lip in two. How the hell did he ever leave that girl halfway across the world?

Carwood?! Carwood Lipton?! 

He can’t hear her, but he sees her lips moving and he knows that she’s calling out his name. He doubts that any of the deck goers are having luck finding their men that way. The ship is alive with soldiers and airmen buzzing with excitement, calling out to the shore and cheering. The dock is no less vibrant, so the entire place is drowning in the sounds of joy.

Lip stares at her, unwilling to lose sight of her ever again. He vaguely registers the ship jolting to a halt at its berth, the enormous horn announcing the official arrival and, for all the men on board, the uproarious end to the war from Hell. Lip exchanges hugs, slaps on the back, firm handshakes with the men of Easy. It’s strange to have so many painful goodbyes at the same time as a long-awaited hello, but Lip knows he’ll see these men again. He can’t imagine life without them, just like he can’t imagine living without her.

The crowd of soldiers and airmen begins to move, a mass of jumbled emotions with a healthy sprinkling of joy. He watches as the first few men off the ship are swept up into the awaiting crowd as they step off the planks. He can still see her, a beacon of white. An angel, he realizes. 

He shuffles forward with the rest of the disembarking ranks. The process is painfully slow, and he’s not close enough to call out to her yet. He tries to catch her eye with a few waves, but he can only imagine how many waving hands and beaming faces she can see at once. She’s almost passed him on the dock, and Lip feels himself losing patience with the slowness of the men around him. He contemplates yelling at the men to keep it moving or don’t stand at the end of the ramp, but he doesn’t. He can’t bear to ruin a moment of this, for anyone. 

Suddenly, she sees him. Her hands fly to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. That handkerchief blots at her face. She’s gone quiet; just staring at him, waiting. He waves at her, swallowing down the tears threatening in his eyes. She waves back, unsure whether to laugh or cry, so she ends up doing both. Once again, Lip wonders how he’d ever left her. He realizes he’ll never be able to again. He’s stuck to her like glue now, it can’t be helped. And he’s got his eye on a ring. He’ll buy it tomorrow, he decides. Maybe even today, if he can find a jeweler. No more wasted time.  

The wait is agonizing. Every few minutes, she waves at him again, as if afraid that he’ll disappear like a ghost. He can’t stop smiling at her. He doesn’t notice, but the Easy men all softly agree that they’ve never seen this Lip before. A smile reserved all for her.

He steps off the ramp and she’s there, pushed through the crowd. He envelopes her in his arms as she peppers his face and neck with kisses. Soggy ones, from the tears. His or hers, anybody’s guess. She keeps repeating his name like a prayer and a plea. He holds her as she comes undone in his arms, body-wracking sobs and her head buried in his neck. He tells her it’s alright, I’m home and it makes her squeal with delight. Then they’re both laughing. He carries her a bit, not trusting her legs quite yet, and honestly unsure if he trusts himself to walk without her weight in his arms holding him to Earth. She babbles, he listens, she asks something, he talks. It’s easy - so easy - and Carwood Lipton feels himself stepping back into himself after so many years of being Lip and First Sergeant. 

Her hand in his, they walk the streets of this strange town that neither of them are from, but yet somehow always find themselves feeling right at home. He has to squeeze her hand every once in a while to remind himself that she’s real, and he’s really here, and the war is behind him. All day and late into the evening, Lipton and his girl stroll together, two friends, two lovers, one very happy ending. 

Buck Compton Warnings: cursing, references to alcohol abuse

No one’s there at the train depot when Buck gets home. His mother is tied up taking care of his baby sister and her new baby, sick with colic, and his dad is too frail to make the forty-minute trip by car to the station. And you’re done with him, as of Christmas time. 

Some homecoming.

He wanders through the town’s sleepy Main Street, killing time before his brother-in-law’s shift ends at the munitions factory and he can pick Buck up. It’s a hot day, sweat runs down his back. It reminds him of Toccoa. He chuckles darkly, grateful that he’s not running up Currahee with Sobel’s sour puss hot on his heels. He’s grateful for a moment, but then he wonders if maybe those were the best days of his life, and he just didn’t know it. So far, the end of the war hasn’t brought much happiness his way. Maybe the best is behind him already. 

He stops for a root beer float at the local soda counter. He brought you here for the first date. He still remembered that your lips tasted like strawberry milkshake later when he’d parked his truck in front of an empty cornfield and kissed you until he was dizzy. He knows he’ll never be able to order a strawberry milkshake again.  

A couple of the old men sitting in the window side booths nod at him, one even pays for his tab. Buck thanks them but makes no move to engage in conversation. He’s not gloomy, exactly. Just lonely. He thinks about Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere, about the marrow-deep cold of Bastogne, and about just how far away he feels from the taste of strawberry on your tongue. Despite the scorching summer heat, he suppresses a shiver. 

Buck’s sitting on a bench in front of the depot when his brother-in-law pulls up. 

Hey Buck! Welcome home, buddy.

Thanks, Dickie.

His sister’s husband has a noticeable limp, one of his legs visibly wasted and bent at an unnatural angle from the knee down. Bike accident when he was six, kept him out of the war. From his sisters letters, Buck knows that Dickie’s been hitting the bottle hard after he got 4F’ed and told under no uncertain terms that he won’t fight for Uncle Sam. Buck can see the strain in Dickie’s smile, the dark bags under his eyes and the faint stain of gray at his temples. Buck feels about three decades older than when he left home, but Dickie looks it. 

The ride home is quiet. Buck asks after his sister, Dickie asks after the war. Neither of them really listen to the answers. 

When Dickie cuts the engine off in front of Buck’s parents’ place, the porch light is on and there’s a lamp in the front room window, shining merrily. Buck sighs deeply. He’d expected to come home to you, a little apartment somewhere. He’d planned on picking up his life from there, but instead he’s here, looking at a place he calls home without feeling at home. He thinks he might prefer a cot in Toccoa, or a hot cot on a transport ship, or maybe even a foxhole. 

Aight Buck, you take it easy. I’ll see you ‘round. Make sure you stop in and see Kitty soon, she’s dying to see ya.

Sure, Dickie. Thanks for the lift. 

The sun is setting fast behind the mountains. Cicadas are beginning to strum and the fireflies dance in the fields gone farrow behind the house. Buck climbs up the front steps, his duty bag slung over one shoulder. 

Buck?

He freezes where he is, hand outstretched towards the doorknob. It can’t be… can it?

He hears the creak of the swing from the darkened corner of the porch as you stand up. 

Welcome home, Buck.

It is you. Buck is still frozen, his upper lip beginning to tremble. He wished it were darker, wished the damn light was off so you wouldn’t have to see him like this. He feels the boards vibrate as you step towards him, hesitating at his side.

I’m sorry, Buck. I… I made a mistake…

A tear slips out. He swipes at it angrily. What the hell is he crying for? he wonders. 

It’s just that Louise told me she read in a magazine that it’s harder for the men sometimes if they’re worried about someone back home and in your letters you were just always asking about me and how I was and what I was doing and I just knew that you were going through it, Buck, you know, I read the news and I knew you were right on the front lines and I started thinking about you being out there and distracted and what would happen if you lost your focus at the wrong time and you got shot or you got hit by a grenade or a sniper and I thought about losing you, Buck, and I just couldn’t, I couldn’t lose you, and I started to think maybe I needed to make it easier on you and I wrote you that awful letter and it was terrible Buck it was so bad and I hated writing it and I hated sending it but I convinced myself I had to and-

Buck silenced you by pressing his lips to yours mid-sentence. Whatever other explanations and apologies you had died in your mouth with a soft whimper, and suddenly your hands were traveling up his arms and tickling the base of his neck and you were sighing like you hadn’t really exhaled in months. Buck swallowed it up, kissing you deeply and gently. He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t care about all that, that all he wanted was you with him. The rest would work itself out. Buck knew from the war that if you surrounded yourself with good people, then you could get through anything. 

He laughed when he tasted the strawberry milkshake on your lips. Smiling against your mouth, he broke the kiss and held you in his arms, his hands at the small of your back. 

Why are you laughing you ask incredulously. Did you hear what I said? aren’t you mad? You hadn’t expected this reaction. In fact, you’d prepared yourself for Buck to be so furious that he wouldn’t even speak with you. It was less than half of what you felt you deserved. 

Buck just shook his head, smiling to himself at a private joke. You wondered if he was laughing at how easily you fell for that kiss before he told you to take a hike and disappeared from your life forever. 

Mad? He sounds incredulous, like that’s the most ridiculous question anyone’s ever asked him. 

Yeah, Buck. I mean… I know I broke your heart.

He doesn’t deny it, just nods simply and looks deep into your eyes.

Don’t leave me again, darlin’, and I’ll consider it even.

You can’t reply because his lips are on yours again. All you can do is smile as you kiss your apology into Buck’s mouth until the sunset has faded and his dad calls out to the two of you to come inside already!

Bull Randleman Warnings: angst (you have been warned!!)

Something strange happened to Bull in the convent at Foy. He hadn’t expected it. But suddenly, there you were. Sitting in the back of his mind like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. His third grade crush from Ms. Wheeler’s class. And his eighth grade crush. And his prom date. 

Bull grew up in a small town, and it had only gotten smaller to him since he’d left. Sometimes in quieter moments he’d wondered if he’d ever be able to go back home. He’d seen a lot of the world - granted, most of it with the threat of German artillery at his back - but still. His hometown felt so far away and so small that he couldn’t imagine fitting the size of his memories back there. 

And yet, sitting there in the dim candlelight of that convent, listening to those angelic voices, that tiny podunk town was all he could think of. Why couldn’t he remember the name of that street, the one with the post office on it? And what was the name of those neighbors with the herd of basset hounds? He couldn’t recall what kind of flowers his Ma planted in front of the house, facing due east. Bull realized that he was forgetting home, and it opened a gaping wound in his heart.

One thing he did remember clearly was you. He hadn’t seen you in a long time, maybe not for months before he’d signed up for the 101st. You’d been working at the florist right off 1st Street the last he’d heard. Why he hadn’t looked in on you after high school, he couldn’t say. He’d been sweet on you back then, puppy love head-over-heels type stuff. You were his first kiss, his first date, his first of just about everything. Including his first love.

Somewhere along the way, Bull had gotten the hare-brained idea that he’d outgrown you. He’d stopped calling, stopped asking you out to the movies or to the diner. He remembered how he’d seen you out one night, his arm slung over some other girl that his buddy had set him up with. He remembered the way you’d stared with your lip shaking, your eyes welling with tears, before you’d practically run off into the Sears department store. Bull knew damn well you couldn’t afford anything in Sears; all of the money you’d ever made working as an English tutor and a nanny went to taking care of your eleven foster siblings. He knew you ran in there just to get away from him. At the time, he’d laughed about it. He’d told himself you’d be fine, you’d grow up eventually and get over it. He told himself that’s exactly what he’d done - grown up - but now he realized quite the opposite. He’d been intimidated by how much he’d liked you, how much he’d thought about you and worried after you and how scared he’d been when he’d realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed you anymore. You with your hand-me-down dresses and your sweet, shy smile and your head always in the clouds of a romance novel. His buddies had commented on it, and suddenly Bull had felt jealous, insecure even. He’d hated it, and he’d run from it. 

But that night in Foy, you were the only place his mind could land. You were all he thought of. And he’d promised himself that if he somehow managed to walk out of hell at the end of the war, that he’d ask you out again. Who knew what you were up to now. He thought he remembered his Ma make an off-hand comment that you’d started working at the hospital in the next town over, but he couldn’t be sure. But Bull knew you’d be back in that small town, probably just as sweet as ever. And if you gave him another chance, he’d never let you go again.

Three days after stepping foot back in the States, and Bill was standing outside your house in his Army dress uniform, a bouquet of orange lilies in his hands. He wondered if you’d remember that he’d gotten you those same flowers for your prom corsage. They’d stood out against the baby pink of your dress that you’d borrowed from your cousin. Every time Bull saw a sunset or a flower bed, he thought of you. In fact, there wasn’t much that Bull saw these days that didn’t make him think of you.

He knocked three times sharply on the door. Your house looked just the same as ever: the front porch sagged in the middle, the curtains drawn and stained, the paint peeling. There was a ruckus inside, and what sounded to be about a dozen kids all screamed out “DOOR!” 

A severe woman with dark gray hair slicked back into a tight bun answered. Her mouth was a thin, straight gash and her eyes narrowed in something between distaste and disbelief. She glanced down at the flowers in Bull’s hands and at the sharp, crisply ironed lines of his uniform.

Mother Beatrice, Bull said with a slight bow. Not sure if you remember me, ma’am, but I-

I remember you. Randelman, right? You here for the girl? 

Your foster mother looked older but her manner was as cold and loveless as ever. She never used names for the children she took in - just called them by various impersonal monikers. For some reason, yours had always been “the girl”. Bull wasn’t the only one who’d overlooked you.  

He nodded, thinking that if Easy had Mother Beatrice in their ranks then Germany might have fallen about a year earlier. He’d have to be sure to tell you that. He was certain you would laugh.

I wondered if anyone would come Mother Beatrice commented as she shut the door behind her, muffling the sounds of screeching children. She walked down the front porch steps and turned towards the back of the old farmhouse without a backwards glance. Bull followed, his brow furrowing slightly at her cryptic comment. He figured you might have had a few pen pals on the front, some girls would do that sort of thing, write to strangers to try and keep their spirits up. He’d heard that some of the men had made a point to look in on their pen pals when they’d gotten back home. Maybe that’s what she meant.

She’s back here? Bull asked, taking in the sight of the rundown farmhouse-turned-orphanage and its weedy lawn. As long as he’d known you, he’d never known you to linger here. Too loud, no privacy you’d always told him. Bull usually found you in the library or a park bench. Somewhere quiet. 

Mother Beatrice nodded, shooting him a strangely exasperated look. Course she is, where else would she go? The girl doesn’t have any other home.

Bull chewed his lip thoughtfully. He supposed that was true. Maybe things had changed. 

Mother Beatrice led him around the backside of the dingy farmhouse, past a rundown chicken coop with a few mangy looking birds pecking at the dirt. There was a dilapidated stable off in the distance with one bony mare grazing on the tall grass and an overgrown vegetable garden. The tree line off in the distance looked ominously dark, like a line of guards sent to make sure the misery of this place didn’t spread.

Mother Beatrice stopped short, and Bull almost walked into her. There she is.

Bull looked around but didn’t see you. In addition to the forlorn horse, the garden and the coop, he noted a greenhouse missing more windows than it had and a towering oak tree reaching up for the sky as if running away from the unfortunate place it’d been planted. But no sign of you anywhere

Mother Beatrice looked at him intently for a moment, making Bull squirm in his boots, before sharply turning on her heel to leave. She called back to him at the base of the tree and vanished around the side of the house. 

Alone at last, Bull looked at the shadowy trunk but didn’t see anything. Must be around the backside, he reasoned. He started walking towards the tree, but a strange quiet settled over him. Suddenly, his collar felt too tight and his chest felt hollow. Something wasn’t right.

As he approached the tree, he began to make out what Mother Beatrice was referring to. He could hardly believe his eyes, and with each step forward he felt his feet grow heavier as if his boots were filled with lead. About ten paces from the trunk, he stopped, unable to go any closer. His shoulders sagged and he felt the bouquet slip out of his hands.

There you were, your name staring back at him from the headstone. 

Y/n Y/l/n October 11, 1924-January 9, 1945 Army Nurse Corps May she rest in the peace of the Lord

Bull wasn’t sure how long he stared at the stone. At your name. At the words Army Nurse Corps. Bull hadn’t known you were a nurse. He hadn’t remembered your birthday. He realized he’d been misspelling your last name this whole time.

Bull stood and stared until the light was almost gone from the sky. The sound of Mother Beatrice ringing a bell and calling out dinner! from the front porch jarred him out of his reverie. He hastily wiped the tears that had long ago dried on his face, feeling out of place and like an unwelcome intruder. 

He left without saying goodbye. He did manage to tilt the bouquet against your headstone, and run his fingers over the cold edges of your name cut into the marble. He didn’t feel entitled to much else. 

It wasn’t until he was home that night, deeper into a bottle of whiskey than a grieving man ought to be, when he realized something.

January 9th, 1945. The day you’d died. It was the same day he’d sat in that convent outside Foy, listening to that angelic choir, reminiscing about you and imagining a future that would never come to be.

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

Still working on... Joseph Liebgott Doc Roe Maybe David Webster too? *let me know if you have any other requests

[super-ion]

The Voyages of the Padua

Chapter 4

(1, 2, 3 | next)

The second time in her life that she woke up was significantly gentler than the first.

For one, she was warm. At some point, she had acquired a blanket. It was rough and scratchy where it touched bare skin, but it provided comforting weight on her body.

For another, she seemed to be surrounded by all manner of whispering noises. Clicks and beeps and hisses and a distant bass hum that she could feel more than hear. They were good noises. As long as those noises were going, it meant the ship was alive.

Ship…

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up with a gasp.

She was in what appeared to be a small cramped med bay. Most of the paneling was white with a high contrast red stripe around eye level. Well, white was a bit of a stretch, most of the paint was chipped and worn, with the most egregious damage painted over with what she assumed was available at the time.

Shoved into one nook was a collection of apparatus, all folded up, bearing the label “Auto-doc”. It was the sort of generic medical robot that could be found on most starships too small to have a dedicated medical team. The only difference here was that someone had glued a pair of googly eyes on it.

The mattress underneath her crackled as she shifted her weight around to get a better look of the room. Not very comfortable, likely waterproof.

“Good morning, sleepy head!”

She yelped and toppled out of the bed.

Something tugged painfully - an IV line plugged into the port on her arm. Except hadn't she been forced to bite that one off?

Panic flared. It was attached to her. She needed it out. She needed to…

“Hey! Whoa! If you break that, you gotta pay for it! Also, please don't break yourself!”

The disembodied voice cut through her panic. This wasn't the Eosphorus. She wasn't waking up alone this time.

“You good there?” the voice asked.

She let out a breath and disengaged the port with slightly shaking hands. Unlike before, it slid out easily and she dropped it on the bed.

“Yeah, I think so…” she replied.

She looked up to see someone floating in mid air. No, not floating, it was a projection on a sheet of plex, one of those holographic displays that created the illusion of space. She noted the black strip on top of the plex that probably housed cameras and microphones and whatever else was needed for this interaction.

The person was watching her with an expression of intense, playful curiosity. Wild bushy hair framed a round youthful face and an oversized pink sweater obscured most of her body except where sparkly leggings poked out.

“Um… hello?” the woman said.

“Hi! I'm Ria!” the hologram replied with an impish grin. “I use she/her usually, but anything’s good.”

Ria, or the image of Ria, stood up straight and offered a hand to shake in a show of mock solemnity.

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. Obviously she couldn't shake, seeing as Ria was technically a two dimensional projection of a virtual being. She settled for an awkward wave.

“I don't know what my name is,” she admitted.

“Huh… auto-doc did say there were some anomalous readings in that brainpan of yours. I really thought you might be a Cassidy, seeing as your jumpsuit says Cassidy right there on that patch there.”

She glanced down at the patch.

“Oh… this isn't mine. I'm just borrowing it… I'm sorry, what do you mean, anomalous readings?”

“Ooooh… yeeeeaaaah,” Ria let out in a long breath before sucking on her teeth. “I'm not really qualified to discuss medical diagnoses. You're gunna have to take it up with Aela, but she's defragging right now. The drift kinda scrambles her up for a bit, takes her platform a while to recover.”

That answered exactly zero questions and raised so many more… which in all fairness was about on par with her short life so far.

“So, if you're not Cassidy, who are you?” Ria demanded. “I mean, you literally just said you don’t know, but that just means you can be whoever you want. We gotta call you something... I mean, going around referring to you as “mystery woman” or whatever would probably get tiring after a while, you know?”

“Oh… I guess not,” she replied.

Ria was watching her expectantly. Oh, did Ria want an answer right now? She felt a sudden intense pressure to get a good grade in self actualization, something both normal to want and possible to achieve.

The seconds dragged out in awkward silence as her mind raced. She needed to say something, anything.

“Uh… call me... Cass?"

"Cass? As in short for Cassidy?"

"Yes... I mean no... I mean sort of. Maybe," Cass replied.

“Alright, Cass it is!” Ria replied clapping her hands in excitement. “Oh, by the way, all your stuff is over there.”

Ria gestured to a duffle bag in the corner of the room. Cass stared at it for a long moment before finally recognizing it. Somewhere between terrifying creatures and security androids, she had lost track of it. By all accounts, it should still be back on the Eosphorus… unless someone picked it up and carried it here? Who or why she didn't know.

“Tre wanted to ransack it and see if there was anything valuable inside,” Ria explained, “but Mina wouldn't let them. Whatcha got in there? Is it gold?”

Well, that answered a who… maybe. But it didn't exactly provide a why. But then, why had she packed it full of things in the first place?

Cass approached the bag and pulled the zipper open, letting out a tiny relieved sigh at the sight of the teddy bear and everything else.

“Awwwww,” Ria gushed. “That's so cute!”

Cass glanced back at her to see an exact copy of the teddy bear clutched in Ria's arms. How has she…? Oh right, hologram.

“Can I keep this copy?” Ria asked, holding out the holographic version. “I mean, you're allowed to say no. I don't want to make things weird or anything. People sometimes get weird about personal stuff like this.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cass replied tentatively. “Hey… um…”

She wasn't sure how to ask this next question politely.

“Are you… I mean… why are you…?”

Ria let out an affronted gasp.

“Cassidy! You can't just ask someone why they're a hologram!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean-”

Ria burst into laughter.

“Your face! Oh my gosh! No, it's cool. I'm the ship AI. Well... sort of. My official primary function is navigation. I'm not technically integrated with the Padua, but I interface with a lot of her lower systems. She's really friendly, like a big fluffy dog.”

Cass looked around the room, trying to imagine the starship as a large friendly dog.

“Hey, so…” Ria said. “Please don't take this the wrong way, but you really look like you could use a shower. Do you want a shower?”

Cass very much did want a shower.

Unfortunately the shower booth that sat across the hall from the med bay was nearly as tight as the cryo tube and the reality of being trapped in a tight wet space somewhat soured the experience.

Aside from that, the water was warm and it was still quite literally the most luxuriant experience of her life.

At least until she discovered the small patch of shaved hair at the base of her neck, and the slightly raised edge of a surgical scar that had been hastily cauterized shut. It was fresh… or had been fresh whenever Cass went into the cryo pod. She still didn't even know how long ago that had been. Days? Years? Longer?

“Anomalous readings,” Ria had said. Someone had clearly been inside her head, relatively recently in terms of biological time.

She didn't even realize she was crying until the water shut off abruptly at the end of her allotment and she found herself leaning her head against the tile, shoulders shaking slightly from the emotion.

She couldn't remember anything. That fact had been more of an abstract academic fact while the wake up drugs swirled around in her bloodstream, when staying alive and reaching safety was the only thing that mattered. Now the reality of her situation hit her full on, bringing a profound sense of loss.

She depressed the dryer mechanism and closed her eyes as assorted vents blasted her with warm air from all directions.

She was alive. She was safe (probably).

As the dry cycle wound to a finish, she opened her eyes and once again, she found herself on a strange ship, staring at a reflection that she didn't recognize. She looked better, slightly less haggard and the self inflicted scratches were healing. The cheeks were still sunken and the eyes still ringed by dark circles.

She needed a meal or three and a proper night's sleep.

And she needed answers... if there ever were any. What if there weren't? Or what if there were and she didn't like them?

The face in the mirror looked even more bewildered and lost than before if that was possible.

Maybe Ria had been right and she really could be anyone she wanted.

“Well,” she told her reflection with a weak smile. “I guess it's time to figure out who Cass is.”

[starlightshadowsworld]

Bsd Beast except instead of Dazai becoming the Port Mafia Boss, Chuuya does.

"What the hell man?! Get out of my kitchen!" Yells Chuuya, he was fast asleep when Dazai had burst into his house.

Dazai is completely unfazed and poking his head into Chuuya's cupboard.

He could go shopping for canned crab but he knows Chuuya has a secret stash for him. Why waste the time when Dazai can just steal it from him?

He grins widely, the complete opposite to Chuuya's glare "good morning slug!" Dazai had forgotten Chuuya wasn't a morning person... Ha ha no he hadn't.

"I'm not gonna tell you again, get the hell out of my kitchen!"

"Did you know the Boss is dead?" Asks Dazai, completly ignoring Chuuya's words. He doesn't need to turn around to see Chuuya freeze in place, his words hanging in the air.

He's at least keeping his freak out silent, which is oddly considerate of him. Dazai hums, thoughtfully maybe the canned crab were in the top cupboards?

Though it's not like Chuuya can reach them.

"What happened?" Asks Chuuya, eyes wide but he's more awake now. Processing untimely death of your boss tends to do that to people.

"Oh who's to say." Says Dazai, he totally doesn't have blood on his sleeves. He'd at least cleaned his hands before searching through Chuuya's cupboards.

How considerate of him.

Chuuya's eyes narrow, because of course he saw it but he doesn't comment on it. "So who's his replacement?"

For a dog he's got a lot of tuna, probably feeds em to the stray cats that show up around here.

"Oh that would be you."

Dazai counted down from 5 before, on cue Chuuya screamed "WHAT?!"

"Are you drunk, slug? You're usually not this slow. It's pretty unprofessional for the boss to show up drunk" Sighs Dazai.

Chuuya glares at him "I'm not drunk! And don't fuck with me asshole, I'm not the damn boss!"

Dazai shakes his head "no, you are. Me and the other executives all held a vote and we all decided it should be you."

"Why?!"

Dazai sighs he's gonna have to spell this out for him, isn't he? He turns around and pauses seeing Chuuya's expression.

He doesn't look angry, infact he looks terrified.

"Slug?"

"I can't... I can't be a leader... "

Dazai frowns, abandoning his search for canned crab. "You can. You're the most qualified for the position." Chuuya shakes his head and than it hits Dazai.

The Sheep.

Of course, how could he be so stupid. "It won't end like it did than." Says Dazai, gently. "You won't be alone, not now, not ever."

Chuuya looks at him wary, but he looks less afraid. "I'm suprised you don't want it." Dazai gives him a deadpanned look "you think it'd be a good idea to leave me in charge."

He gets a snort in response, good he didn't like when Chuuya looked like a kicked poppy.

"Fine, I'll do it." Says Chuuya, if reluctant. Dazai grins "great, because you've got a meeting with the executives and if we don't leave soon we're gonna be late."

Chuuya glares at him, rolling his eyes. "Of course we fucking are, give me a sec to get dressed." He says getting up.

"Oh and Chuuya?"

"What now?"

"You might be the big boss now but you're still my little dog, don't you forget that."

Chuuya stops and glares at him. "I'm not your damn dog!" He yells before kicking open one of the cupboards.

The canned crab is inside.

"Aww, Chuuya you saved me some!" Yells Dazai, lighting up. Chuuya shakes his head fondly and leaves.

Oh yes, he was gonna be a great Boss, Dazai knew that for certain.

[hoodjam]

coastal love

a/n1: hey babies, I missed you all so much!! I’ve been so busy but I’m here with an actual story! this is something new for me so I hope yall enjoy 🩷

warnings : tw: death, nudity, very short

The lone sailor waded in the waters, desperately fishing for the deep sea fish that was rumored in the area.

“Damn, fish! I almost had it on the hook when it swam off on me,” the man pouts, slightly sour he blindly follows the fish into the deep blue ocean.

“fuck me, it’s gettin’ dark too, damn, fuck shi-“

“HELP ME!” A woman screamed, sending shivers down the sailor's spine. “SOMEONE, PLEASE.”

A sudden feeling of heroism fell over the man, sending him to stand in his tiny boat looking for any signs of a distressed woman. Scanning the area he saw her, hair wet, clothes tattered, as she clung to a rock with her last strength.

Adrenaline raced through his body, beginning his paddling to rescue the lady.

During your frantic screaming to be saved, you noticed the man rowing towards you, and your heart was filled with relief. “Thank you, sir,” you coughed out, showing him your pearly teeth.

“No worries, but what’s a lady like you in waters like this?” The sailor questions, after stopping his boat near the rock.

You stay silent, watching the man reach his hand towards you to help you into the boat.

“Oh, I was in a bad shipwreck nearby. The storm swept me and my mates away. I’m the only survivor.” You explain, reaching your hand to meet his.

But he pauses, “Hm? A storm? There hasn’t been a storm in a few weeks,” He stares at you, slowly reaching his spear, “there’s no way you swam for that long.”

The sailor grips his spear, mind reeling that more than just deep sea fish is real.

In an instant, your eyes flicker black, as you leap out of the water tackling the man into the ocean. Your tail bright blue, shimmering in the sun was the last thing the man saw.

Deep hunky laughter fills the air, men scattered across the deck, as the vessel they ride on glides on the sea.

“Men! Tonight we celebrate a successful loot of the ocean’s treasure,” the captain of the crew states. His shoulder was broad with years of experience, mouth curled in a smirk not even his scar could taint.

“Once we port, we’ll enjoy the lands’ women! But tonight we drink!”

“Aye!” His men exclaim, mugs already filled with the golden liquor, which makes them light on their feet.

However, before the festivities could start, a drop of rain landed on the captain’s face. Frowning, he looked around his vessel seeing the swirling clouds heading in their direction.

“Men get into positions, we have a storm to bear.”

Without any questions, his crew stationed themselves throughout the ship, with Toji at the helm.

“Gojo! String up the sails, Geto strap down the loose food and drinks, and Sukuna, be ready for any repairs.” Toji barked more orders to his team, a team he trusted with his life.

Heading to the helm he turned the wooden wheel away from the storm, bracing himself, preparing for the worst.

Underwater, you smiled with glee, “What a feast,” you thought.

The storm was a beast, bigger and angrier than any sea creature they’d fought. With all his might he kept the stern face opposite of the storm, but his strength was failing.

“Prepare to “ the captain was interrupted, feeling his gravity shift as his boat capsized. The last thing he seen was his men flipping before his head hit a beam, knocking him unconscious.

The storm ravaged the pirate's ship, throwing bodies and debris across the darkened sea. Eager for your first bite, you greedily swam through the waters dodging everything except the lone barrel that fell from the sky.

Toji woke up on some sandy shore, the back of his head throbbing in pain from his injury. Getting up with a stumble, his eyes burning from the bright sun hinting at a new day.

He walks the coast, looking for any hints of survivors from his crew, “Is that?”

The captain gasps, seeing you lie on the same beach he washed up on, unconscious, naked, and shimmering with a blue hue.

a/n2 : I hoped you guys enjoyed, feedback is always appreciated.

a/n3 : also, no shade, but I’m so tired of the short ass fics!!! let’s get back into long stories 😩 anyway lmk if yall want a part two

[vibratingskull]

Mermaid!Thrawn chapter 9

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

You lay against the guardrail, wind in your hair, ocean spray in your nose. The boat speeds away from the shore swiftly, jumping on the waves. 

“You know where you want to stop, (Y/n)?” Mr Vanto asks. “Not now, sir. I wanna go farther. “ You respond, “You’re a lucky gal, we even have a dolphin with us today!” He notes. You lean over the guardrail to observe the sea, and a dolphin appears, swimming swiftly next to the boat, its scars identifying it immediately. 

Thrawn. 

He swims in front of the boat to guide you and speeds up even more. You turn to Mr. Vanto “Follow that dolphin, I will dive with him.”, you take your wetsuit and enter the cabin to change. “Did you patch things up with Eli?” He asks loud enough for you to hear through the wood of the cabin. “No…” You admit, piercing your heart. “That can’t do, young one! Life is too short to sit angry at friends.”, “I know sir, I know… I try to speak to him, but he evades me.” 

“Didn’t he invite you for dinner?” Mr.Vanto insists through the wall. You purse your lips, “I came to understand it was more Eli’s mother's idea.” you respond forcing down your mane in the combination. You reappear outside with your air tank and your flippers. The boat speeds up on water, following Thrawn’s dolphin form easily, you look back to see the cliffs of chalk diminishing rapidly. The beach and port are long gone. You lean over the guardrail, eyes fixated on the dolphin jumping before the boat. You fear several times that they will hit but Thrawn swims and evades gracefully each time. 

When you came to Mr. Vanto you didn’t think he would say yes to bringing you with him, but he did. While you’ll be exploring the ocean’s depths he will try to fish in this new spot. 

You see the dolphin disappearing deeper into the ocean, it must be the location. 

“Stop here, Mister. I will dive here.” You warn him, “All right, be careful with all of this... equipment.” He stops the engines looking at your air tank and suit, "Yes sir!” you promise and let yourself fall backward into the water. The coldness bites your skin despite the wetsuit, you let yourself sink a bit deeper before unfolding your body and looking for Thrawn. 

Less than a minute after you see familiar shining red eyes approaching, swimming almost lazily toward you. He circles your body several times as he always does before extending his clawed finger in your direction. You present your palm and he gently grazes it with his claw as usual. 

This is your greeting. A thing only between the two of you. You observe him swimming fully underwater, his long hair crowning his head and floating around his beautiful face. His long tails undulating as he moves. 

He is such an elegant and graceful creature you realize. As beautiful as in the legends, you would gasp before such a regal being if your lips were not wrapped around an air tank tube. As he keeps circling you, waiting for you to follow him, your latest discussion comes back to your mind. 

“No.” He said plainly, “They refused.”You lowered your shoulders, of course, it was too beautiful to be true, visiting a mermaid city would be too perfect to be possible. But apparently, the mermaids in charge refused your demand. 

It was less than one week after you asked Thrawn about seeing where he lived, and just by his expression when you finished speaking you knew it would be complicated. He was not pleased by the idea, and his kin even less. 

You looked at him suspiciously, gauging him up and down, “Did you even ask? I know you didn’t like that idea at all.” You demanded. “You are right. I will not let a single human find our home and threaten us. But I chose you for the mission and you accepted, so I was ready to make an exception, for you. My superiors did not see the situation as I did and refused to access your demand.” 

You snort, amused. His superiors? Threat? Mission? Do they have a military of any sort? “You speak like a soldier.”, “I do not know what that word means, but I am what you call a warrior. My mission, the reason for my existence, is to protect my fellows from any rising threat.” He said that with such an intense gaze you pressed your legs tighter to your chest in a soothing manner. 

Back inside the cave where you met each other, protected from the blazing sun and sharing a new piece of salmon, you casually spoke. You asked questions about mermaids and he responded when he could, his protective mission asking him to keep some information hidden from you. 

“I have another proposition to offer you.” He said after finishing his raw salmon, “I may not be able to bring you to our city, but would visiting my hideout would interest you?”  

 You looked at him gingerly, munching on your fish. His hideout? What does he mean by that? His home? Where he sleeps? His “no women allowed” space? 

“Your what?” You asked, suspicious of what he was proposing to you. “My treasure collection hideout.” He reformulates, “Ooh! With all the pieces of art you collected?”, “Indeed” He confirmed, “Would it be acceptable to you?” 

You nodded enthusiastically, gulping down your last bite of fish “Yes! Of course, I imagine it is isolated from the city then.”, “It is quite far away indeed. They do not appreciate me bringing back human artifacts, they ordered me to get rid of them so I hid them away.”  

And here you are, swimming alongside him, getting deeper until you can see some reefs piercing the ground. You feel he is controlling his swimming speed to accommodate you, you know how truly fast he can be... 

You navigate through the reefs, slaloming between deadly long spikes that could gut a boat easily. You suddenly feel his hand take yours, you realize his hands are large, way larger than yours... But soft and... inviting. He very gently pulls you forward, inviting you to follow him through the maze of cavities and rock arches. He knows perfectly where to go, and which path to take to allow you to pass with your air tank strapped to your back, it is probably why he circled you earlier, to get an idea of its dimensions.  

And finally, you reach it. You see an opening in the black rocks and he heads towards it without hesitation and without releasing your hand despite being in a more spacious area. You enter the cave, holding your breath.  

You see nothing. Obviously. 

You take your light torch and flash it around the cavern. The natural form of the cave is chaotic but you can immediately see that everything is organized and placed very meticulously. Thrawn lets you go to let you observe as you please. Contrary to you he doesn’t seem to need any light to navigate in this pitch-black area.  

You wander inside. There are a ton of items, cutleries, jewelry, fabrics and costumes, hair pins,  actual statues,... And very old ones at that! None of those things are modern in the slightest. 

Did Thrawn visit an unknown site full of untouched antic boats... Or is he much older than you first anticipated? How old is he exactly? What’s their lifespan? 

You see his shiny red eyes moving around in the cave’s darkness where your light doesn’t shine. He lets you explore at your pace, visiting his cave on his terms. 

The jewels shimmer under the light, shining bright. The boxes containing the valuables are literally vomiting jewelry and cannot be closed back. Pearls, gold, diamonds, necklaces, rings, and earrings, ancients witnesses of a distant path. You observe them intently, terribly curious. Thrawn suddenly appears at your side, startling you. He takes one beautiful ring, set with a big white diamond. You flash the light on it to observe it better, it must be worth a lot!  

Out of nowhere he takes your hand and passes it onto your fingerring to contemplate; Your heart jumps in your chest, why this finger in particular? Why a ring? What is he- 

“I had the occasion to observe humans, alive and dead, wearing matching rings on this particular finger through the years. Almost all adults wear one with another adult, but never the young. Is it the symbol of something important in your society?” He asked, rotating your hand in his to admire the diamond on your finger. 

Oh... Oh. 

Your heart calms down, he simply doesn’t know about wedding rings. You nod at his question. 

His voice sounds... Quite different underwater. It is still deep and... Rich, but it sounds lighter? Like you were meant to hear him underwater. His voice is really beautiful, both on land and under the sea but it sounds almost musical here, like an added depth. Their vocal cords must be different than human’s. 

“You can keep the ring.” He simply says. “It suits your eyes.” 

... 

Is he serious?  

That thing must cost an arm! You can’t accept it. You shake your head and put back the ring in his palm. He considers you, almost surprised, almost... taken aback. Like he was pained you refused his present. But that expression disappears so quickly you must have dreamed it. He silently puts the ring back in the box and starts swimming alongside you, explaining to you where and how he found this or this artifact.  

You even find painted portraits in their frames. They all have a weird greenish substance on them, soiling the true colors. You scrubs some with your nail, curious. “I am especially interested in those type of art pieces, but they dissolve and disappear so quickly in salted water.” He sounds almost disappointed, “I found a mixture of algae that can prevent the degradation and preserve them but as you can see it taints them with a green shade. I lost so many of those pieces before finding the correct formula...” He sounds pained like this loss was truly heavy on his heart. You put your hand on his shoulder and sign “okay” to him, he nods back, his stern expression and tone back immediately, “I find less and less of those in your new ships. Did you stop creating them?” he asks. 

You nod again. “I see, a pity.” he simply responds. “Now you seem to have those rectangular realistic depictions.” He opens another box to take out a photographic picture in another greenish shade, “The formula is not the same and the material cannot be preserved indefinitely but the hyper-realistic style is fascinating. Some lack colors and are in black and white. I have no idea how you achieve such prowess, especially on such small formats, will you be able to explain it to me?” He inquires and you can hear and see true hope in his eyes and voice. You realize he really, really is passionate about arts and is craving knowledge.  

You also realize his eyes are... extremely expressive. He seems to have full control over them but when he does let an emotion slip through, his eyes let you know without a doubt. His expression was as impassible as ever, but his eyes spoke the truth of his hopes and expectations. 

How could you say no to such gorgeous eyes? 

You nod again, completely entranced by your discovery. You would promise him anything for those shiny eyes... You slap yourself mentally. 

“I thank you. I have to be honest, meeting you gave me hope to understand your art better, especially the newest techniques. I thank you for indulging me.” You nod again enthusiastically. He is a fricking merman, a mythic creature, of course, you are going to indulge him! 

You keep swimming deeper into the cavern and you take sneaky looks at him, not flashing the light directly at him, but just enough in his general direction to be able to detail him discreetly. 

His muscular and tall stature that intimated you the first time now appears... comforting, reassuring, and... terribly inviting. You would love to roam your hands on those large pecs and mighty shoulder blades. You feel your heart speeding and your throat drying as you detail his... utterly gorgeous body. 

You already noticed that he was handsome in his own alien way, but at this very second it seems to hit you like a ton of bricks. This man is really, really well-made.  

Are you... crushing on him? 

No, surely not 

But...  

Are you actually? 

He turns his head towards you, wondering why you suddenly slowed down, letting you admire his gorgeous face behind your goggles, hiding where your gaze explores his body. His, obviously, enchanting red eyes, his long, luscious hair, his turned-up nose, his sharp cheekbones and exotic forehead bumps. A truly harmonious and symmetric face... Truly beautiful. 

And the richness of his deep blue skin...  

As you stop moving entirely, too lost in your contemplation, Thrawn starts circling you slowly, his burning gaze on you, not leaving you for a second.  

An alarm starts rigging in your mind. Is it... a predator tactic? A hunting technique? A deep instinct deep inside him ordering him to corner the weak prey? 

It is terrifying. 

It is... thrilling 

Now that you can fully admire him in his liquid element, his true gracefulness and elegance irradiate from him, as his carnivorous and deadly features... You are suddenly hyper-aware of his shiny fangs and the claws of the hands that hold your so gently... 

He seems to very slowly swim closer and closer to you, threatening to hug you in a deadly constrictive embrace with his full body and tail. 

You gasp around your air tube, feeling his piercing red gaze burning your skin off your body. You suddenly feel exposed and naked in front of him. 

What if... He lied? What if there was no city, no other mermaids, no mission and this is how he tempts his prey in his lair? What use does he have for those claws and pointed teeth if not to tear soft flesh apart? 

“You are a peculiar being, (Y/n).” He speaks with his melodious voice, “You are surrounded by art and wonders but focus on me instead.” He sounds almost amused. Almost. “I understand species through their art and humans are truly... interesting. Complex and savage at the same time...You have all my interest and attention.” 

This time you gasp so hard you actually spit out your air tube. You try to catch it back in a panic but Thrawn swiftly catches it and presses it back against your mouth. He watches you eagerly wrapping your lips around the mask’s tube for that sweet, sweet air, prompting him to tilt his head, squinting at you, “Truly peculiar indeed...” 

You take deep breaths to calm down, realizing that you lost a lot of air in that short moment and you are using even more trying to calm down. You look up at your watch to discover that your air supplies are critically low. You desperately sign  “surface” several times as you taught him beforehand. 

Without any warning he swiftly grabs your hand and starts swimming at full speed, pulling you with him like you weight nothing. You exit the cavern so quickly the sudden light burns your eyes.  

And he stops dead in his track. 

You look around confused and discover another mermaid, guarding the exit. 

Armed. 

And visibly pissed off. 

She opens her mouth to shout something you don’t understand. Thrawn responds, calm and serene, but in the same alien language. They exchange several lines, the female more and more infuriated and Thrawn seems more and more pressing. 

You try very hard to be forgotten, hiding behind the huge stature of Thrawn but fully knowing she couldn’t have missed you when your watch starts beeping suddenly.  

Air tank empty. 

The mermaid switches her blade towards you in a very swift and practiced movement. She presses it at your throat, dangerously. 

You feel your lungs pulsating with the lack of air. 

 Thrawn calls for her calmly, in an appeasing manner that could calm down an enraged bear. Thrawn gently pushes the weapon away from you, speaking softly. She claps something back sharply, pointing at you. 

You squeeze Thrawn arm as a warning, feeling your vision darkening as your lungs feel like exploding. 

He says one last thing to the woman that seems to take her aback, or at least take her by such surprise she lowers her weapon entirely and opens her mouth agape. 

Suddenly, you feel Thrawn arms grabbing your legs, holding you bridal style and swimming straight up towards the surface at full speed. 

You pierce the surface brutally. Thrawn readjust his grip on your bust to keep your head well over water. 

You don’t react, don’t move, don’t tear the mask off your face to take a liberating gasp of air. And that is not normal. 

Thrawn takes the mask off your face himself and gently shakes you, “(Y/n)?” 

Nothing 

He presses his ear against your breast. Your heartbeat is feeble but still here, worryingly weak. What he cannot hear however is the air entering and leaving your throat and lungs.  

He takes your cheek with his clawed hand to raise your limping head up. “(Y/n), open your eyes, this is an order.” 

Nothing. 

He looks around to locate the boat. Nowhere to be seen, you’ll never reach the land in time. 

He pulls your face closer, pinching your nose, and leans towards you. He presses his lips on yours, pushing his air inside your still lungs. He opens his gills wide to gather as much air as possible for each breath, holding you tight against his body to prevent you from sinking in the cold water. He opens your mouth wide to have better access to your trachea. He pushes air deep several times for two long minutes, his lips clasped on yours in a tight embrace. He has to make sure to not hold you too tight or he’s going to break your bones, to not accidentally bite your tongue off with his long teeth, to not inadvertently slash an artery with his long, sharp claws. 

Humans are such fragile creatures but also reckless despite their weaknesses. He could hurt you with each of his movements, possibly killing you if he is careless. 

But Thrawn is anything but careless. 

He is conscientious and delicate. He modulates his strength to not hurt you in any way, he minds his teeth to not bite your tongue coming back to life, he positions his fingers for his claws to simply rest on the wetsuit and not pierce your flesh.  

He holds you like something precious to him. 

In some way... You are. 

You are his partner in his mission, his teammate, and the key to helping him accomplish his capital mission. He cannot let you die without trying to save you. He is a predator, not a monster... 

Suddenly you came back to life in his deep kiss, jerking forward to spit the water clogging your lungs and cough hard. He holds you above water as you almost dived your head back underwater with your large jerking motion, curling over yourself as your body contracts painfully to dislodge the rest of the water still inside. 

You suddenly push him away, to his surprise. “You kissed me?!” You asks out of yourself, not knowing what kind of reaction you should have. 

He brings to his secret lair, circles you in a weirdly sensual and deadly manner, drags you around like a sack of potatoes, and finally kisses you????? What is wrong with him?  

“You were unresponsive and the boat was not reachable in a timely manner. I did what I must to save you.” He simply speaks like it was a very normal occurence. 

“You...!” You cannot even finish your sentence with how confuse you are. 

You cannot with this man! He toys with you for months and then plays the benevolent savior like he cares? The audacity of this man, the insolence the... The... HIM! JUST HIM! 

“I advise you to calm down, losing consciousness may have unpredictable effects. I advise you to see one of your healers once back on shore.” He softly says, his two hands well visible in an appeasing manner. “Yes, thank you, I know!” You clap back. 

The last thing you saw was the mermaid blade against your throat and when you open back your eyes Thrawn is kissing you deeply in a tight embrace. 

Like...What the fuck? Could someone explain for once? Are all merpeople bipolars? 

“Manage your efforts and listen to your body’s signals.” He keeps advising calmly. 

You press your mouth in a thin line, trying to calm down. He did it to save your life, nothing more, nothing less. You do not know the significance of kissing in his culture.  

You breathe deeply, feeling anger subsiding, but still confused and dizzy “All right.” You concede. “Good.” He nods satisfied, gently backing away. 

“Thrawn, wait... I’m sorry.” You call him back, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”, “And I took no offense.” He simply replies, “On my end, I did not meant to shock you.” 

You extend your palm to him and he gently grazes it with his claw. 

All is well and forgiven. Or at least pushed under the rug... 

The boat appears on the horizon, coming for you. “It is time.” Thrawn says evenly, “Will you explain your modern art techniques to me at our next meeting?” He says hopefully, “Yes of course.” You nod, “I thank you. Travel back safely.” He bows his head to you and dives underwater to disappear. 

As the boat slowly approaches your rendez-vous point you cannot help but touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours. Shocked and deeply moved... 

He kissed you... 

@blueninjablade3 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @pencil-urchin @twilekchiss @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @Cortisolcosplay, @obbicrystaleo @germie2037 @davesrightshoe

[mediumgayitalian]

prev chapter

———

“Okay,” Will says, when they’re comfortably on the road. This early in the morning, Highway 17 is practically empty; nothing but sunny skies and clear air rushing through the open roof. The emptiness may also be attributed to the fact that it is a random Tuesday. “Pick a number between one and nine.”

“Uh, five.”

“Good choice, good choice.”

He opens the centre console, digging around Nico’s – well, and his, at this point – collection of CDs to find the right one. He makes a little noise of triumph when he finds it, blowing on the back and wiping it on his shirt before sliding it into the port.

“One half-assed polish isn’t gonna fix those scratches, Solace,” he teases.

“If you weren’t such an emo fuck, Playlist Five wouldn’t be so scratched.”

Nico laughs, conceding this round. Will looks inordinately pleased, nose scrunching along with his tiny smile even as Linkin Park starts blasting through the speakers, which he hates.

“Three songs ‘til Britney,” he grouches as Nico starts hollering along to Points of Authority. Nico shakes his head, still grinning – as if he didn’t make these playlists. If he is truly so miserable, he wouldn’t have put the song on at all.

(Nico knows, in the very back of his mind, that Will actually and truly cannot stand Linkin Park. To him, it’s not music at all. He has never been able to get into it, as much as he truly likes music of every genre. If Linkin Park is on this playlist, and they’re on more than one of the playlists Will has made specifically for their shared car rides, it’s because he cares about Nico more than he hates the band. Nico shoves this knowledge deep into the dustiest corners of his mind, because that’s more than he can afford to think about.)

The next couple hours pass by comfortably. There isn’t much to remark on the side of the road except the odd fruit stand, or farm advertising eggs and honey, so onward Nico drives. He keeps an eye on the odometer, but mostly trusts Will’s calculations. If he says they won’t need gas ‘til Anthony, wherever the hell that is, Nico believes him. 

“Highway changes to the 98 through here,” Will says, nodding to the tiny sign that boasts nothing except Ft. Meade CITY LIMITS, right next to the giant banner half the size of the church it's attached to that reads, REPENT OR BURN. 

Ah, Florida. Please one day change.

“Do I need to exit?”

“Nope, the road just changes to a different number.”

He eases off the gas as they approach the tiny town, watching carefully for state troopers. And, like, children, probably. So far he’s passed twelve gun ranges and one school, but whatever. He can have priorities, even if this garbage state doesn’t.

“Hm. 98 is a better number.”

“Absolutely not,” Will tells him, aghast. “17 is a prime number!”

“Ninety-eight is more fun to say. Also, prime numbers suck.”

“You take that back –”

Nico slides up his sunglasses, shaking his head fondly. Nerdiest nerd to ever nerd. He would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so endeared.

He presses back on the accelerator as they exit the town, turning up the music as Will’s rant ends. He shucks off his shoes – Feet off my goddamn dash, Solace – and curls up into his seat, burying himself in a book. Nico glances away from the road to try and read the title, but quickly gives up since the font is bright fucking purple, for some reason, and in some horrible looping shape that he knows will give him a migraine. All graphic designers should be in prison. 

“Hey, there’s apparently a gator reserve forty-five minutes ahead.” Nico squints again at the book. Barely, he can make out “roadside” and “weird”. “‘Weird American Roadside Attractions’,” Will reads aloud, noticing Nico looking. “Such as a very nice and highly rated gator reserve –”

“No.”

“Road trip, Nico. Adventure.”

“I’m super happy to adventure away from living fucking dinosaurs, Solace.”

“Aw, come on, they’re kinda cute –”

“Two thousand pounds per square inch of jaw strength! You are the one who told me that!”

“You don’t think you could take one in a fight?”

Nico stares at his best friend incredulously. He’s got a thoughtful little frown on his face, looking at the sky as he contemplates. Nico notices, vaguely, that the shade of his irises is the exact same colour. 

“No, I do not. Obviously.” He pauses. “You think you could take a fuckin’ gator?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“See, that’s crazy, because fifteen seconds ago I genuinely believed you were an intelligent person.”

“Do not lie to me and tell me you don’t have a list of animals you know you could take in a fight,” Will says, instead of rising to the bait. He waits, meeting Nico’s glare, eyebrows raised.

“An ostrich,” Nico admits, begrudgingly. “I feel like – one good punch to the throat –”

Will smiles smugly at him. “That’s what I thought.” He turns back to his book, fiddling with the corner of a page. “Also, ostriches are more closely related to dinosaurs than alligators. So. Check and mate, motherfucker.”

They pull into Anthony at around eleven, at pretty much exactly a quarter tank – just like Will predicted. He looks inordinately pleased about it, so Nico shoots off a quick prayer to the karma gods. 

He trips on his way out of the Jeep. Nico smirks.

“I’m gonna go stretch my legs,” he says, unaware of Nico’s hand in his humbling. Nico waves him off, attention turned to the gas pump.

Annoyingly, as he pulls out his card and handles the pump, he remembers Will’s scrunched nose and pursed lips as he’d explained, when they were 16, how gas station pumps were frequently more germy than their toilets, and cleaned approximately one hundred percent less. Suddenly, his hand begins to feel grimey.

Twelve bags of chips, a gas station slushie, and a pair of clean hands later, Will is still nowhere to be found. Nico frowns, craning his neck to look around the tiny parking lot as if he somehow missed Will’s neon orange shirt the first time he looked. Still not catching sight of him, he walks hesitantly back to the Jeep, tucking his snacks away and biting his lip, contemplating. Will is both very fast and very easily distracted, but he has enough sense not to go too far in a random town five hours from home. If he sticks by the car and waits, Will’ll be back soon. 

But, on the other hand, waiting is torture.

Easy decision, really.

He locks the door, hopes that no one will show up with a pair of wire cutters and a flathead screw driver, and sets off. The first thing he notices, and he adds it to his mental list of things to loudly complain about when Will is locked in the car with him, is that it is fucking sweltering. In the hours approaching the afternoon, the day has gone to pleasantly warm to so hot the air is actually thick with it, and he doesn’t have wind ripping through the open windows to cool him down. Plus, he’s wearing jeans, and for the first, and hopefully only, time in his life, he envies his friend’s cargo shorts. 

The second thing he notices is that Anthony, Florida, is empty as shit. All the love in his heart to the people who call it home, but also, move, maybe. He’s hesitant to stray too far from the gas station, in case Will comes back and finds him gone, but there are no hills or anything. He can see quite far down the road. The only thing he sees is a possum starting a fight with a poor random guy – which, actually, is kind of fun to watch. 

Perhaps he has judged Anthony too harshly. 

“Nico!” shouts a voice, startling him. He whips around and finds Will, standing in the goddamn centre of the road, the dumbass, waving like a lunatic.

“There is no possible way I was going to miss you,” Nico informs him when he’s close enough. “You are approximately the height of the Washington monument. I could not miss you if I tried.”

“I wasn’t waving to get your attention, I was waving to shoo away the eagles that mistook you for a mouse.”

Nico kicks him in the shin. Will, well used to his violence, dodges, grinning, except in the act of hopping away from Nico’s dangerously hardy boots, he somehow wraps his foot around his own ankle and goes sprawling.

Nico smirks. “Who’s the short one now.”

Faster than he can even follow, Will’s hand darts out, wrapping around his ankle, and tugs, yanking him yelping on the asphalt next to him. 

“Foul!”

“All’s fair in love and war, Neeks.”

Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up, Nico screams at the alarm bells blaring in his brain, he doesn’t mean it like that and you know it oh shit he’s looking this way quick look normal look normal –

“I can do war if that’s what you want, Solace,” he manages, honestly quite proud of himself for managing speech with approximately fourteen percent of his brain still functioning. Damn.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway.” He crawls to his feet, offering Nico a hand. He takes it, dutifully fighting the urge to pull Will down again, just to be an asshole. He’s cool like that, and most definitely being normal about the scrape of Will’s callused fingers against the inside of his forearm. “I found maybe the funniest thing I’ve ever seen, and I need you to come look at it immediately.”

“Sick,” Nico says, immediately intrigued. He and Will have their differences, sure, but if there’s one thing they can agree on it’s their sense of humour. 

He follows will down the road, passing the gas station again. (His car, thankfully, remains in one piece and beautifully not-robbed.) They dark across an empty intersection, walking across a yellowed lawn as they approach a run-down, patchy, one-storey bungalow with a rusted sign that reads: The Iron Works.

“Behold,” says Will gleefully, “the Abstract Iron Centaur.”

And behold, Nico does.

Gaping, he observes the structure standing proudly under the sign. Striding proudly, rather, its front legs bent to simulate movement, its human arms poised as if ready to strike. It wears a medieval knight’s helmet, and holds a rusted axe. The entire structure is a little taller than Will, and made of, presumably, iron, rusted into a light roan red.

“Abstract Iron Centaur,” Nico repeats, after several minutes of silence.

Will still looks delighted. “It was in my book. I had no idea what to expect and also I didn’t believe it was real. Isn’t it the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?”

“It’s…something.”

“We gotta take a picture, Neeks. I never want to forget this thing.”

Nico allows himself to be pulled, still somewhat bewildered. It’s not even the oddest thing he’s ever seen, it’s just – he has many questions, like, for example, why? How long has this creature existed? How long will it persist? Who created it? Why is it in Will’s dorky book? Does it house a soul?

“Okay, squish in, this camera is older than your elderly ass and doesn’t have a timer.”

The familiar jab breaks him out of his stupor. “Seven months older than you, fucker.”

“Geriatric.”

Without warning, Will crowds them under the Abstract Iron Centaur’s lifted arm, and then presses his widely grinning cheek right flush to Nico’s, raising his beat-up camera to the air.

Nico’s brain goes static.

“Say cheese!”

“Hnngh,” says Nico, as the camera blinds him.

Luckily for his continuously worsening blood pressure, Will pulls away the second he hears the click, shaking the ejected negative to help it develop, and Nico has a second to remind his lungs that they have a function, actually, get your shit together, I am not dying in fucking Anthony, Florida. 

“You look like a dork!” Will says, delighted. “Look!”

Blinking at the photo shoved one sixteenth of an inch from his eyeballs, Nico indeed looks. The Abstract Iron Centaur looks more foreboding on camera, somehow, but Nico barely notices it – instead, he finds his gaze drawn to the beam so wide it forces Will’s eyes shut, and the dazed, dopey look on his own face; eyes wide, mouth dropped, slightly, and posture undeniably leaning into Will’s magnetism. 

Humming to himself, Will slips his wallet out of (one of) the (many) pocket(s) of his shorts, tucking the photo inside it. Nico melts into a puddle of goo on the dead grass. His mortal soul escapes his body, descending rapidly. His atoms return to star dust. Et cetera.

“Oh, shit, we gotta go if we want to reach Georgia in good time.”

“Right,” says Nico, voice cracking. He clears his throat and tries again. “Let’s go.”

He absolutely does not haul ass to his car. He walks at a normal pace, for normal reasons, thoughts in a normal place. 

“Back on the 75,” Will instructs as they peel out, sliding sunglasses on his nose. “We gotta scoot around town a bit to get to the entrance, but it won’t take long.”

“D’you know this place?” Nico asks, even though he doubts it. As far as he knows, Will was outside of Sarasota one time: in the move from Austin. He supposes his mother might have had a concert up here, or something, and unusually, let him tag along, but he doubts it.

“Nah, just memorised the map.”

Nico hides a smile. “Oh, of course.”

It’s all too easy to tease Will, but there was a reason he was valedictorian. There’s a reason for his many shining scholarship offers, his endless well of ridiculous facts pulled from nowhere. He is, genuinely, the smartest person Nico has ever met.

Even if he genuinely believes he can fight an alligator and win.

“Two hours ‘til we cross state lines,” Will says brightly, shouting slightly over the wind as they merge onto the highway. “And then on to infinity!”

“Onto infinity,” Nico agrees, matching his smile. 

Already, he’s proved Nico wrong. They’re farther now than Will has been since he was seven, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he wants to slow down. 

Privately, and quietly, Nico lets himself start to hope. 

———

next chapter

[lippmannssplatteredblood]

Was it ever confirmed Lippmann was based on Walter Lippmann?

No.

But wait, there's enough evidence! (Ty anon im using this ask as an excuse to ramble and getting these off my chest)

As we all already know, most of the characters in BSD, especially ability users, are based on real life authors. Stormbringer explicitly stated that bsd!Lippmann was "an extremely powerful skill user" so he must be based on someone. And guess what? There happens to be a writer with the exact name as his.

Walter Lippmann was an American journalist, politician, and writer. He was deemed as "the most gifted and influential American political journalist of the twentieth century". His works mostly took the theme of public relations and stuff. Sounds familiar?

I'd like to add this part from the etymology section of his(bsd) wiki btw, just in case you didn't know.

Does it end there? No, not quite.

Let's take a look at his most popular work; Public Opinion.

"...The pictures inside the heads of these human beings, the pictures of themselves, of others, of their needs, purposes, and relationship, are their public opinions. Those pictures which are acted upon by groups of people, or by individuals acting in the name of groups, are Public Opinion with capital letters."

"The pictures in our heads", page 29

People, generally, have some sort of "persona" of themselves that they would try to plant on other people's minds. Kinda like the Japanese "three faces" proverb, you may say. And how do they achieve it? By only presenting that persona; by masking; by acting.

"Royal personages are, of course, constructed personalities. Whether they themselves believe in their public character, or whether they merely permit the chamberlain to stage-manage it, there are at least two distinct selves, the public and regal self, the private and human."

"The pictures in our heads", page 7

Simply said, him being an actor might be a reference to (or a representation of) that human nature which P.O. talks of. An actor acts—they dive into the role of another character that's not them. (Which, when you think about it, is just what us humans do on a daily basis, except they do it professionally and for a living, which when you think about it again—)

Mr. Lippmann also published books titled "A Preface to Politics" and "A Preface to Morals" which is....interesting.

Okay, "preface" and "face" technically are different. Though they still share somewhat a similar meaning.

But hear me out. Let's go back to the persona thing. Generally, what people would want to be perceived as is as the perfect, ideal versions of themselves. To make that happen, they would have to put on a good first impression. And what's usually the first thing that people notice about a person? Correct—their appearance; their face.

Lippmann(bsd) was multiple times described as "perfect" (like okay asagiri, he's pretty, we get it), especially regarding his looks (and capabilities). See what I'm saying?

Lippmann was the stage face, the public image of the Port Mafia. He was the preface to the Port Mafia. He created the pictures in people's head of the Port Mafia.

As a verb, however, "face" has another meaning:

He negotiated with front companies, met and talked with political figures, and even dealt with the press if push came to shove.

I feel like this might be merely a coincidence or a pun, though. But the fact that his field of work in the Port Mafia was specifically negotiating with the "real world" is definitely not something Asagiri just pulled out of thin air—or so I believe to be the case, at least, having read this paragraph.

"This is the underlying reason for the existence of the press agent. The enormous discretion as to what facts and what impressions shall be reported is steadily convincing every organized group of people that whether it wishes to secure publicity or to avoid it, the exercise of discretion cannot be left to the reporter. It is safe to hire a press agent who stands between the group and the newspapers. Having hired him, the temptation to exploit his strategic position is very great."

"The nature of news", page 344

Oh, by the way, remember this scene?

It's just a silly, filler interaction that seemed not to reference anything, but just you wait.

"Men cannot long act in a way that they know is a contradiction of the environment as they conceive it. If they are bent on acting in a certain way they have to reconceive the environment, they have to censor out, to rationalize. But if in their presence, there is an insistent fact which is so obstrusive that they cannot explain it away, one of three courses is open. They can perversely ignore it, though they would cripple themselves in the process, will overact their part and come to grief. They can take it into account but refuse to act. They pay in internal discomfort and frustration. Or, and I believe this is to be the most frequent case, they adjust their whole behavior to the large environment."

"Intelligence work", page 383

Then again, these are but my interpretations and/or speculations which I'd like you to take with a grain of salt, as I could very well still be wrong (because Asagiri loves to trick us, apparently).

I could go on and on and on and on and on but I'm afraid I'd just be blabbering nonsense at some point. Thank you for reading my (hopefully coherent) ramblings.