#prompt - barfight

[divinesouldariax]

h/c spell prompts with Cure Wounds and Ashton and Milo? (Romantic or platonic, dealers choice!)

Ahhh this one was nice and cathartic, in a difficult way. Thank you for the prompt! I hope you enjoy it! <3 ~Martin

Content warning: this fic contains some dark and unhealthy thoughts and actions on the subjects of chronic pain, disability, self-endangerment, alcohol use, and guilt. Also, there's blood.

~

Milo was cleaning up a spill from a mug of coffee in the front room when Ashton walked in through the front door, covered in blood.

Well. Covered was maybe a slight exaggeration, but it was soaked down half of the front of his vest, dripping from their nose, and dried across their hands. He was stumbling, unsteady on his feet.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Milo said, shocked and a little horrified.

“Fight,” Ashton said shortly. They continued to walk in, heading down the hall towards their bedroom.

Milo rushed after him, grabbing the curtain to stop him from closing it behind them. “Are you drunk? You are bleeding. A lot.”

“Yeah.” Ashton sat down, wiping roughly at his nose and barely wincing.

“Fuck. Let me go get some stuff, I can heal–”

“Don’t fucking bother,” Ashton told them.

Milo frowned. They crossed their arms. “Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Ashton tipped their head backwards and let out a sharp, tired laugh. “Doesn’t fucking matter what you do, Miles, it’s not gonna stop.”

“Stop bleeding? Come on, give me some credit, I can fix a broken nose. And whatever happened to…” Milo gestured at their own collarbone, seeing the gash that was probably the source of most of the blood on Ashton’s.

“No, not the fucking bleeding, I don’t care about the fucking bleeding.”

“Then–”

Ashton let himself fall backwards diagonally across his bed. His chest rose and fell as he breathed just a little more heavily than he normally did. “All of it,” they said unhelpfully.

After a pause, Milo said, “Okay. I’m gonna go get my healing stuff, ‘cause you’re getting blood everywhere.” When Ashton didn’t protest again, Milo went to fetch all of the healing supplies they had built and learned how to use after Ashton’s fall.

When they returned, Ashton had his eyes closed and he didn’t respond to Milo quietly saying his name. It wouldn't be the first time they had come home and immediately passed out drunk–at least it was on his bed this time, and not in the hallway–so Milo set to work healing up the new injuries as best as they could. The jagged cut just below Ashton’s throat was superficial, and his nose wasn't actually broken. Milo took out a handkerchief and used it with a little magic to clean away all of the blood from Ashton's clothes, skin, and the blankets underneath him. They were about to get up and leave him to rest when he spoke.

"See? Doesn't fucking matter."

"What do you mean?" Milo asked.

"Getting hurt, getting fucking healed, doesn't matter. Everything still fucking hurts."

Milo winced. "Ash…"

"I can get beat to shit and I don't even care."

"Oh, gods, Ash–"

"No, and it–it doesn't stop, and I drink and I fucking…punch somebody, just to make it stop for a second, but I know it's gonna fucking…be back. Never gonna fucking leave me alone. It's always going to fucking hurt."

And there was guilt. There was so much fucking guilt that Milo didn't know what to do with it. It was their fault that Ashton had ribbons of metal gluing their shattered bones and flesh back together, their fault that he hadn't been healed right, that he would never be free of the pain and the reminder of the fall, of the Nobodies leaving, of everyone fucking leaving them.

They wanted to get angry. Milo felt the same boiling fury in their own chest that they saw sometimes in Ashton’s eyes, and they wanted to scream, to get rid of the guilt by giving into their worst impulses and telling Ashton that he was fucking lucky to be alive, would he rather Milo hadn't bothered to save them, would he rather be dead–

But they didn't want to know the answer to that. And they didn’t want to lash out when it wasn't Ashton that they were furious with.

"Do you want me to go so you can sleep?" Milo said softly.

"No," Ashton said, their voice hitching and their hand reaching out briefly towards Milo before they pulled it back down to their side. "Fuck. I mean, you can. It doesn't fucking matter."

Already in pain, doesn't matter if it gets worse. Everybody else already left, doesn't matter if you do, too. 

Milo let out a quiet sigh, pushing the rage away to deal with another day, and stayed.

[bazzybelle]

In These Violent Days, I'll Be Where You Are - 2K - Teen

For Dreamling Week - Day 1: Bar Fight

I'm Baaaaaack! I've been working on longer stories, both for the Sandman and Carry On Fandoms, BUT today is the first day of Dreamling Week. I have been working on some smaller fics, which I will be posting throughout the week. I will also be bombarding my feed with Dreamling posts from the INCREDIBLE writers, artists, and general chaos demons this amazing fandom has produced.

I hope you enjoy the beginning of my journey into writing Dreamling. I've been having so much fun in this fandom and I'm glad to share my joy with you all.

Thank you to the amazing mods and humans from the @mr-sadman server who have been so supportive and kind. You guys are amazing for putting together this awesome fest and for bringing us wild people together.

You can read the story below the line break or you can check out the story on AO3, by clicking the link!

Click here to read on AO3!

“Duck, that really wasn’t necessary.” Hob had been struggling with the lock to his flat above the New Inn. That is, until his overly protective and overly concerned boyfriend, fashioned another key from out of thin air and slid it into the lock with ease. Really, he was fretting over nothing. Sure Hob was nursing a black eye, and a few cuts and scrapes to his face, and come to think of it, he’s pretty sure his nose is also broken. But he can take care of himself. He’d been getting into barfights since he was a young’un, barely any meat on him. 

“I will not have you suffering any more for the remainder of the evening.” Dream slid an arm across the small of Hob’s back and carefully guided him inside the flat. Once inside, Hob kicked off the stupidly high stiletto heels he’d been wearing that night, and groaned at the sight of a dangerously purple bruise covering the better part of his left ankle. 

Right, add a sprained —possibly broken— ankle to the list of injuries he’d sustained tonight. 

Dream carefully manoeuvres the both of them into Hob’s bedroom, and it is at this moment where the adrenaline he’d been feeling for the last few hours decides to fade. Hob winces as he puts too much pressure on his fucked up ankle. 

“My point exactly,” says Dream, as he helps Hob settle onto the bed, before helping him out of his outfit (a skin-tight, sequined fiery red number, adorned with roses of varying sizes in black and shades of red). It’s probably dotted in bigot blood, but Hob doesn’t find he cares too much about spilling blood. He’s more upset that he’s ruined the outfit. He paid a pretty penny for it. Granted, it was well worth it, and he was helping one of the fashion design students at the university to showcase their work. But still, it is rather unfortunate that it had to get ruined. He would have liked to be able to use it again. 

“Love, I’m going to have to stand up again to get this off.” Hob attempts to get on his feet once more, but yelps as soon as his injury makes contact with the floor. 

Dream looks unimpressed. 

“Allow me to help you,” Dream says as he carefully undoes the zippers and clasps, removing the layers that allow Sherry Punch to show the world who she is. It takes a bit of time and a little elbow grease —or possibly, some dream magic— but they manage to get the outfit, and undergarments off. Dream carefully hangs the ensemble on Hob’s closet door, before grabbing a pair of his softest pyjamas. Hob, in the meantime, takes off the large, cherry-red wig adorning his head (styled in perfectly coiffed victory rolls, thank you very much) and hands it to Dream. 

“We still have all this to deal with,” he says gesturing to the mess of makeup, glue, and blood on his face. A corner of Dream’s lips quirks up, before he gently moves some of Hob’s hair away from his eyes. 

“I shall be back with your tools to remove your makeup, as well as your first-aid kit.”

“Third time this month I get to use it!” 

Dream’s not amused with the cheeky grin Hob gives him, but he chooses not to respond, exiting the room like a shadow. Once he’s gone, Hob sighs and leans back against the headboard. As much as he jests about fights in his pub, he had truly believed tonight would be different. 

The political atmosphere in London has been less than desirable— No, who is he kidding? It’s been absolute shit, is what it’s been. Protests in front of libraries, bloody wankers screaming at children and innocent drag queens who really have done nothing wrong. Politicians pandering to the absolute worst of society, by targeting the most vulnerable in his community. With each passing day, more and more safe spaces are removed due to threats and intimidation, and Hob for one was beyond fed up with it. 

The New Inn, from the moment of its birth, dedication, whatever you wish to call it, has been a place for marginalised people. From its poetry smash evenings, to its Fab in Drag nights, The New Inn welcomes any and all who wish to learn more about the LGBTQ+ community, and especially those who wish to explore their gender and sexual identities (or lack thereof) in a judgement-free environment. Hob worked hard to ensure it would stay that way, with the turmoil of life outside its doors. 

But of course, bigotry knows no bounds, and a few months ago, the protests found their way to The New Inn. Tonight was not the first time Hob had been forced to manhandle someone who had gotten too close for comfort. Tonight though, tonight was the first time a few of them had made it inside the pub. The event was ticketed and supposedly heavily vetted (though clearly not enough). Hob had felt comfortable enough to perform tonight as Sherry Punch. Sherry had become an important part of his life since the early 2000s, and she’d come out to play whenever Hob was feeling especially confident. Lately, Sherry had been forced to take a mini retirement, so that Hob could make sure any other drag performers were not harassed, or hurt. 

Tonight was supposed to be secure. For the first time in almost a year, Sherry Punch was coming back to the stage, refreshed and ready to slay. She had barely had a chance to get through her set before the heckling and harassment started. It didn’t seem to be too big a deal at first, and Sherry was used to a bit of heckling. She’d dealt with worse in her hey-day, and was able to shame a few of them enough that they left the pub in a huff (escorted, of course, by some of the bartenders working tonight). 

One particular tosser, a big, burly, monster of a man had managed to get close enough to the stage. Close enough, that when Sherry reached out to the crowd, he’d jumped out at her, attempting to pull her down to the floor. The thing was, Sherry wasn’t the type of queen to allow herself to be dragged down like that. So Sherry fought back, yanking the man by his coat lapels and kneeing him in the groin. 

Things escalated from there, and Sherry had to make a hasty retreat and Hob had to come back, practically tossing the bastard through the window. It would have turned into an all out riot, had Dream not been there to influence the crowd to peacefully, and safely disperse. One of his bartenders did end up calling an officer who thankfully apprehended the man. But Hob would have to go and formally make a statement and press charges (not that it would do anything). 

But all that could wait for tomorrow. For now, Hob slowly eases into his pyjamas as Dream returns to the bedroom. He smiles fondly at him, noticing the full tray. Hob can make out his makeup remover wipes, some peroxide and bandages, as well as an ice pack and a glass of water. 

Gods above, but he does love this man. Being. Anthropomorphic personification of a concept. He loves Dream, is what he means.

“We should be doing the cleaning in the bathroom.” 

“It is unwise to move you. I would like to prevent further injury to your ankle.” Dream places the tray on the bed and grabs a few pillows to stuff behind Hob. And he does like to be taken care of every once in a while. But honestly he feels disgusting and bloody, and he really should have insisted they go into the bathroom instead. 

“You know,” Hob says, moving to the edge of the bed, “this isn’t even the worst of the injuries I’ve sustained in this month alone. Remember that protest in front of the library near the park?” He doesn’t get far, the throbbing pain in his ankle keeping him rooted to his spot. 

Dream doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. He simply rolls his eyes, while pushing Hob back against the headboards. 

“If you weren’t so strong I would— oh, fuck. Love that feels amazing,” Hob moans as Dream places the ice pack on his swollen ankle. Ice packs, definitely a top invention from the last hundred years. And they only got better as time went on. The ones he has in his flat, for example, can be frozen or heated up. There are days where Hob’s old war wounds make it near impossible to get out of bed. Those are the days he makes the most use out of the several packs he’s got laying around. 

A corner of Dream’s lip quirks. He gets to work, slowly removing the makeup from Hob’s face, careful not to agitate his swollen cheek and bruised nose. Hob closes his eyes and all but leans into the gentle touch. As long as he’s held a torch for the person taking care of him, Hob never really imagined this would be his reality. 

He definitely didn’t expect this to be his future when he was a scrawny, gangly little thing at twenty-two, fighting and killing to survive long enough to either find work in a field, or a war in which to be a soldier. 

Hob’s life, if he’s being completely honest with himself, has been painted by violence. Sure, he could justify some of his actions, especially in the beginning. Some of the murders were accidental, or a consequence of fighting to survive. You had no choice in the “good ol’ days”. Back then, a show of mercy could mean a knife in your back. Back then, it was kill or be killed. Hob could barely remember, after over 600 years, the faces of the men he’d killed. They’ve all blended together at this point, as a generic bloody-faced man that will haunt his dreams from time to time, reminding him of the red in his ledger. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dream applies some gentle solvent over the glue lingering on his face. 

Hob smiles ruefully. “Just admiring my brilliant boyfriend.” 

“Your flattery will earn you no favours, Hob Gadling.” 

“Oh come on. Not even a small one?”

“Hmm. Perhaps.” Dream leans closer into Hob’s space, slowly wiping a smudge of cherry-red lipstick off of his lips. He traces his fingers over their chapped, rough edges, lightly teasing them, before placing a soft kiss. 

“Will you share your thoughts with me, beloved?” He whispers, caressing the side of Hob’s head. He can feel the light fluttering of Dream’s breath upon his face. Forever the greedy, touch-hungry bastard he is, Hob is weak to every sweet intimate moment that Dream initiates between them. He’d give the world and more for a second of Dream brushing his fingers over his cheeks, or carding his fingers through his hair. 

“I was just thinking back to when I was first getting into bar fights. I never would have thought my life would end up like this.” Hob picks up one of the wipes and rubs it distractedly over one of his eyes. Dream places his hand over Hob’s, steadying and guiding it over the makeup still left on his face. 

“You have had the privilege of 600 years of experience. You are hardly the man I met in 1389.”

“Still just as charming though, right?”

Dream huffs a small laugh. “Always, agapi mou.” He reaches for the bottle of peroxide and starts to clean the scratches and minor cuts lingering. Immortal as he is, Hob still needs between a few hours and a few days to heal from injuries (depending on how severe they are) (he once spent nearly a week laying in a ditch somewhere in Ypres after a brutal battle in 1916). 

“My life has been an endless, pun unintended, streak of blood. It seems I cannot help but give into my violent nature. No matter how things change, or get better.” 

“Your penchant for violence cannot be denied.” Dream isn’t one to pull back any punches, and Hob is grateful for that. He doesn’t need empty platitudes, not from the person who knows him better than anyone else. 

Dream brushes a cotton pad over a small gash above Hob’s eyebrow. Hob’s eyes flutter shut, as he exhales deeply. 

So soft. 

So gentle. 

“But your reasons for engaging with the violent facet of your personality have changed, have they not?”

They have. They started changing in the 1500s with the smile of his beloved Eleanor. They changed further with the squalling cry of a precious babe in his arms. Hob had wanted to protect Robyn from any sort of violence, and as such neglected to teach him how to fight. To fight like you had nothing to your name and everything to live for. 

A mistake he carries with him to this day. Though it isn’t as heavy a burden as it was centuries ago. 

One of many mistakes, his brain helpfully supplies.

No, he doesn’t fight for selfish reasons anymore. Not since being scolded for participating in something as dark and disgusting as the slave trade. He will never make amends for the pain he was party to. And he doesn’t deserve to feel better about the mistakes he’s made. He just chooses to keep learning and doing better day by day. 

“I fight for those who can’t,” he says, looking into the sparkling blue eyes of the man he loves above all others. 

“You do,” he says, pressing a small kiss onto Hob’s eyelids. It never fails to bring shivers to his spine, all the while warming his heart right up. 

“It is something I love about you, amore mio. You do not hesitate to protect those you care about. Even if it means you wind up with a broken nose, and a sprained ankle.”

A small, but smug smile makes its way to Hob’s lips. “Can’t deny I looked good kicking a bigot’s arse.”

“I’ll admit, watching you fight is always exhilarating.” Dream leans over, whispering in Hob’s ear “However, after your impromptu performance, I felt the need to restrain myself.”

Hob reaches for one of Dream’s hands, intertwining their fingers. “Did you now? Maybe I should let Sherry Punch out to play more often then, I reckon?”

“She truly is, what you would call, a sexy bitch.”

“You did not just say that!” Hob cries out loud, arms wrapping around his stomach as laughter peels out of him. 600 years he’s known Dream and yet he keeps on surprising him. Dream. The Prince of Stories. Shaper of Forms and the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares. His Dream, just referred to Hob’s drag persona as a “sexy bitch”. 

And in that deep, sonorous voice that never fails to drive him mad. 

He loves him. So fucking much. 

“God’s wounds, duck, if I wasn’t in this much pain, I’d have you here and now.”

Dream waves a hand over the tray and its many contents, vanishing them away from Hob’s bed. His black cloak, grey shirt, and dark jeans change into a soft t-shirt and dark flannel pants. He helps Hob get settled into bed, before nestling behind him, wrapping his long arms around Hob’s waist. 

“Then sleep, and allow me to protect your dreams, as you protected your community tonight. My beloved knight.” 

Warmth spreads from Dream’s fingertips like sweet treacle, coating Hob’s veins and numbing any lingering pain he feels. A part of him still wants to think about the continuing presence of violence in his life. A part of him wants to vent and rage about the way the night was ruined for everyone involved. 

But those are worries for the morning. When he’s not comfortably nestled in the arms of the man he loves. They are worries for when he is able to make it out of bed without howling in pain. When Hob is healed and ready, he’ll pick up the fight once again. He always does. 

But for now, it’s enough to close his eyes, and follow Dream into his Realm for a night of peaceful sleep. 

[steventhusiast]

STWG prompt 11/2/24

prompt: date night

pairing/character(s): steddie, hellfire club

it's valentine's week!! hopefully i can do all the prompts this week :)

"And with that, the barkeep..."

Eddie pauses in his storytelling to glance away from the notes hidden by his DM screen and over to the clock. His eyes widen at the time. Is it really 7:53pm already? Shit.

"With that, this session is over. You'll find out what happens with the angry barkeep next week!"

Everyone in the room groans at that, a chorus of 'seriously's and 'what the hell, Eddie's starting up even as he hurries to put his notes back into his DnD folder, and dumps all his dice into his bag haphazardly.

No one seems to notice for a moment, too busy complaining about the cliffhanger, when Gareth suddenly pauses and examines Eddie with a curious look on his face.

"Hold on, you promised we'd finally find out more about the temple this session? Where was that?"

Eddie huffs in response, and doesn't even look up as he starts folding his DM screen.

"Yeah, that was before you guys decided to talk to every single person at the tavern for an hour and start a barfight."

"That's never stopped you from getting us to where you want us before!"

"Yeah!" "Exactly!" "Please, Eddie. What happens with the barkeep."

Eddie waves a hand at everyone, and looks up to see the younger kids complaining quietly to each other, and his closer friends still seeming to inspect him carefully. He supposes they're valid in that; he's not one to back down from his plans, and has never cut off a session like this before.

But. Today is special. Today he has...

"Oh my god, you have a date." Jeff suddenly says, his eyes a little wider than usual as he grabs at Freak's arm.

"What?! Who the fuck would he have a date with?" Freak scoffs.

Eddie ignores the blush fighting to appear on his cheeks and starts collecting all of his figurines scattered around the table.

"Eddie has a date?" Mike suddenly joins in from across the room.

And, great, now the baby sheep are involved too.

"It is none of you guys's business what plans I have after this session. But, really, I gotta go." Eddie tries, but now Dustin's attention is on him as well.

"That's so funny! Steve has a date tonight too- that's why we had to ask Nancy to pick us up tonight." He says with a laugh.

Eddie laughs along with him, a little strained now because Gareth, Jeff and Freak are now squinting at him.

"Yes.. What a coincidence." Gareth says slowly as Eddie continues to pointedly avoid eye contact.

"Anyway! Got a lot to, uh. Do. Running a bit behind schedule actually, so if you could.." Eddie says as he finally finishes shoving everything back into his backpack and throws it over his shoulder, gesturing toward the drama room's door.

The younger kids leave without much complaint, but Gareth, Jeff and Freak hang back and walk slowly alongside Eddie.

"So... Steve Harrington?" Jeff asks once the kids are out of earshot, his tone a little disbelieving.

"Don't say it like it's a bad thing!" Freak slaps him on the shoulder disapprovingly as he speaks.

"It's not a bad thing! Just.. unexpected!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Eddie tries.

"Sure, sure. Enjoy your totally not a date night that's totally not with Steve 'the hair' Harrington." As Gareth says that, they've finally reached the doors and Eddie can well and truly escape.

He's going to have to break a few road laws if he wants to get to Steve's on time. It's only their third date, so sue him if he wants to try to make a good impression.

Even if Steve's been his friend for a few months now, and already knows about his horrible time-keeping skills.... It's still worth a try. Anything to woo Steve Harrington.

-

part two

[zvdvdlvr]

Ummm hiiiiii we need to talk more about the concept of "who did this to you" genre hotch because 1 you're so correct and 2 that's one of my favourite tropes

Also hello! 🤭

Hihihi :))

I’m literally a slut for ‘who did this to you?’ and the one bed trope so I have some things to say 😮‍💨😝😏

Probably not the most savory of ideas, but imagine Aaron accidentally walking in on y/n changing a shirt, seeing scars on her back that were trailing over to her stomach. Aaron knows that y/n hadn’t been kidnapped or tortured by any unsubs, so...?

You faced the window of the hotel, looking down on the civilians below. You had already changed your pants, but you wanted to let yourself cool down because of course you had to go Texas right after bring tackled by an unsub (your ribs and back are still sore).

“Agent l/n, are you re-“ Hotch asks, practically busting the door open without even knocking.

You fumble for your shirt and shove your arms through their respected positions, turn around, and pray your boss didn’t see what you think he saw.

“L/n,” Hotch started, voice lethally quiet as he walked slowly over to you. “Turn around. That’s an order.”

You sighed. “I don’t see how this is necessary.”

“I do. Compramization of my agent’s well being? Harrassing a federal agent? Physically assulting a federal agent?” He ranted, voice sharp.

You bit your lip, looking from Hotch’s eyes to the floor. That’s when his expressiom softened.

“Please, y/n,” he pleaded with that smooth voice of his.

“I- he was an ex of mine, Hotch. There’s nothing more to know,” you shrugged, clipping your badge to your belt and clearly signaling that you were done with the conversation.

“Let me see. I just…”

“You just…?” You prompted.

In all honesty, Aaron wanted to see the scars because he wants to know what you had to go through when he wasn’t there. Aaron wanted to see the scar tissue, run his fingertips over it, and truly realize how strong you are for going through that and still being one of the mentally and physically toughest people Aaron knew. “Please, y/n.”

Heaving a massive sigh, y/n turned around and let Aaron pull the hem of the shirt up. Yes, y/n scarred easily (Aaron learned that after y/n got burnt by an oven at Rossi’s), but seeing the marred skin felt like a knife into Aaron’s gut. He drifted his pointer finger of the skin, watching y/n shudder slightly at the touch.

“Who did this to you?” Aaron asked again, his voice softer now. “Please tell me.”

So you told him. Every detail. Everything that happened.

— 🧠

GOD BLESS IT id do anything to be one of hotch’s coworkers who got into a barfight, bleeding and bruised, and show up at his house because ‘he would know what to do’

my brain is braining, but hands are writing the way i want

[pastelwitchling]

I have a prompt

I sent a thing a while ago that you agreed with about Michael's knuckles always being scraped cause he protects Alex's head

Could you write it? Like everyone else is mad at him cause they're convinced he fought someone and they want to know who and he's just sitting there smirking like "it was a brick wall" cause it was from having sex

@brittz-2123 

***

It was a running joke between Alex and Michael that Alex had never thought was very funny. However, because Alex was just as guilty in being unable to control himself, he knew he was partly to blame for the gag and let Michael run wild, which was never a very smart thing to do. Basically, it all started after they’d openly gotten together and Alex had rid himself of the fear of Michael getting hurt if someone were to spot them making out in public, so now, and every chance he got, he pulled Michael in against him and crashed their mouths together and kissed his cowboy senseless, with no one to tell him he couldn’t.

It . . . had gotten to be a bit of a problem, mostly because Michael tended to be overprotective in everything he and Alex did, including sex. Not that he couldn’t go feral when they started – it was one of Alex’s favorite things and the thought of which always had him pulling Michael in against him again and again – but he was protective of Alex’s body from rough surfaces. Unless Alex specifically said he wanted to be hurt, Michael’s hands were always there; hitching Alex’s right leg up against his own thigh so that his limb wasn’t hanging off the truck bed and at risk of going numb; or keeping Alex’s arms held up around his own shoulders so that Alex’s elbows wouldn’t hit the hard rocky ground; or – and the most troublesome, because it left a mark – was Michael’s habit of protecting Alex’s head from stone brick walls.

It left his knuckles scraped and bloody, and while Alex always felt like crap when seeing it, Michael quickly assured him that the pain only turned him on more, and it was really hard to argue with Michael when he was crowding into you, already hard again and eager for another round.

Still. It left questions. Mostly from Liz, Maria and Isobel, who were convinced Michael was starting up barfights again. Alex had no idea initially what their suspicions were, only that he would go to the bathroom at the Wild Pony and come out to find Michael surrounded by the women and looking extremely pleased with himself for some reason. Yet the women never told Alex what was going on, only looked at him protectively, as though warning Michael not to upset him which was especially odd.

Then one day, as Liz was dropping off a lasagna Max had made them, he turned from the fridge to find her fiddling with her purse strap. Not used to seeing Liz hesitant about anything, he was about to ask what was wrong when Liz suddenly blurted –

“Michael’s getting into fights.”

Alex blinked. “Come again?”

“Look, we didn’t want to tell you, okay?” she huffed, her eyes doing that miserable puppy thing, “But we confronted him about it, and he keeps smiling about it like he’s happy he’s doing it!” She shook her head, disbelieving, “I just – we all thought he was past this, you know? But we didn’t know if you knew, because there’s no way you know and he’s still this proud about it, and we warned him it would break your heart if you knew and he actually started laughing and dared us to tell you, and I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but –”

“Hold on,” Alex shut his eyes. “Rewind. Explain to me why you think Michael’s starting up fights again?”

So Liz told him about how she, Maria, and Isobel had all noticed his bloody knuckles, so what other explanation could there be?

Alex’s face turned red. “Ah,” was all he said, but Liz nodded sympathetically like he’d broken down into tragic sobs.

“I know,” she said softly, “I know. I’m going to kill him for you, don’t worry. How dare he try to hurt you like this?”

“Um –”

“Max isn’t even taking it seriously, and when I tried asking him why Michael would be doing this, he just keeps avoiding my eyes and saying that he was sure we misunderstood, but come on! What else could get his hands looking like that?”

“Well –”

“And Isobel says Kyle’s telling her the same thing! What’s with them?! We thought Max loved Michael more than anything and Kyle felt the same about you, and they’re just letting Michael fall back into old habits?”

“He’s not,” Alex said, and the two words stopped Liz short.

“I –” she blinked, “Alex, I know you don’t want to believe it, but –”

“Liz,” he said steadily, face hot but still unwilling to listen to any slander against his Michael. “He’s not.”

She frowned. His tone brooked no argument, and she must’ve heard it for what it was. Alex never pretended to be sure about anything. If he said something was fact, then it was.

“Then what’s going on?”

Alex heaved a long shaky sigh. As protective as he was over Michael’s good name, he also . . . really hated him in this moment. He imagined his cowboy laughing his head off at the prospect of Alex explaining away the accusations. He was going to kill him.

“We get rough,” he said simply.

Liz tilted her head. “Rough?”

“Rough,” Alex said through gritted teeth, and then in one breath, and unable to look at Liz, finished, “and he always wants to protect my head, okay?”

It took Liz a second to process. For a genius, she was really taking her time digesting this new bit of information. It made Alex squirm.

Then she slumped onto the stool. “Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh.”

              Alex shook his head, looking everywhere but at Liz.

              “I have to say,” she said simply, critically, “I always thought you were an animal in bed. Maria and I both owe Isobel fifty bucks.”

              “I really am going to kill that man,” Alex muttered, turning back to the fridge to bury his woes in lasagna.

***

No eye surgery is going to keep me from writing malex! Happy Malex Monday ❤️

[tigertofu]

Hate to love headcanon between a fem!reader and North Yankton Trevor :)

fuck ya love the whole hate to love thing sm 😭 ...... also im sorry i struggle at making headcanon lists that are just pure n simple LISTS as they should be w/out slipping in some form of narrative sometimes and this prompt just lends itself to a story so well..... so this is some sort of half fic/half headcanon list monster. but hey this was rlly fun to write !!! ty as always for requesting 💞💞

pairing: fem reader/Trevor

summary: headcanons/short fic thing about a hate to love relationship between reader and North Yankton Trevor.

cw's: mentions of sex, alcohol

wordcount: 1,714

for narrative’s sake, let’s say that you are a small–time criminal in one of the many little podunk towns of North Yankton. one day, you catch wind of a new crew that’s set up in the area. four guys: a computer–hacking tech whiz of some sort; a big lug of a brute with a penchant for starting unnecessary barfights; a smaller, scrappier brute who’s already sniffed out and either done business with or scared off all the drug peddlers in town; and a stern ringleader who only barely manages to control his anger issues better than the others.

unbeknownst to you though, this crew has also caught wind of you. and one night, as you’re trudging through the snow to your shitty little studio apartment from the grocery store, a car pulls up alongside you and the window rolls down. the driver introduces himself as Michael. he tells you he’s heard about you; heard about how you’re one of the better thieves in the county. he tells you he’s got work for you, if you’ll take it. and ever the opportunist, you do.

a week later, you head out to meet the rest of the men you’ll be working with. they’re currently squatting in an old, abandoned hunting cabin out in the woods that border town. as you sit down for beers and talk with Michael and the computer guy—who introduces himself as Lester—you get a brief rundown of the crew’s history. they hit banks. this tends to cause a stir, so they’re almost always on the run; they landed in their current safehouse just two weeks before. while Lester and Michael cook up plans for the bigger, more dangerous heists, they make a living off of smaller endeavors. holding up gas stations, gutting truck shipments of electronics that Lester then sells off, sticking up gas stations and liquor stores. this is where you come in: there’s a well–to–do pawn shop in town, and Michael wants to hit it. but the people in your town are weary of outsiders, and the heat from the crew’s last bank job hasn’t died down yet. Michael wants you to go in and case the joint for them and, if you’re up to it, help them hit it.

right after you agree (so long’s you get a fair cut of the profits), the wooden door to the cabin slams open. two men stumble in. their faces are red from the cold and, when they get within your smelling range, you realize from booze, too. one’s tall, built like a truck, blond; the other’s got the scraggly, dark brown ends of a mullet peeking out from the edges of his askew trapper hat. there’s something animalistic in his eyes and in his drunken smirk and when he turns his gaze on you, you realize that despite his disheveled everything, he’s actually quite handsome. and you feel Something. a spark or a pang in your chest.

but then he turns to Michael and slurs, “If we’d’ve known you were getting a call girl tonight, Brad and I wouldn’t’ve stayed out so long!” and that Something instantly snuffs out as you now glare at the man with the mullet. you tell him you aren’t a fucking call girl as Michael lets out an exasperated huff and says “Shut the fuck up, Trevor.” but this Trevor guy has seemingly taken a liking to you. he saunters up to you, wavering on his feet, smirking like a cat with a mouse. asks you if you’re sure you don’t wanna make a bit of money tonight, ‘cuz he’s feeling awful lonely and you’re just a real pretty thing. you roll your eyes, tell Michael to keep in contact with you, and make your leave. you slam the door of the cabin shut on Trevor’s pleas to stick around and have some fun.

as you periodically meet up with Michael’s crew over the course of the next few weeks, your mild distaste for Trevor deepens to downright hate. sure, you think he’s attractive and you find some of his obscene jokes and observations funny, but mostly you just find them disgusting. every time he sees you he tries to coax you into bed with him, or convince you into a quickie in the car, or offers you a hit off his well-loved meth pipe, or asks you out on a date to the local tavern. you decline him every time, each “no” growing firmer and snappier. you don’t know why he makes you so mad. maybe it’s because if only he wasn’t so fucking annoying, you’d have fucked him by now.

the pawn shop heist goes well. so well, in fact, that Michael decides to keep you on for their next job: hitting a electronics store in a town a couple hours’ drive away. he sends you and Trevor alone to scope the place out. at some point during the drive, an argument erupts. Trevor asks you why you hate him. you tell him because. he asks what "because" means. you lose your temper, wondering why he chose to have this conversation now of all times, as you’re driving down an empty country lane through a nighttime snow flurry. you put on the brakes and park up on the side of the road and yell at him that you hate him because he’s disgusting, he’s pushy, and he drives you fucking crazy. as you catch your breath from your tirade, he is ominously silent. and then, in a low rumble that makes you feel things you wish it didn’t, he tells you that you drive him crazy, too. 

you kiss him for the first time then and there, if only to get him to shut up. you fuck him for the first time then and there, too. an intense mix of hatred and lust that you’ve never felt before makes it rough going. while he’s got you twisted into a pretzel in the back of the car, fucking you like an animal, he keeps trying to praise you: telling you’re pretty when you’re mad, that he knew you had nice tits, etc etc while you keep snarling at him to shut the fuck up. 

it’s good though, and addictive. from that day onwards, all your fights lead to angry sex. if you two start arguing in front of the others, you will both “disappear” soon after the yelling stops. if you two start arguing when alone—which starts to happen more frequently because, despite butting heads, you start to be okay with him showing up at your place unannounced—the spat will turn mid–fight into fucking. 

at first, you insist on parting ways immediately after both of you are re-clothed. but then one night, after having sex in your bed, Trevor doesn’t get up to leave right after. he lays beside you, one arm slung over your bare stomach, his head face down in your pillow. and for some reason, you don’t try to push him out of your bed. 

eventually, post–coital cuddling joins the mix. at first it feels wrong and gross. you haven’t quite gotten used to the various bad smells that usually cling to Trevor. but there’s something comforting about being in the arms of someone and having your arms around them after the intense emotional releases of an argument and fast, desperate sex. 

he starts to stick around for long after you’ve both had your more physical needs fulfilled. you start to engage him in non–shouting conversation; start to get to know more about him. and then one day when he comes over, and there isn’t any arguments at all. just talking, drinking beers, and the slowest—which is still rough by most people’s standards—sex you two have had yet. he has a habit of sputtering out frantic “I love you”’s during sex, and it’s always annoyed and repulsed you. but this time is different. you tell him you love him to as you feel him finish inside of you. 

as soon as your feelings are made known, he starts to relentlessly tease you. "Oh, but I thought you hated my guts!" he'll tease you about this so much that you'll start to actually hate his guts again during these moments when he pesters you.

for a few wonderful months, whatever is going between you two turns into a relationship. there isn’t much work for Trevor to do during this time, aside from prepping for some vague, big heist that Michael has cooked up for the crew. 

by now, the other guys have long figured out what’s going on between you two. Brad frequently teases Trevor about it. Michael says he doesn’t care who fucks who, so long’s it doesn’t get in the way of your guys’ criminal careers. and it doesn’t. things go well, until—

eventually the day of Michael's big heist he's been talking up comes around. they're robbing a cash depot in town. you aren’t there for it; banks are a bit more dangerous than the marks you’re comfortable with robbing. Michael knows this and insists you sit this one out. but Trevor promises to swing by your place to lay low for a bit after the deed is done. all day you look forward to it, waiting for him to show up at your door with a big, manic grin on his face, ready to celebrate with drinks and a night in together. but then the time that he told you he’d show up at comes and goes. and then hours pass. night falls, and there’s still no sign of Trevor. you try calling him, but there’s no answer. as you lay in your bed alone that night, unable to sleep, you think that maybe the cash depot heist didn’t go according to plan and the boys had to skip town ASAP. you aren’t too worried, though. you know that Trevor can handle himself and you knew from the get–go that Michael’s crew is one that doesn’t like to stay stationary, so this was bound to happen eventually. so it’s not worry that keeps you awake until the early morning of the next day: it’s a bittersweet gratefulness for what little time you did get to spend with Trevor, and some slight regret that you hadn’t stopped hating him sooner. 

[aphfanficwriters]

Writing Prompt: “Bite”

Bite by Delgumo (Lithuania/Poland) Feliks helps Toris while he's in wolf form.

The bite by mossy_man (Prussia/Russia) “Is someone here?” he called. Thin beam of flashlight danced in his hand.

Home by veetyuh (Ireland/Northern Ireland) Ciarán gets into a barfight.

[laceyjane44]

GaaSaku 2023 FanFest Day5

Prompt: Inverse Trope (Opposites Attract)

Splitting headache, throw up barely washed out of his crocs, and in the heart of a double shift; Gaara was ready to regret every second of schooling that allowed him to practice medicine.

His rounds had been chaos ever since night fell over the Emergency Room of Nara Medical Hospital. During the evening, it was manageable; a couple kids with a break here and a sprain there, a few middle-aged guys that got a little too cocky with the power tools, an unknown allergic reaction had been the highlight of the shift before. After his return from lunch, however, it had all started to go downhill.

He'd always heard stories of ER’s being overrun with abnormal admissions during nights of a full moon, or even patient wards being unusually active, though he was typically one to dismiss them. Gaara wasn’t a man of superstition, he favored practicality and reason, but this night was testing him. He’d even heard of a commotion in the parking lot near the ambulance bay but hadn’t made it anywhere close enough to the doors to check. As the night progressed, they received a few minor car accident patients, the leftover fray of a barfight brought in by police, the last college girl to drink too much made it known all over his feet, and he still had five hours left.

Beyond ready for the end of his shift, he was tempted to say so when the on-staff doctor called him over to the triage desk. Shikamaru was fresh out of a four-year residency and had been hired on by his family’s hospital as a general practitioner. He was on duty in the ER this evening and, when Gaara responded to his call, he was looking over various charts and discussing something with the triage nurse while talking on the phone. Glancing over, Shikamaru nodded to Gaara and tried to finish up his phone call as quickly as possible.

Resting an elbow on the desk, Gaara looked outside the ER doors for the first time in hours; there looked to be some people gathered to the side, maybe there had been a commotion in the parking lot earlier, and a few distinct flashes illuminated toward the ambulance bay. He craned his neck trying to get a better view, was someone using a camera?

“Thanks for responding,” Shikamaru said breathlessly, pulling his attention. “I have to get scrubbed and assist in the last trauma to come in, I need you to take this patient.” He handed off a clipboard and pointed over to the occupied beds. The phone at the triage desk rang again and the nurse answered as Shikamaru continued. “Sounds like another fight, they might need stitches.” The nurse tapped the phone on his arm, intending to hand it to him. He took the phone and held it to his chest with an apologetic glance back at his RN. “You got that, right?”

Gaara nodded and Shikamaru turned to address the latest call to come in, expressing his haste just as much over the phone as well. It was going to be a long night.

Setting off across the unit, he weaved through fellow nurses pacing about, dodged a gurney that busted through a set of double doors, all the while glancing down at the notes on the clipboard. The patient; a recent admission with a blank name slot – odd, was in bed 22 and given how hectic his night had been, Gaara figured the injuries were serious if they were waiting for Shikamaru. Stopping by the wash station, he scrubbed his hands and threw on a fresh pair of gloves before heading over to the patient’s bed.

The curtains were drawn and, as he approached, he could hear a woman’s voice muffled behind the thin linin. “You could have gotten this taken care of already, but you didn’t want to. So, here we are.” She sounded disgruntled and he was sure he had another pissed off girlfriend after a street fight turned out poorly for her man.

Taking a deep breath, he readied his bedside manner, before pulling back the curtain.

He was anticipating the smell of alcohol, maybe a man sitting on the bed with a few dirty cuts or clutching an icepack to a swollen eye socket. He wasn’t expecting a woman hunched over the side of the bed with a messy head of pink hair pulled back in a high ponytail, a headband keeping the strays out of her face. Her skin was flushed and she looked a little dirty, maybe sweaty, and she wore just a plain sports bra and a pair of grey sweatpants. Instantly upon taking in her appearance he had noticed the toned ribbons of muscle that stretched down her arms, how defined her shoulders were against the curve of her neck. When she looked over to him as the curtain swished aside, her green eyes bright under the fluorescents, his throat went dry and his greeting died on his tongue.

She stared at him for a moment and he froze as she did. Her face was red and blotchy, she had an icepack held to her right cheek – her hands wrapped with craps of dirty athletic tape, and he could see now that she wasn’t covered in dirt; she was covered in bruises.

“Um, hello?” she asked quizzically, lowering her icepack and letting the bloody gash along her cheek finally come into view.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the woman standing to the side of the bed.

Gaara looked over and saw an older blonde woman staring him down as well, she had a phone in one hand and the other was on her hip, looking impatient and perplexed. “Oh, um, my apologies,” he stammered as he stepped closer to the woman on the bed. “My name is Gaara, can you tell me about what brings you in tonight?”

“Well, he’s bright,” the blonde woman sneered to herself, displeasure ringing clearly in her voice, before asking, “Where’s Doctor Nara?”

Gaara glanced back to her as his patient turned her cheek and presented her injury to him, well…the worst of them at least. “Doctor Nara is on an important call,” he explained.

The woman scoffed, already dialing some number into her phone. “What’s the point of even bringing her here when we can’t see him?” She held the phone up to her ear, grabbed her purse and placed a hand on his patient’s shoulder. “I’ll sort this out and find you something to drink, be right back.”

She left the bedside and the linen curtains swished closed behind her, leaving Gaara cut off from the rest of the ER and alone with his patient. The atmosphere suddenly felt heavy. He’d seen people come in as beat up as she was before, worse even, but she sat with such a languid posture, so aloof to the chaos around her, it was like she was completely unbothered.

“What’s your name?” he asked, taking a cotton swab from the small utilities cart and soaking it in alcohol.

She squinted at him as she glanced over, but didn’t turn her head as not to interrupt him. He began dabbing the dried blood from under her eye and where it had dripped down her cheek. “You don’t know?”

“Somehow, your mom filled out your paperwork without a name.” He pulled back the alcohol swab when she cracked a smile and laughed.

Such a pretty smile for such a bloody face, his heart started to thump in his chest. He supposed his other patients hadn’t been quite like her though; she was calm, alert, she wasn’t even flinching when he dabbed the dried blood away from a tender bruise forming around her right browbone.

“Figures,” she sighed, that faint smile still present, and introduced herself. “Sakura Haruno, and she’s not my mom; she’s my agent.”

Throwing out the used cotton, Gaara grabbed another and continued cleaning the area around her wound. “Your agent?”

“Yeah, she knows the Nara’s and took me here to keep a low profile from the media. I’m a professional MMA fighter,” she explained casually, smirking a little when Gaara’s eyes widened.

“So, all this…” he said, alluding to her current disheveled state.

Sakura nodded, grinning. “Just another day on the job,” she bolstered with a click of her tongue. “I just finished my regionals tour with another victory, too. You should have seen my opponent tonight.”

“This isn’t an assault, then?” he asked just to clarify.

She shook her head and dismissed the notion entirely.

Using all of his professionalism to keep it hidden, Gaara felt a heavy wave of relief; he always appreciated knowing he didn’t have to make a good-will phone call to the police. “I think she’ll be disappointed to see you may have drawn a crowd either way.” Sakura snickered; he wondered if she was used to the attention. “Did your agent say something about letting this go untreated?” Gaara continued.

Sakura nodded, scooting back on the bed a little. She dangled her legs off the side, bouncing her heels against the frame, and waited for him to follow the step toward her; watching him all the while. He paused, looking down when he repositioned his feet, and he became very conscious of the defined silhouette of her thigh when she nonchalantly knocked her knee against him, playing it off as an accident. He swallowed as he proceeded with cleaning the wound and the surrounding area of her Zygomatic region, suddenly remembering that he hadn’t showered in two days and he was 8 hours in to his third double shift that week. Hadn’t someone thrown up on him earlier?

“I didn’t want to wait around for the other girls to get treated,” she explained. “First come, first served, and when you’re the winner; everyone wants to take your picture and get a post-fight interview. Plus,” she said, absentmindedly wetting her lips. She looked him up and down and he was sure he was sweating now. “I love my job for the sport, not the press, so I don’t like to stick around for picture time after fights.”

He cleared his throat and stepped back to welcome some air between them. “How’d you get the laceration?”

Her eyes bore into his and he pondered if he’d ever found a woman in such a state as beautiful as she was frightening before today. “You don’t get to my level by fighting pussies; I got kicked in face.”

God, Gaara thought as he looked down to the trash bin and threw away the used cotton swab. She could eat me alive. “You’ll need a suture,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice the slight waver in his voice as he returned to the medical cart and began opening drawers, looking for something that wouldn’t mar her face any further.

From behind him, Sakura lounged back on the stiff emergency room bed and drank him in; tall and lean, broad shoulders and dark red hair. She liked his voice catching a little, and he was cute when he was nervous, too, probably didn’t even notice that he’d been starting to blush. She grinned to herself, her tongue probing somewhere on the inside of mouth, the dull taste of iron, and her next words were smooth and quiet between them. “You gonna stitch me up, Doc?”

Gaara nearly dropped the packet of butterfly sutures when he heard her voice drop. Steadying his hands, he was thankful he didn’t need any needlework for this one, and returned a sheepish, “Sorry,” as he turned around. “I’m just your nurse.”

He froze in place once he fully faced her, jaw locked shut, sure that his eyes had gone wide.

Leaned back as she was, he could see the toned plane of her stomach give way to the soft curve of her breast, see the fabric of her sweatpants pull against the shapely muscles of her thighs as her knees swayed back and forth. Sakura popped her tongue and the sound punctuated an anxious sweat precipitating at the back of his neck.

Like she didn’t even feel the cut on her cheek, Sakura let a sly smirk pull at her features and, with that same low and raspy voice, said, “Even better.”

Thanks for reading!

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaceyJane

FanFiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2120361/WiccadBaltane0501

[offsidekineticist]

This is my reply to @cassynite's ask that I accidentally deleted (I'm sorry!!) for the childhood ask game, asking for one where Theoven is misbehaving.

Decided to skip ahead a few years to when they're the gnome equivalent of tweens/teens. Theoven finally gets a break from being traumatized so he can start taking baby steps towards his WOTR class while I traumatize Regill instead. Not sure how I feel about this one - the prompt was great, and it was fun to write, but it kinda got away from me lengthwise, and I'm getting slightly irritated with my brain's apparent inability to write comedy without angst :P

CW: character deeply self-conscious about his voice; adults bullying a kid; minors and alcohol; a barfight; a kid fighting adults; the bleaching manifesting as dysthymia and passive suicidal ideation; an explosion; and the heartless abduction of an innocent toothbrush.

There is no legal minimum drinking age in Brastlewark. The pubs and taverns there have a sort of gentleman’s agreement that they will only regularly serve adult gnomes. The word “regularly” is included here because it is a rite of passage for almost every child in Brastlewark to “sneak” into a pub or tavern and “trick” the bartender into thinking they are old enough to drink. The bartenders usually proceed to serve them the most disgusting, stomach-turning swill they can find and watch as the youngsters try to pretend to enjoy it before leaving and refusing to touch drink again until well into adulthood.

You do not know this, however. You are just a child–an older child with a few stray hairs on your upper lip, but a child nonetheless. You only know that you and your brother are the only two in your cohort who have yet to have your first drink, and your father is starting to get worried.

“Seriously, never? You’ve never snuck into a pub or stolen a sip from the liquor cabinet?” Dad asks incredulously. Regill glares at you–you’re the one who always refused such adventures, not that he ever pushed particularly hard. While you are no longer as worried as you were when you first arrived in Brastlewark, the idea of purposefully dulling your senses and leaving yourself vulnerable makes your stomach turn. You’ve almost come to accept there are no monsters in Brastlewark, but you’d rather not be drunk when you find out there are. “I just…Well, I suppose you’re just late bloomers," your father finishes.

After that, Regill holds your toothbrush hostage until you agree to a trip to the tavern. You pick a seedy bar across the Brastle River from where you live in the hopes that the barkeep won’t recognize you. You’ve made false mustaches from locks of your hair and glue you swiped from your fathers lab (hopefully it’s just glue and not something else–you never can tell with your father’s lab), and now you go into the pub, and you realize you have no idea what to order.

You turn to your brother but quickly realize there’s no way you’ll be able to convince him to speak in front of all the strangers in the bar. Ever since his voice started changing, he has been speaking less and less in front of other people, to the point that the former chatterbox is now practically mute in public lest a stranger hear his "freakishly low voice" (his words, not yours).

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

“Two drinks,” you say, and you immediately feel Regill staring at you with his ‘are you really this stupid?’ glare. You have nothing more specific, though, so you leave it at that, hoping that a projection of confidence will cover up the blunder.

“Two drinks, eh?” the barkeep asks, and for a moment you feel your heart freeze in your chest because oh stars he knows! But then he nods with a grin and gets two glasses. “Coming right up!”

You and your brother exchange surprised looks, and in spite of yourself you feel a surge of excitement. You may not be particularly enthused about drinking, but all this sneaking around and subterfuge is exhilarating. You can tell Regill is just as excited from the way he starts squirming in his seat.

The bartender puts your drinks on the bar and your excitement immediately shifts into anxious skepticism. You’re not entirely sure what alcohol is supposed to look like–your father has a tendency to reuse bottles without stripping the labels, so it’s hard to say whether something is a bottle of brandy or the waste products from his latest experiment–but this murky green liquid is not what you were expecting. You look at the glass dubiously, uncertain as to whether you really want to drink this.

Your brother has no such qualms. He takes the glass and immediately attempts to chug the drink, only to quickly spit out what he can and start choking on what he can’t. You jump off your stool to start slapping your brother’s back in a frantic effort to help him.

A trio of half-bleached gnomes on the far end of the bar starts laughing. “What’s the matter, kid? Not used to the burn?” they chortle, and you move to block Regill’s view of them.

“You ok, Redge?” He nods before one last cough.

“Hey, kid, nice shave!” calls one of the trio, and the two of you realize that whatever the bartender had sold you can dissolve the glue you and Regill used to secure your mustaches. Half of Regill’s mustache is now floating in his drink, and the other half hangs lopsided over his mouth. You can practically feel the heat coming off Regill's face as he realizes how he must look. “Little trendsetter here has found a whole new way to wear a mustache!”

“Shut up!” Regill shouts, immediately regretting it when the trio’s laughter is renewed.

“Hey, bartender, what the fuck you put in this kid’s drink? He sounds like a fuckin’ ogre!” You dont even wait to see your brother's reaction - you're already rushing the trio.

You’ve gotten into many fights on Regill’s behalf over the years. Before becoming so self-conscious about the register of his voice, he didn’t seem capable of shutting up, which of course ruffled feathers. But you’ve never fought adults on his behalf before. And you’ve certainly never done so in a tavern.

Well. There’s a first time for everything.

You have a deceptively powerful right hook for your size, and you’re pleased to see that it can take down an adult as easily as it takes down children. The two remaining gnomes jump up from their stools, stare at their fallen friend, and then, with enormous grins on their faces, shout,

“BAR FIGHT!”

The entire tavern erupts into chaos. It seems everyone has been waiting for this, drawing alchemical flasks and slings and rubber chickens and who knows what else. One of the gnomes who was laughing at Regill swings his stool and breaks it over your head.

(Considering that it barely hurt at all, the stool was almost certainly designed to do that.)

You give the gnomes a bloodthirsty grin–you’ve been in many fights, but this is a whole new level of exhilaration–and then, just because you feel like it, you quote an old poem you once memorized, roaring at them: “The old despise the young because the young will write their gravestones!"

Something shifts on the old gnomes’ faces as you lunge at them–a realization, perhaps, that while you’re enjoying this, you’re not playing around, and that you’re perhaps not as green as your false mustache would suggest. The moment passes when one of them sticks his arm out just in time for you to smash your face into it and crash to the floor.

“Try this for a gravestone!” the other exclaims, climbing onto the bar and then jumping off it. You watch almost in slow motion as his feet come closer and closer, bracing for the broken ribs that will surely result–

Only for him to completely overshoot and land on the floor to your left. His leg gives out under him, and he shouts out in pain about his bad knee. His friend hurries over to help him up, and someone grabs your cloak and pulls you up on your feet.

“C’mon, time to go,” the bartender says, dragging you behind the bar.

“Aw, but the fun’s just started!” you complain with a grin, because this is the most alive you’ve felt in years.

“Half the gnomes in this place are bleaching!” he exclaims, and as if to emphasize his point, everyone in the left half of the tavern spontaneously turns into chickens. You grin even wider at the development. Yes, half the gnomes in this place are bleaching and prone to dangerous and bizarre behavior, but that doesn’t bother you because, despite your youth, you’re bleaching, too.

“Besides,” the bartender continues, realizing you’re still undeterred, “you really gonna leave your pal crying by himself?"

That gets your attention. In all the excitement, you had forgotten why you had started this fight in the first place. You look around the chaos frantically for your brother, but he's nowhere you can see. “Where is he?” you demand.

“This way,” the bartender says, leading you through the kitchen and out the back door. Sure enough, in the alley behind the tavern, huddled on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees is Regill, the hood of his cloak pulled up over his head to hide his face as he takes ragged breaths between sobs.

You drop by his side and wrap your arms around him. He roughly worms his way out of your grasp. “M’fine,” he sobs. “Not crying. It’s that…that stupid drink….makes it….I think I’m allergic.”

(It is not that stupid drink, and he is not allergic)

“Look…I’m really sorry,” the bartender says. “Those three start shit almost every night, but this is honestly a new low for them. Nice job laying Phrandimus out, though. Asshole’s been asking for it for months.” He chuckles for a moment and stops when he sees neither you nor your brother are laughing. “Hey, uh, look. How about you two come back another time during the day when I’m setting up–no disguise necessary–and I’ll get you both a shot of the good stuff, no charge. The actual good stuff, not that shit I gave you tonight.”

Regill, still sobbing, only shrugs. Before you can say anything, a window in the side of the building - a good twenty feet away from you - explodes outward, shards of broken glass and a ball of smoke and fire erupting outwards before dissipating. You hear a shouted “OOPS! SORRY ABOUT THAT!” from inside, and the bartender rushes inside with a string of curses.

“We should probably go,” you say, eying the tavern with both longing and wariness. Regill nods, and with a shaky breath he stands up. You try to put an arm over his shoulder, but he shrugs you off. You walk in silence until you arrive at the bridge that spans the Brastle river, when Regill, now only sounding like he has a stuffy nose, suggests you stop at the river bank to remove your disguises. Regill easily pulls off the rest of his mustache and begins washing away the tearstains on his cheeks while you wrestle with your mustache.

“‘M’sorry,” he says before sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You were right. This was dumb.”

“I mean, really it was Dad’s idea,” you point out, ripping your fake mustache, the top layer of skin, and whatever actual hair was there off your upper lip with a hiss of pain. “And, hey, bartender said he’d give us the good stuff, no charge, so it wasn’t a total wash.” You have no idea what 'the good stuff' is, but you're willing to bet it isn't green.

“I guess.” He sniffles again. “Please don’t tell anyone about this. Ever."

“Of course not,” you say, surprised he even has to ask.

“Not even Dad,” Regill adds.

“Not even Dad,” you repeat solemnly, and Regill nods, satisfied. He takes a breath, and then, regaining his equilibrium, says “I didn’t really see, but it sounded like it got kind of crazy in there.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you say, eager excitement evident in your voice. “Somebody turned half the people in the bar into chickens, and someone else was throwing flasks of alchemist’s fire! And there were these people having a swordfight with swordfish, and a couple of others hitting each other with rubber chickens, and then there was one guy just jumping up and down on a whoopee cushion? Not sure what that was about. Oh, and one of those assholes that was laughing at you tried to jump off the bar to crush me after his buddy knocked me down, and, get this, he missed and hurt his knee! Idiot went and picked a fight when he's that bad at brawling, can you believe it?” You realize you’re grinning ear-to-ear completely involuntarily. You can’t remember the last time you were this excited about something.

Regill stares at you like you’re insane, and you realize that he doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. There’s a sort of exhaustion in your soul that he won’t know for years yet, so he can’t understand how intoxicating it feels to have that exhaustion banished, even if just for a moment. You wonder what it’s like to be like him–to wake up every day and live life without having to fight that exhaustion, that quiet urge in the back of your mind to stay in bed and let the bleaching run its course. Is it like the euphoria of being in a barfight, but every day? Is that what life is like for Regill?

You don’t know. You can’t know. You’ll never know. You’ll live your life as you always have, ignoring that urge to give in, watching the patch on your elbow slowly grow until it’s so strong you can’t ignore it, and then you will give in and it will swallow you up like it swallowed your mother. But in the meantime, you get the feeling there will be a lot more barfights.

[ageless-aislynn]

First off, I'm ashamed to admit I was too startled when I got the flirt option to actually click it, lol! I kicked myself immediately because I really wanted to know what they'd both say! And then, d'oh, of course, I remembered that Youtube exists and went looking for this!

I'm actually surprised at his response, I thought he'd laugh his head off at Sara or something but daaaaaang, Drack, what was that octave drop when he said "property damage?" 👀🤔😂

I love Drack, I just didn't expect to get the option to, you know, loooooove Drack, lol! 😂

I'm staying strong for Jaal, though, and YAY, we finally got a hug and he invited me to meet his mother, so PROGRESS. It's almost romancing time!

Jaal's ready to get his flirt on, yep. *nodnods* 😂

I'm nearly 90 hours in now and have done almost all of the side-quests so far. The hardest ones are the ones without any waypoints or indicators to let you know where to find a series of data pads or whatever. But I've decided to try to get all of them since I'm this close! Here's the benefit of doing lots of side-quests:

All my current worlds hit 100% pretty quickly, yay! My plan has been to established forward stations as soon as I move into a new area (since the weather or conditions are inevitably trying to kill you, so having a forward station to retreat to is very helpful) and to get the Remnant vaults working as soon as I can. *points to the part where the planet is inevitably trying to kill you* Then I work on the missions, tasks and quests without worrying that I'm going to freeze, burn or be fried by radiation. 😱😎👍

I've made good time on things, I think. Mainly because of my "prioritizing forward stations and vaults" strategy and just that I've gotten better at driving the NOMAD (I only had Cora scream, "RYDER, LOOK OUT!" one time -- and, to be fair, I was accidentally driving us off a cliff to our deaths on the asteroid with low gravity but hey, it was just ONE TIME *proud* 🤣😎👍). I've found a good load-out for my gear that suits my style as well: a Kett nightstick-looking thing for my melee weapon and a Widow sniper rifle and Hesh shotgun to give me power at both distance and up-close.

Vetra is my ride-or-die, I always bring her no matter what the mission, and Drack is excellent when you need a heavy hitter (don't fight one of those frigging ginormous Architects without your one-Krogan army!). I've got everybody as upgraded as possible so Cora is great at reviving everybody's shields, which has proved really helpful. And then I bring Jaal if I don't need heavy hitting or shield regenerating because, honestly, I think he gets a bit of cabin fever being left on the Tempest too long, lol! I love how he complains that he hates Kadara but if you keep finding him there and talking to him, Sara eventually will ask why he doesn't just stay on the ship and he pauses before saying that he's afraid he'll miss out on something. I love that he first appears to be this hulking alien warrior dude and then you start realizing he's actually very insecure about a lot of things. It's refreshing, honestly. 😍

Of course, now that I see Drack as a love interest option, I may have to change my playthrough plan...

*gigglesnort* Okay, so I know that he's not a romance option, but I do think it's way too much fun to get the option to flirt with him!

I really embarrassed myself in that barfight, BTW. I'd let Sara egg that dude on but I wasn't expecting a DODGE prompt to pop up and didn't have my hand on the controller so Sara got totally sucker punched. 😱 I reloaded a save point and redid that section because I couldn't let Drack down like that. You could tell he was so disappointed in me! 😐😉

Annnd that's my Mass Effect: Andromeda update of updateyness for today! 💃😁👍

[ervona]

Tav companion asks!

General 7, 11

Story 10, 12

Romaance 3, 11

Do they have their own personal quest that spans the course of the game? Can it take different branching paths depending on the choices the Player Character makes?

answered here! in short there's no epic battle for this warrior more than the fight within herself, with her own past and heavy feelings

Are there any moments in the game that trigger unique dialogue for your character? (Like Gale’s anecdote about the barfight after you save the goblin prisoner)

answered here! besides Icewind Dale anecdotes, I think she'd have unique dialogue when you recruit Minsc a bit more than with other companions, basically prompting the three of you to talk and those two have a lot to say, both are reminiscing on their berserker youth

How do they react if the PC licks the dead spider in the Gauntlet of Shar?

Isemay has eaten and will eat all kinds of stuff, giant bugs included, her comment will be something like "Save some for me, won't you?" jokingly but the second time "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Is it possible for your Tav to be kidnapped and replaced by Orin? How is Orin's deception revealed? How do they react to the PC rescuing them in the Temple of Bhaal?

it is! I love Orin and this quest so I've been thinking about how she would mimic Isemay and unfortunately it landed on something too similar to Lae'zel who was kidnapped in my game. Orin plays up the berserker stereotype of her being wild and unruly, so she gets into a fight with one of the companions, at which point Yenna tries to stop them and "Isemay" shoves her. now she despite a rough personality has always been gentle towards children so it should be a red flag... this Orin Isemay is over the top aggressive towards her companions

Are they a polyamorous or a monogamous option?

I was wondering for some time if she as a character is polyamorous because ocs tend to speak to me like that... but I'm not sure if she'd be a polyamorous option the way Halsin and idk who else is, only in the triad (etc) sense so if you're all in a relationship she'd be all for it

What are Tav’s plans for the future? Do they propose to the PC, or is marriage not something they’re interested in?

she doesn't propose, not because she's not interested in a long term partnership, on the contrary, she'll cling to you but she's in uncertain territory here and a bit scared which she hates to admit. she'd ask for something in the terms of traveling together to see the realms and in time (depends on the player's life expectancy to be honest) I believe the relationship would grow into whatever you're comfortable with!

[danse--macabre]

10 & 11 from general & 13 from story specific??

From this prompt list, for Tirazel:

https://www.tumblr.com/cheeky-quasit/732187789707378688?source=share&ref=spectrumcore

10. Are there any unique NPCs associated with your Tav that can show up during the course of the game?

Plenty! Tirazel has five siblings who show up at certain points (I have yet to name them and they are called A-E in my notes).

You first meet D, who appears sweet and charming, early in Act 1 - he breaks the news that her father's on the brink of death, but not dead yet, and he's the one who tries to recruit Tirazel into backing him when he pulls a coup in the crime syndicate. D is, of course, as a would-be ruler of a crime empire, rotten the whole way down, but it takes until Act 3 for that to become clear, he absolutely plays this swashbuckling knight role.

You then meet E in act 2, who's a ranger helping refugees in the shadowlands. E is Tirazel's sibling who was the scapegoat, hurt and abused by her father until they 'disappeared' when Tirazel was in her early teens. Turns out they managed to run away from whatever hell they were in. A kind soul, extremely morally absolute, a sound head on their shoulders, and absolutely not trusting of Tirazel because they believe Tirazel hasn't fully extricated themselves from her father's web yet - and is still both complicit and potentially a threat to E.

You meet Tirazel's siblings A, B, and C. A is the golden boy who has secrets and ambitions. C is the mean and cruel one, but the one who's perhaps most doggedly loyal to their father (A + C are NPCs you can choose to side with against D when you discover he's working for the Absolute). B actually refuses to do any work / be involved, spends their time drinking and writing bad poetry, is the NPC who's involved in the 'fake your own death' ending.

You meet Tirazel's ex girlfriend, Xlara. Xlara is a warlock of terrifying power who is currently imprisoned in a devil's realm, and was previously manipulative, abusive, and shitty, and exists, in my head, to flesh out the underworld we get into something more fractured, with lots of different factions and gangs outside of the Thieves' Guild loosening grip. Xlara is someone you can side with, instead of the Thieves Guild, if you want a guaranteed Bad Ending.

11. Are there any moments in the game that trigger unique dialogue for your character? (Like Gale’s anecdote about the barfight after you save the goblin prisoner) 

Tirazel is fairly tight-lipped about her future / her plans, but here are a few unique moments:

Necromancy of Thay – getting this and giving it to Tirazel, asides from opening a fun conflict with Astarion, will result in Tirazel, once she's decoded some of it, being persuaded into telling you about previous book heists (including into pocket dimensions) she's committed to get necromancy tomes, and the cost of acquiring and understanding this knowledge. She'll explain more of necromancy's unique history as a school of magic and some her opinions on how it works if you pass a few checks (compared to Gale, Tirazel is very precious with this kind of insider knowledge – she's quite secretive about the actual nature of it, and largely is more interested in just presenting as someone powerful to you).

Zhentarim – in Act 1, saving the Zhentarim from the Gnolls with Tirazel in your party will open unique dialogue where they recognise her and auto invite you to the base. Tirazel will try to urge you to kill them quickly, either before or after that conversation. If you do this, Tirazel will help you pass a check when you enter the Zhentarim base if you let her disguise herself beforehand. Any interaction with the Zhentarim without a disguise will lead to Tirazel coming clean with you about her family if she hasn't already, and a story about some of her father's dealings with the Zhentarim.

Dress Shop (forget name) at Wyrm's Crossing – You can have a conversation about disguises and masks, and why Tirazel likes to disguise herself, as well as her preferred disguise.

Thrumbo – You can actually have a dialogue with Tirazel about how she views the undead she uses - as puppets, as slaves, as people, etc. and can trigger a cutscene where she tries to converse with a zombie when she thinks you aren't looking.

13. How do they react to the PC either allowing Astarion to ascend or convincing him to spare the spawn? Read answer here [link]

(tl;dr, essentially how she reacts to Astarion's questline depends on her own, Tirazel is very ~handwave~ about morality but also a bit of a people pleaser who has been learning to stand up for herself for the past.... ten years or so? Astarion at his best can be a companion on her level, a comrade-in-arms-and-trauma who shares a similar outlook while they strive for each other's freedom; Astarion at his worst can be luring Tirazel sleepwalking back into terrible old habits that he can take advantage of and manipulate)

[rustbeltjessie]

Rust Belt Jessie’s NaPoWriMo 2023 Prompts: #10

dream on

Way back in 2004, I wrote a short story (which was supposed to turn into a full graphic novel, but never did, for reasons) about Sebastian Fatelli—a character who stood on the wet streetcorners of Baltimore, handing out dreams to passerby.

Nowadays, the poet Mathias Svalina runs a Dream Delivery Service, where he writes dreams (and nightmares; thought they cost more) and delivers them to people—by bike, if they’re nearby; by mail, if they’re not.

Here’s one of my favorites of his dream-poems, from his chapbook Some Dream Holidays:

(You may notice that Mathias’s dream holiday is a prose poem. Some people hate prose poems, or claim they’re not even really poetry.* So this is where I reiterate that I don’t make hard & fast distinctions between poetry and prose. I have written both short and long-form works that look like prose to the untrained eye, but are, conceptually, poems.)

So.

You could use this prompt to write a poem from a dream you’ve had, but I’m hoping you’ll do something more in the vein of Sebastian or Mathias. Dream of a dream. Write a (new) dream, or nightmare. Or you could take the seed of the idea from a dream you have had, then flesh it out with imagined details. Combine a real dream with a fake dream. Though, since both were created in your mind, which one’s more real is impossible to truly say. I guess it might be more accurate to phrase it as: Combine elements of a night dream, which came to you unbidden, with elements of a purposeful daydream.

Whichever way you go with this—whether writing about a dream you’ve had, making up a new dream (said I got new dreams!**), or combining the two—try to dive deep into that weird dream logic. You know, where things that you know to be not just false but completely ridiculous in waking life are accepted without question in the dream world. Like, you’re in San Francisco, and the geography looks right, but the buildings are ones that, in waking life, are located in Chicago. Or like, you’re lost in some random small town, and you have a map which shows you the path you need to follow to find your way out, but part of the path runs right through this random family’s house, and they see you walking through their house and aren’t mad but are like why are you in our house? and you’re like this is where the map told me to go! And then you make it through their house and get back outside and an unmellow yellow*** bird builds a nest in your hair. Or like, the heating vent under your grandmother’s bathroom sink is also a portal to hell. Or, as @MNateShyamalan put it in this tweet:

You can write it as a prose poem or a more traditionally structured poem, whichever feels right to you.

Bonus points if, after writing it, you give/send a copy to a friend or stranger.

—

*I once had someone tell me “they’re just badly written, extra-short fiction.” That guy thought all his opinions/thoughts on poetry were fact, and liked to argue with me about why all my opinions/thoughts on poetry were wrong. One time I got so mad about it, I nearly punched him in the middle of a crowded bar. I still think Barfights About Poetry would make a great name for a chapbook or zine or something.

**Got new dreams and I’m gonna make ‘em real! —Naked Raygun

***TIL: There is an actual Crayola color called “Unmellow Yellow.”

[madluluwriting]

J'ai publié 11 999 fois en 2022

C'est 3 734 billets de plus qu'en 2021 !

18 billets créés (0%)

11 981 billets reblogués (100%)

Les blogs que j'ai le plus reblogués :

@phoenixyfriend

@wrennette

@ryehouses

@blackkatmagic

@athingofvikings

J'ai étiqueté 85 billets en 2022

#kesett - 23 billets

#my writing - 17 billets

#star wars - 17 billets

#boba fett - 16 billets

#fanfic - 16 billets

#cal kestis - 13 billets

#next day reblog - 6 billets

#b&b au - 4 billets

#modern au - 3 billets

#space dads extraordinaire - 3 billets

Longest Tag: 120 characters

#boba seems a little embarrassed when he talks about his family but cal really would like to know more about all of them.

Mes billets vedette en 2022 :

n°5

The other day I went to watch a movie with my sister (it’s called En Corps for those frenchies interested in the background) and it was a great movie.

It was about a classical ballet dancer that has an accident and breaks her foot on scene. Very classic trope, very well executed. It’s about growing up as an adult, about your body, what you do with it and about dance. I loved it.

Except I spent almost all of the movie asking myself “who is she gonna end with”. And that’s maybe silly because I should have seen it coming. The accident of the beginning is because she sees her lover cheating on her as she’s about to enter the scene so maybe the reconstruction is about her heart too.

But I spent the entire movie asking myself why she had to be with someone by the end. Because I knew she would be.

The film would have been perfect for me if she had been single by the end. The rest of the story was awesome, all the threads and plot lines and the aesthetic. But she couldn’t be happy without being in a couple.

I have never been so frustrated to see the end where the girl gets better at the end. She’s beautiful, powerful, she gets back at pretentious specialized doctors that tell her she’ll never dance again. The story is amazing I cried and I laughed to tears.

But she has to be with someone. She can’t be powerful or beautiful or a wonderful human being if she’s single.

I didn’t understand that.

I think I’m aromantic.

16 notes - publié le 21 avril 2022

n°4

For the one-liner prompt list: anything you'd like with nr 2 - “I swear to god, I’ll beat you to death with my high heels, if you don’t shut the fuck up. ”

OMG I'm so sorry it took me so long to do this prompt ;; I hope you like it anyway! I went with a Kesett ModernAU.

CW include a drunk tank and shitty cop and a Non-Binary Boba in a dress and heels that I would kill for wearing as good as them.

♥

The officer is eying him with undisguised disgust. Oh that’s a nice alliteration that, undisguised disgust, undisguised disgust. The officer hits the cellbars with his fist, yelling at him to shut up. No fun. That one should get out and drink more often. Maybe he wouldn’t be such a killjoy.

Not that Cal usually goes out to drink which maybe is related to the fact he got himself in a barfight with his cellmate. Maybe. But he was alone and Merrin and Cere are like 75 percent of his impulse control. At least. Or maybe 80 percent.

Not that Merrin would have stopped him, the jerk that tried to feel up his gorgeous cellmate deserved it. He doesn’t regret breaking his nose at all. Even if his fingers are making him regret it at the moment and that, in the end, the mentioned cellmate really didn’t need his help. They have a mean right hook. And gorgeous legs to kick their target in the balls.

“Hey,” he calls them softly, “you awake?”

They groan and try to shield their eyes with their arm. He can’t fault them, the cell’s lighting is awfully bright and he’s not even hungover. He’s thirsty, though. The officers didn’t want to give anyone water. Something about making them pay for the intervention. Jerks.

“Hey,” he calls again a little louder.

“Sh’t up,” they groan, “m’ head hurts.”

Cal winces in sympathy and glances at the officer. The man scowls at him in return. Right… No help on this side obviously. He searches for the nearest source of light and tries to stand between it and his cellmate. They sigh in relief, brow smoothing out.

“Better?” Cal whispers.

They hum and crack an eye open to peer at Cal. He smiles gently and takes care to keep projecting his shadow in their face.

“Where?” they ask, voice thick and words slurring.

“Police station, drunk tank.”

They sigh, open the other eye and peer at Cal’s face with a scowl.

“You were at the bar…”

“Yeah, it was a nice fight. Who was that jerk by the way? The one that tried to grope your ass?”

“I swear to god, I’ll beat you to death with my high heels, if you don’t shut the fuck up,” they groan.

Cal winces and rubs at the back of his neck. It’s a bit hard to keep his eyes on the face of his cellmate. They still wear that dark green dress and the neckline is doing nothing to hide the width of their shoulders and the slope of their collarbone.

“Sorry,” he whispers, “I’m Cal.”

They glare at him, clearly feeling their hangover, then their gaze goes to his shoulders and turns calculating.

“Give me your jacket.”

“What? Why?”

“‘M cold. Must’ve left my leather at the bar when the cops came up.”

Cal rolls his eyes. He likes his jacket, it’s a gift from Cere for his last birthday because he was driving her crazy with his favorite poncho. The fake leather is dyed a dark blue-gray that makes his eyes pop and he even managed to avoid any spilled beer or anything in the fight. He sighs deeply and shrugs it off to hand it to his new friend.

“I’m Boba,” they say as they sit up, “nice to meet you.”

18 notes - publié le 18 mars 2022

n°3

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Boba Fett/Cal Kestis Characters: Boba Fett, Cal Kestis, Other Star Wars Character(s) (mentionned) Additional Tags: Break Up, Angst, Boba Fett Has Abandonment Issues, Boba Fett Needs A Hug, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Canon Compliant, for now Summary:

“I’m sorry Boba. It’s over.” “No. I don’t- You can’t… Cyare, please.” “But I can. I warned you once before that the Order is always first to me.”

20 notes - publié le 2 avril 2022

n°2

MerMay Kesett 👀 octopus!Boba cuddles?

I really wasn't expecting this but it was really fun to write! Thank you for this prompt nonnie!

♥♥♥

Cal sits on the edge of the pier and dips his feet in the water. He likes the quiet here when it’s still desert and the tourists are not about yet. It’s early, the sun barely rising above the horizon and the air is still cool from the night.

Later, he’ll go back to the beach to get the surf boards out and prep everything for the day. But this? This is just for him.

He feels the cool tentacle wrap around his ankle gently and he shivers. He doesn’t look down, it would ruin the surprise. He breathes in and stops himself from wiggling his foot. The weird slick surface slips on his skin when Boba tugs on his leg and he laughs.

“What are trying to do?”

“Getting your attention, is it working?”

Cal rolls his eyes and glances at Boba. He’s beautiful in the morning light like this. It makes the iridescent skin of his octopus part shine green. Boba grins at him and uses his lower limbs to haul himself out of the water and sprawl on his lap.

“Hm, a little. I missed you.”

He slips his hand in Boba’s hair, detangling the knots in his curls gently. His merman boyfriend sighs and cuddles closer, his tentacles curling in what Cal has learned means he’s enjoying himself.

“Coming tonight?” Boba asks with a yawn, “You said you wanted to study the algae.”

“After sundown? I wanted to look at the bioluminescence I saw last time.”

“It’s a date.”

Boba yawns again and tangles his limbs in Cal’s legs. He laughs, amused at his boyfriend’s antics. He knows Boba is more nocturnal than anything and that this is another attempt at keeping him for the day while he sleeps but he has work to do unfortunately. His marine biology doctorate won’t pay itself.

“Sweetheart, I can’t go to work like this.”

“Don’t care. Should stay with me all day. You got sunburn again last week. ‘t’s not good for you, working.”

“Well, we can’t all survive on sea water and raw fish.”

“I thought you liked raw fish!”

“Not all the time. I need more than this to stay healthy.”

Boba grumbles and lets his legs go slowly.

“Tonight?”

“I promise. You should go before someone come over and sees you.”

More grumbling and Boba slip back in the water with a yawn. He waves at him lazily and disappears under the water. Probably to his hide-out near the harbor where he can sleep until tonight. Cal glances at his legs and sighs. He’s gonna have to put on pants again today to hider the sucker marks.

30 notes - publié le 21 mai 2022

Mon billet n°1 en 2022

I want to like give you all the prompts, but I'll stick to one for now. Kesett and~

a character claiming they’re not going to do ~the thing~ but in the next frame is seen ~doing the thing~

I loved the prompt so much OMG It wrote itself a little so don't pay attention if there are typos. (also you can totally give me another one if you want xD)

* * * *

“You are a bad influence on my droid,” Cal whines and Boba snickers.

He shifts on the bunk, hanging his head upside down to look at his boyfriend who is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, and trying to glower at him. It’s not very impressive considering his eyes betray how fond he is of Boba’s antics.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that BD was never that bad about blowing things up before I met you.”

Boba arches a very dubitative eyebrow and Cal flushes.

“If that’s what you think, you should reconsider your memories of BD-1,” he snarks.

“I’m not the one always trying to solve my problems via flamethrower and explosives.”

“That’s unfair, sometimes I just disintegrate my bounty.”

Cal points an accusing finger at him.

“See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

Boba rolls over and sits up, his legs dangling from the top bunk where he was reading. He smirks at Cal when his eyes land on his crotch which is just at eye level for him.

“You have absolutely no ground to stand on cyare. If I remember correctly, you are always the one who ends up getting his lightsaber out in combat situation even while insisting that we’re supposed to stay discreet.”

“Wha- You- I’m not! I always go for the weapons in last resort!”

Boba rolls his eyes and jumps down, crowding Cal against the wall of their little bunkroom. He likes how proximity never misses on making the jedi blush and lose his words.

“Prove it, then.”

“Fine! I’ll show you, then. I won’t go for my lightsaber first thing the next time we end up in a fight and you’ll have to admit your bad influence on BD.”

* * * *

Boba ducks behind an empty crate, the volley of blaster fire flying right over it. He sighs and peeks over the crate to try and find Cal. They’d been ambushed by the bounty who apparently managed to acquire some paid back-up.

Luckily the empty warehouse they are trapped in is full of hiding places. He finally spots Cal and doesn’t try to restrain the full-on cackle that bubbles up at the scene. His cyare is deflecting blaster fire with his glowing blade, aiming carefully the redirected shots at his pursuer’s legs.

“You know you just lost the bet?!�� He yells at him with glee across the warehouse as he aims a shot at the bounty.

“I hate you! I’m sure you did this on purpose to prove me wrong!”

He laughs and ducks back behind his crate.

“I didn’t do anything!” he shouts over his hiding place.

A noise of crackling electricity fizzles on the other side of the crate and Boba peers over. BD is sauntering to him, beeping joyfully while the bounty is lying on the floor, still seizing periodically from what looks like a violent shock to his nervous system.

Boba sighs and glares at the droid who is jumping to him and already trying to climb on his leg to get on his shoulder.

“If I get stuck on the couch I’m blaming you,” Boba mutters darkly at the droid.

43 notes - publié le 20 février 2022

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[redhead-batgal]

for your st patrick day prompts - number 2 with jason todd :)

Type: Drabble

Pairing: Bartender! Reader and Red Hood/Jason Todd

Prompts: 🍀2: "Now we drink!"

Word Count: 1,777

Content: Alcohol, cursing, flirting, bartender hack? (I think), fighting, weapons, in a bar, crappy Irish accents, and possible drunkenness

(P.S. Takes place on St. Patty’s Day and I vaguely know things about bars and bartenders so if I have something wrong sorry)

“Welcome to Clover’s Hallow, what can I get for you Laddie?” You remarked in a very sloppy Irish accent.

The guy in front of, dressed in a leather jacket and white streak in his hair, raised an eyebrow at you. Laughing slightly, he leaned on the bar and gave you a look. 

“That,” He began, “has gotta be the fakest Irish accent I’ve ever heard.”

You sighed slightly, finally a smart customer. Grabbing a glass and filling it with what another customer had already ordered, grinned at the guy and replied with a wink,

“Yeah, but it fools the drunks.” 

The guy laughed and you slid the glass down to the end of the bar where the customer expecting it was waiting. Turning your full attention towards the guy you gave me a small smile.

“What can I get for you on this fine and green day?” 

The guy laughed slightly rubbing at his mouth before you held up a hand, your smile widening. 

“Wait, wait. Let me guess.”

The guy sighed the smile still clear on his face and you placed your elbows on the bar before leaning on your arms. Looking the guy over you noticed the slick leather of his jacket, how it seemed new despite there being a splatter or two on it. The guy tilted his head to the side, and you saw the inside of the jacket looked soft and fancy.... hmmmm

“You seem like a champagne man.” 

The guy coughed laughing slightly, before giving you a strange look. He shrugged and replied, 

“Not today.” 

Noting the amused expression on his face you nodded,

“Ah I see you wanna stick to tradition then. Whiskey on the rocks?” 

The guy nodded, shaking his head before replying, “Yeah that’ll be good.” 

Yanking a whisky bottle off of the shelf you grabbed a glass, filling it with ice before setting it on the bar and pouring out the whisky. Once the glass was full you slid it to the guy who smiled at you nodding in thanks. 

Fingering the glass, the guy looked up at you, curiosity strained across his face. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

“As long it’s not where I live or for my number of course...at least for now.” 

Laughing slightly, he pushed his glass before meeting your gaze, “Why do you pretend to have an accent?”

You shrugged before picking up an empty glass and running it under the faucet. Rinsing it out before drying it out with a cloth. 

“This place is Clover’s Hallow, clearly the bartender must be Irish right? People usually assume I’m Irish, I’ve gotten tired of explaining that I’m not now I just pretend I am.” 

The guy opened his mouth to continue, and you cut him off throwing the rag over your shoulder and leaning on the bar fully. 

“Another question?” You sighed teasingly with a smile and a wink, “you're lucky your cute jacket boy.” 

Instead of responding, jacket boy laughed and smiled, and you continued. 

“Wait, wait. I know your next question. Why do people think I’m Irish? Honestly, I have no idea, just because I work in a bar with Clover in the name doesn’t mean I’m Irish. I mean I don't think I look Irish."

"I think you do." Jacket boy replied smiling slightly

"And why is that?"

"Because you're begging to be kissed."

Smiling, you laughed slightly and pointed at jacket boy, who had finally picked up his glass and taken a drink. 

"Aw, you’re cheeky. I like that.”

Jacket boy choked and began coughing and you laughed, swatting at him slightly. Out of the corner of your eye you saw a girl waving at you trying to get your attention. 

“I have to go but I’ll be right back,” You began looking jacket boy dead in the eyes. “You stay right here. I’m not done with you yet.”

Walking across the way you stopped right in front of the girl, looked a little uncomfortable. The guy at her side was leaning on her heavily and she gave you a tight smile. 

"Can I get Angel shot with lime, please?"

You blinked once then twice and the words slipped from your mouth before you could stop yourself, "Oh shit.” It had been a while since you heard that code word in the bar, after all you usually had a radar for the creeps and kicked them out before it got far.

The girl winced and the guy scowled at you, waving a drink in your face, clearly drunk. 

He growled, “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“Oh sorry,” You scrambled to cover up, “it’s just been a while since I’ve gotten that order. I don’t know if we have all the ingredients, let me take a look.”

Turning around you nervously fiddled with your hands. Meeting Jacket boy’s eyes you smiled tightly, and he raised an eyebrow before looking at the girl and guy near you. Looking around the stuff on the shelves you kept your eyes on the girl and pulled an old favorite of yours off the shelf. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see jacket boy move from his seat over towards the creepy guy and the girl who asked for help. Tapping the guy on the shoulder, Jacket boy scowls and you wince. This was so not gonna be good. 

“Hey, let her go.”  Jacket boy said and the guy rolled his eyes

“Why should, I pretty boy?”

“Let her go.” 

Ignoring him, the guy actually pulls the girl closer, and she looks even more uncomfortable. Setting the glass and bottles down you reached out under the bar for your shotgun. However, before you could react, jacket boy did. 

Pushing the guy away from the girl, Jacket boy gives him a dark look.

“I said let her go.”

The guy scowled, setting his drink down and you held out a hand to the girl, she quickly climbed on top of her seat, took your hand and climbed across the bar. 

“Alright then pretty boy let go.” 

You sighed but before you could break it up the two began throwing punches. 

“Fuck,” You muttered under your breath as the brawl expanded to the regulars and it turned into a bar wide fight. 

Yanking your shotgun out from under the bar you cocked the gun and fired a blank into the ceiling. Everyone froze and looked your way; you raised an eyebrow and pointed the gun towards the door.

“Everybody out! Except for the two of your assholes who started this bullshit.” 

Quickly everyone either finished their drinks in one gulp and hurried out the door or shot apologizes your way as they left money on their tables and left the bar. It took a little less than ten minutes for the bar to be cleared. 

Jacket boy had a grip on the creep’s shoulder and moved him towards a chair and sat him down in it. Walking down the way you grabbed the phone off of the wall and quickly dialed nine-one-one. 

After the operator picked up you quickly explained the situation and had cops headed in your direction. The girl thanked you profusely and you waved away her thanks. 

By the time the cops got there, the creep had cooled down a little and gotten scared. You passed him off to the cops and got assured the girl would be alright. 

Sighing in relief you sank onto a seat of your own and Jacket boy walked behind the bar, a black eye, busted lip and bloodied knuckles. 

“What,” You mused more to yourself, “do we do now?”

Jacket boy smiled and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from your shelf and passed it to you. 

“Now we drink!” 

 You laughed standing up and snatching the bottle from him, you grabbed the glass you had given him earlier and filled it up. Accepting the glass, jacket boy began to drink, and you took a swig straight from the bottle. 

Wincing jacket boy tried to finish his glass, but it seemed difficult. 

Setting the bottle down you waved at him, he gave you a confused look but came around the bar and you stood up. Patting the seat, you smiled at him. 

“Alright take a seat here troublemaker. I’ll go and get the first aid kit so I can take care of all the bruises and cuts you put on your pretty face.”

Looking upset but sitting down, Jacket boy replied, “I’m not pretty.” 

You laughed as you reached around the bar grabbing the first aid kit and nodded. 

“Sure, you’re not.” 

He scowled and you popped open the first aid kit and yanked bandages, a cloth and ointment out of it. Wetting the cloth, you set it on the bar before going and grabbing a bag and filling it with ice.

The room was silent and you hummed slightly not liking it.

 “And here I was thinking you were a respectable gentleman.” You commented as you gently began to examine his face.

“What says I’m not?” Jacket boy asked, raising an eyebrow at you. 

Shaking your head, you replied in exasperation, “You got into a bar fight!”

“That was just so I could end up here with you caring for me.” 

Jacket boy winked at you with his good eye, and you pushed back a snort. He smiled and you shook your head. His split lip was becoming worse, and you doubted the black eye would be good for his head tomorrow. Pressing a wet cloth to his face, you then reached for the ice pack. Grabbing onto your hand, he blinked a bit slowly and you laughed. He seemed off. 

Staring at your face he smiled slightly before remarking, “your eyes are dazzling.” 

“Are you drunk?” You asked almost in surprise, you had only given two glasses of whiskey

“No, I’m Jason.”

You laughed even more, realizing that he is drunk and that he’s a light weight.

“I’m Y/N”

With this good looking and kind of charming kind in front of you, you had to smile. Running a hand through your hair you sighed. This guy- no Jason, could stay down here drunk. It wouldn’t hurt to have him crash on your couch, right? No, no that’d be weird

“Y/N,” Jason muttered, “that’s a nice name. I like that.” 

Staring at him for a moment your felt heat flushes your cheeks. Damnit, this was probably going to end badly. 

“Jason’s not half bad, but I still think Jacket boy is better.”

Jason laughed and you sighed with a smile. 

Maybe, just maybe St Paddy’s Day was very, very lucky.

Tag list:

@andromedaj2003 @daemonnix96 @Zvtanna @krswrites @thomasbeloved  @thefallingstarlight 

[barbiewritesstuff]

Me back with a dorky af idea because... well..

Prompt: Dagger squad doing regular chaotic Dagger shit. Discussion arises. Or no wait debate. About who has the biggest BDE. Phoenix has everybody beat I'm not taking arguments. Everybody disses Mav trying to argue his nonexistent case. Hondo is covering Bobs ears.

Final showdown between Admiral Kazansky and Vice Admiral Simpson.

Maybe you argue one case a bit too strongly. Maybe someone overhears. Maybe he has to ask Warlock wtf bde means.

Discuss the possibilities. Please.

-- I know we talked about bestie Jake but we didn't talk about him enough so here he is, in all his glory and I love him. Also I don't remember what the "put that in your pentagon budget" guy's actual job was so forgive me--

You weren't entirely sure how the discussion arose but now that it had, it was positively impossible to stop it.

"IT DOESN'T COUNT, SHE DOESN'T HAVE ONE!" Fanboy bellowed through the recreation room clueing in everyone who hadn't already caught on to what they were arguing about.

"You're only saying that because you're losing Mickey," Phoenix replied with a smirk that had the man turning a lovely shade of tomato red.

"No I'm saying that because the fact that you do not have a dick disqualifies you from the fucking ranking, Natasha," he spat

"Oh, oh," Jake said, looking up high, a hand over his eyebrows as if to shield his eyes," Guys, something's falling," he added before gasping, "oh my god, it's Mickey's BDE ranking! It just keeps falling and falling and falling," he said, progressively looking down until he was firmly staring at the floor, "and falling an-- oh no, send an ambulance, I think it has just hit rock bottom..."

Coyote winced, "ouch, that looked like it hurt... Are you okay? Will you recover?"

"Oh fuck off. This thing's rigged anyway," Mickey said, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout and making everyone laugh.

"Okay, what did I miss?" You asked, having briefly gone to the vending machine to get snacks.

"We're ranking everyone by level of BDE. Fanboy judt plummeted to the bottom, never to be seen again, and Phoenix is at the top," Jake explained while you handed out Kit Kats to the squad, making sure to pout a little mockingly at Fanboy as you tucked his chocolate bar into the pocket of his sweater.

"Good girl," you praised, sending Nat a wink, "Now, big question... Where do I stand?"

"Second place," Jake replied, "I'm in joint third with Javi, then, Bob is a surprising fourth. Payback is fifth. Halo is sixth, thanks to her barfight on Thursday. Fritz and Omaha are joint seventh, Yale and Harvard are eighth, Maverick is ninth and Fanboy is tenth." he said, "We have yet to rank Hondo, Vice Admiral Simpson, Warlock and Admiral Kazansky. Oh! And that flightplan coordinator you like... I don't remember his name, the pentagon budget guy, you know the one..."

"Oh Ian? Ian goes in first. Sorry Phoenix, but his outburst will be written in the annals of history as one of the most legendary things to say to a superior officer," you said. Phoenix, though dissapointed, tipped an imaginary hat at your statement.

"Hondo... the man, the myth, the legend --" you started, tapping Jake on the leg to give you space as you sat down beside him on the edge of the bench.

"Hey, hang on, where am I in this entire thing?" Rooster asked, suddenly catching up with the fact that he hadn't been ranked and looking quite offended.

"Below Fanboy," Jake stated stated

"Jacob be nice," you replied, gently hitting him on the shoulder. He looked at you for a second then stuck out his tongue. You rolled your eyes at him and turned away, he leaned forwards and kissed your cheek.

"Eww. So when are you guys going to admit you're dating?" Halo asked with her head in her hands, here eyes glancing between the both of you.

"We're not. I'm single and little miss BDE over here has a boyfriend," Jake replied, poking you in the side with his finger. In your surprise you let out a high pitched squeal and jumped a little, almost falling off of the bench but caught by Jake and Nat, who had lunged across the table to catch your arm.

You found your seat againt, "Right, Cyclone or Iceman, who goes where?" You asked

"Ooh kinky," Jake whispered in your ear and you slapped his arm again.

"You're a menace," you said with a smile

"What are you gonna do about it? Tell your boyfriend?" He mocked in a low voice only audible to you, swinging an arm around you and pulling you into a hug, "you know what, guys, I think Y/n needs to be the deciding vote on this one," he said loud enough for the still arguing squad to hear.

"Why's that?" Coyote asked, raising an eyebrow in question

"She's the only one of us who hasn't been either told off by the Admiral for reckless flying," he nodded towards Rooster who had received a stern talking too after passing too close to a control tower and making the Admiral spill coffee all over himself, "Or snapped at by Cyclone for a reason or another," he said, meaning the rest of the squad. Even Halo hadn't been spared after forgetting her manual in her dorm on a day Cyclone had been particularly grumpy.

They all seemed to agree with Jake. He looked at you expectantly, grinning mischievously and wriggling his eyebrows.

You pretended to think about it for a second, "I'm going to go with Cyclone --" you replied

"Going to go with me for what?" He asked from behind, clearly surprising the rest of the squad too. You closed your eyes and tried to no avail to stop the crimson blush creeping up to your face, "Lieutenant L/n? Anyone care to explain?"

"We were ranking everyone by BDE, Sir" Jake replied.

Warlock, faithfully standing by Cyclone's side, fished his phone out of his pocket with the hand that wasn't holding his coffee while the Vice Admiral looked over the group of blushing squad members.

"Lieutenant L/n, pray tell me, what on earth is BDE?" He asked

"It's -- err --" you stuttered out

"Sir," Warlock said, holding out his phone for Cyclone to see, having no doubt pulled up the definition. With every sentence he read, Beau's eyebrows shot up a little more.

"My office, please. Now." He told you with a tone as cool as ice.

"Yessir" you obeyed, standing up and walking off in front of him, your eyes firmly trained on your shoes.

"You're an ass," you told him as soon as the door locked behind him in his office.

Beau snorted, "I'm the ass? Seresin lured you into that trap and I'm the ass," he said with a smile.

"I am not dating Seresin," you replied,

"I couldn't tell," he mocked, sitting himself down on the edge of the desk with his legs crossed

"Beau--" you started, ready to explain Jake was just a friend

"I'm joking " he laughed, "I know he's not your type," he winked

"Damn right," you laughed, coming closer to Beau until you stood in front of him, "My type is you," you said, leaning in to kiss him.

"Is he coming on Friday?" Beau asked when you broke the kiss, trying to change the subject to keep your behaviour vaguely work-appropriate.

You hummed, "Should I make dessert or do you think we'll have enough," you asked.

You had been agonising over the food since Beau had told you he wanted to hold a housewarming party to celebrate you both moving in together in the new apartment. There wouldn't be many guests, only Jake, your sister and Beau's brothers, their wives and their children, but you were still worried there wouldn't be enough food to eat.

"Make that pie we had on Friday," he answered, "Jake said he was bringing wine, right?"

"And a side," you replied, secretly hoping he'd also bring his mother's famous peach crumble as well as the potato salad you had requested.

Jake was a surprisingly amazing baker, so much so that he'd been the only one of his family to have been given a copy of Nicolette Seresin's cookbook, containing dozens of state fair baking competition winning recipes. In fact, Jake had been the one to teach you how to bake in the first place.

"Perfect. Think I can bribe him into manning the grill?" Beau asked

"Probably," you replied, "You'll need that beer he likes though," you said. Jake wasn't actually a big drinker and much preferred a soda to anything else, but there was one specific brand he liked, a belgian import with an impossible name, that he would do just about anything for.

"I think this is a convincing amount of time for a reprimand, don't you?" Beau said after waiting another few minutes

"Wow, way to tell me to leave," you joked

Beau laughed, "I would never, honey, you know that. You could literally be attached to me and I still wouldn't be spending enough time with you," he replied, holding you close for another kiss

"You're a sap," you laughed

"Only for you, babygirl," he said, "I love you,".

"I love you too," you replied, pecking his lips one last time

"Wait!" He said, "Who's number one?"

"Ian. Flightplan Ian,"

"Ian? 'I am afraid of pigeons' Ian?" He asked incredulously and you nodded

"The outburst did it," you explained

Beau hummed, "But I'll always be first for you, right?"

"I'm going now," you replied with a smile

"Y/n, I'll always be first right?" He asked again as you unlocked the door and stepped out with a smile, Beau sprinted out behind you but stopped right outside his office. He looked around at the empty corridor, "Traitor!" He shouted. You were scared you had actually offended him for a moment but when you looked back at him you saw he was smiling.

"Love you too!" You shouted back