#the dude’s barely worked his way up to stability

[skiyoosmi]

it kills me a little, that's okay 'cause i'd die for you—

⤷ contents. gender neutral reader, petnames (he calls you baby and dude), angst (and a sprinkle of fluff i think)

there's stillness in the night as gojo lays idly on his bed, relishing the very short break he has before the strenuous work at jujutsu tech begins once again. his room is engulfed with darkness, barely lit by the dim brightness that comes from the screen of his phone.

"hello, satoru's phone! yn here, hehe."

a minimal smile appears on his face as he plays a familiar video, greeted by your bright expression as you try to position the phone in a better angle. his thumb hovers over the screen as he pauses when your face comes near, mimicking gesture as if he's stroking the apples of your cheeks. there are veins of melancholy that burrows its way deep into the crevices of his core before he resumes the recording. 

as soon as you've achieved your goal of stabilizing the device, you start speaking again.

"so, you might be wondering what in the world am i doing right now. well, this is a surprise video mess—" 

"baby, have you seen my shaving cream?" he hears his voice ask in the background, albeit muffled. he remembers how he was poking around the bathroom cabinet, preparing for a flight he will have to catch in the evening, he remembers how you scoffed beforehand when he told you suguru or shoko could do it for him, he remembers how long you nagged him about being a responsible adult and that he should learn to do it on his own. he remembers it all too well. 

he chuckles lightly upon watching you roll your eyes.

"top left in the drawer! silly 'toru, what would you do without me?" you whisper to yourself as you shake your head and turn to face the phone again, "anyway, as what i was saying, this is a surprise message! you might see this once you're in the airplane, or in the hotel room… heck, you might even see this as soon as you hold your phone, which would be a bummer but…"

"... what are you doing?" his face appears in the video and although he has seen this video for so many times already, he reels back in surprise at how different he looks– a bit younger yet so much happier. he watches the youthful him naturally place his chin just above your shoulder blades, eyes scanning the lens before leaning in to peck your cheeks multiple times. you giggle and try to move away, but he follows you.

and if he had the chance again, he'll willingly follow you anywhere.

"ahh, satoru, you big bummer. this was supposed to be a surprise! i was recording a video for you…" you whine out and he remembers raising his brow in interest, intrigued by the reason why you thought of such idea. he assumes you recognized his facial expression as one of curiousity so you continue to talk, "you know, so that if we break up, you'll never be able to move on and you'll be too busy missing me."

there's a pause of silence in the video and once again, he recalls the two of you staring at each other after you say that. you purse your lips when he suddenly lets out a boisterous cackle, "pfft— baby, what the heck? that won't happen. you're never gonna get away from me. it's you and me forever now. it'll always be you for me, dude."

the video shakes and satoru only sees blurry frames but his mind and soul vividly pictures the memory of attacking your face with more kisses as he wraps his arms around you while you squeal and giggle, "satoru… *kiss*… stop! let …*kiss*... me finish… *kiss*... the video… *kiss*"

a few seconds later, you reappear and satoru wonders how is it possible for you get even brighter and more beautiful. you pout and look at the boy beside you, who only grins smugly, "you ruined it. plus, that was supposed to be romantic and shit but you just had to call me dude, huh?"

"nyenye, finish that already so we can kiss," he says exasperatedly and slumps his body on yours. you roll your eyes once again, "you're such a boy, 'toru. are you even done packing yet?"

he freezes and slowly lets you go, sheepishly smiling before going back to the bathroom. you laugh, "so irresponsible, you dummy!"

you turn your eyes back on the camera and he sees pure adoration and fondness swimming in them, "you know i could never say all these to you directly, 'cause your head might get big. but it'll always be you for me too, satoru."

a sharp claw of agony grips his heart tightly and it refuses to let go. he refuses to let go. and suddenly, he's opening up his contacts, scrolling through the list before he stops right when he reaches yours– he never changed the nickname, never even thought of blocking you after you broke up with him through the same, exact phone he was holding, telling him how you couldn't do it anymore; being a jujutsu sorcerer, losing friends, being with him, and all that there is to it. so, you reopen the same wounds suguru left him and bid your own farewell. and yet, he could never do all those, couldn't change nor remove anything that has something to do with you, because that would mean giving up on you. it would mean he was letting you go.

and just like how he can never delete your number, he can never delete you from his life.

thus, he clicks. and he feels so anxious, so impulsive and so sad. the ringing goes on for what felt like forever. then it stops.

"satoru?" he hears your voice, his name rolling off your tongue, so sweet and silky. and suddenly, he's back in the years of his youth, as if he was eighteen all over again.

"i…" he feels a sickening lump in his throat when he starts to speak, desperate to get out and cry to you, "sorry. i'm stupid, i didn't mean to disturb you."

he hears a soft rustle from the other side of the phone before he hears you once more, "hmm, it's fine."

there was a hint of sleepiness in your voice and he figures the call woke you up, "were you sleeping?" 

you only hum in agreement and satoru feels awfully jealous at how you can sleep in peace at this hour while he spends most of his nights trying to fight the insomniac thoughts that threaten consume his mind whole. but he feels relieved in a way, because he wouldn't want you to spend these lonely evenings and midnights the same way as he does. he's only wanted to keep the smile on your face, after all. that's enough for him.

"i was watching the video," he gulps the pain away, "and you were right, i don't think i'll ever be able to move on."

you don't reply but he thinks… no, he knows you're listening.

"i'm too busy missing you, you know," he manages to chuckle despite the claw that rips his heart out of his chest bit by bit the more silent seconds that pass by.

"but i know. we've had our time," he adds when he hears you trail off while speaking his name once again.

"you… you're happy, right?" he chokes out a cough to cover the wavering of his voice when he feels that the end of the phone call is nearing. from the other side of the phone, you sit up and hold the phone by your ear tightly, "mhm, i believe so."

the claw has finally made a hole on his chest, "o-okay… that's good. that's good."

it's fine, he tries to convince himself. you're happy and that's all that matters to him anyway.

"you should go back to sleep," he whispers when a tear finally escape from the windows of his eyes. you hum quietly, "i really should."

"okay."

"okay."

and as if it was all a mere dream of his, the call drops along with his heart. he opens up his gallery, welcomed by the paused video he was watching a while ago. it stopped with your face in view again and his fingers hover the screen once more. you gotta stop, you gotta let go now, a voice screams at the back of his mind. and he clicks,

this video will be deleted from the icloud photos on all your devices

delete video

cancel

the layers of gloom return in his chest, marking your image within him, carving each and every of your features, and he feels like he's at the beginning of the end once more. his thumb presses on the screen and the loop of his remorse repeats, over and over again as he whispers, "it'll always be you for me."

cancel

—you know i'd still die for you 

[jhuzen]

// spoilers for dan heng IL ( and long thirst / ask hehe)

… .. .. back again with thirsts of deflowering the pretty dragon king… THE NEW LEAKS OF HIS ANIMATIONS MAKE HIM EVEN MORE ETHEREAL, I AM GOING FERAL. HIS EXPRESSION DURING HIS BURST…. THE ELEGANT SMUG LOOK. HE DESERVES TO GET HIS BACK BROKEN, LEGS TURNED INTO JELLY, TEAR MARKS STREAKING DOWN HIS BEAUTIFUL FACE.

i imagine the first time of "making love" to ( ahem. breeding. ) danheng il could go two ways, starting softly with gentle kisses on his forehead, slowly slipping off his intricate garments, murmuring adoring words of praise as you worship every inch of him… aeons, he'd probably start crying from uncontrollable emotions of feeling so loved after all the shit that has happened ( and arousal. the old dude would probably find "being taken in the most 'purest/bare state'" so exciting )…

…before slowly wrecking him as you grab him by his tiny waist (whore.) or intricate horns and pound into him while he screams, scrambling to grip any surface to stabilize himself before he goes truly brainless from your actions, undecided whether he should try bucking forward to 'get away' from the overstimulation or lean closer to you to experience more of that addicting pleasure. ( he'll probably end up choosing the latter. dragons are such greedy creatures. can you blame him for wanting more? )

.. throw in some dirty words about how he'll look so lovely when he's with child, how he'd be such a great mommy ( the logical part of his brain wants him to argue that it's not biologically possible, but he's too cock-drunk for that part to even work so he nods dazedly, letting out a whimper at your vulgar words [ and jokes on him, by the end he'll be bred so good that he bends biology ] ) … call him your mate to scratch that primal part of his brain… and maybe press the bulge on his stomach that's slowly forming as you continue to make a mess out of him.

Or you start off the session immediately acting feral and ripping his clothes off and going to town on him lmao.

EXCUSE ME?? THE ABSOLUTE AUDACITY. TO KNOCK ME OFF MY SOCKS AS I READ EVERY WORD. I AM. LICKING. THIS. UP. TOO GOOD. I LOVE IT.

just dan heng getting so impossibly flustered. imagine if this mf actually gets addicted to it, the subsequent sessions after-

DUDE. him desperately spreading himself open for you with his shaking hands to “help” you because you said you’re too tired to fuck him. oR HIM RIDING YOU, letting out these soft desperate whines because hOW THE HECK CAN YOU REACH THAT GOOD SPOT IN HIM AND HE CANT DO IT HIMSELF?

i’m addicted at the thought of him being such a helpless pillow prince. so dumb yet so eager. there is charm in every sloppy head he gives you, his inexperience showing because he’s an old ass virgin. he’s willing to learn but he just fucks it up every now and then, but he’s trying!!!

and i am here to spread my agenda about the motorcycle joke. his back completely bent because you’re holding his horns while you ruthlessly fuck into his cute little hole ajdisjdkc my mind is broken.

and i don’t want to be that guy but-

ajsijwdkc suckin on his tiddies while lactating if he ends up breaking his race’s biological code is giving everything.

[carionto]

Nothing is safe from becoming "exciting"

I've read a bunch of HASO stuff and often when I'm writing something I know I'm drawing from a ton of somewheres, to the point where I can't pinpoint anything, it's all a big mush that my brain then spits out here. This one, however, I know was inspired by jpitha's writings, specifically the bit about Gene's High G Gym (I think that's the mostly correct name anyway). Shamelessly shilling their work cuz it's great, go read it!

______________________________

Humanity has begun expanding their hold over their native system. Like an insect hive, ships ferry just about everything to and from Earth, building stations both in planetary orbits and around the Sun. Nearly all experimental of some kind - a lot of ideas they couldn't try built up over the thousand years they were isolated.

They do also have countless small space worthy vehicles, nearly all with varying superficial designs and patterns, but also quite a few rather different underlying mechanical principles.

Soon we noticed a lot of activity throughout the entire system not affiliated with any organization or group. Just... individuals and small family units doing their own thing. We quickly gave up trying to categorize such behavior. When we asked, they said:

"Anyone with a license to pilot their craft can go pretty much wherever that isn't restricted. For some places and activities they do need to get a permission first though."

Worryingly lax on account that many of the larger "civilian" craft are still powered by their "Mini-Suns" as they call them.

One particular individual craft got our attention. It created a spike of thermal activity in one region of their Oort Cloud, so one of us went to ask this Human. Abigail was her name:

"Yo space dudes and dudettes, what's up?" Our translators were still incorporating the various Human linguistic peculiarities, but their liaisons are very helpful. We inquired as to what she was doing here so far out.

"Oh you are gonna love it!" another phrase we are learning to be wary of. "Victor, that's this bad boy right here," she affectionately slaps the armrest of her, now that we are closer, disturbingly modified vessel. Is that a second engine cluster bolted on the back? And a... weird exposed device with a large neon label - Space BBQ. We instinctively fear her and her next words. "He and I are making a race track with these here ice cubes. I got this idea when I was a kid, and it is going to be. So. Awesome!"

All of the red flags triggered. Then, Abigail demonstrates by shooting a harpoon claw... thing... at a nearby object the size of a few skyscrapers and begins pulling it towards a cluster of other planetesimals. Normally, these kind of clouds have stabilized over billions of years and each object is thousands and millions of kilometers from one another.

There were dozens stacked so close to each other that you could barely fit an escape pod between in some places. One in particular was surrounded by a small cloud of its own.

"Ooh, that one right there." She enthusiastically pointed out its somewhat flattened ovoid shape. "Doesn't it just scream to you that it wants to be the ultimate doughnut? Hector thinks so, he's my cat by the way - Say hi Hector! [hiss] (Fine, be that way, ya bum) Love that bastard. Anyway, just gotta finish blasting a hole big enough and it'll be the perfect finish line."

Not wanting to hurt our sanity further, we decided to leave her be, but not before she proudly exclaimed over all open channels:

"Remember to tell your folks if they ever wanna race to come here to Abby's Action Asteroids [quick whisper] (trademark pending)! Soon it'll have laser obstacles!"

[dexterkronos]

Slime Rancher x TMA?

Okay but seriously, imagine if Jon and Martin commit MAG 200 and just end up on Slime Rancher's Far Far Range. What then?

(Welcome to your lecture on why my abilities to cook have been restrained by divine ordainment [irl responsibilities])

How It Would Work

Mistaken Identity as their alt selves or assuming the lives of their alt selves as they have completely replaced them

They both have separate farms on the Far, Far Range on opposite ends, and don't know where the other exactly is (they both think they're on distant islands to each other lol).

Martin becomes very adept with Slime wrangling in particular, but still remains an effective slime rancher in the ways of taking care of them. He adopts a particular Tabby (unbeknownst to him an escapee from Jon's ranch) and calls it 'Merry', and Merry stays by his side at all times.

Jon is very particular about only owning docile slimes like Pinks, Tabbies and Puddles, with a lot of his slimes being mixes with Tabbies because cats. He makes a sole exception for ONE Crystal-Tabby that he calls 'Calcite', who becomes a bit of a ranch defender Largo. It is so picky about what it eats or absorbs that there is zero risk for him to become a Tarr.

Jmart end up finding each other when Jon goes chasing after a Tabby-Phosphor with Calcite in an attempt to get it somewhere dark before daylight. Both are overjoyed to see each other obviously and immediately work together.

They have a teleporter between their ranches and help each other out with random tasks. They obvs can't combine ranches now, but they do lots of sleepovers at each other's ranches lmao,

Jon ends up going into Slime Sciences because duh of course he would lmao. He's the reason both farms have cannons to repel Tarr slimes.

They get therapy before even so much as thinking about advancing their relationship further because holy hell these dudes need it. (Therapy is already in swing at the start btw, I'm not delaying their roads to mental stability)

Other Info below the keep reading tag so we don't flood your feed lolol.

Relationships with Canon Slime Rancher Characters

Martin is the one who usually deals with Slime Market stuff because people like BOb exist.

Martin befriends Thora easier than anyone else due to her kindly nature. Let's give the man a nice older lady figure in his life to be a mentor.

Jon become notably friendly with Viktor Humphries, and they collaborate often since Jon has Martin and his own interest in slime collection to help him.

Both find Mochi a bit like Melanie at first, but warm up to her when they start to learn more about her (both can relate to strained relationships w/parental figures, especially Martin).

Both find BOb complexing and typically try to keep conversations curt lol.

Obvs because I'm not replacing Beatrix, they do meet her and are pretty neutral to her. Nothing extraordinary and nothing unextraordinary since Beatrix is more a proxy for the player so I can't gauge much on how she'd be without our interference.

Ogden & Hobson are also a neutral relationship but that's just because I can't think on how either of them and Jmart would work lol.

Likely Queries

Fears When?: No Fears in the Slime Rancher universe because I say so. The Fears just don't have influence here anymore haha. That means Jonah Magnus stays deceased.

How is Jon not like, barely sane or whatever (referencing the 'how much of me is the Eye stuff')?: Well, they did merge/overwrite their Slime universe counterpart so like... e.

Does Jmart retain Fear powers?: No. Maybe. I'm not sure tbh I think if anything it'd be subtle things. EG: Jon being able to identify certain things changed in an area or have a better grip on understanding body language. EG2: Martin being less noticeable when he wants to be or just having a bit of cold resistance.

Why can't they move in together?: Because I doubt the 7Zee Corp would be able to find a buyer for either ranch too quickly, but I could be wrong. Idk I like the idea of them having space of their own separate from the other since those dudes need therapy and time to work on themselves.

Do they look like themselves or their alternates?: Alts with the exception of MAG 200 injuries. The Alts just look like their S1 selves lmao.

SlimeRancher!Sasha, SlimeRancher!Georgie & SlimeRancher!Tim? Yes. None would properly notice a difference in Jon because he's more just their Jon with some weird ass baggage attached. Martin would DEFINITELY be something they'd note as 'unusual' but ultimately set it down to 'omg he's matured so fast having to deal with Jon lolol'. Sasha and Tim would be fellow Ranchers on another area nearby and Georgie either stayed on Earth or is a Tarr Wrangler with SlRa!Melanie.

What about the other Magnus people? Not sure, defs think SlRa!Melanie would exist as a Tarr Wrangler w/Georgie. SlRa!Elias would likely be on Earth still and just living his Pre-Eye life lolol. Sl!Ra Gertrude should be a rancher elsewhere that's just died but other than that idk.

Do any other Slime Rancher alts get their other worlds memories? Maybe Georgie and Melanie but only via 'oh wow that was a funky dream haha' since they were in the Panopticon. Elias doesn't count towards this since there was no more Elias by the time of the series' beginning (source: MAG 193).

[bellobambino]

Home Court Advantage

Fugitive!Luigi Series Part 6 1.067w Action Adventure!

Summary: Luigi, Ben, and Mateo have the Frankenserver safe at the Penn base. Rumors surface about the resistance efforts in NYC. The boys set their sights on expanding their communications network eastward.

Warnings: Dialogue, Plot Establishment

A/N: revolution go brrrr

January 16, 2025

After the Frankenserver was up and running, the energy in the Philly safehouse changed. Maybe it was just me. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, we weren’t just scraping by. We’d built something. We’d done something real, and it was going to help people.

The server was humming. Actually fucking humming.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the screen, where the logs were scrolling as the system settled into place. I felt like a proud father.

Mateo, sitting on the desk next to me, swung his legs a little. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I muttered, but I didn’t take my eyes off the screen. I didn’t even care how it looked.

Across the room, a guy from the Penn resistance—Jason, I think his name was—was watching us work. Jason was one of those tech bros who probably spent his whole pre-revolution life working at a startup and talking about decentralized networks in a way that meant nothing until the world collapsed. Now? Now he was seeing it happen in real time.

He looks surprised, “That thing’s actually holding up?”

I exhaled a laugh, rubbing my eyes. “Barely. It’s a fucking miracle it even booted, but yeah. It’s up. And if we can set up more nodes, we can start sending real data.”

Mateo is perched on the edge of the desk like a gargoyle, “So now we get this bad boy to talk to other bad boys,” he says, “and we make a whole network of bad boys.”

Jason leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “You thinking about scale yet?” he asked. “Like, how far you wanna push this thing?”

“Everywhere.” I said, meaning it.

“NYC is next, i'm sure.”

I blinked. A stench of PTSD rolls over me. I hadn't even considered going back to New York. The scene of the crime. “really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re setting up nodes, that’s gotta be the next big move, right? Everyone wants to connect to New York.”

I blinked. “New York?”

Jason’s face lit up. “You don’t know? Jesus. New York is more armed than anyone right now. Resistance there is this close to taking over completely.”

Ben, who had been quiet up until that exact moment, snapped his head up like a fucking dog that just heard the word ‘walk’.

“Wait, what?” he demanded.

Jason grinned. “Dude, it’s New York. You think they waited for orders? NYPD and Mayor Adams were too slow after the Thompson shooting. By the time they figured out what was happening, New Yorkers had already organized. Like a muscle reflex. They just—moved. Took over neighborhoods, pushed out cops, set up defenses. Adams is trying to hold onto control, but he’s basically just a warlord now. His goons have better weapons, but they don’t have the people. And the resistance is about to win that fight.”

Ben’s whole fucking posture changed.

I need to take a second to explain Ben. Because this? This was the first time in weeks that I’d seen him look like he had any real purpose.

Ben had taken the end of the world hard. He wasn’t built for it—not in the way that Mateo could just roll with whatever insanity came his way, not in the way that I could bury myself in problems I could solve with a keyboard and a command line. Ben? Ben was loyal. He was a guy who needed something to hold onto, something stable. And for the last month, stability had been fucking impossible.

Everything had been reactionary—constant movement, constant loss, nothing to tether him down. He’d tried. He really had. He was with us the whole time, fighting, surviving, making it to the next day. But I could tell that he felt directionless. The world had happened to him, and he hadn’t had much choice in any of it.

He hadn’t been able to control anything.

And Ben—Ben needed control.

For the past few weeks, I’d watched him go through the motions. He still fought, still did everything we needed, but I could tell he was losing something. That spark, that fire. It was like he was just waiting for the next thing to knock him down, and he was already bracing for it.

Until now.

“New Yorkers.” he shakes his head, “built different.”

I watched him absorb what Jason was saying, watched him roll the words around in his head, processing them like they were changing his entire goddamn worldview.

Mateo snorted. “Would’ve put my money on Texas figuring it out first.”

Ben ignored him. He turned to me, eyes locked, sharp and certain in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks. 

“Luigi. We gotta get to New York.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Yeah?” 

"Yes," he said, completely certain. "We take the nodes to Newark, we get the network running, and then we go. We get comms set up in NYC, we link them up, and we help them finish this."

I couldn’t argue with that.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah," I said. "Let’s make it happen."

----------------------------------

I checked over the supplies, making sure we had the prebuilt nodes we were taking back to Newark. They were crude—bare-bones machines with just enough power to start stitching the network together—but they were ours. They weren’t controlled by Verizon or Comcast or AT&T. No ISP would throttle us. No government would filter us. This was ours.

And now? Now, we were taking it to the biggest battleground on the East Coast.

Mateo slammed the trunk shut. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I took one last look at the Penn resistance base. It was a good setup—organized, efficient. But it wasn’t home.

Maybe nowhere was.

Or maybe we were about to find one. In NYC.

Ben slid into the passenger seat, still buzzing with anticipation. Mateo took the back, stretching his legs out obnoxiously. I started the engine, feeling the low hum of it under my fingertips.

Some feeling close to hope was bubbling up in my chest. Maybe it was bleeding off of Ben, but I had to imagine these nodes would give New York the comms advantage they needed to put Adams in the dirt once and for all.

[itstheval]

A Dinner In White

A sidestory of @cyten0's A Symphony In Crimson, to be read after Act 2's Chapter 5-A. Also, this is just straight up a dude getting eaten and sex, sorry!

✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦✦

"You can eat me."

The words were true. The words were honest. You had just seen the truth in the words. It filled your stomach, to the point where you wanted to throw up.

"Again."

And that was a nail, pounding the coffin closed. You'd eaten Isa. You'd eaten Isa. Even if he asked for it, even if he was standing there now, you'd eaten him. His flesh filled you, and you could feel each chunk of him inside you, your body thrilling at the taste of it. You hated it. You shrank away. You looked for a way to run. But…There was nowhere to go, nowhere but a corner, nowhere but giving Isa the room to be safe, to escape you. You watched his face fall as you winced away, and wondered what HE had to feel sorry for.

He…approached you, then. Even knowing that his body was still fueling you, that your stomach still begged for another taste, he approached you. You shrunk into yourself, becoming as small as your body would allow, and told yourself not to react. Ordered it, with all of the willpower you could manage. All you could see when you looked at him was the meat that made up his body, and you hated yourself for it, and you craved it.

Then, as much as you'd tried to save him from you, he reached his hand into the bear trap, and his fingers touched you.

▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲▲

Your fingers brushed Fa, and you wondered how you could've ever been scared of them. Somehow even smaller than Siffrin was originally, they huddled in a corner, a tight black mass that looked like it would start sobbing if you said a harsh word. You knew Fa hated the idea of having to eat a person, but this was so much more than you'd ever expected.

Thankfully, as a Defender, you'd learned how to comfort the panicked, and this certainly counted. A gentle string of words, barely thought about but reassuring, first off. A touch, but slow, careful, so they know that it's coming. A reassuring smile. Promises that everything would be fine, because you were there, and you would stay with them as long as you needed.

The touch to Fa's body (Neck? Face? It was hard to tell; their anatomy was starting to come apart at the seams) made them jump, as you expected, but also seemed to stabilize them. It was several moments of rubbing their shoulder before they had managed to form themself back into something that looked human, and you used the time, while your mouth worked on autopilot, to think.

There was no way that Fa was going to get what they needed, stuck in their own head like this.

But what if they weren't?

You kept one hand touching their shoulder, and the other reached up. You prayed, to Change, to the Empress, to Quin, to whoever would listen, that you did this right, and started to rub around the horn, to scratch and soothe.

Thankfully, the change was nearly instant.

Instead of trying to turn into some form of sludge-beast in the corner, Fa relaxed, and let a tentacle press out to rest on your leg. The sigh they let out was one of relief, even as you allowed yourself some amusement at their whisper of 'cheater'", and you watched slowly as they uncurled from themself in a more literal way than most. A few moments later, and Fa's horn was glowing darkless white, a pure, soft colour that soothed you both to see.

You let your hand slowly slide away, and went to stand up, only to be pulled back down to your knees with force. It wasn't cruel, the way that they moved, just thoughtless, wanting to keep you near and acting on that want. Your side is enveloped in black…goo, for lack of a better term, as Fa slinks out from under their cloak to wrap themself around you.

Your arm curls around them in turn, and you allow yourself a smile to see their happiness. The barb-hooked tongue that slips up your side isn't exactly bad either. Your face warms to a dark shade as you feel the touch slip up and down, and you let yourself rub at their horn with one hand, the other curling at their lower back and pulling them to your lap in a moment of boldness.

Well! That got a reaction!

The tongue that had been pulling at your clothes paused, and Fa's face went darker than your own - a shade you're surprised they can reach, in this state. The light of the horn pulled away some of the darkness, but their pausing and whimpering (?!) had caught your attention, before they started to grind down on your erection.

Oh. You didn't even notice that.

Well! You supposed it was too late to stop now, and the squirming beast in your lap certainly agreed, if the vigorous return of its maw-tongue was any indication! You found yourself laying back, keeping them atop you, and you ground up in return, meeting their every motion. Your moans started to slip out as it thrust through the thick pants you wore, and you could feel your far-too-sensitive body craving more, even as you knew the beast atop you would eat you in more ways than one.

You weren't sure you minded that, as the pressure pushed you down, already feeling your shirt shredded as a far softer, more human tongue played over your neck, senseless moans filling your ears. You slid your hands up and over their hips, and back down, pulling down the black pants they wore beneath the cloak and pinning their legs from spreading as wide as they'd wanted to. They whimpered at their legs being closed, a sound of desperation and sadness that made your heart soar, and you swore to make them sound like that without the horn one day. For now, their body was offered to yours, and you soon felt, yours to its.

Your chest was soft, under its hands and tongue. You'd always liked the feeling of a soft body over hard muscle, even if Fa had made you change your minds on a few key aesthetic points. But you could feel the creature that Fa was kneading your body, working back and forth over you, and enjoying it as its tongue pulled sensation after sensation from you. Your own moans escaped senselessly, shared with its, and you remembered thinking 'being loud in bed is hot', your face burning as the consequences of your own actions caught up with you and the sounds refused to be silenced. You felt its hands starting to grow claws as it kneaded, as though wanting to pull parts of you off and into itself, and the thought brought an even louder sound from deep in you.

Not that you were passively letting them do all the work. Your hands had slid their pants down as far as you could, and you finished kicking them off with your own foot, leaving them able to spread thesmelf against you again - a fact they nearly instantly took advantage of. Their body was as eager as yours, and you could barely find room for your hands to reach for your own pants, the way they were pinning you down. For a moment, you flagged at the thought of all of the teeth the Black Beast had shown itself to have, but the whimpering need of the lovely thing above you brought you back nearly instantly.

Your pants slid down, and as soon as you were exposed Fa was taking you in. You weren't sure if they always were that wet and desperate or if the touch of White had changed them, but in that moment, you didn't care. Lines were torn out of your chest, and your blood was licked up by hooks and barbs as your cock pressed deep into them, and their body squeezed and begged in a wordless way. Their desperation was matched by your eagerness in instants, and you bucked them up and down, the motions letting the air hit the exposed lines on your body and bring a hiss to your lips, but it only made your length twitch again. You pushed into them, and in return they pushed into you, taking pieces of yourself into them and begging for more. You offered your arms to it, and realized only a moment later that you were hearing its celestial music - you didn't know what was its call, and what was yours.

It didn't matter, did it? You were theirs, and you'd offered your whole body to it. You felt it reaching past muscle, to organs, but the feeling was almost detached compared to the bliss of its hands on yours and its hips grinding down. The pace only got faster and faster, as you felt sharp fingers pulling ribs apart, to reach the things beneath. For a slow, tender moment, you hoped it could feel the love in you, when it ate your heart.

Your hips jerked, as its hands gripped your heart, and it gripped you below, and everything went black in a haze of bliss.

"I love you too~"

The words echoed across the nothing that you were, and you saw a white pulse through nowhere before you were aware again.

"You can eat me." You felt the words pull themselves from your lips, as though you'd already been in the middle of saying them, and you blinked into awareness. Your body still tingled from the emotions that they'd stirred in you, but their horn wasn't glowing. And from the look in their eyes, they remembered it all, too.

"However you want."

[prpfz]

🦇🩸 | 18+ Only! Seeking a fandomless ( oc / oc ) mxm or mxmasc rp! I’m looking for characters who are perverted players, cherry hounds, play boys, guys with commitment issues, assholes or pieces of shit who also have soft spots, other criminal scum, big and bad dudes, cold and gruff guys, experienced fighters who can handle their own, guys who can scare others just with a stern look; I’d love for a dynamic of two guys stuck in a shit world ( dystopians anyone? ) or shit situation who have to rely on each other or find comfort and solace in one another, maybe they’re in the same gang with the same brutal leader who constantly treats them horribly and works them like dogs and in a violent fucked up world, the downtime they get with each other is some of the only things they look forward to, maybe they find comfort with each other underneath the sheets eventually. I’d love to have a tense, drama filled, angsty relationship, with complicated feelings for complicated characters — my guy being just as hesitant and scared for a real relationship as yours but oh so desperate for connection; but otherwise I’m all for post apocalyptic, vampires, manipulation and coercion, omegaverse, monster fuckery, viscous and twisted dystopians especially, and heavy dead dove plots with violent and dark themes ranging from murder, horror, crime, gangs, gorey violence, toxic or abusive relationships, incest, noncon or dubcon, age gaps, 🍪, etc. I have few limits to what I’ll write! The character I’m writing is trans just a forewarning incase that’s not your cup of tea. On that note I’m very much open to trans characters! My guy is no dom top but he’s not a shy, soft, darling type. He’s rough and rugged around the edges. ( Bonus shot in the dark but I’d love to do something inspired by Beastars with a wolf/rabbit dynamic. )

A little about myself: I’m a 21 y/o Transmasc writer. I only write on Discord. I’m CST timezone, but I work the night shift currently, so replies out of rp can be spotty. ( I also do my best not to check my phone at work as well. ) My writing ranges from lazy lit to novella. I need at least 3-4 good paragraphs to be able to work with. They don’t need to be luscious with details, but descriptiveness is much appreciated and preferred. I’ve been writing for around 9 years now, it’s a great passion of mine. I love the escapism of fantasy and made up worlds you can dive into. I don’t do rapid fire replies! And my activity can vary! I will always try to get rp replies in at least once a week though. I can get pretty busy, and rp is a hobby for me right now. ( Trust me if I could do rapid fire, believe me I would, I’d love to write all day long. )

A little about my character: A 4’10” - 5” ft tall street fighter who’s in a gang. Sammy has the body of a rabbit but the heart of a wolf. He’s an insolent, stubborn, younger guy who may be petite but he packs a hard punch and can handle his own to a certain point. His unwavering loyalty and obedience only lies within his gang leader. He might be his pet, but he is in no way tamed. He’s all fire and rage, he absolutely refuses to back down or bite his tongue. He’d find a way to give lip even if his tongue was cut out. All around his familial relationships are shit to say the least. He doesn’t trust easily, he’s paranoid, cold hearted on the outside, and violent. Like a mad dog he’ll snap without warning, his fangs are always bared, and his lips are always curled in a snarl. He’s hooked on cigarettes and booze, and he can’t last without his mood stabilizers. He works at an underground fight club and can be often seen sporting bars, even if he isn’t of age for a plot. The club is a front for the gang. I do often prefer to write Sam in a violent dystopian like setting where crime is rampant, bodies are in the streets, the city’s in chaos, etc. Think the purge almost. Otherwise, he’s just got a rough life on the streets in a gang. ( His age can vary for the plot btw! I primarily write him as 20 default, and 25 the oldest though. 🍪 is fine by me though. )

That’s enough yapping for this post, I can talk more plot in DMs! So if you’ve got some characters that match the energy I’m looking for or any you feel would vibe with my guy give a like and I’ll reply asap! Thank you for reading🫶

Leave a like, and anon will get back to you!

[doodlegirl1998]

Thinking about how, once again, mha is a dystopia. Why every kid wants to be heroes?

Money could be a good reason but excluding Izu and Ocha, no one seems to be struggling financially to the point "oh no. I need to be a hero and help my family"

Then I thought about and well...propaganda is a good tool for good or bad. Then now I wonder if AM was such tool. Think about it, he is the #1 hero of all Japan and kids, especially in Japan, have this idol culture where "this dude is so cool. I want to buy all his merch and be like him"

We see kids (even baby Tenko) playing as AM, the victorious one. A propaganda can sure make seem this job as a amazing and wonderful.

Ok....where is the propaganda? Why the kids really want to be heroes? (Maybe is an excuse to use their quirks freely, but I can only especulate)

In mha we are told (lightly show) kids want to be heroes but is never explaines why, let alone why quirkless Izu wants to be a hero.

Where is the propaganda?

Does other heroes resent AM for that? Does they thank AM for this?

Hori wants us to believe everyone wants to be hero, in a society where people will blame you, the hero, if you lose. You have to be Atlas or else you are cancelled.

Hi @mikeellee 👋

Yeah this is what I find strange about Hori's world building - it's never really explored why all these kids want to be heroes bar a few rare examples (here's the ones I can think of.)

Bakugou - wants to be the next number 1 and rich for himself (see Volume 1.)

Ochaco - wants to provide for her family and being a hero will help her do that.

Izuku - Wants to help and save people like All Might. (Ok that's fine but why a hero specifically? Izu could have been a Doctor, Firefighter or a Quirk Analyst and still done that. It would be interesting if he wanted to be a hero specifically out of spite because that's one of the things people told him he could never do.)

Shoto: wanted to be a hero to save people like his mother and siblings - but his mother explicitly. - This could have been a great way to explore heroic corruption if there were more 'heroic people' having quirk marriages like this. Yet Hori doesn't give us that. Endeav seems like one rare asshole. Not systemic corruption.

Here's the thing, it's not really explored why anyone else / any other kid wants to be a hero other than brief barely explored ideas at best. I've included a few examples below.

"My brother is a hero, I want to be like him," - Iida. Great - so why doesn't Hori explore this more and have Tensei appear more as a driving force for Iida?

"Saving people is so cool," - Jirou. Ok, why does she think that? Was she ever in a position where she needed saving? Why was this so strong a feeling that she prioritised this career path over her music which is passionate about?

Kirishima hates bullies and views saving people as "manly" taking inspiration from Crimson Riot. So why be a hero specifically? Just because his idol was? Kirishima could have been an amazing teacher and eradicated bullies that way. (Ignore for a moment about how being besties with the biggest bully in 1A undermines all that.)

Mineta says he wants to be a hero to "get girls" and "be popular". Shallow but realistic motivations for a teen boy yet there must be something more driving him otherwise he would have given up by now.

I wish we saw more of the HPSC propaganda, the deeper things driving these kids to heroism specifically and AM's good work that's spoken about but not seen enough.

Do the kids want freedom to use their quirks and use them for good? I could see that especially with sentient quirks like Dark Shadow, keeping sentient quirks surpressed would probably be hard and painful.

As for your last point - I think other heroes relied on and admired AM a lot viewing him as above them - the symbol of stability of their society. A concept that has a lot of flaws but will be undoubtedly repeated in Izuku being the next symbol in their heroic society.

[drreporting]

Ryan dealing with separation anxiety & having terrible fits whenever Amelia leaves in his toddler years? Or wanting to be picked up by her all the time.

Holding On

The rain had settled over Seattle, casting a cool gray blanket over the city, and now, standing on the threshold of her new life, Amelia felt its weight. She pushed her damp hair behind her ears, her mind a dizzying blend of sterile operating rooms and crumpled day planners. Today was the day she was slated to begin her new role as one of the leading neurosurgeons at Grey Sloan. But all she could focus on was the tiny hand clutching her leg.

“Mommy, no,” Ryan’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it sliced through her resolve like a knife. His large, doe-like blue eyes bore into hers, pleading and filled with an earnestness that tugged at her heart. He was barely two, and this city might as well have been a foreign land to him.

“Oh, buddy,” Amelia knelt to his level, smoothing his tousled blond hair. “I’ll be back before you know it.” She wrapped her arms around his small frame, feeling the warmth of his little body. It broke her heart to feel him shiver under the looming fear of abandonment. It was only a few hours at a time, but to Ryan, it felt monumental.

Ever since they’d arrived from Los Angeles, Ryan had struggled with this separation anxiety, and the moment she stepped out the door, his confidence faltered like a candle flickering against the wind. First came the quiet pleas, followed by the louder protests, and eventually, the full-on tantrums, leaving Amelia feeling like a monster each time her work called her away.

“Play?” he asked, his voice cracking like thunder, as if he could turn her heart into play dough.

“Just for a few minutes,” Amelia promised, knowing she had to leave. Bills were stacking, and her brother’s old job was a lifeline for the two of them. For her fragile independence, and for Ryan’s stability. She pushed those worries aside, desperately focusing on the small joys they could have before she slipped away into the world of scalpel and stitches.

For the next twenty minutes, Amelia transformed into a whirlwind of pretend games and laughter. They played doctor and patient, building towers with blocks, with Ryan laughing in a way that illuminated the dream house. Just for a while, they were wrapped in a bubble of love and warmth, a transient world where the specter of work didn’t exist.

But then, as shadows grew longer in the room, the moment came. With a final squeeze of his hand, she kissed the top of his head, promising once more she would be back soon.

The front door clicked shut behind her, but the sounds of Ryan’s wails pierced through the silence of the stairwell, followed by Meredith attempting to soothe them. Her chest tightened. Walking away never got easier.

At the hospital, though she was engulfed by the relentless chaos of life and death, part of her remained tethered to him. The fidgeting interns, the brisk nurses, and the patter of doctors' shoes all faded into a dull thrum as her mind turned back to her son. Each time she scrubbed in for a surgery, she envisioned Ryan’s face, the innocence and need in his eyes.

The surgeries went well, her hands steady as always. Yet when she returned home, the darkness had already encroached. Ryan’s whimpering echoed through the house, and as she stepped inside, he was perched on the couch, tears staining his cheeks.

“Mommy!” he cried, launching himself into her arms like a small missile.

“Oh, sweet boy,” she murmured, pulling him close, breathing in his familiar scent. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

For the next hour, he clung to her, evading every attempt she made to set him down. When Owen rang the doorbell, she frowned but welcomed him in, hoping he would help Ryan ease his anxiety. He had always known how to bring laughter into their lives.

“Hey there, little dude!” Owen bent down, an easy charm lighting up his face. “Wanna see something cool?”

Ryan peered from behind Amelia, silent but curious.

“How about my magic card trick?” Owen offered, pulling a deck from his back pocket.

Amelia watched, torn between gratefulness and the small flicker of resentment. Why did it seem easier for everyone to engage with her son but her? Sometimes she felt like an island adrift in a sea of overwhelming emotion—tides of love, fear, and loss crashing against her.

The trick captivated Ryan, attention shifted from his mother to Owen, who performed one sleight of hand after another. Laughter filled the room, but Amelia remained partially distracted.

After the trick, Ryan approached Amelia again, apprehension showing on his young face. “Can you stay?” he asked, but his quiet words trembled.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Owen's just going to help me cook dinner, okay?”

Owen, sensing the shifting undercurrents, smiled reassuringly and participated fully, fixing a simple meal that absorbed Ryan's attention while Amelia darted to the kitchen, attempting to breathe through the sense of dread niggling at her heart.

As dinner consumed her fears, they laughed and told stories, Ryan gradually warming up to the easy camaraderie. Yet when it came time for bed, the familiar dread sank in again. Ryan clung to her once more, eyes wide with worry.

“Read?” he pleaded, curling into her side as she settled into bed with him, cradling him like an infant in her arms.

“Of course, buddy.” She opened a well-worn book, her fingers brushing over the pages. The words danced between them, a lullaby of narrative that worked like a bandage over both their souls, mending the fragility of their separation.

Each night, it became their ritual. A nightly escape, weaving together a world where shadows held no power, where love conquered all.

Yet as the moon cast a silver glow on their little haven, doubts loomed large. She knew the struggle wouldn’t magically fade. She could only hope he learned to find strength in her absence, that he would feel secure in her love.

As Amelia softly closed the book, she whispered a promise into Ryan’s ear, “Tomorrow, we’ll conquer the world together, just you and me.”

And Ryan, heavy-lidded with sleep, murmured back softly, “Together, forever.”

In that moment, their hearts beat in unison, tied in an everlasting bond, as vast and nurturing as the great Seattle skies above.

[dollarbin]

Shakey Sundays #18:

Earth

It's countdown time: I see Neil Young and Crazy Horse this Thursday on the second night of their new tour. I'll be there to scream and lose my mind like a 12 year old. You'll then have to read about it all in minute detail over and over again for years.

But my famous brother, who'll also be there, has warned me that I need to brace myself: Nils won't be on stage with the band as he's busy making serious money with The Boss; nor will Pancho, who's still in retirement, and, although Neil is surely working on the necessary tech as we speak, no one has figured out - yet- how to bring poor Danny Whitten back to life. And so that means Crazy Horse is now welcoming, at least for the moment, its fourth official rhythm guitar player: one of the hipster kids from Promise of the Real Pancakes.

Here's a photo of him from the internet:

You're looking at Micah Nelson, Willie's son. Willie's 90 so either he had a kid at age 78, which seems totally possible for good old Willie, or this photo is not current. Let's google and find out... Micah is apparently 33 years old so either there's a hormone issue going on, or Willie's weed protects his progeny against aging or this is a dated photo; or all three of those things are happening at once. Regardless, I hope Micah wears this shirt while on stage Thursday.

By my count this particular Nelson was involved in at least four different Neil Young records during the dark Montsanto Years - there were two studio records, a live record and a soundtrack for Paradox, one of the worst of Young's 20+ films - which is totally saying something as many of them are largely unwatchable unless you're nuts like me - which is four more record appearances than I can personally claim with Young. Micah may even have a credit on Peace Trail as well; perhaps he programmed Neil's new robot. So, with all that under his belt and this new invitation to join the upcoming tour, Nelson's got to have something good going on for him other than his boyish good looks. We'll see.

Unfortunately, Micah will probably be on my assigned side of the stage: Billy Talbot usually sets up on Neil's right and, these days, Billy doesn't amble about too much; poor Talbot looks like he could use a walker, a hovercraft, or a whole tribe of Road Eyes to stabilize him, but he's still game and I sure as hell hope he sings a lot and pounds out some big boneheaded bass licks at the show: the dude has always given his fellow cavemen a good name.

But anyway, I've got to get my mind open to having this Nelson kid on stage so today I'm going to make myself listen to another Promise of the Real Potato Salad Neil Young record. We've already survived, barely, the first of them and I'm not listening to that overwrought codswallop all over again; I could sit through their second studio album together - it sounded cool for an anticipatory moment back in the day with its Time Fades Away meets anti-Trump vibe - but that record turned out to have a circus themed song on it that shook my soul down to a wounded, terrified core, so that's out, and there's no way I'm going to sit through another screening of Paradox any time soon: I feel like it was mostly iphone shots Micah and his band mates in period dress lined up and waiting for access to outhouse crappers.

So that leaves Earth, Young's nutty live-but-autotuned / field recordings record from 2016. I listened to the whole thing a few times way back in the day: I laughed a bit, got into it for moments and then never listened to it since. All that changes right now. Micah Nelson, please don't ruin my day.

The album sounds okay! It opens with Mother Earth, which, as I've discussed elsewhere, was the wrong song to end Ragged Glory with. But it sounds pretty lovely here with Neil alone on his pump organ. Go Neil, go.

But midway through the song Neil pasts on some professionals' studio vocals in an effort to ruin the good thing he had going; my memory tells me that he does the same on just about every song; Neil called the additions "edgy" at the time; I'd choose another descriptor. "Dumb" could work. Or "wacko". But let's just settle for "good old Shakey".

Because they're not that unexpected. Neil is surely a big fan of Dylan's Christmas record and Micah Nelson wasn't even a twinkle in Willie's eye when Young brought in a full boy's choir for Touch the Night, instructing the kids to sing joyfully along with him about a fatal, or perhaps just harrowing, midnight car accident; they're probably all still in therapy.

And remember, there's a 100 person choir out there who are still wondering if that session in which they sang about nausea and sexual death actually happened or whether it was all just a crazy dream.

We're fairly deep into this whole Shakey Sunday thing and I'm probably failing miserably in my originally stated goal of explaining, at least to myself, why Neil Young? But I want to suggest the obvious point here all the same: Neil Young just does whatever the hell he wants and typically that means doing something utterly wacko. And we love him for it.

So go for it Neil: bring in a pro choir and have them sing the names of gas stations with earnest polish while you do your crazy grandpa routine! It'll be totally edgy. I guess.

The other wacko, or truly Shakey, choice here is shoving a whole nature documentary into the record. Again, we probably should have seen this coming: Young's songs and focus at the time were almost solely on climate change concerns, and ever since his very first film over 50 years ago, there are often crackling fires to be heard on some of his best songs. Plus he came of age hearing the rooster in The Beatles' Morning Morning and the dogs chasing the train on Pet Sounds, and there are bird cries layered into Young's fantastic original version of Pocahontas.

There are times on the record when Young's assembled monkeys, badgers and hornets sound totally appropriate. For example, every time they interrupt a song from The Monsanto Years, I'm totally into it: I'd rather listen to bears bellow than hear any of the songs on that record anyway.

But hold on, I just fired up disc two on my trusty IPod (no, of course I don't own this record on vinyl; I don't have 165 dollars to spare on the CD-Rom compatible blue ray download immersion set complete with pan pipes and rolling papers likely available on Neil's forever beta website) and either I'm currently drunk (well, maybe I am sorta: how the hell else do you expect me to make it through 4 hours of frog sounds mingled with The Promise of Real's bongos on every track?) or Box Store, another of The Monsanto Years' problem tracks actually sounds pretty great here.

Let's paste it in and give it another listen; you tell me: does this song still suck or is it a sweet space opera about Walmart?

We've got a car horn honking and ambiance and then it's time for a typical Neil Young song. Yes, I know, the choir croons a lot of sophomoric and terribly rhymed nonsense about Volkswagen being too big to fail and too rich for jail but there are no bongos to be heard, Neil's own vocals are strong and there's all kinds of 90's style remix action going on interspersed with vintage Shakey guitar shredding. This is actually pretty damn good. And when Neil drops a huge F-bomb about TV toward the end and then start ordering us all into line before dropping some real bombs, then frogs, on our faces I'm ready to award Micah and his preteen band mates honorary middle school diplomas. They likely need them.

And what about the songs we actually liked to begin with? Vampire Blues sounds pretty cool, I guess: Young's vocals are great anyway, the Chevron tie-in is so meatheaded that you've got to bow down, and Neil does demonstrate that he can successfully play the song while not totally wasted.

But Western Hero just sounds dull and After the Gold Rush, with its rampant participation from a sentient being, is downright horrifying. And yeah, after 34 years I'm finally into the song Love and Only Love now that I have it on vinyl but, for god's sake, why is there a 28 minute long version here complete with a whole orchestra pit filled with every bongo Joe Freakin' Lala ever owned and every member of Willie's rampant progeny wailing away?

Come on, Neil: you could have given us the rest of On The Beach in that same time instead. For the Turnstiles would feature baseball bleacher chatter and whale voices while the oblivious choir chants "Ten Dollars at the Door" with no idea whatsoever that they're filling in for pimps; the title track could clobber us with intermittent wave crashes, seagull screams and radio static before devolving into penguin screams. Could be pretty damn edgy.

Knowing Young, he's probably got that exact album in the can already; yet another new live album, F#$%kin Up, came out earlier today; so knowing Neil, Earth 2 will be out in mid-May

[magistralucis]

I KNEW IT WAS YOU!!! It was either you or Ghost who wrote THIS Masterpiece! And I bothered my friends for HOURS because Unravel gave so so much feeling man you CANNOT imagine!! Two idiots in love with each other and that walking Sexy disaster known as Trazyn. (I read that over and over again and there is NO WAY Imotekh isn't in love with Trazyn too 🥹🥹 God that is SUCH a masterpiece.

Orikan's desperation to be loved and be a part of a family while loving someone is so terrifying to them they hate him too as well as whatever he feels for Imotekh...he is SUCH a stubborn mess. I wonder what happened to those 3 pairs of eyes he worked hard to support...

Imotekh just got the short end of the stick. Love turn to hate yet not completely but the effects of their mutual fuck ups also twisted him into a worse version of himself in so many ways. His contradictiry thoughts at times shows how much he is STILL conflicted about...everything. while also continuing to lie to himself about many many things. Wonder what would have happened if he went with Trazyn dragging Orikan kicking and screaming...maybe they'd get the therapy they so deserve. Sennet is probably good at that.

And Trazyn himself...not gonna lie I wonder how he would feel if he remembered everything as Imotekh does...a good deal more depressed I imagine..looking at Solamnace now it is obvious many parts of his family is dead. And while he was having the time of his like in Sautekh dynasty the bonds he created there with tbese two...damn dude gave you guys literal rings how open could he get???? I wonder what would it be like if they took him on his offer. Wouldn't be easy and Orikan would need good GOOD kick in the feels to start reflecting on himself but they could have been the strongest polyamory the universe has ever seen!

I hope you'll write more about these guys! Would be amazing to see a proper necrontyr Orizyn from you ❤️❤️

Thank you so much! This ask actually came on the 1st; I was saving it until I was done with the fic post reblogs. A very happy new year to you, anon 💖🎄

Canon seems to be marking Trazyn out as a surprisingly well-adjusted person for WH40K standards (I'm aware that bar is at the bottom of the ocean, but still), someone who's principled, if light-years distant from social acceptance. It seemed natural that our disaster couple would be drawn to his stability, if only to learn from him how to make each other so much worse 🙃

Imotekh certainly felt comforted by Trazyn. Whether he could've felt for Trazyn the same passionate love/obsession he felt for Orikan is up for debate, but I think Imotekh could've learned to survive in Gheden with him, and it wouldn't have been as painful as Orikan tried to convince him it would be. He's willing to seal off his acts of love towards Orikan in Trazyn's name, after all, there is an element to which Imotekh sees in Trazyn a lover. Not necessarily a fellow lover, but not necessarily an enemy. A triangulating force that Imotekh feels he and Orikan need to conquer, or else perish... and they did not conquer Trazyn, no sir, the dude barely even knew all this was going on 😩

By the time of biotransference the three pairs of young eyes were no longer young. Saved them from becoming warrior-drones in the conversion, but the life of a necrontyr is already brutal as it is. Chances are that Orikan's siblings did not outlive him - I haven't thought about it much, I admit - and honestly, that may not have been the worst way to go, given the horrors of biotransference.

Ah yes, the rings. 💍 You'll note that Orikan has never worn his, though he still refused to let it go, and Trazyn remembered it enough to gild a homage to it at the end. I don't know if you're familiar with Anglo-Saxon literature (it's my specialty, I'm a medievalist), but there's a kenning meaning 'king/lord' ('beaga bryttan') which literally translates to 'ring-giver'. That's the image I have of all noble/royal characters of older time periods (or inspired by history) - generous, doling out treasure and favours to their retainers, while fully expecting that loyalty to be repaid with their lives if it comes to that.

When Trazyn gave them those rings, he was expressing his adoration of them, while also anticipating either he or his dynasty would have a use for them in the future. It's a contract as well as a gift. If they'd gone through with this throuple successfully, they'd have ended up yielding a lot of control to Trazyn - perhaps for the best, perhaps for the worst, since they'd have been subject to the whims of the Nihilakh Dynasty or Trazyn himself for however long that went on. Nothing is only good or only bad forever. It is a loss of great potential, nonetheless, that Orikan was so utterly unwilling to put in any work to salvage this triad 🤧

I do think the 'how much do they remember' problem is something I could've done a better job of. Trazyn and Orikan remember way too much here compared to their I&D depictions, I fear some of their aspects veer off into OOC territory by the end. That's something I need to work on a bit more, but in the meanwhile I'm glad people enjoyed it all the same 💖

[gotatext]

JUDE & ANGEL — DAY THIRTY-SEVEN.

location :   🚬 smoking area 🚬

time :   jude attempts to give angel advice in the wake of his evie drama.

featuring :  angel /  @dobits

angel reid

"i actually, like... really need your advice." maybe it's a hard left turn considering that since angel had joined jude over here they'd been mostly talking about obscure youtube videos and old memes. he cranes his head diplomatically. "or, well, not advice, but -- i dunno. maybe for you to talk me off the edge a little bit.

𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘀𝗲𝘆.

it’s not often that people come to jude for advice. he’s shit at giving it, shittier at following it — everyone in casa had told him to stay the fuck away from jenny, angel included, and look where that had gotten him. something hardwired into him just wants to do the opposite of the things he know he should. “fire away, my guy…” jude mumbles sparking his cigarette, which had gone out without him realising. “why you on the edge? like one of those looney tunes characters running along and suddenly you look down and realise you’ve walked off the edge of a cliff?” it makes sense in jude’s head. the cliff is probably callie, and he’s just pootling along, suddenly the stability of it all ripped from beneath him, though he isn’t exactly sure why. “woman trouble messing with your head?”

angel reid

“dude — exactly,” angel scoffs some relief that jude can effortlessly describe the exact way he’s feeling, both appreciative and unsurprised. there’s a reason this guy’s his bestie in here. he’s got a rolling paper in his hands in lieu of a fidget toy, manipulating the corners inward and then flattening it straight as he tries to lasso up his thoughts. “yeah, but it’s not even my woman! evie, man. like, i told you about how i made her cry yesterday, right? well, then we talked again later on and… like, i kinda lost my temper.” not a proud moment, very much unlike him. it has angel raking his hair back from his face, a gesture chock full of stress. “i just got this bad feeling she’s gonna be spreading shit about me to save face. like, letting people know i’m a real asshole just to kinda cover up her trying the bombshell thing on me.”

𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘀𝗲𝘆.

there’s a shorthand between the two of them, the shared kind of language you get on film sets when you work with the same crew day-in, day-out. even when a flick of a wrist could mean a number of things — want a coffee? shall i bring that light up? need a different lens? was that out of focus? — with certain people you’d just know and angel’s one of those people. jude’s never been good at speaking, tends to say too much or nothing at all, mouth so dry it suddenly feels like words won’t even form, but with angel their communication goes beyond speech, they just get each other. “you lost your temper?” jude clarifies, a single eyebrow shifting up an inch on his forehead. angel, the guy who meditates every morning, and seems as unflappable as an oak getting caught up in his feelings? wow. this place really does fuck with your head. “okay, but was it like, sexy anger or like you’ve genuinely pissed me off kinda anger?” not that it matters either way, he’s just trying to picture the scene, sketch out a storyboard of what went down on the H.M.S evangelical. “for what it’s worth, i don’t think anyone would believe you’re the twat,” jude shrugs, taking a drag of his cigarette, and leaning in so that angel can light his own roll up from jude’s. “i mean, she’s new here. we barely know her. whereas you’ve got a track record for being an absolute g. don’t sweat it, bro.”

angel reid

“yeah, man, it was, like, everything i said was sending me to the electric chair,” angel complains, dragging his tongue across the paper as he rolls it all together. lips press together bitterly if not thoughtfully. “nah, it was genuinely annoying.” a pregnant pause, he huffs a sigh and lolls his head back. “maybe a little sexy, but not really in a good way, y’know? it was, like, trouble.” and not because of the callie of it all - the whole interaction was pretty void of any real flirtation - but because it was the first time he felt like he didn’t have a handle on things in here. “yeah, maybe… thanks, babes.” the end of his smoke cherries off of jude’s and he inhales the tobacco. “it was giving me you-in-casa vibes. like, you make one mistake and you’re sorry, but everybody’s gonna wanna guillotine you anyway.”

𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘀𝗲𝘆.

jude still hasn’t spoken to the bombshells one-on-one, but angel’s assessment has him shrinking even further from the idea of it. starting out in casa and having to graft his way into staying, it feels like he hasn’t had the opportunity to get excited for new bombshells in the same way longer-term islanders have, and now that bombshells are here, they’re not interested in him anyway. “i hate that shit,” jude sighs, shaking his head with conviction. “when you feel like every word out your mouth bein’ dissected, typing up public apologies in the notes app of your iphone, its like i need me a PR team in here stat.” honestly, he feels for angel, has found himself in those arguments where it feels like everything you say is petrol bomb straight to the face of making any meaningful connections. “that feels like the romi situation for fuckin sure, man.” there were days in casa when jude was certain he’d be on the next flight home, face crossed out like a cast member of traitors for thinking with the wrong head. “i won’t lie, i kinda love a fight? especially when they’re sexy. but you ain’t built that way. you’re mellow.” he’s lucked out that jenny and him are built the same way, thrive on drama even if it makes them anxious and sick to their stomachs, even if it has him up all night pacing the halls, it means this thing that they’re building is important enough that everything else becomes background noise.  “just speak your truth, though. that’s all you can do. a lot of revolutionaries get their heads cut off for saying shit. people only realise how right they were afterwards.”

angel reid

it’s not very funny, but angel has to laugh, mostly out of relief for someone finally validating his confusing feelings on the matter, albeit unspecific and uninformed. “dude, exactly. it’s, like, breaking my brain.” the pressure of the villa and the way a mistake can irreparably shift opinion of you is hard, angel doesn’t know how jude’s been able to come out the other side. self awareness, maybe. knows who he is, what he likes, and what he doesn’t. “yeah, i’ve heard,” he teases mildly, can’t help but point out that him and jenny have been indulging in their fair share of spats lately. at least they seem to be enjoying it. “you know, jenny told me she likes you.” there’s a smile on his face like he’s swallowed a middle school aged canary, next he’ll pass jude a note bearing jenny’s name in pink ink and spritzed with victoria’s secret midnight berry body spray. “like… she like likes you.” now angel’s just putting it on, exhales a smokey laugh. “it was funny, she was, like, trying to decide if i should tell you so or not. like, trying to be all ten steps ahead as if you aren’t obviously into her. i’m like, dude, he wouldn’t care so much if he wasn’t down for you.”

[multishipper001]

THIS

Also, may I add : Yoohyun's actions, even if not on purpose, put the blame of his immature decisions and poor reaction to danger on Yoojin.

Without his skill "final gratitude", which made him see what Yoohyun's been through, he wouldn't know a thing about what Yoohyun's been doing for his protection behind his back.

All that "it's dangerous to show affection to my brother" bullshit, but still ordering his comrades to look after his brother... Like DUDE. You don't trust someone to not poison your every fucking meal, but you trust some random people you've barely known for a few years to look after your brother & keep their mouths shut??

Also, one of the biggest faults I see is people saying that "Yoohyun is actually not a bad brother, he was just young and didn't know better🥺"

Excuse me, that's ✨BULLSHIT✨

Like yes, at the beginning? He was an inexperienced brat even in normal standards, let alone being a hunter. He hasn't finished uni yet - which means no job experience for him since Yoojin did all the work, he's just a student that hasn't started living adult life yet - then bam, dungeons appeared.

Then he was an inexperienced hunter.

Sure, new dangers arose, and he reacted to them in a certain way, which turned out to be fucking bad.

What does a MATURE ADULT do in such situation?

With time, notices that his grand plan of Doing The Right Thing™ sucks ass (even if it takes time for them to notice & admit it!) and fucking DOES SOMETHING TO CHANGE IT

Now, sure, Yoohyun was young when he had to make this decision. He was inexperienced. Nobody was there to give him advice, because the entire dungeon-situation was new. He didn't know better.

But he HAD options.

If he truly prioritised his brother's safety over fame and power, he wouldn't have turned down help from already existing bigger guilds & other S classes.

I have to take care of my sibling too, and ofc although the circumstances are different, in times of need, if your goal is ACTUALLY to protect someone you love, you're not being a prideful BITCH. No, you accept whatever help is offered (even if the one offering it is a dehumanising sick fuck or if the conditions aren't perfect), and try getting the best out of each situation.

He HAD options, he HAD help. What stopped him from getting it was not some outside evil force or whatever, it was HIS OWN PRIDE.

YOU AREN'T PRIDEFUL WHEN YOUR SIBLING IS IN DANGER, YOU SUCK UP THE FACT THAT YOU NEED HELP & TAKE WHAT YOU GET!

I think the "Young Master" nickname is very fitting for him, actually. Like, you cannot think you are obliged to have everything you want (fame & power & influence & his brother's love, cooperation and understanding without explaining shit to him & financial stability & independence) unless you're a spoiled brat.

Or a fucking idiot. Or both.

He was a kid when he had to make a choice.

But then he grew up to be an adult. He should've made a mature choice, because guess what, he wasn't a fucking kid anymore.

He could've finished college. Have a degree. He might not earn as much money as a doctor than as a hunter, but it would've been more than enough to provide for two people.

If those enemies only had chances to attack in dungeons, he could've just avoided it completely. It's not like his powers only worked in dungeons, so he could've stayed with his brother AND protected him while also having the money he makes as a doctor.

Expecting Yoojin to just follow his unreasonable demands - especially since he dropped out of college to raise his ungrateful ass, which means no degree and thus less money in normal jobs - not communicating with him at all, treating him like shit in public & in front of his guild members, but still expecting him to unconditionally love him and put up with his unexplained, shit behaviour...

Talk about "Young Master". He has made a bad decision, refused to accept help because his pride mattered more to him than his brother's safety, refused to change after noticing said bad decisions, expected his brother to just do as he says...

That's not something you can brush off with "He was young!"

Yes, he was young. Then he grew up.

It appeared that this only meant in age, since mentally, he seems to be stuck in the level of a spoiled, sociopathic, delusional ten year old.

With all due respect, which is none, fuck him. He's an immature adult, a selfish person, and a ✨terrible✨ brother.

Itachi vs. Yoohyun, The protector vs. The abandoner

A short comparison between Yoohyun from the tsctir manhwa and Itachi from the Naruto manga;

Choice The village's decision to genocide the Uchiha clan is not something Itachi has a choice in. Yoohyun has a choice to put Yoojin in danger by becoming the center of attention or not. Protect him like other guild leaders protecting their families or not.

How far I go for my brother Itachi kills his parents, his love, and his clan to keep Sasuke alive. For becoming a guild leader and being in dungeons Yoohyun puts Yoojin in danger and apart from a few minor things, he never does anything to protect him.

Prioritizing brother

Itachi sells his soul to the devil in exchange for his brother so that Sasuke can live with his teachers and friends and grow stronger. Yoohyun wants to be in dungeons and creates a guild and Yoojin becomes a target because of that and Yoohyun drives him away.

Guarantee for brother's safety

The Hokage and the elders guarantee Sasuke's life. There is no guarantee for Yoojin's life, not even Yoohyun himself. The reason Yoojin didn't die is that he just didn't.

Breaking brother's soul By turning into a villain, Itachi empowers Sasuke and gives him purpose. Yoohyun breaks Yoojin so that he doesn't go to dungeons. It doesn't work.

Resources Itachi is a notorious and hated fugitive and double agent. Yoohyun is a respected guild leader with power, fortune, privilege. Itachi guarantees sasuke a life with his friends and teachers, kills his enemies, frees him from the curse, gives him his eyes, takes care of him even after death. Yoohyun "thinks" hyung is fine.

[knucklescum]

Ink - Matt Murdock x reader soulmate au

Pairing: Daredevil Matt Murdock x reader

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: swearing, alcohol, mentions of violence

Blank. Your entire body had been completely blank for your entire life. No scribbled notes on the back of your hand, no absentminded doodles and drawings up and down your arm. Nothing.

You’d had your own markings there, of course; appointment times hurriedly jotted on your hand as your doctor hangs up the phone. Hell, your arm was frequently covered in various flowers, eyes and a multitude of dicks as your old school friends showed off their artistic ‘abilities’. You dread to think what your soulmate had thought of you back then.

It had been a while since you had thought about your soulmate, their lack of interest in inking themselves up causing you to pretty much forget their existence entirely. They only came up in conversation when you’d go out for drinks with your friends or when someone you knew finally found their soulmate. You hadn’t given up searching, you’d just given up giving a fuck.

Today, you started a new case. It wasn’t often that your firm took on clients who were undeniably evil - sure, some were a little cheeky sometimes - but you guessed that this client in particular was paying the big bucks.

You had originally started at Hastings & co. as a freelance private investigator, working with Everett Hastings to find the best clients or, more correctly, the clients with the easiest cases to defend. It wasn’t long before Everett’s offers were too hard to ignore, the financial stability of working for a firm providing you with far more long term solutions to all of your daily struggles. That had been six years ago now. Now you had your very own office and effectively the freedom to find your own cases once again, as long as you stayed within Hastings’ admittedly lenient guidelines.

This case, however, you had no say in. 

Lost in thought, you barely notice the intern standing in your doorway until he gives two gentle knocks on the doorframe.

‘Miss, the client has arrived. Everett has requested that you introduce yourself.’ 

‘Yes, yes of course,’ you look up, quickly jumping out of your seat and snatching your pen and paper from the edge of the desk. ‘Is the client by themselves? Or is there a whole entourage like last time?’ 

You both begin walking down the hallway before the intern starts again, ‘No, it’s just him. But,’ he pauses, coming to a stop and leaning in to whisper, ‘I think he’s wired. He keeps fiddling with his ear.’

You nod as you make your way towards the office, ‘Okay. Thanks, dude. See you later.’ The two of you exchange small waves before you turn to open the office door, forcing a polite smile on to your face. 

Immediately, you recognise the client. His perfectly polished face had been all over the news recently - this was an extremely high profile case. You don’t hesitate in sending a smile his way, sticking your hand out to meet his.

The two of you shake hands as you introduce yourself, the situation surprisingly pleasant until you share your role at the firm with him. He scoffs as the words ‘private investigator’ leave your mouth.

‘Ralph Spentsworth. You can call me Raffie, though I doubt we’ll be interacting again.’ He laughs again, shooing you away with his hand. ‘I have no interest in communicating with an unqualified, wannabe detective.’

Turning to Everett, you shoot him a look for him to support you.

Everett coughs, nodding at you before looking back to Ralph.

‘I can assure you, Raffie, she is very much qualified for your case. She’s your best bet at walking away from this situation unscathed.’ 

‘Thank you, Mr Hastings,’ you say before gesturing to the door, ‘Should I get started?’

Everett glances around the room before giving you a curt nod, ‘Yes, Miss, that’ll be all for now. All of the files regarding Mr Spentswor- sorry, Raffie’s case should have already been emailed over to you. Good luck.’ 

-----

It was way past the end of your shift. Almost everyone in the office had said their farewells to you for the evening, although you had no idea how long it had been since you had said goodnight to your last colleague. You were completely and utterly lost in the research for Ralph’s case. It had been obvious that he was in fact guilty of a crime right from the get-go, but you had no idea just how horrific his crimes had been. As with most of the big bad clients, there was more than one crime spanning over multiple weeks, but Hastings and co. were only defending him for one particular set of crimes. Thankfully, each of these cases were heavily reported on by local news stations and papers which aided your moral judgement - but it made your job increasingly more difficult.

Shares holder Ralph Spentsworth suspected of grievous bodily harm after money laundering scheme goes bust.

Local businessman Ralph Spentsworth allegedly spotted beating woman to death.

Eyewitnesses report local business owner ‘Raffie’ Spentsworth breaking and entering before damning emergency call is made.

Shit.

How on earth are you supposed to find evidence for this guy? Wherever you look, you could only find more and more incriminating evidence. Extremely obvious evidence.

As you continue your search, Everett makes his way into your office.

‘Fantastic, you’re still here. I need to discuss something with you.’ Everett plants himself into one of the seats opposite your desk, leaning himself over to peer at you.

‘I didn’t think you’d still be here,’ you laugh as you check the time. 

23:46

‘I didn’t plan on it,’ he laughs. ‘I’m just going to confide in you, I’m asking politely that you don’t say ‘I told you so’, okay?’.

‘Hmm.’ You nod, encouraging him to continue.

He shifts his eyes around the office, clearly debating whether to continue. 

‘I shouldn’t have taken this case.’

You shake your head in both amusement and understanding as he stutters to support his statement. 

‘I’m being serious. He’s fucking evil. He doesn’t feel guilty at all. No remorse whatsoever. I’ve seriously fucked up.’

Cutting off his ramblings, you rest your hand on his as you think of something, anything to say to make him feel better.

‘Look, Everett. You’re right, we shouldn’t have taken this case,’ he looks up at you, a sad smile on his face. ‘But there’s things we can do to fix this. To make things right.’

He suddenly springs up in his seat, drumming his hands on your desk.

‘Okay, okay. I have an idea. Won’t be monetarily great for us but it’ll ease my conscience.’

‘Oh?’ You tilt your head at him, clicking the pen in your hand, ready to take notes in your now wide open notepad. 

‘We find the victim’s lawyer.’ He says, before you interject.

‘Victim? Is the victim not, you know, dead?’ You ask, confused as to just how a dead woman can be defended in court.

‘There were 3 victims. A family. The bastard killed the wife and daughter but the husband is still alive. Got a few life changing injuries, as one would, but he’s alive.’

‘Fuck. Okay, this could work,’ you say, scribbling down information onto the paper. ‘Do we know the guy’s name?’ You turn to your computer, opening google with your fingers hovering over the keyboard.

‘Leo. Leo Baker.’ Everett confidently utters to you, resting his head on his fist as you frantically type.

‘Found him. Okay-y,’ you say, pausing to write Leo’s name on your hand. Important information goes on the hand. 

It takes a good while before you find a news article specifically about Leo. You scan the article for any information at all regarding a lawyer or anything to do with the legal system, ultimately with no luck.

You continue to scour the internet for more information, eventually landing on the Facebook profile of an elderly woman who appears to be a neighbour to the Baker family, with frequent updates and statuses on the case.

‘I think I’ve got a lead.’ You say, ushering Everett over to your side of the desk with your pen. He quickly makes his way over, peering at the screen.

He seems to be a few posts ahead of you as he points at the post furthest to the bottom.

‘Lovely Leo has found himself a very friendly pair of lawyers. Not a fan of their office though, needs an upgrade!’ Everett reads, ‘Maybe send her a message? She might be able to give us the address of Leo’s lawyers.’

Everett returns back to his seat, promptly pulling his phone from his pocket.

‘Shit, I’ve gotta run. You work on that message though and keep me updated, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Goodnight, Everett.’ You wave your hand at him, gesturing for him to leave. ‘I’ll lock up on my way out!’ 

‘You’re a star!’ He shoots a finger gun at you before quickly leaving the room, closing the door behind him. 

Not long after Everett left, you formulated the perfect message for Leo’s neighbour. You hadn’t been expecting a response at such an unreasonable time, but you had received a notification in no time at all.

You frantically search for your phone in the depths of your bag, fishing it out to call Everett. You ring twice to no response, opting to text him instead.

Got the address. Nelson And Murdock. You heard of them? Heading over in the morning

Tossing your phone to the side, you pick up your pen and write the number for Nelson and Murdock on your hand, along with the building name and number.

-----

08:00

You awoke to the blaring sound of your alarm, sleepily reaching over to your bedside table to turn it off, instead knocking your phone from its place on the edge of the furniture. Sliding out of bed, you pick up your phone and turn the alarm off, preparing to start the day.

It doesn’t take long for the hour to pass, your 09:00am alarm reminding you to call the two men that you had been researching the night before, Nelson and Murdock. 

The notes on your hand were slightly faded but still legible. You rushed to enter the number into your phone’s dial keypad, bringing the phone up to your ear.

After a single ring, the phone is answered.

Before you or the person on the other end can speak, you hear a bellowing voice from somewhere in the background.

‘-op secret information is on your hand today, Matty?’ 

‘Hello, Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law. Karen speaking.’ A woman’s voice chimes, letting out a small chuckle at the suspected madness going on around her.

‘Hi Karen,’ you quickly introduce yourself, ‘I’m the PI from Hastings and co. , we’re defending Mr Spentsworth in Leo Baker’s case. Am I right in thinking that your firm are the ones defending Mr Baker?’

‘Um, y-yeah. Sorry, why are you calling?’ Karen is understandably confused, but you’re not sure that this particular conversation is suited for a phone call.

‘This is going to sound really weird, but would it be possible for me to visit and speak to Mr Nelson and Murdock? It’s really important.’

Karen hesitates before responding, ‘I-uh, sure. Could you be here in half an hour?’

-----

You totally overestimated how long it would take you to get to their office. You had found yourself standing in line for the bakery across the street with fifteen minutes to spare, now armed with an assortment of baked goods as you made your way up the narrow stairs towards the firm. 

As you made your way down the hallway towards the door with a fairly new looking plaque on the front, you readied yourself for the oncoming conversation. 

This should be fairly simple, you thought. I’m on their side.

You barely get the chance to knock before the door swings open, a friendly, slender, blonde woman holding it open as she introduces herself.

‘Hi, come in, come in! I’m Karen, we spoke on the phone.’

You can’t help but smile at her as she excitedly beckons you inside, taking the box of treats from your hand, staring at the scribbles on your hand as she does so.

‘I bought some snacks! Consider it a peace offering. I have no idea how this is going to go.’ you anxiously admit, already feeling relaxed in Karen’s presence. 

She laughs in response, ‘Mr Nelson and Mr Murdock are just in their office at the moment, discussing something or other. They shouldn’t be too much longer.’

The two of you stand awkwardly in the reception area before Karen jolts across the room, gently creeping open the office door. You can’t make out their hushed whispers as they hurriedly end their conversation, Karen turning to face you and gesturing for you to come inside. 

You take a seat opposite the two men, sending them both what you only hoped were warm smiles. You introduce yourself as you look between them. 

‘It’s great to meet you, (y/n). I’m Foggy. Foggy Nelson. This,’ the blonde man gestures to the dark haired, bearded man beside him, a pair of dark tinted glasses balanced on his nose. ‘This is Matt Murdock, my associate. How can we help?’ 

Both men edge in closer to you, almost comically, each arm folded and resting on the desk.

You pause, considering what to say next, how to go about this conversation.

These guys seem okay. Seem reasonable, you think. You bring your hands up to the desk, immediately gaining Foggy’s attention. His eyes are drawn to the faded ink that litters your hand, seemingly trying to…read it?

You peer down at your hand before clutching it with your other, looking up to Foggy in apology.

‘I’m so sorry, it’s just notes from last night - it won’t come off.’ you say, an anxious laugh escaping your lips.

‘No, no. It’s no issue, just looked familiar.’ He utters, gently nudging Matt’s leg from under the table.

‘Oh, yeah. It’s your phone number.’ you laugh. Nervously, you shoot a glance up to Karen who has remained at the edge of the room. She offers a shrug in response before casting her eyes back to Matt.

‘So, anyway.’ Matt starts, sitting up in his chair as he rubs the back of his hand. ‘What is it that you’re here to discuss with us?’

You quickly recollect yourself as you start, ‘Oh shit, yeah. Ralph Spentworth. H-he’s-’

‘Evil.’ Matt cuts you off.

‘Y-yeah, exactly. My boss- his lawyer, Everett Hastings doesn’t want to win the case. Is there anything in particular that we can do that would benefit your defence?’ you ask.

‘Drop the case?’ Foggy retorts, earning a light chuckle from Karen.

‘No, you’re not understanding. Hastings wants this man put away. He needs absolutely zero chance of winning this case.’ You explain, your hands moving as you speak. ‘We’re on your side.’

‘You expect us to believe that the man with the highest paying client I’ve personally ever seen doesn’t want to win?’ Foggy says. ‘He just wants to hand us the case?’

You hold your head in your hands momentarily as you think of how to assure these men that you truly want to work alongside them.

‘Spentworth’s crimes are horrific. No morally sound person would even attempt to defend that man.’

‘So why did Hastings take him on?’ Matt asks, tilting his chin up ever so slightly.

‘My guess? The money. It always looks nice at first glance.’ you shrug. ‘But Hastings has realised his mistake. He can’t go through with it.’

The pair decide to discuss the topic further between themselves, leaving you and Karen in the office. Barely a minute passed before you noticed Karen analysing your hand again, embarrassedly pulling your hand to your chest. 

She looks awkwardly to the floor, shuffling her feet against the carpet. 

‘Sorry, (y/n).’ she laughs, before joining you at the desk. ‘This is so rude, oh my god, I’m sorry. But I have to ask, what does it say on your hand?’ 

Gesturing to your ink smeared hand, she looks up at you expectantly.

‘Oh, um, don’t worry about it.’ you laugh. ‘Leo Baker,’ you read. ‘And then the office’s phone number.’ 

You awkwardly extend your arm to reach Karen, showing her the notes on your hand.

‘Okay, don’t freak out. Matt’s hand- This,’ she points at your hand. ‘This is exactly what is on Matt’s hand.’

‘We clearly have the same way of remembering things!’ you nervously chuckle, trying to ignore the vice-like grip that Karen has on your wrist.

‘Matt doesn’t- Matt can’t read things from his hand. He’s,’ Karen leans in. ‘He’s blind.’ she whispers.

You make a sound of shock as she covers her mouth with her hand.

‘I- Karen! I know! I suppose I, well I guess I didn’t consider how he’d go about writing on his hand - shit. I feel so bad, I’m so sorry.’ you stammer out, desperate for this whole encounter to be over.

Before you can discuss it further, Foggy and Matt make their way back into the room.

‘Okay,’ Foggy starts, slapping his arms against his sides. ‘We wouldn’t usually, y’know, work with the opposition. But this seems justified,’ Foggy side eyes Matt, a smile gracing the brunette’s face.

‘We’ll work something out,’ Matt smiles, returning to his seat at the desk. ‘Foggy has informed me that we have another thing to discuss?’ he questions, causing you to look between Foggy and Karen for a response.

Foggy turns to look at Karen expectedly, to which she nods in return.

‘It would seem,’ Foggy begins, reaching one arm out to your hand and the other to Matt’s, ‘you two are soulmates.’

You turn to Matt in surprise, gazing at his face before moving your eyes down to his hand.

There it is. Unmistakably your handwriting, rushed and scribbled, in the exact same spot as on yours. Faded, but there.

‘Are you sure?’ Matt questions, pulling his hand back in to brush his fingers over it. ‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence?’ 

‘No,’ the three of you respond in unison.

‘That’s definitely my handwriting.’ you mutter, still unable to get past the shock. 

This man, beautifully crafted and delightfully polite, is your soulmate?

You had no idea what could possibly be running through Matt’s head right now.

A tense silence filled the room, Karen and Foggy looking from you and Matt, desperate for something to happen.

The silence continued and it was beginning to affect Foggy. He couldn’t handle the awkwardness.

‘Why don’t we, uh,’ Foggy pauses to think. ‘Let’s go for drinks?’

You turn to Foggy, a puzzled expression dancing across your face.

‘Drinks? It’s not even noon.’

Foggy offers nothing but a laugh in response as he picks up his bag from the floor.

‘Let’s go.’

-----

Maybe drinks weren’t such a bad idea. Sure, you’d mainly stuck by Karen’s side in order to avoid any potential awkwardness but, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t too bad. You were a few shots down before you ended up alone at the booth with Matt.

He held himself with such composure, charm may as well have been oozing from the man. You couldn’t help but admire him, your eyes taking in each and every detail. You were staring, and part of you sensed that he knew it.

‘I can’t believe it. You’re my soulmate!’ you exclaim, earning a chuckle from Matt.

‘I’m your soulmate. Unless this is some elaborate ruse created by the three of you to get me into your bed - I’ve been told I’m quite the catch.’ He cuts himself off, fanning his face with his hand in jest.

‘Oh yes, Mr Murdock. I am here simply to bed you, nothing more.’ you retort, joining him in his laughter.

‘So,’ Matt pauses to recollect himself. ‘How long have you been with Hastings?’

‘Everett?’ you ask in shock, ‘I’m not with Everett, not my type. Too blonde.’ you say, snatching your glass up from the table and taking a mouthful of the watered down remnants of your drink.

‘No, no,’ he laughs. ‘I didn’t mean that, (y/n). How long have you worked for him?’

You rub your forehead in embarrassment as you think back on your career.

‘Three and a half years, ish. It’s not too bad.’ you reply before taking another sip of your drink.

‘How about you? You and Foggy seem like you’ve worked together for years.’

‘Foggy and I went to school together, never really separated since. We haven’t had our own firm for long,’ he pauses, ‘but it’s been long enough to end up in some deep shit.’

‘I hear you,’ you nod. ‘I couldn’t cut it as a lawyer - I think I’d get too attached.’ 

‘How so?’ Matt interjects, turning his entire body to face you. His sudden interest in what you had to say catches you off guard.

‘Oh, well, you know.’ you say. ‘I’ve been told I care too much. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost a case, if I let someone down.’

‘It happens.’ Matt nods. ‘But it gets easier. There aren’t enough lawyers who care.’

You shrug before finishing off your drink. 

‘This rounds on me. What do you fancy?’ you ask, taking Matt’s empty bottle and placing it inside your glass.

‘No, no, don’t worry about it. That’s enough for me.’ he says, motioning to stop with his hands.

‘Can I tempt you with a cola instead then?’ you ask, desperate for an excuse to stay and chat with him.

With some pleading, you manage to convince him, taking your empty glasses over to the bar. As you make your way to the bar, you see Foggy and Karen leaning against a pool table, seemingly deep in conversation.

Karen notices your presence as you walk towards them, waving you over.

‘How’s it going with Matt? We thought we’d leave you two to yourselves for a while.’ she excitedly grabs your shoulder, pulling you in closer.

You turn back to face Matt, his head vaguely looking in your direction as he presumably waits for your return. 

‘I should get back to him.’ you say, gesturing to the man you had abandoned at the booth.

‘Yeah of course.’ Foggy laughs as you turn to the bar, shaking his head at Karen in amusement.

Once you were out of earshot, Foggy and Karen resume their giggly, hushed conversation over the pool table.

‘Two Pepsis! Pepsi is okay,’ you pause, ‘right?’

‘Absolutely.’ Matt laughs.

As you slide yourself back into the booth, your eyes are drawn to your penmanship on Matt’s hand. Slowly, you reach out to touch his hand, to hold it, to inspect it.

‘May I?’ you ask, forgetting that he probably has zero idea as to what you’re asking. ‘Sorry,’ you laugh. ‘May I touch your hand?’

Matt nods in agreement with no hesitation, pushing his arm outwards further into your reach.

Your fingers barely graze his hand before a sharp spark jolts through your entire body. Instinctively, you pull your hand away and stare at Matt with a look of amazement. 

His hand reaches out into thin air in an attempt to find your hand again.

‘That has to mean something.’ you utter (mostly to yourself) as your hand meets his in the middle of the distance between the two of you.

He shakes his head, a soft smile filing his features.

‘I’m almost certain I know what it means, (y/n).’

You look up at his face, realisation dawning on you as you piece it together. That was undeniable evidence that couldn’t possibly be coincidence.

‘We’re soulmates.’

[callsign-marlie]

Prologue. Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV. Part V. Part VI. Part VII. Part VIII. Part IX. Part X.

Story Content Warning: Rate M for mature content (minors DNI!!!) including but not limited to: mentions of drug use/smoking, alcohol consumption, explicit sexual scenarios, angst that will make your head spin and more to add Chapter Warning: cursing, mentions of drug use/overdose, smoking, mentions of su!cide. she's a little heavy at the end here, just a warning.

a/n: (undedited hawyee) holyhellthiswaslongerthanithoughtwtf but i was so uwu when writing this chapter, I couldn't stop! i love ice and the relationship with his daughter ;v; but all of my babies are so damaged and have some serious mending to do. Rooster and Misha have the smallest cracks; Jake and Meesh have some way to go, dude. marlie x Table of Contents

Part V: Reticence

It was pitch black when she opened her eyes. Misha was floating, the tension of the surface sucking down on her flight suit to will her hips under. Her head was fogged and her mouth was dry. Her ears were full of water. She had the urge to move, to break free from the goop under her back. She tested a finger, finding even that difficult against the inky sludge. Her limbs were heavy, as if weighed by steel, but she persisted to free her wrist, her elbow, her bicep, her shoulder. She reached up into the darkness to stretch forward. Expecting nothingness, she found something: another hand grasping for her wrist. 

It yanked her up into the abyss.

“¡Oye chica, vamos! We’ve got work to do. Another fine Navy day, right?”

The scene quickly changed to blue skies, barely a cloud above head and suddenly, she was standing on the tarmac of TOPGUN. Her helmet was shoved into her chest by a set of large, gloved hands. It felt heavy, like a bowling ball, and nearly knocked her off of her feet as she stabilized herself. “Come on already, kid, let’s get up there. These bogies ain’t gonna be cookin’ themselves! Besides, we know how Seresin gets when he has to wait, yeah? Don’t wanna leave that hothead on the runway for long or he’ll leave us in the dust!” 

The phantom’s back appeared to her. The figure was clearly male with broad shoulders and dark curly hair, slicked back into a military standard. He was whistling a tune as he stepped away, a pep to his step at the cheery melody. His fingers fiddled in the air playing a poorly impression of an air guitar while he cracked himself up, laughing at his own antics. 

“I’m too old for this shit, man, can’t wait to retire!” The statement rang clear in her ears as he stopped to look at the sky.

The shadows of an intricate tattoo sleeve were out of his right arm as he pulled the sleeves of his flight suit up to cover himself. He didn’t bother with the zipper. The man looked over his shoulder, showing a handsome hooked nose and the most mesmerizing deep brown eyes Misha had ever seen. They were warm, gentle pools that held nothing but admiration, adoration… trust. 

“Let’s show ‘em why we call you Hotshot, eh, Kaz? Let’s make you a legend, baby!”

—

Misha jolted out of bed. The sun wasn’t up yet, but a quick glance at her watch told her it was time to be. She quickly went through her morning checklist: pills, teeth, hair, makeup, uniform. She sped through her routine to the best of her ability, but kept finding herself recalling back to her dream. She kept thinking of that face: the well built bone structure, the nose, the hollow set eye. The longer she recalled, the more the image was painted in her head. She could clearly see the gold earring in his right ear, a small hoop, and the matching gold band on his left ring finger.

Misha opened her bathroom cupboard to grab a few tabs of Advil, swallowing them dry. She was going to give herself a headache before the day began if she kept attempting to recall this guy. She checked her appearance once more before running back into her room, petting Moose’s belly in greeting.

“Upsie Daisy, Moose. We have an early start today,” she said while the dog protested. His eyes were heavy and he curled back on his front paws (“Ohhh, big stretch,” she muttered, tying up her boots) with a yawn. Moose sat like a statue while she threw on his vest, newly adorned with a velcro TOPGUN patch and his ID badge. Moose was as official as the rest of them now, though Misha could tell he disliked their official wake up times the most.

Misha’s feet did their best to move lightly down to the kitchen to start her morning coffee, but was surprised to see the living room lamp still on at the bottom. She peeked around the corner of the kitchen island to find her father slumped in his favorite armchair, a file of paperwork nearly falling from his fingers. His mouth was tucked beneath his scarf and a slipper was half off. Misha gave him a fond smile.

She remembered being a little kid, waking up early on weekends to find her dad already sitting at the kitchen table with all of his binders and notebooks open. Tom’s glasses were always on the tip of his nose while he sipped on his piping hot coffee, the steam completely blocking his vision, but never stealing his focus. Still tired, she used to climb up into his lap with her favorite stuffed bunny, curling into his chest to steal a quiet moment of affection.

Sometimes, all a girl wanted was her daddy. 

No matter what he was doing, Misha was always welcome on Tom’s lap. He’d press kisses to her curly blonde hair and snuggle her close to him, giving soothing hums and holding onto her tightly. He’d talk about his plans for the day and what they were going to do when he got home. He would say how much he loved her and how proud he was of his little ‘mini-me’. The sound of his heart would often lull her back to sleep and she’d find herself waking again tucked under a flannel blanket on the couch. Tom snored underneath her with reruns of the news playing. His arm was loosely draped around her back to make sure she wouldn’t fall. 

Back to reality, Misha crept over to the lazy boy, eyeing the old L-shaped nap spot fondly. The lieutenant gently tugged the falling file from his fingers and placed it on his end table. She removed his glasses, still nearly slipping from his nose even after all these years. Some things never changed. Misha stared at her dad, his wheezing snores sending an ache through her chest. He looked so frail under the long sleeved robe and old flannel blanket, now patched together by old sweatshirts.

Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky was supposed to be a lion: loyal, fierce, and overly protective of those he cared for. He still was. But now, that lion was getting older, his bones more brittle and his heart thumping slower, yet not weaker by any means. Although his body was becoming delicate, Iceman’s resolution and steely countenance never suffered, even at his weakest during his treatments. He was a stalwart figure; a lighthouse among a storm. Tall. Proud. Undeniable.

Misha’s lips trembled while she placed a kiss to the top of his downy head, lingered for a moment, scrunched her eyes closed and pulled away to grab her coffee. She scooted out the door, the click of the lock louder than she remembered.

She couldn’t recall the last time she kissed her father, let alone touched him. Her lips burned. Tears stung at her eyes as she drove forward to base, Moose licking at her fresh tears.

—

Bodies were littered across the tarmac, their chests low to the steaming asphalt. Punishment push-ups were the name of the game, and Misha was responsible for overseeing the crowd with Hondo on counting duty. Moose was nose to nose with Bob, dropping to all fours before standing up in time with him, tongue lolling to the side and tail wagging. Misha had stripped him of his vest for lunch and decided not to put it back on due to the oppressive heat. The service animal was very much in play mode, toying with the blonde man for attention.

The WSO’s laugh was echoey under the stress of his respirations. “You mocking me, Moose?!” Misha chuckled at the bespectacled man, doing his best to slap his hand at the ground between his press ups for Moose to chase. She decided right then and there that Bob was a good one. 

She’d keep him close. Him and Phoenix at least, maybe Fanboy and Payback for their jovial natures. The rest could take a hike.

Maverick silently appeared beside Misha like a ghost, his helmet resting underneath his bicep. He smelled of sweat and jet fuel: good ol’ Maverick was back in his element. “Saw your report, kid. Good work.” He didn’t bother looking at her, busy scoping the pilots moving in tandem to Hondo’s shouts. His kills. He looked almost proud at the sweat dripping from every pore of their bodies.

“Thanks, Mav. Was it easy enough for you to understand, Mr. Books-aren’t-my-thing?” She smirked at her uncle, an eyebrow raised. Maverick gave a disgruntled cough, looking away for a moment in embarrassment.

“Look, I might not be a brainiac with numbers, but I can read at least a third grade level, ok?” 

Misha returned a fond smile to her uncle.

“If I didn’t know you like I do, I’d think a smile looked good on you, Barbie girl,” Hangman bit out, sweat dripping from his temples. “You’re poison inside, though. Can't fool me anymore. You ain’t nothing but a liar behind those lips.”

“I’m no liar,” Misha shot back. Jake’s attitude was nothing short of sour from the instant she walked into the debriefing two days prior. “You never did like to be caught with your pants down. You just end up taking your shock out on everyone else. You’re worse than a toddler.”

“I don’t think I’m acting like a toddler when the reputation of the fucking United States Navy is at stake for letting you even step foot on this base!”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will you lay off her Hangman? Christ,” Phoenix bit out, gritting her teeth through her reps. “Kaz hasn’t done anything wrong since she’s been here and all you do is shit on her. If I were her, your jaw would be in your skull and my fist would be in your teeth.”

“She shouldn’t be here, ‘Nix. You know it.” he spat. A string of saliva dripped towards the tarmac with his words. “Druggies don’t deserve recognition. They fly the wrong high. ‘Gives us real aviators a bad name.”

Seering hurt lashed out in Misha’s ribs. The familiar sludge of tar bubbled along the lining her stomach. 

Payback and Fanboy shared a quizzical look amongst themselves. Obviously Misha’s past transgressions were never brought up in conversation outside of the 2012 TOPGUN class. Rooster’s eyes stayed locked ahead, his jaw tensed with his eyes boring holes into Hangman’s profile. He chewed his lip, as if he was holding back from saying something.

Coyote’s head shook side to side, disapproving. “I mean this as lovingly as possible Hangman, but shut the fuck up.”

“You’re doing an awful lot of talking down there for a group on their second set of 200 push ups,” Hondo bit. “Maybe you aren’t working hard enough. Get lower.”

“Can’t be any lower than Hotshot,” he grumbled hotly still, pausing just above the tarmac. The visible heat bubbled against his black t-shirt. “Dirt’s higher than her. She’s already six feet under.”

“Enough.”

If Misha’s jaw would lock any tighter, it would snap to pieces under her skin. Moose, padded anxiously back to her side. He didn’t need his vest on to know break time was over. He stood still as stone next to her, eyes scanning his charge at the crowd at her feet.

“Our history, Lieutenant Seresin, is just that: history. Leave it to the textbooks. You got a problem with me? Talk to me. Don’t be airing out dirty laundry to people that don’t wanna smell it.”

Hot, stinging tears nipped at the corners of her eyes, but she would never fall to his stabbing remarks. This was Hangman, HER Hangman. The Hangman that cupped her cheeks and was so happy to see her just a few nights ago. The Hangman that lovingly played at her mistakes and transgressions, but always swung an arm around her shoulders at the end of the day. The Hangman that sat next to her in the academy mess hall playing footsie while they ate their lunch. How could he have gone from so much love to so much anger in what felt like a single glance?

“Mind your superiors, Hangman.” Maverick was cold, crouching down to face Hangman straight on. Misha’s words held no weight and he knew it better than anyone. Hangman didn’t see her as anything other than the dirt under his feet. He would never give her the respect that she deserved as long as he was under their tutelage. After all, the Texan reminded him so much of his younger self: it only seemed right that he could pinpoint the exact precipice of his towering pride.

The captain’s glare was pure ice. It was green versus green. Jake paused at the top of his rep to glare back at Maverick, rising to his challenge.

“Superiors?! That woman is not my superior,” he grit, nails digging underneath him. “In fact, there’s nothing superior to me about her because I BEAT HER. She lost her steel in 2012 and left the top spot ripe for the taking.”

“I wonder why,” Maverick challenged. He caught his tongue. Just three words were too much. 

Hangman snapped to stand. Mav joined him, never losing eye contact. 

Phoenix, Fanboy and Payback leaped to their feet ready to intervene, but froze in their places realizing there was no flesh meeting flesh. Jake stood over his captain attempting to make himself the monster, but Maverick’s aire made up for his lack of height. “I wonder why, huh,” Jake started, his teeth grinding, voice dangerously low. His growls were picking up speed. “Some of us know. Some of us know all too well. But what do you know, huh Mav? Have you ever been in that position before? You ever watch someone you love die right before your eyes and watch them walk around a fucking corpse?”

The captain’s gaze faltered, uncentered and frantic. His knees looked like they were going to buckle.

Rooster’s shoulders slouched while his abdomen hit the pavement. His elbows were weak and his gaze far away in remembrance. Misha knew exactly who they were both thinking about.

Carole. Ice. As soon as the names came, they were gone, whispering out in the winds of her ears to nothingness.

Hangman’s finger pointed to his former wingman. “That person is not Hotshot. Like I said, Hotshot’s six feet under. She died 5 years ago. This person?” He huffed, dropping his hand loudly at his side. “She’s a fake. I don’t even know who she is.”

Misha’s chest thrummed. A tidal wave of sparks leaped to life in her gut, lighting the kindling of her chest. He knew. Jake knew. 

LiarLiarLiarLiarLiar.

The smoke burned her throat, seeping up. She thought the hot air would come out of her nostrils if she breathed out.

Misha’s stomach lurched at the voices serpentining around her head. Liar echoed into the pits of her brain, strangling her rationality. Her hand went to the front of her skull, Moose pushing his nose into the side of her thigh repeatedly. Sit. Sit. Sit.

She couldn’t. Her knees were locked.

Jake didn’t tell a single lie. Not one; all of it was true. The old her died when that plane went down 6 years ago. Part of her foolishly believed that no one else acknowledged the ghost she walked around as. She hoped it was hidden in plain sight and naively let polite kindness deceive her. Misha prayed that everyone would have just accepted this zombie as the only thing they had left of her.

Her throat felt like it was glazed in soot as she stepped forward, her hand loose on Maverick’s arm. Her knees snapped at every step she took. Glossy green eyes matched Jake’s burning ones.

“You’re right,” she started, her voice a cracked whisper. “I don’t deserve this position among you all. You’re right, Jake. But when I tell you I didn’t want— this…” She gulped, tearing her eyes away. Her hands flailed out to widen against the tarmac. One by one, each pilot stopped their movement, knees touching ground to sit on their heels in silence. Hondo let it slide. 

Rooster’s stare caught hers. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or holding his air waiting for her to continue. She gulped, attempting to pull saliva to her throat only to find a desert left on her tongue.

“I didn’t. In fact, I argued with Admiral Kazansky to leave me out of this; that this was no longer my place. I’m completely aware of that. In fact, I’m certain every single authority that I’m working with on this mission argued with him about it, including Cyclone and Warlock. Maybe even Mav here, too.” Her uncle’s eyes were more interested in the shine of the setting sun on the stripe of his helmet. He couldn’t look her in the eyes. She gripped the side of his shoulder in acceptance.

He didn’t have to say anything.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told Rooster yesterday.” It was Misha's turn to grit her teeth, pulling herself chest to chest with Hangman. He stepped back in gall, not expecting Misha to come up so close to him. An emotion akin to confusion, and disgust, crossed his beautiful features with the sun of Golden Hour crossing his eyebrows. 

“My discomfort doesn’t mean I won’t do my job to the best of my ability. You have my word. That should be enough for everyone on this tarmac. It should certainly be enough for you, Lieutenant Seresin.”

She extended her hand, a pinky out. Another unbreakable promise. “I swear it.”

Jake stood there for what felt like hours, staring at her scarred hand. She couldn’t read his features. Couldn’t read an atom of what was going through that skull of his. Eventually, he sighed, rolled his neck, and turned away to leave her hand extended in the sunset.

“I don’t make deals with devils,” he muttered. “I’m not falling for that.” 

He grabbed his helmet, slinging it over his shoulder, and walked away from her.

The string-tight tension broke and Misha came back to the harsh reality of standing on the hot tarmac with dozens of pilots and officials surrounding her. She wanted to curl in upon herself; to hide from the pitying stares and questioning gazes. That was the last thing a mission leader needed: questioning from her subordinates and her authorities.

Her friendship with Hangman was lost. He made that clear enough. There was no need to cry over it. He said his piece and there would be no counteracting him now.

She turned to the other pilots, her lips in a tight line. “Dismissed. Be prepared for lecture tomorrow.”

She needed a smoke.

— 

The cigarette was burnt nearly down to the butt as she watched dusk fall upon the now empty tarmac. Her eyes were heavy, but with all the paperwork still left over, Misha couldn’t even think about leaving for home yet. The ground was cool under her legs while she leaned against the aluminum of the hangar. Misha took another slow drag, the smoke pooling in her lungs before she let it go to the winds, the air pulling it strand by strand until it became nothing at all.

Perhaps people are like smoke. Humans are finite. At the end of the day, even the richest, the smartest, the most talented, become ash no different than the beggar on the street. They live their lives in a blur and suddenly, they find themselves worn so thin that their body dies and dissolves to nothing. Where does the spirit go when it separates from its earthly vessel? Was it peaceful? Was it light? Did you feel anything? Or do you just… go?

“It’s a bit past your curfew, don’t you think?”

Gravelly timbre broke her concentration to see Rooster standing above her, dressed in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. His curly brown hair was still dripping slightly from his shower and his signature Hawaiian shirt was tied by the sleeves around his waist. In the blue of the dusk, his honey eyes still bore right through her. She scoffed at him, turning back to the purple hue of night. “I’m 32, I think I can be out past sunset.”

“I wouldn't think a former convicted felon who just got out of her parole six months ago that lives at her parent’s place would be let off the hook that easily,” he chuckled. He raised an eyebrow and nodded his head in her direction. “Can I sit with you?”

She stuck her cigarette into the tarmac, smearing the ashes into the cement. “Can’t stop you, can I?”

Rooster parked himself directly next to her, nearly shoulder to shoulder. His nose crinkled as he came down at her side, scooting further away from the ashes at her feet. “Since when did you start smoking? Shit’s gonna kill you.”

“Since I lived in Jacksonville. Picked it up when the Oxys ran low,” she murmured, a hand pulling her bun from its containment. Sweaty, dark locks hit the top of her shoulder and she sighed with bliss. “Had to pick up something else to take the edge off, you know? Smoking’s the only crutch I have left from those days.”

Rooster pondered his next words carefully. “Does your dad know?”

“What, that I smoke? Oh yeah,” she said, a chuckle in her chest. She could envision his face; his blonde brows and his hands angrily flying as he huffed the scent of tobacco on her old zip up the first month she moved home. “He hates it. It’s what his cancer’s from, after all. He always tells me that I’m gonna end up like him one day.” She turned away from him, her eyes closed. “Kinda hope I die before I get as old as him, though.”

Rooster couldn’t control his hands. He was fast as lightning to grab firmly at her shoulders, abruptly turning her to face him. He was stern. His eyebrows furrowed deep nearly into his crow’s feet. “Take that back.”

“W-what?” She was confused. Why did he look so… so angry?

“Take that back,” he said again. This time the staccato of his voice shook her shoulders at every word. “You’re not going to die young, Misha. If you really wanted to die, you would have killed yourself in Jacksonville.”

He released her, the weight of his hands still present on her neck, but her body still stayed to face him. Her gaze dropped to his chest. Her voice was a whisper. 

“I tried.”

The silence hung in the air between them. The stars were out finally and the base had hushed itself to a halt. There was no movement. She could hear both of them breathe. 

She wished she could hear the ringing in her ears instead. 

“I… I overdosed,” she started. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “In 2014. It was just once, but it was enough to get me caught. Everything was just too much and I… I had felt too much. Saw too much. I thought and heard things that weren’t there. My brain kept yelling and there were so many voices. And the ringing, man, it was just— so much stimulation. I just wanted it to stop. Oxy was always the way out.”

Misha’s eyes peered up, glossy with tears. Rooster watched her arms close in around her chest, hugging herself tightly. The pilot had to stop every neuron in his body from reaching out to pull her to his chest. To console her. To give her just an ounce of comfort that she'd be starved of for so long.

Bradley didn’t realize how much she had gone through. He had assumed, like the rest, that Misha had just partied too hard and gotten herself in trouble. She didn’t know that the trauma of her accident ran so deep. But then again, how couldn’t it have? It took her entire life from her. The golden child, the one who was supposed to be just like her father. Suddenly, all of her goals and aspirations went up in flames.

“I found out it was from my head trauma. You know, from the crash? Docs said that it messed with the part of my brain that works with perception and sound. It took out my physical hearing nearly completely, so my brain decided to fill the void with voices and sounds it's made up to take up the space.” She knocked a fist off the side of her head. The sound was nearly hollow. Did she have a plate in her skull?

Bradley was still too shocked at her confession to say a word, so he simply sat there taking her in. She looked like a little kid curled up in the corner of a playground because no one would play with her. She was willowy, lanky, and tall like her mother, but had her father’s angled jaw and sharp eyes. It was as if her head was too big for her body. Those sharpened eyes, though, held a bluntness behind them that frightened Bradley more than anything: they were hollow. 

They were eyes that had seen it all.

“Do you… Do you ever hear voices?” She felt like a child asking her big brother if he ever got scared of thunder. It was utterly ridiculous. Of course he didn’-

“Sometimes,” Rooster rasped finally, his wrists resting on his bent knees. His thumbs started to twitch against each other. “Mine aren’t hostile like yours, but they’re degrading. Telling me I should have done something differently or making me feel like I did something I shouldn’t have.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, a lopsided grin ticking to the side of his lips for an instant in some distant memory. “But most of all, they put a fire under my ass. They tell me to get moving and catch up or else I’ll be left behind. They’re motivating in a degrading way. That’s how I look at them, at least.”

The salt from Misha’s tears cracked on her skin. She took the back of her wrist and rubbed it harshly against herself. “It’s kind of hard to take ‘it’s all your fault’ and make it sound positive.”

“Change that to ‘if it’s my fault, then I should make it right’. If you need to apologize, you should do that. If you made a mistake, own it. If you killed someone’s dog, well,” he laughed at his own morbidity. “Look, that one you might not get away with, but hey, it’s the thought that counts.”

Misha tried to suppress a giggle but ended up snorting instead. Rooster let out a full on laugh at her and she returned it in choir. They sat there laughing together for the first time since they were kids like two old friends. It was natural, like a weight had finally slid off of both of their backs. It was the way they should have been all along.

“You know what, Kaz? The voice in my head is telling me ‘you made a mistake, dummy,’” he let out after their giggle fit finally ended. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For how I acted the other day. I treated you awfully and you didn’t deserve that at all.” He took a deep breath and let the back of his head thump against the wall of the hangar.

“Seeing Hangman dig at you today made me realize I was wrong about every word. You get so much shit from everyone and you’re just trying to do your damn job. Sure you didn’t ask for it, but you still come through every day and finish your performance reviews and teach our lessons like everyone's backhanded words don’t affect you.”

He forced her to look at him again, his calloused hands gently cupping both sides of her cheeks. Her skin was blotchy from her tears. He pushed a stray, dark strand behind her ear to reveal the scar at her neck. “You deserve to be here more than any of us. You deserve this chance.”

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The moon was high in the sky now. Her paperwork was long forgotten. He held her so gently in his palms she could have cried again. He was warm and soft, and the way he looked at her gave an air of calm she hadn't felt in years.

All she could do was put her hand over his, and gave a squeeze in appreciation. She couldn’t bring the words to life, but that didn’t seem to matter. Rooster returned her squeeze in acknowledgement.

“Alright, listen Ms. Hotshot. It's time to get out of here before our 0700 start tomorrow.” Rooster stood to his full height, his arms stretched over his head to reveal a piece of tanned, muscular midriff. “Need a ride?”

“Nah, I have the ‘vette,” she muttered. “Plus I have Moose still. Don’t think you want dog hair in the back of the Bronco.” Her service animal was happily chewing at his dinner, his collar tinking gleefully against the metal bowl. Their entire exchange was missed by her pooch. Some therapy dog he was at the end of a hard day.

“Honestly, thanks for the offer, Roo. Maybe next illegal late night rendezvous” Misha chided, her boots sloughing through the hangar to turn off her desk lamp. Moose had his bowl empty and good as new by the time she strapped his leash to his harness. “Trust me, I’ll take you up on it.”

Rooster’s duffle was slung on his back as he turned to watch her fiddle with stacks of paperwork and shutting down her computer. “Hey, Misha.”

“Hmm?” Her gaze came up. Her eyes were doe like in the low light.

“When was the last time you flew?”

“The accident.” Of course, doofus.

“Would you go up again?”

“Yes.” There was zero hesitation. However, as soon as the word left her lips, she backpedaled, a flush crossing her cheeks. “ B-But it’d be better if I flew with someone else. I’m not… I’m not sure I could be a driver. You know, the deafness and the head and the– well, yeah.”

Rooster smiled, pure and bright. “Good to know. See you tomorrow, teach.” The aviator gave a half pressed salute and strode out the door.

Misha pressed her phone screen to see 6 missed calls and over 30 texts from her family group chat with a varying degree of “where are you”, “please call me ASAP” and “I have your GPS tracker on, get your ass home”.

Suffocating, the whole lot of them. She smiled genuinely for the first time in months. She was light as the smoke from her cigarette.

She wouldn’t ever ask them to change.

taglist: @alanadetigy@luckyladycreator2@alldaysdreamers@blue-aconite @blank-velvet @mirandastuckinthe80s80s

[phoenixyfriend]

Uncle Ben and Little Luke

AKA we combine several types of time travel for maximum Soft Chaos, let’s go

EDIT NOW THAT I’VE WRITTEN THIS UP: jfc this ended up much angstier than initially intended uhhhhhhhhhh sorry

So a common enough thing I’ve seen in time travel fics is characters getting de-aged when tossed back physically, to neither the age they should be in that time, nor the age they were from the time they left, but whatever is most convenient. This is usually de-aging OT Obi-Wan into his TCW self, for reasons relating to, chiefly, removing the damage of Tatooine absolutely destroying his body alongside PTSD-driven alcoholism, but also because fic writers are horny, and Ewan McGregor playing a late-thirties negotiator is on average more appealing to people than Alec Guinness playing a vaguely feral desert hermit.

So, here’s how it plays out:

We take Luke and Ben from some point in the OT. There are a variety of options depending on how angsty we want it to be. My first instinct is ‘right after Owen and Beru die’ but I want to have that sweet angst where Luke knows that his dad is Vader and that Obi-Wan was trying to convince him to kill his own father without telling him that.

We’ll go with shortly after Bespin, and then they end up significantly before TPM. The Obi-Wan of the timeline proper is, eh, let’s say eighteen. Not really ready to be a knight, but old enough that we don’t have to worry about “if we go save Shmi, do we somehow wipe out Anakin?” which is absolutely a worry. Anakin is a toddler, and is in no place to be evil, on account of being literally two years old. He can’t even explode people with his brain yet.

Now, Ben finds himself mid-thirties, as is traditional. He’s not upset at this, because his joints hurt so much less than they used to! His knees aren’t exactly teenage-perfect, but by the Force are they better than they were in the years before he died! His hair has color! He doesn’t have arthritis! And, goodness, no physical withdrawal symptoms! The psychological aspect is still there, but nonetheless, he’s in much better shape than he last remembers being.

Luke looks like he’s about six. He was recently twenty-two. This is not an upgrade. Ben keeps having to carry him. He can’t see over the counter when they enter a bar for information. He can’t enter the bar in the first place. He’s very annoyed by all of this.

Ben is not annoyed. Ben is having a lot of emotions, actually, but annoyance isn’t one of them. He didn’t get to help raise Luke the way he might have if Anakin hadn’t lost his shit, okay, he sees a small Luke and he wants to hug him and cry.

Luke would like to be able to purchase a speeder part without the lady at the stall asking him if he needs his “dad’s” permission.

Once they figure out when and where they are, they need to decide where and how to leave. There are general shenanigans to gamble their way into enough money to hire a ship. They are in the ass end of nowhere, but definitely not Tatooine. There appears to be a jungle. There appears to be a significant variety of man-eating creatures. There appears to be a temple to the Force of questionable origin. None of this is actually helpful, except for the moment they find a “baby’s first lightsaber” in the temple.

Luke only has one hand and, being a six-year-old, his body is growing too fast for him to bother with getting a wired-in prosthesis the way he could as an adult. He can get a more basic prosthesis, but nothing that attaches to the neurons. He’ll outgrow it too fast.

He’s tiny and he’s not used to doing things with just one hand. He uses the Force to do what one hand can't, and every time someone tries to tell him he's misusing the Force he whaps them with the empty sleeve.

So, you know, they find out what year it is. Ben has a breakdown. Luke is upset that he left behind his friends. Ben admits to him that Leia was his twin. Luke stares in horror because dude, she kissed him, you couldn’t have mentioned this earlier???

Ben points out that Beru and Owen were keeping Luke away from him for nineteen years, and then they had about three days of awkward travel to find Leia in the first place, and then Ben died. He didn’t have a whole lot of time to figure out how to tell him.

(This sparks an argument that lasts several days. All onlookers assume that Ben’s son is throwing a tantrum. He doesn’t correct them, even though this is a very valid reason to be upset, because the truth is much harder to explain.)

Sooooo they travel. Mostly, Ben plays Sabacc, cleans house, and pays their way towards Coruscant. Luke still really wants to learn to be a Proper Jedi, even though Ben is pretty sure that Luke would have... a lot of difference of opinion with the Temple, but sure. Coruscant. They can at least stop by, and see Qui-Gon, and Mace, and Quinlan, and Bant, and everyone else that’s still alive and not tragically deceased in the horror following the start of the Clone Wars and then the birth of the Empire, and Ben can have a nice sob over all his dead friends being alive again.

Ben is only barely holding it together while Luke is in the room with him at any given point. But it’s fine! It’s fine. He’s fine. All of his loved ones have come back to life! It’s great! HE’S FINE.

He is not fine.

Luke is also grieving all the people who haven’t been born yet, but he’s... significantly more okay than Ben is.

The closer they get to the Core, the more often people just assume Ben is Luke’s father, and then look shocked and uncomfortable when Luke flatly calls him by his name, and they just... compromise. This is the point at which Luke starts calling him “Uncle Ben.”

Ben cries in his bunk later that night. Luke overhears it and wonders how the HELL Ben is more unstable now, when there’s a chance to fix things and no Vader or Empire trying to kill or capture both of them, and all his friends are alive.

(Luke will later learn a lot about PTSD and realize this is actually a fairly normal situation, to process significant events and emotions only after gaining safety or catharsis.)

(Twenty years on a ball of sand with an alcohol addiction and debilitating fear of the man you raised as your own brother is not, in fact, safe or cathartic.)

At any rate, they’ve settled into that pattern by the time they reach the Inner Rim. The Inner Rim is the part of the galaxy at which they’ve collected enough money (and mental stability) to travel a little better, and to take a few more risks.

Risks like “manipulate people with those baby blues.”

Ben tells Luke that he’s a menace, after he pouts so cutely that he gets a free scarf added on to a purchase that Ben makes. Luke responds that Ben has no room to talk, since he flirted a free breakfast out of that one inn owner.

Also, Luke is currently physically six. That is objectively a situation that sucks. He deserves to use it for all it’s worth if he’s stuck like this.

“You know, if you keep wearing all-black and looking longingly at the velvet cape and Space Chanel boots, the temple is going to worry that you’re a darksider.”

“Uncle Ben... you told me, yesterday, that I sparkle so brightly in the Force that it’s almost blinding.”

“Yes, but the gloves--”

They don’t agree on this, but Ben relents. He does actually understand good fashion, unfortunately, and he’s not unaware of how much Leia taught Luke about such things.

Luke’s about forty years ahead of the curve, of course, but Skywalkers are prone to such things. It’s usually in regards to technology, granted, but...

They get to Coruscant. Ben is very obviously a Jedi. He knows all the right words and walks like a Soresu master and feels warm and comforting in the Force. They let him in with minimal questions. They note down “my first padawan left the order to have a child, but died shortly after; I consider Luke here to be my nephew, and have raised him as such,” and move on.

Luke is vaguely annoyed because he already had an uncle (and aunt) that raised him, but he admits that a person can have more than one uncle. He can live with this. Ben was more family to Anakin than Owen was, in some ways, so it’s kind of true. Luke is even working on feeling more childish affection for Ben instead of the complicated mess of emotions that come from being lied to about some very large and important subjects, and then seeing the person saying those lies have regular emotional breakdowns due to something as small as Luke saying he likes the curve of the hull on that freighter.

(Apparently he sounds just like his father did as a child. This is almost heartwarming.)

The thing is! The thing. The thing is, they almost make it to the Halls of Healing to get looked over for weird viruses, or Outer Rim Parasites, or whatever the hells needs to be happening. They almost make it without Ben having a flashback to dead younglings or brainwashed troopers or the declaration of a Sith Empire. They almost make it without incident.

Then Ben sees Qui-Gon, and freezes, and does not move again.

Luke cannot get him to restart.

People are staring.

They haven’t even made it to Medical, Uncle Ben, come on.

Young, local Obi-Wan comes over and asks if there’s something he can do to help. Or maybe this “Ben” knows Qui-Gon? Master Jinn doesn’t recognize Ben, but maybe Luke knows more?

Luke does know more, but what Luke actually says is “he probably needs a mind healer.”

(Ben will not appreciate this.)

(Ben is unfortunately standing in the middle of the hallway and completely unresponsive, and is unable to argue with this assertion.)

(Ben is pretty much proving this assertion entirely correct, actually.)

Obi-Wan is helpful, if a little bitchy in the manner of most late-teens individuals, and offers to help get Uncle Ben down to the Halls of Healing. It involves Obi-Wan gently pushing on Ben’s shoulders, and Qui-Gon offering to carry Luke so he can be in Ben’s sights (because Ben is a Mystery, and Qui-Gon is quite fond of those, so he wants to stay involved). Ben kind of just... shuffles on down.

There are medical tests. They ask about how Luke lost his hand. He refuses to talk about it. They ask how Ben got all his scars. Luke says he doesn’t know. They ask if he knows why Ben looks like he’s been through a war. Luke says it’s because he probably was.

They check for foreign viruses. They find evidence of thus-far-unpatented vaccinations. They ask Luke if he knows what he’s vaccinated for.

“How would I know? I’m six.”

They agree that this is a good excuse.

(It is not. He’s lying. They do not know this.)

They do some more tests. They find a lot of questionable medical bullshit in Ben’s body. Most of this is from the clone wars, but they don’t know this. Someone realizes they haven’t gotten a ping back from the Shadow Network regarding “do we have permission to pull the medical file of a Jedi that isn’t in the normal database? We’re assuming you know who he is, since we don’t.”

The Shadow Network does not know who Ben is.

The healers, of course, go “huh, that’s weird, but maybe the name he gave his nephew was fake. We can’t exactly ask ‘Ben’ for more details right now. We already had to sedate him. Let’s check the DNA!”

The DNA pulls up as Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The padawan who brought this guy in two hours ago.

“Huh, that’s weird. Let’s call in Kenobi and ask if he knows what’s going on.”

Obi-Wan absolutely does not know what’s going on.

They ask Luke.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, lying through his teeth and not even pretending otherwise.

“You’re not a very good liar,” teenage Obi-Wan tells him.

“I’m not trying to be,” Luke says. “Can you get Master Yoda? I feel like we’re going to need him.”

They normally wouldn’t get Yoda on the request of a six-year-old, but they also normally don’t have a catatonic thirty-something Jedi who looks like he’s been through a war popping up in the medical database as the pimply teenage padawan that broke his pinky trying to do a Badass Ataru Flip last week.

Or... whatever Luke i... is... oh dear.

“Young one,” Qui-Gon asks, while people whisper-shout behind him, not realizing he’s cutting the Correlian Knot and just asking the kid himself. “Do you know why your midichlorian count is so high? It’s almost unheard of.”

“Uncle Ben said my dad was the Chosen One,” Luke says, because he is capable of being a little shit and is actually really eager to let Ben deal with some of the fallout. He feels for the man, really, but he’s also tired of being the one to field every single question.

Also, the expressions that pass on Qui-Gon’s face are hilarious.

(Luke may or may not be more affected by his six-year-old brain than he would like to admit.)

“Thank you,” Qui-Gon says, sounding more than a little strangled about it.

It takes another three hours for Ben to wake up.

He listens to the questions. He hears what they say his ‘nephew’ said. He looks at Luke.

“Is this revenge for not telling you about Leia?”

“It’s not revenge,” Luke does not lie. “I just don’t know how to explain it.”

“It’s pretty easy to explain.”

“It’s not my secret.”

“This is revenge for the Leia thing.”

“No,” Luke says. “Revenge for the Leia thing was when I ate a live frog in front of you.”

This is the point at which someone interrupts and points out that they appear to be stalling.

“Oh, he is,” Luke tells them. He gestures at Ben. “I can’t tell you more, because it’s more his story than mine.”

“I’m afraid, Master, that I am very likely to have an emotional breakdown if I allow myself to consider the reality of this situation for longer than the fraction of a second I already have,” Ben reports, full of false cheer. “Suffice to say, I am far from stable and have only held out this far for Luke’s sake.”

“Can you explain why you have my DNA?” Obi-Wan asks, as the person who’s most concerningly involved in this situation.

“You can,” Ben says, smiling like there is absolutely nothing wrong in the slightest, ever. “I’m you, from the future. I actually died and spent a few years dead before coming back. I’m not sure why I’m younger than I was when I died, but I appreciate being able to put on my shoes without my knees attempting to mutiny.”

“He needs a mind healer,” Luke reiterates, in case the strained grin hasn’t made it clear. “So do I, but not as much.”

“I have felt literally every person in this Temple save for Luke and Yoda die,” Ben reports, looking a shade more manic than a few seconds earlier. “It’s very overwhelming to feel you all being alive again. I may be approaching a mental breakdown, and I’ve been rather strictly advised against using alcohol to treat my traumas again.”

Luke kicks him in the thigh. It’s not a very hard kick, because he is very small, and he does actually like Ben. “I’m not letting you turn into an old drunk again.”

After several seconds of silence, a healer quietly suggests that everyone clear the room, and asks if someone could fetch Master Yoda as the youngling requested.

(THIS IS ALMOST THREE THOUSAND WORDS. I started it less than two hours ago. Why am I like this.)