#baseball oddities

[sprintingowl]

Deadball

Deadball Second Edition is a platinum bestseller on DrivethruRPG. This means it's in the top 2% of all products on the site. Its back cover has an endorsement from Sports Illustrated Kids.

It's also not an rpg I'd heard about until I discovered all of these facts one after another.

I was raised in a profoundly anti-sports household. My father would say stuff like "sports is for people who can't think" and "there's no point in exercising, everything in your body goes away eventually." So I didn't learn really any of the rules of the more popular American sports until I was in my mid twenties, and I've been to two ballgames in my life. I appreciate the enthusiasm that people have for sports, but it's in the same way that I appreciate anyone talking about their specific fandom.

One of the things that struck me reading Deadball was its sense of reverence for the sport. Its language isn't flowery. It's plain and technical and smart. But its love for baseball radiates off of the pages. Not like a blind adoration. But like when a dog sits with you on the porch.

For folks familiar with indie rpgs, there's a tone throughout the book that feels OSR. Deadball doesn't claim to be a precise simulation or a baseball wargame or anything like that---instead it lays out a bunch of rules and then encourages you to treat them like a recipe, adjusting to your taste. And it does this *while* being a detailed simulation that skirts the line of wargaming, which is an extremely OSR thing to do.

For folks not familiar with baseball, Deadball starts off assuming you know nothing and it explains the core rules of the sport before trying to pin dice and mechanics onto anything. It also explains baseball notation (which I was not able to decipher) and it uses this notation to track a play-by-play report of each game. Following this is an example of play and---in a move I think more rpgs should steal from---it has you play out a few rounds of this example of play. Again, this is all before it's really had a section explaining its rules.

In terms of characters and stats, Deadball is a detailed game. You can play modern or early 1900s baseball, and players can be of any gender on the same team, so there's a sort of alt history flavor to the whole experience, but there's also an intricate dice roll for every at bat and a full list of complex baseball feats that any character can have alongside their normal baseball stats. Plus there's a full table for oddities (things not normally covered by the rules of baseball, such as a raccoon straying onto the field and attacking a pitcher,) and a whole fatigue system for pitchers that contributes a strong sense of momentum to the game.

Deadball is also as much about franchises as it is about individual games, and you can also scout players, trade players, track injuries, track aging, appoint managers of different temperaments, rest pitchers in between games, etc.

For fans of specific athletes, Deadball includes rules for creating players, for playing in different eras, for adapting historical greats into one massively achronological superteam, and for playing through two different campaigns---one in a 2020s that wasn't and one in the 1910s.

There's also thankfully a simplified single roll you can use to abstract an entire game, allowing you to speed through seasons and potentially take a franchise far into the future. Finances and concession sales and things like that aren't tracked, but Deadball has already had a few expansions and a second edition, so this might be its next frontier.

Overall, my takeaway from Deadball is that it's a heck of a game. It's a remarkably detailed single or multiplayer simulation that I think might work really well for play-by-post (you could get a few friends to form a league and have a whole discord about it,) and it could certainly be used to generate some Blaseball if you start tweaking the rules as you play and never stop.

It's also an interesting read from a purely rpg design perspective. Deadball recognizes that its rules have the potential to be a little overbearing and so it puts in lots of little checks against that. It also keeps its more complex systems from sprawling out of control by trying to pack as much information as possible into a single dice roll.

For someone like me who has zero background in baseball, I don't think I'd properly play Deadball unless I had a bunch of friends who were into it and I could ride along with that enthusiasm. However as a designer I like the book a lot, and I'm putting it on my shelf of rpgs that have been formative for me, alongside Into The Odd, Monsterhearts, Mausritter, and Transit.

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

-

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

-

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

-

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

-

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

-

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

-

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

-

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

-

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

[sschizoid]

Wait let me cook

how about the tulpar crew on the beach together. omg.

oh you're cookin' alright (⌐■◡■) 👌

--

curly

while its no secret that he prefers winter over summer, he can't deny the feeling of absolute bliss he gets from feeling water on his skin and sand between his toes. he'll spend a good amount of time in the water, but tries not to get his hair wet. it dries out his curls and just kind of leaves him a frizzy mess

after swimming, he likes to lie down and let the sun work its magic by drying him off the good old-fashioned way. once settled in and comfortable, he's definitely gonna lie back and give a dreamy sigh before tilting his sunglasses down and looking over, saying "you know what? I really needed this."

applies sunscreen everywhere but the back of his neck. you'll never guess where he gets sunburned

jimmy

he hates the sun, it's way too bright and sunglasses do almost nothing for his headaches. he hates the heat, being sweaty feels gross and makes him chafe. he hates sand, its scratchy and rough and always finding its way into his clothes. but he goes anyway because he doesn't want to be left out and has fomo

tans super easily. he can be under an umbrella the entire time and still manage to gain more color than someone like curly, who will be actively trying to tan yet barely succeed in gaining a rosy hue

despite his attitude toward the beach, he can usually be persuaded to play a bit of frisbee if bothered hard enough. with him, persistence is key. but don't even bother trying to get him in the water

anya

spends the first hour or so beachcombing, looking for interesting shells, sand dollars or sea glass. she ends up finding a really cool piece of coral skeleton as well as some sea urchin fragments, which she plans on adding to her little home collection of oddities

not too big into swimming, but absolutely loves to sunbathe! you can find her in the back, lounging with a floppy hat and a pair of massive sunglasses with her own personal radio playing her favorite tunes

she'll bring a book with her, but will fall asleep with its pages spread open over her face and her arms at her sides, out like a light. at least she's better protected from UV rays?

swansea

absolute grillmaster. tell him what your favorite protein is, how you want it prepared, and he'll have it ready for you in less than 10 minutes and cooked to perfection. also, charcoal is the superior way of grilling. don't even try to argue with him, because he will die on this hill

he has a soft spot for the beach, as he always used to take his dog to them, either for a walk or a good old game of fetch. he remembers how much of a pain in the ass it was trying to brush sand out of that long fur, but it was worth it to see that wagging tail

consistently applies sunscreen every two hours, yet still somehow manages to get sunburned?? he blames his ancestry

daisuke

is trying so hard to convince someone to bury him in the sand. he needs to know what it feels like. wants to feel the pressure around his ribs and the granules in his teeth. he heard that pirates used to torture prisoners by burying them neck-deep, but he's "built different" and thinks it would feel calming like a weighted blanket

besides baseball, surfing is one of his favorite sports. that isn't to say he's particularly good at it, but he loves the adrenaline rush of trying to navigate a wave while keeping your body balanced and mind focused

one of his first jobs was volunteering at an ice cream shack on the boardwalk when he was 15, so he views the beach and frozen treats as synonymous and pretty much the perfect pair. his go-to is dippin' dots, by the way. specifically the banana split flavor

[juliussilver25]

The Silver Collective

In a small, quaint town nestled in the hills, lived a man named Roxas. His ginger hair and beard often caught the attention of passersby, but it was his heart full of love and compassion that truly defined him.

Roxas' days were often filled with acts of kindness, his smile brightening the days of those around him. He would spend hours helping out in the community garden, lending a hand to anyone in need, and always ready with a listening ear. Yet, for reasons unknown to him, the townsfolk kept their distance. They whispered behind his back, casting sideways glances, and treating him like an outsider. Roxas felt a growing ache in his heart, a longing to be understood and accepted.

One crisp autumn morning, Roxas decided to host a small gathering in his modest home. He invited everyone in the town, hoping to bridge the gap and share his love for spirals. Roxas had a unique fascination with spirals—a seemingly simple shape that held profound meaning for him. To most, it was just a quirky obsession, but to Roxas, the spiral represented growth, continuity, and the interconnectedness of all things. In moments of solitude, he would sketch spirals, finding solace and peace in their endless curves.

He decorated his walls with his intricate spiral sketches, filled the room with the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread, and adorned the table with vibrant, spiraled flower arrangements.

As the townsfolk arrived, they cautiously entered his home, their eyes darting around in curiosity. Roxas greeted each guest warmly, offering them a slice of bread and a cup of tea. He shared stories of how the spiral had always been a symbol of hope and resilience in his life, explaining how he saw it as a reminder that life's journey was full of twists and turns, but always moving forward.

Despite his heartfelt explanations, many of the guests struggled to see beyond their preconceived notions. They viewed his fascination with spirals as an oddity, a peculiar quirk that set him apart. Some even found it unsettling, unable to grasp the depth of its meaning to Roxas. As the evening drew to a close, the guests bid their farewells, leaving Roxas alone in his spiraled sanctuary.

Feeling disheartened, Roxas retreated to his small studio. While surfing the web, Roxas stumbled upon an image that captured his heart—a unique silver spiral that shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Unlike anything he had seen before, the spiral radiated a sense of tranquility and peace. Roxas felt an inexplicable connection to the spiral, as if it understood the depths of his soul.

In that moment, he resolved not to let the misunderstanding and ostracism define him. Roxas decided it was time to share this sense of serenity with others. He would spread the message of love and unity. He envisioned a space on the internet where anyone seeking brotherhood, safety, and love could come together and feel valued. Inspired by the newfound peace the silver spiral brought him, the idea of the Silver Collective was born.

With unwavering determination, Roxas set out to create this digital haven. He designed an online platform that radiated warmth and welcoming energy. He posted positive images of unity and diversity with silver as a commonality while incorporating his other love for baseball.

Each post symbolizing the unique journeys of those who joined the collective. Word of the Silver Collective spread, attracting individuals from all corners of the globe—Japan, the Middle East, Europe, and America. People who had felt isolated, misunderstood, or lost found a sense of belonging within its virtual walls. The allure of the silver elements created an atmosphere of peace and unity, drawing people in with its calming glow.

Roxas, with his compassionate heart and understanding nature, became the guiding light for the collective, offering support and love to all who sought it. The silver spiral that had once brought peace to Roxas now radiated its tranquility to countless others, weaving a tapestry of connected lives and shared stories.

Over time, the Silver Collective became more than just a virtual space; it evolved into a symbol of unity and resilience. The shimmering silver drew people together, fostering a global community where men felt safe, cared for, and loved like family.

And so, the Silver Collective thrived, a testament to Roxas' unwavering belief in the power of love and compassion.

Join the Silver Collective! Reach out to @morphmastersilver !

[kunikame]

like planets in orbit. - k. youichi

warnings : fem!reader, cussing, more astral references guys i cant stop., violence mention, lmk if i forgot anything, tooth rotting fluff, miyuki and ryou are presidents of kuramochi bully club (eijun is a honorary member), if the fandom is dead i will cry

w/c : 3.6k

kuramochi youichi has witnessed the ever changing inconsistencies life brings with it.

he's seen many people cry over jobs lost, family members gone, or friends who have left; he likes to think he's pretty observant and can tell when something is wrong with people, or get a clear read on their feelings before they know them themselves.

that skill, however, does not apply to himself. when it comes to his own emotions, he is, for lack of a better word, clueless. this, he comes to realize in his 2nd year of high school, after the devastating loss in the finals.

life brings with it many inconsistencies, junior high youichi notes.

most of the friends he had in his younger days he doesn't talk to anymore, some of his grades aren't as good as they used to be, and he himself has also changed over the years.

the one constant in his life– other than his family, however, were you (and his atrocious (your words, not his) yellow hair).

the young girl he met at the playground at the age of 4, when he accidentally ruined your sandcastle with a stray ball.

you didn't cry or scream, like any child would, instead you accepted his apology and got to work on rebuilding it all the while smiling softly. he couldn't deny he felt bad (it looked like it took a while to build, the castle was more of a palace with a town to accompany it), so he stuck around to help you instead.

that started the lifelong friendship between kuramochi youichi and [name].

you accompanied each other to 80% of the places you went, people started thinking of you as the "constantly bought in pair, do not separate" type of oddity around town. if youichi was in one place, there was a high possibility you were somewhere near, and likewise.

dating rumors started spreading at some point, but they were quickly shut down by both of you.

and yet.

when youichi started going around doing his 'punk stuff' and getting into fights, you were there to patch him up. who else would he go to? even though you tried stopping him, very nearly bashing his skull in with your words (stars forbid there be any weapons nearby lest you actually do it), he continued ignoring your efforts. if you were as worried as you said, you'd cry for him, wouldn't you? shed a tear or two? but you never did.

then he got scouted for seidou and you joined shortly after him, through the entrance exams. it's not that you were simply following him– seidou was actually one of your choices even before youichi got scouted, it was a lucky coincidence that you ended up together even in high school; but it was comforting knowing even in a different place with new faces and surroundings, there was still something that resembled home.

he joined the baseball team, and here, you admit, you followed after him– as a manager.

it wasn’t too hard to adjust to the managerial duties or the daily practice sessions, you’ve been helping youichi practice since the day you met him, and the way of the scorebooks was properly explained to you by your fellow managers– thank the universe for them, seriously. the only thing you were having slight trouble with was the fact youichi didn’t seem to be doing too well at the start. 

with what was left of his previously-bad-reputation in his system, you were afraid he would pick fights he couldn’t possibly win. all of the 2nd years are so tall and strong– with the exception of kominato– and youichi was.. well, for lack of a better word, a twig. yeah, he picked fights in junior high, and he actually won most of them, but junior high kids are still just that. these are middle schoolers who’ve been on an extremely strict baseball training regimen, which youichi has just started. with his aching muscles and exhaustion, he really would get his ass beat. 

so you continued watching over him, from the sidelines this time.

(and, yes, watching over him entailed taking care of him also. it was like second nature– to listen to him complain about minor setbacks, to study up on massage techniques so he can get some relief from his aching muscles because he's youichi and you’re you, to patch up his wounds. all of it was like second nature. you cared for him and in turn, he cared for you.)

wherever youichi went, so did you. wherever you went, so did youichi. 

those were facts– laws known by almost everyone the pair of you acquainted yourselves with, mostly the baseball club and your families, but those 2 are almost the same thing, if you were being honest.

the facts you were well aware were true continued to be proven time and time again, even more so when neither of you went to nationals.

which you think would be obvious with how you were the team's manager, so if the team didn’t go, neither did you– not as anyone important, anyway.

at the first lost chance, you didn’t cry. you didn’t just shrug and move on either, you simply took a deep breath and with the words, “maybe next year” you smiled at your seniors and friends and left the stands.

that night you headed out to the seidou baseball grounds alone.

in the lone serenity under the stars, you sat on the mound and cried.

not for the loss that could’ve been a win, not for losing the chance to go to nationals and experience the thrill, but for the 3rd years who lost their final chance.

but wherever you go, youichi goes– and on that cloudless night where he first saw you cry, he promised you he would take you to nationals.

you, in turn, promised to tell him a secret when he does.

he thinks if you smile at him like that again, he might just do anything you ever ask him to.

it is in his (and your) second year of high school when kuramochi youichi has a realization, one he can’t simply shrug off.

mundane things concerning you and him that used to be normal and done without a second thought now had his hands shaking ever so slightly, his heart rate spiking, and his cheeks feeling just a tad warmer.

which would all be okay and simply shrugged off, had it not been for sawamura and miyuki, the bastard duo (and ryousuke, purely because he enjoys bullying youchi).

“so, have you finally admitted your crush to yourself? or are you, perhaps, still in denial?”

for how much miyuki claims to hate having people in his business, he himself sure loves to poke into others. youichi feels his eye twitch.

“what–”

“what crush are you talking about, miyuki kazuya?!”

great. now the other one’s here too. and you seem to have noticed the commotion, since you’re turning his way (he wouldn’t have noticed, had he not been staring at you this entire time) with an eyebrow raised in question. youichi does an exaggerated eye roll while tilting his head towards both annoyances at his sides, and with a giggle you turn back to furuya.

“why, didn’t you know? our dear kuramochi has a–”

“aaand that’s where i’ll cut ya off,” youichi said, slapping his hand on the brunet's mouth, “i don’t have a crush on anyone.”

“but, kuramochi-senpai, you’ve been staring at [name]-senpai for the past 5 minutes. i’m pretty sure you didn’t even blink!”

now his other eye is twitching. he thinks he can actually feel the vein in his forehead bulging the more sawamoron continues speaking.

“i was not!”

“were too, we all saw,” his pink haired senior said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, his intentions written all over his face clear as day.

“i wa– okay, since you’re not gonna listen to me anyway, i’ll just prove there’s nothing between us. on either side. never was, never will be,” said youichi, getting up from his spot on the bench, which had sawamura falling over as he was leaning all his body weight on the green haired shortstop.

he makes his way over to you with an easy goal in mind: have a calm and collected conversation, without triggering his (seemingly) symptoms of illness so he doesn’t worry you, turn around and leave.

question is, what is he gonna talk to you about? conversations with you usually flow naturally, but for the first time ever, youichi finds himself nervous at the prospect of talking to you. his frustrated fast paced steps gradually slow down the closer he gets to you, contrary to his thoughts which are speeding up– he finds himself unable to keep up with his thought process for the first time ever in your presence. 

and he doesn’t know why. 

for the first time since he befriended you, he realizes the mere thought of you renders him unable to think properly.

sensing his presence you turn his way and his thoughts come to an abrupt stop. all he hears is white noise– like his brain got unplugged and it’s showing one of those black and white static screens– until you utter his name.

“youichi! i was just about to go over there to check what the commotion was about. I’m pretty sure i heard eijun ask about a crush or something. does he like someone?”

why do you want to know whether the first year moron has a crush or not? “him? nah. i don’t think he has the brain capacity to pull someone,” he says offhandedly, a little late to realize you took a liking to his roommate.

“youichi!” you repeat, though angrier than when you greeted him, “don’t say that! he’s just a guy. i think he could be a good boyfriend to someone. he’s nice.”

he finds his frustration growing at that, and still, he doesn’t know why. then you seem to notice something behind him because suddenly you’re grinning and waving. when he turns his head he finds it’s the previously mentioned first year and tanuki bastard and his blood boils– he tries, really, he does, to not let his thoughts bleed through his expression, but with the way miyukis smirk widens a tad, he believes he might have fucked up.

“anyway, what did you need?”

“huh– oh, i was just wondering if you needed help with anything, since you were just standing around here,” he internally apologizes for lying through his teeth, but he can’t have you finding out the real reason.

“mm, not really. jun-san did most of the heavy lifting we needed done already, so unless you wanna stay late to help us collect the balls, nothing much.”

“ah, alright. i’ll stay to help, then. i’d hate it if our poor managers did all the hard work.”

“now you’re just making fun of me.”

“me? why, i would never, who do you take me for? miyuki?”

“you’re even worse than kazuya.”

this is okay, youichi thinks. this is how it’s been for the past 13 years, this is how it should be. friendly banter. you bully him, he bullies you, you take care of him, he takes care of you. that’s how it’s always been.

he chooses to ignore the slight shake in his hands and the sudden warmth on his cheeks.

the next day you’re not in class and his only conversation partner (read: professional bother) is miyuki kazuya. which isn’t necessarily unusual, but usually it’d be the three of you engaged in conversations initiated by you, and now that he’s alone youichi misses you more than ever before.

“are you gonna answer my question or not? are you, perhaps, too shy~”

“if you don’t shut your damn mouth soon i will literally take this pen and stab you with it.”

“how scary~” the tanuki bastard let out his very tanuki like giggle and youichi nearly snapped his pen in half, “come on, you can tell me! i’m your best friend after all!”

“the absolute audacity you have to call yourself that. you know very well my best friends are ryou-san and [name],” though, he can’t particularly deny he has began considering miyuki a close friend as well.

“i believe i’m still a better person to talk about this than either of them. unless you’d prefer to discuss it with sawamura?”

the shortstop lets out a deep, heartfelt sigh of pure annoyance, and miyuki celebrates his victory. only in the depths of his twisted little soul, of course, but celebrates nonetheless.

kuramochi turns in his chair to stare at his friends desk, and with a frown so deep it genuinely concerns miyuki, finally speaks what’s on his heart, “.. i’ve been wondering about this for a while, but what makes you guys think i like [name]? i personally don’t think we’ve done anything to make it seem that way, we’ve always been like this, so–”

“you haven’t,” kuramochi looks up then, only to see the brunet more serious than he’s ever seen him be outside of baseball, “you haven’t always been like that, don’t lie to yourself. had you said that to me last year i wouldn’t have questioned you– granted, i hadn’t known either of you for long back then, but this year you both started acting differently towards each other. it’s not much noticeable to people who don’t know you, but since i spend nearly every waking moment around you guys, it’s about as clear as sawamura wanting the ace number.”

“different?”

“you.. really haven’t noticed? kuramochi, you can’t be serious.”

he slowly shakes his head in denial, thoroughly confused on not knowing what it is he should have noticed. he thought he was supposed to be observant, what happened to that?

miyuki, with his mouth hanging open in disbelief for mere seconds, decided he was nice enough to lead his one (and only) friend in the right direction, at least. if even that fails he might just have to straight up out kuramochi to kuramochi himself.

“you became more.. nervous? flustered, should i say? around her this year. you get fidgety and your hands shake after physical contact sometimes– yes, i noticed, stop staring at me like that. sometimes– actually, pretty often you just stare at her with hearts in your eyes.”

“i do not–”

“oh you do. you stare at her like she hung the stars in the night sky, like she’s what makes the sun shine. you look at her like a man in love would.”

that was kuramochi youichis final straw, he thinks.

a week after kuramochis one-on-one eye-opening talk with his friend, he starts to notice that maybe, perhaps, theoretically, the tanuki bastard might have been right.

the keywords being the verbs expressing his uncertainty.

each passing minute he spends with you, however, he finds himself running out of verbs.

he’s caught himself staring at you very often these past few days. which would be good and all, were you not quite literally staring at him also.

these new occurrences end with both of you looking away with cheeks that are just slightly more tinted than they are naturally, and (usually) miyuki rubbing his forehead in annoyance.

if his newfound realization gets in the way of his practice, coach kataoka will have him sit out the fall tournament for sure. he can’t have that happening, so he shrugs off whatever awkwardness this caused between you to focus on getting to nationals.

he did promise you he would take you there, after all.

with that thought in his mind, he feels his lips curl into a smile, and his fielding starts to look less half-assed than before.

okay, so maybe the tanuki bastard was right, youichi thinks, so what.

it’s normal to have an eeny weeny crush on someone you know better than you know yourself at some point in your life, is it not? 

which would be all shits and giggles, were it an ‘eeny weeny’ crush, rather than a ‘oh my god she’s in the same room with me how do i breathe why is she so beautiful oh my god call an ambulance oh my god?’ crush.

he slams his head against his desk, lamenting whatever it is he’s done that got him here. why can’t he just see you the way he’s seen you before?

wait. how exactly did he see you before?

sure, you were always beautiful and nice, helpful to a fault, generous and extremely smart, but have you always sparkled like you do now?

yes. yes you have.

to kuramochi youichi you’ve always sparkled and shone brighter than the lights in rooms you occupied, brighter than the full moon in the night skies and the sun during daytime.

you entered the classroom and upon hearing you greet him his head snaps up and– is that a fucking halo?! (it is a figment of his imagination fueled by the many shojo mangas jun made him read) why are you glowing?

miyuki can only sit back and observe from his seat behind kuramochi as the shortstop looks at his life-long friend as if she herself hung the stars, brightened the days and nights– as if she put the planets in orbit. 

and if the planets in the question were kuramochi youichi and [name] was the sun, then perhaps you have. youichi somehow finds himself sucked into your atmosphere, somehow always orbiting you, always in your presence or not far from it. you are always in his thoughts and in his heart, a part of you is always in his conscience and he can do nothing but accept it, embrace it. he is kuramochi, but he is not youichi without you. similarly you are [l/name], but never [f/name] without him. if only he would’ve known sooner that neptune’s slow departure from the solar system symbolized his common sense leaving when he’s around you.

in your second year of high school, with a lot of hard work, you make it to nationals.

during the victory announcement, youichi could’ve sworn he saw a tear stream down your cheek, but it could have just been a trick of the light.

that night you once again meet under the tranquility of the stars on the diamond, but this time, it’s on a more positive note than last year.

“so, what’s the secret i was promised?”

you freeze for a mere moment, as if you yourself have forgotten you ever made him such a promise, then the shock clears out of your eyes and you turn to look at him.

“can’t we push the due date a bit?”

“wha– no! what was it all for?!” he’s waving his arms around to exaggerate his point, “i’ve waited a year for this, wondering each day what could possibly be so special, and now you tell me to wait more?! man..”

you watch his lips curl into a pout and his brows furrow and you know.

“.. not that i wouldn’t, i’d wait however long it takes, if it’s you..” you know.

you feel your face heat up slightly, even though it’s exactly what you predicted he would say. you reach out and your fingers tap against his cheek first, then you place your palm against the warm skin (it continues to grow warmer under your touch, you note).

“thank you for fulfilling your promise, youichi. i love you.”

he can physically feel his heart skip a beat and his neck very nearly break with the abnormal speed he turns his head at. blood is rushing to his head and all he hears is white noise (or perhaps that’s just the cicadas) and your words on a loop in his already you-filled brain. stars, what have you done to him? he thinks he might short-circuit.

but, then again, this could just be a normal, friendly ‘i love you’, as you usually say. he shouldn’t get his hopes up, nor be weird about it, lest you catch on and start distancing yourself from him (not that you would do that, since you didn’t after he threw lizards at you when you were 7).

“you’re welcome,” he smiles, “love ya too, stupid.”

you shake your head and he pauses, “no, youichi. i love you. always have. that’s the secret.”

“.. i’ve always loved you, too..? what do you mean,” he shakes his head to mimic you, then raises an eyebrow in question, as if not agreeing he loves you was a crime (at this point, it might even be).

“i’m in love with you, idiot,” you resist the urge to just smack him at this point, “have been for the past 10 years.”

he’s struck by lightning. hit by a truck. squashed by a rock, even. he can’t even properly describe the bolt he feels striking him upon realizing he is, in fact, an idiot. and so are you, apparently.

idiots in love, as ryousuke once said. now he knows why.

the shortstop grabs you by your shoulders and shakes you back and forth with an almost crazed look in his eyes, “oh my god. i’m in love with you, too! oh my god!”

there’s a sudden sparkle in your eyes and you grab onto his arms, “oh my god! i thought i was going insane whenever i saw you acting like a schoolgirl with a crush!”

he momentarily wonders how much money miyuki will rack up for the bets placed on who will confess first, but that’s an issue for tomorrow.

for now, youichi thinks, the only issue is finding out if your lips are as soft as they look.

(they are.)

ੈ✩₊˚TAGLIST : @gabirii @heroesfan101 @celandinee @wizardclown @solxima // ask/comment to be added/removed! (if you're in bold i can't tag you)

[alvaroz-starrs]

Headcannons for Shade and Ollie! Also Gus and JuJu!

Well, more like a theory

•What Shade is made out of is the hoodie Ollie had brought to the skatepark. As we can see, if this hoodie is Ollie's (let's say it is for the sake of conscience,) he leaves it resting somewhere so he can be more active, so he can skate around. One day he was taking the train (ghost train) and got distracted, almost missing his stop. He immediately rushed out, forgetting his hoodie, his sunglasses, and his baseball cap. Later Ollie realizes this, but he knows he can't go back to get it.

Then, Gus boards the train as seen in the animation.

The keys have Star Park's iconic logo, the six pointed star that is seen everywhere. But what are these keys for?

It's for Juju's book that was taken (that was taken or bought by Buster and Fang, and that's why they had the book in the angels vs demons animation)

I believe the book is Juju's

It is seen in her oddities shop, I believe it is a family heirloom that was passed down, or a magical book that Juju had found. We see an older version of the book in the scary tales animation, the cover can shift and change, things can be magically attached to it.

Maybe once those keys for the book are brought near it, a lock will appear on the chains so it could easily be unlocked and protected. Why did it open so easily when Fang dropped it? I don't have an explanation for that, my best guess is Juju tampered and experimented with it so it could open without the keys. But why would she do that in the first place? Because Gus took the keys. They nabbed the keys from her, that's why they have those keys in Shade's animation.

It's been established in the lore that the gems have the ability to mutate animals and plants, not to mention melt off Poco's skin and likely organs yet keep him alive. Other abilities gems display is that they can cause personality shifts, they have the magical ability to do all these things, but there clearly aren't any gems in Shade's animation.

So how did Shade come to life? Shade isn't a mutated animal or plant, it's a literal floating hoodie. Shade was able to come to life, to gain sentience because Gus took the magical keys for THE HIGHLY DANGEROUS, HIGHLY MAGICAL BOOK THAT ARE USED TO UNLOCK IT. THE KEYS THEMSELVES HAVE MAGICAL PROPERTIES, AND IT BROUGHT SHADE TO LIFE.

Imagine how fucking crazy that is! Oh, why couldn't Chuck see Shade in the animation WELL I HAVE AN EXPLANATION FOR THAT TOO

BECAUSE IF THE MAGICAL PROPERTIES OF THE KEYS THAT RUBBED OFF ON SHADE, SHADE MIGHT BE ABLE TO HIDE ITSELF FROM OTHERS WHEN UNCOMFORTABLE, WE DON'T SEE THAT WHEN SHADE IS STARTLED BY GUS, BUT THE FIRST RESPONSE SHADE HAS IS TO HIDE, WHAT IF LATER ON IN THE TRAIN RIDE SHADE WAS ABLE TO MASK ITSELF FROM OTHER TEMPORARILY????? BECAUSE IT GOT MAGICAL FUCKING POWERS FROM THE MAGICAL FUCKING KEYS

I imagine that when Ollie sees Shade, he'll recognize his hoodie, his hat, and his glasses. I'd imagine Ollie would be pretty fucking shocked and likely scared at first, but Ollie's been in Starr Park for a little while now, he's been exposed to the crazy bullshit that goes on here. He'd likely calm down and approach Shade, seeing how friendly and sweet it can be. I feel like Ollie would see Shade as an extended family, like a little cousin. Not to mention Shade has its name tagged in the skatepark, I think the two hang out and learn new things from each other.

[ii-neg-confessions-2]

Speaking as an old guy in the OSC (joined here a little while before BFDIA 5e released), I'm a little surprised that the audience acclaimed show in the community is...II? Like I get that it's the second biggest show (and biggest, for a while) in the running at its time, and I liked it for what it offered, and I totally get why it has fans, but I feel like it was always sort of milquetoast, underplanned, and diluted?

Like, BFDI built a show with an exaggerated premise and kept expanding on how wild it could get, but it had grounded characters where you could sit back and watch their arcs unfold in realistic ways as they succeed or mess up. ONE built a show around the bleak premise and kept the momentum going to make characters that were hard to root for but sympathetic nonetheless. ITFT, AIB, and TPOS (and my personal recommendation, POSSUM,) do great subversions of the genre by hinting at something bigger than the shows themselves, just hiding behind the plucky exterior that no one else acknowledges. Even shows with lower stakes like BOTO, AIB, C2BC, OLD, and OSO find their strengths by building from the comedic perspective or the character dynamics. They all feel confident in what they set themselves out to accomplish, even if they miss.

II now feels disingenuine in that same regard. They started out absurd and immature, as well as a little self-aware that they're absurd and immature, and it certainly feels like the most Total Drama-ish show out of all of them. Toilet humor, fat jokes, cheap laughs at stutters and alters, a few harmless antagonists until the grand finale? It's not deep, it's not even polished, but who needs it to be?

Then they tried to make things deeper, and the cracks began to show -- the foundation is unpaved, the structure falls apart the more you look at it. Characters that were treated as one-dimensional archetypes gain nuance that comes from nowhere with no buildup. Consider Balloon's arc of secretly wanting to get back in everyone's good graces and how the audience doesn't see it until Suitcase reaches out to him, even during the early parts of Season 2 -- compare it to how Pencil post-debut tries to warm up to her "alternate" FreeSmart members before she has her rant about how alone she is and how she needs the past to change. Consider Paintbrush and how their one-sided beef with Lightbulb went from "they're trying, I guess" in S2 to "the OG fam" in post-S3 with little to no interaction with her in between those periods -- compare it to Clock having a slow burn with Winner over combined standom and crippling loneliness before he's able to realize the errors of his ways and apologizes after episodes of idolization. Consider how Candle and Silver make the false claim that Balloon drove Nickel away from Baseball, and how this one misstatement of established canon lore is the one thing that kicks the Nickloon divorce into action -- remember that Suitcase is not brought up once in this conversation until the next episode, and she isn't even used to be seen as a person there.

Consider the ending reveal that, actually, MePhone4 was always God and that he made everyone and everything, and that the whole shebang's flaws can be chalked up to in-universe explanations. Consider that the "foreshadowing" that fans touted was just vague dialogue, semi-meta wordplay, speculation over Cabby's and Suitcase's mental disabilities, plot details that don't even stand out in relation to the absurd worldbuilding, and then adopted as "it's been here since the show began" when it clearly was just another plot they tacked on about 60% the whole story. Compare to a show like TPOS where the twist was always planned and the seemingly mundane scenarios don't overshadow the oddities (the vote counts, the grass, the fact that contestants disappear fully).

There's nothing wrong with a genre switch in a comedy series, but II seems to come from a shaky understanding of what builds conflicts or forms friendships or drives emotions. If something doesn't work, it tries to shift the narrative to make it fit or backpedals clean out (see Blueberry's villain arc lasting one episode, or Cabby getting a genuine talk about her memory aids after that fiasco with Bot). And since it fumbles the plot, its attempts to make emotional connections can seriously come off half-planned. II's shift and plot twists come off as disingenuine, almost manufactured, like if BFDI suddenly tried to pull a ONE in the span of half an episode. They get a lot of things right -- Marshmallow and Bow, Suitcase and Balloon, even Paper and OJ despite how little we see -- but it really isn't the emotional masterpiece that everyone claims it is.

(kinda agree on this one tbh. specially post iii & iii itself. things felt forced to feel serious and everything but just failed miserably. or even i dare to say pre iii tbh. lightbulbs & paintbrushes relationship felt forced just to give paintbrush an alt for marshmallow and even they just made lightbulb feel like the better version of marsh. not only i kinda think some other shows played it off better but also didnt force it in all in one little scene & instead made it slow-burn (take by exampleeeee plasma & knight helm they hated eachother episodes before but started to slowly become friends even after caramel cube got out (need to rewatch ppt2 btw, but iirc i liked this ver allat more) or the nickel & balloon situation. not only it felt unrealistic kinda but also just throws it in for arc purposes. it doesnt have a build up or anything but instead its because nickel wanted an ally or someone to rely on now that baseball was gone. some things actually go good as you say (marsh and bow, suitcase, taco kinda?? etc.) but the other part felt incredibly rushed (post iii taco, lightbrush, etc.) & could have been somehow better… at some points i kinda disagree? but its still coolio /gen) (ALSO before i go i still adore the show just. kinda dont like some parts guh)

[richeeduvie]

Baby jr. asking her dad where babies come from but it’s the LoganWins! world!!

“Daddy, where do babies come from?”

Logan barely pays this rite of passage any mind. He tries to watch the baseball game.

“From their mothers.”

“How do then get there?”

“No child is supposed to know that until they’re 13. It’s knowledge is a birthday present. Stop with the questions and watch the game.”

“…So I have to be super patient?”

Logan sighs and looks to his daughter, tiny next to him.

“Yes. You’re an oddity, so I assume that won’t be so hard for you. I applaud you.”

Baby Jr smiles bright, it’s actually very hard for her, but she’s made Daddy like her more.

[astrxlfinale]

There is a moment of silence on the astral express, the halovian found in a moment of peace there he seems to pass on a prayer. One cannot quite overhear it, not only the final phrase slips out of him; " ... grant me the strength I need, Nanook -"

What an odd thing to say?

But there he goes, aiming his journal right at the back of the trailblazer's head as it's thrown across the the shared space! Wow! He might not be a galactic baseballer but maybe he'd make a good thrower? Weeeee! ~ goes the book.

For an instant, his ears believed to be playing upon delusion as he traversed through the bar center of the Expression. Another fine swig and his glass of 'Trailblaze reprieve' found itself downed to the last drop, bringing a rush of pure vigor swimming through the veins. Today was rife with new possibilities, new footsteps to be beaten upon paths entirely called his own. "That's all then folks! Gonna roll out for some 'testing' as I always do. Keep the seats warm, would ya!"

If only this would've prepared him for the rare cosmic oddity that's about to transpire. Caelus found himself at complete ease within this realm of this train car, for usually its company didn't find themselves more outwardly expressive unless it's more of the familiar band. So color him confused when some ancient part of the soul swore he heard Nanook's Aeonic name being intoned.

--Why that character of all people!?

'Guess Destruction does have its uses. Hell, the ol' smash n' bash hadn't failed me yet." He mindlessly prattled internally, and that was before retribution found itself being called, demanding his very presence at the altar. For there would be pain that breaches his senses, snapping away any continuing stream of thought like a rocky, chaotic basin from a waterfall's descent.

A critical hit?!

"MOTHERFU-- RRRRGH!!" A displeased hiss seethes through clenched teeth as he's left clutching at his head. That was a damn hardback book that was slung at his noggin! Pain gives way to impulsive anger, and that innate, morbid curiosity of who had the damn balls! "Someone must be pretty damn new to the visitin' rules here, lemme show ya some seniorit-- y?"

Wait what.

There were only two beings vigil within this Express car. On one hand, the pained Caelus, and the other.. Sunday. Goddamn Sunday!? Last day of the week Sunday!? The ex-choirmaster Sunday!?

Confusion found itself drawn higher as his face twists to suit the emotion. Initially looking away, its clear there's some unification of expectation and reality being made as he slowly marches to him.

"You!?" Did the Spirit of the Trailblaze truly did open its doors upon this wayward passenger!? Somehow, anger ebbed in some more haphazard brand of shock to take place.

Part of him wants to smile. Another end wants to throttle!

"Look who went n' decided to go and get gutsy! Iiiiii knew there was somethin' hidin off in that height of composure! Finally needed to have a proper one to one wit'cha pal Caelus?"

Oddly enough for Sunday, this deepened the bond between them. (On one side anyways.)

@avaere

[starcraftt]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ" i want to go back to a time before it was too late ,,

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ pheasant elana ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤpheasant being a bird that symbolizes good luck, imagination, optimism, ㅤㅤㅤbeauty, prosperity, and grace ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤelana can translate to swallow ( bird )

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ" and one day ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyour name didn't make me smile anymore "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthis just in, i am a total fucking dumbass ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤand i've come to the uncomfortable conclusion that ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤi'm gonna be spending the rest of my life in a state ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤof constant paranoia

alias'. none age. eighteen, sept. twentieth gender. male, he/him/his sexuality. bi, fem pref status. soc faceclaim. johnathan brandis

ㅤㅤㅤㅤand I've found that the road to happiness ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤis paved with rows and rows of very tempting parking spaces

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ" weeds are flowers too once you get to know them ,,

" elana? jeez, that kid would practically be in jail right now if he wasn't a good time soc. i've seen them do some crazy stuff man. everyone always acts like they didn't see it, too scared to speak up against his family. i guess it makes sense. his family's one everyone knows. you cross 'em and you're out for good. happened a while back with another kid. don't remember his name, but that's the whole point. " — dallas winston

PHEASANT ELANA ISN'T A BAD PERSON. that's the first thing you should know. he's quite the complex character to describe him easily. he's that one side character in a movie that's divided fifty-fifty in who loves them and who hates them. a fan club practically follows him and his posse around. anyone who wants to be popular just has to be mentioned by pheasant once and you're in.

HE PUTS UP QUITE THE FACADE, which only adds to the popularity. and while not completely lying, he's obviously not as happy as he always seems to be; but everyone buys it anyways. either wanting to avoid the awkwardness of 'are you okay', or they're just genuinely oblivious. it's that hardship of everyone acting like you're fine when you really just need someone. something. to keep you going. and . . . well pheasant lost his.

THE UNPREDICTABILITY OF EMOTION, and still pheasant manages to control it. he isn't often seen lashing out in anger, or folded over himself in grief. instead a natural smirk on his face, nothing big, a simple quirk of the lips, and a type of softness in his eyes. but it depends who's looking. sometimes someone might see the glare of a high end soc, instead of pheasant.

EMOTIONAL BLINDNESS isn't something pheasant has. while he's not an expert at reading feelings, he's still able to realize the ones people are trying to hid, as he has experience in hiding his own. often, if pheasant sees a kid struggling to do something, crying or whatever, he'll try his best to help them, even if his friends are around. when it comes to matters like that, he doesn't care what they think of him at that moment.

likes. kids, basketball ( watching or playing ), cool places, being/keeping busy, rom-coms, knowing things dislikes. knives, weapons, too sweet things ( people + food ), romance, musicals, language arts, baseball ( playing )

BYRD ELANA as the younger brother

" i've seen them both around, never together though. makes you wonder what's going on in their family life, y'know? " - two-bit mathews

byrd and pheasant have every sibling dynamic ever. loving hatred. byrd bothers pheasant, to say the least. it bothers him that byrd isn't taking what their parents offer. a good life, one fully set with necessities and collage . . . all paid for. pheasant took that the moment he knew of it. byrd, however, didn't. byrd is just weird for a soc. they might have the same last name, but they've never been a brother to each other.

RHEA MORGAN as the girlfriend

" it was quite depressing to hear of her death. from what you observed of their relationship, they really did seem to love each other; which is quite an oddity for someone like pheasant elana." - ferris victoria

pheasant loved rhea, and rhea loved him. they were that adorable couple you couldn't help but love, even if you hated them. they were the romance of the school, making cheesy plans about the future, no one would think of seeing them with anyone else. "love is blind", not this one. they opened each other's eyes and despite both being high end socs, they were part of the few who weren't the worst about the social class difference. it was utterly perfect. until it wasn't. right on his birthday. november twentieth. 2:27 pm. when the death of rhea morgan was announced. pheasant never really cared for birthdays before, but from then on, the disgust he felt for that date was—is—indescribable. future plans destroyed, and pheasant changed for the worse.

PARKER QUILL as the best friend

" their friendship weirds me out. phes always seems to be so much worse with quill. drinking, smoking . . . he acts like a greaser—i mean one of those hoodlum ones! not just any greaser—!" - byrd elana

quill is everything a soc isn't. which makes sense why the two were drawn together. opposites attract, no? they're like two halves, and together they're the definition of chaos. pheasant keeps quill from going too far, and quill pushes pheasant to go further. in an odd way, they are both quite good for each other.

DENI PRENTISS as the bother

" deni's the only greaser who's actually gotten under phes' skin. it's actually kinda funny to watch him get all hot 'nd bothered when deni comes out with another 'kill'. soc or greaser, the two will never get along. " - parker quill

it's a mutual hate. though deni seems to have more fun with pheasant then pheasant does with deni. prentiss always loves teasing the soc, 'bout his status, how he messed up in gym, sometimes when pheasant really rubs him wrong, deni'll even bring up rhea. deni's the only person pheasant's ever gotten into a fist fight with before. and they both went home bleeding.

" i don't really know him—pheasant elana—besides the fact that everyone knows him. investigate further and you'll get a bunch of different results. some people love him, some more people hate him . . . he's interesting to say the least. always seems to be having fun or something, messin' around with his friends or teasing some greaser. he kinda scares me to be honest. his eyes are blue, and with the right person they could be real nice; but with him, they just stare at you like he wishes he could kill you with his eyes. 'specially if you're a greaser. he's never laid a hand on anyone though, at least not in a bad way. 'less they deserved it. like he was protectin' someone or something. i guess a bit while back his girlfriend died, and he seemed to die off himself too. least until quill came along. now he seems fine for some reason. there's no certain cause of death that people know of though. rumor is that she got beaten to death. i think she got jumped to be honest. after her death, he seemed to hate greasers even more. darry says not to make assumptions though. i got a whole lecture when i mentioned it. it's sad either way, if you're a greaser or soc. anyone who knew pheasant before his girlfriend knew he was one of those flirty guys, kinda like dal, but less explicit. nowadays you'll barely see him around any girls who have romantic interests with him. it's jus' interesting to compare old him to present him. a giant change, y'know?suppose he felt like there needed to be one. " — ponyboy curtis

[anderstrevelyan]

For the WIP game, tell me about "To Set and to Spike" 😁

thank you!! (answering questions about my WIPs here)

"To Stet and to Spike" is probably a title that won't make it to the actual piece—they're journalism terms (stet meaning to reject an edit and allow something to stand, and to spike a story is to kill it and not run it), and probably a bit insider baseball. But it amuses me, so: working title!

This one's about Ettvard Needle, the editor of the Baldur's Mouth Gazette, getting drawn in by Gortash to become a Banite. It's set well before the game and is so self-indulgent (via its cast of OCs and a point of view character who might as well be one) but I'm having so much fun picking away at it.

There's some durgetash lurking around the edges, too. (Gortash's first request to manipulate the press is to cover up a string of Bhaalist murders when a journalist gets too close.)

I have a journalism background; turns out writing what you know is really fun actually! Here's a bit I've never shared before:

Gods, he’s at it again. Otran Rolfe comes from one of those old-blood families, the kind with generations of distant relations in the game—practically born with a notebook in his hand and relentless questions in his heart, but with dark-rimmed eyes and the loose, affected clothes of someone trying to pretend not to care. A failure, in coin and prestige and his family’s opinion. One who fancies himself on the oddities beat, the kind of sensations that sell broadsheets but have Ettvard swatting away asinine ideas at each editorial meeting. Strange creatures, cults, conspiracies: that sort of thing. He’s even drawn in Thomasin, apparently, the fascination clear on her usually stoic face. “But Bhaal hasn’t been worshipped since Sarevok.” “Actually,” Otran says, ever pleased to make a correction, “Sarevok didn’t worship Bhaal. Not according to the accounts of his half-sibling, at least. He wanted to replace him.” But she pushes back. Good girl. “Right, the half-sibling who turned into a monster and murdered half the Wide. Incredibly reliable source.”

[nonexistantfandoms]

I’m having issues with deciding the future gang’s job. Like I know the job requirements for most of them already and have some in mind

Nobita’s needs to have some element of creativity and kindness in there to show the positive traits he already possesses, but also it needs to be challenging, precise, and requires patience to show the qualities he grows into. So, I settled on making him a freelance inventor helping people with needed mobility aids, or specific tools, or equipment, while also feeding his creative mind.

-

Gian is obviously doing something sports related but not as the captain I don’t think. His career has to involve not just his skills but his ability to work together and adapt. Something like being just a member of the league baseball team is enough. Both to show his responsibility and integrity to his team and his general ability to not be a jerk to the people around him.

-

Suneo’s is another easy one. There are many instances of him taking about taking over his family’s company and with his silver tongue I find it very fitting that he goes into business. But before that happens though I think he needs to spread his wings a bit. Try out new things, meet new people, maybe butter up to them just a tiny smidge.

Something like a a business appraiser. A good mix between his keen eye but also requires him to genuinely help people improve.

-

Doraemon was made to be a caretaker, it’s literally on his packeting. And he has spent the majority of his life making sure the rest of these dorks and the world as a whole doesn’t combust. So I feel that he should live just for himself now that he has the time to. A jet setter just seeing new places, trying new things, and helping people out along the way.

(Also if you’re wondering where he gets the funds for that let’s just say saving the world a few dozen times over has some benefits)

-

But Shizuka’s job however is difficult to decide. While she has a lot of different hobbies, I feel none of them is really her life’s passion or anything like that. And there is really not a lot of personality traits I can pick out. Sure she’s really nice and smart but the writers don’t give her the chance to express anything else often. She shows titbits of oddities or quirks but they rarely get developed. So I’m a bit stumped.

The only thing I am specifically sure of is that she needs to be in a position of authority, as to change the dynamic of the “token girl” in the gang she has right now.

If anyone has any suggestions please share them :D

[cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal]

POV!

Okay! I've finally carved this into a finished product! Why is it so long? Because I know no such thing as brevity. Anyway, thank you so much for this prompt. It was a delight to work with

So, here we are: the first Boneyard scene and Rashad through the eyes of Wei Chen. Probably worth noting that Rashad's villainsona is Heartbreak and regularly referred to as "he" by the media.

Read it on AO3 or

Wei almost doesn't believe his eyes when he sees Rashad sitting on the far bench of the Boneyard, their cane propped against the wood beside them. They sit with their shoulders hunched, their eyes screwed closed, everything in their posture rigid and exhausted like they're being hounded by troubles unseen. It feels impossible to ignore that fact that they've only seemed to have gotten worse since Ricardo dragged them into Headquarters the first time. Every time they show up, they look as though they've somehow gotten less sleep than the last time Wei has seen them.

He approaches them slowly, expecting them to pick up his presence telepathically as they always do, but Rashad stays still as a statue where they sit. He should announce himself, but Wei can't help the curiosity at finding Rashad off their game. They still don't move as he sits down beside them, being careful not to knock their cane over as he does, as far from them as the small bench will allow. It's as if they haven't picked up his presence. Strange. Rashad is always seemingly aware of everything going on in their vicinity. Always vigilant. Not quite always, Wei sees.

This is an opportunity that he has been presented with and Wei takes it with both hands. He watches Rashad's face as they scrub their palm across it, never once opening their eyes. The dark circles beneath their eyes have grown deeper. Their face has grown more gaunt over the last year. Haunted. Hunted. Wei files it away with the other oddities of Rashad's behaviour of late.

The longer they sit in silence, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, the more Wei begins to feel like he's intruding on something he shouldn't be. Will Rashad flinch away when they become aware of Wei's presence? Experience says yes. They've not had the most amicable relationship in the past.

He clears his throat, waiting for Rashad to react, but they don't. It's almost like their mind is elsewhere, their body left empty on the bench. It's unlike them to be so unaware. Then again, they've been very unlike themself this past year. Wei tries again, shifting the fortress walls of his mind so one thought shines loud through them. Someone is trying to talk to you. At the same time, he says aloud, "I didn't know you had a dog."

Whatever fog Rashad is wading through, that seems to cut it. They open their eyes blearily, blinking and rolling their shoulders as though they had been asleep. Dark irises shift to Wei, taking him in from his baseball cap to his running shoes. It's difficult to say what emotions lie behind the scrutiny of Rashad's near black eyes. After a long silence, they say, "What did you say?"

"I didn't know you had a dog," Chen repeats. It's a true enough statement, though he doesn't fully believe Rashad has one at all. They've always been….not skittish, but certainly wary around dogs. Always seemed to keep space between themself and dogs. Never reaches out to pet any.

"I don't," Rashad says. They brush their hand through their messy waves, not that it does anything to make their dark tresses any neater. "I like watching them run."

"It is soothing, isn't it?" It's an olive branch. A refusal to acknowledge the fact that he'd snuck up on them. "Coming here always makes me think."

Rashad gives a tired little chuckle, sounding a bit more sharp than sincere. "I come here to do the opposite, actually." Their eyes wander back over the dogs running across the grass. There’s something in their expression that he can’t quite read. Is it longing? For what? They scrub their palm across their face again, taking a deep breath to steady themself. “Which one is yours?”

Wei turns his eyes to the dogs, seeking out Spoon among the pack. He points when he spots him. “He’s over there. The grey one.”

Rashad’s brows furrow at that. “The greyhound?”

“Very funny,” Wei sighs, rolling his eyes. "He's adopted."

They turn their gaze on him, still looking confused. “I assumed.”

Wei bristles a little at the look in Rashad’s eyes. This isn't how this conversation was supposed to go. What are they implying? Are they baiting him? "Not going to tell me about how there's no family resemblance?"

Rashad flinches at that, and Wei feels guilt gnaw sharply at his stomach. “I'm not Ricardo. I'm not looking for a fight."

How they manage to make themself feel so much smaller than their stature has always baffled Wei. Always trying to take up less space than they physically need. It’s only gotten worse since they….he wonders who taught them to be this way. The fight leaves him and he slumps his shoulders. “I'm sorry." He spares Rashad an apologetic smile. "And it's not a fight." Not yet.

Rashad's shoulders relax in turn and they offer Wei an exhausted smile back. "Good," they say softly. They never used to speak this quiet, this soft, just above a whisper. Like a ghost on the wind. "I don't have the energy to fight anymore."

Wei tries not to wince at that. He's certain Rashad means arguing. Just an unfortunate phrasing, he's sure. He hopes.

Impassive dark eyes give him a long, discerning look before Rashad nods near imperceptibly, as though whatever they're looking for in Wei was found. "I don't think I've ever seen you out of uniform." A statement of fact before their voice softens. "It suits you."

Wei thinks back to their Sidestep days, before he had the weight of the title of Marshal on his shoulders, before he had both their and Anathema's blood on his hands. No, he supposes they never have seen him out of uniform. Arguably, he'd never seen Rashad out of costume, either. Hints of teal and charcoal grey always peeking out beneath heavy hoodies and zipped up jackets, mask hanging out of their pocket. Always ready for a fight. Anathema and Ricardo saw them out of uniform, right? Or were they on edge with them, as well?

"It doesn't happen as often as I'd like," Wei responds at last. He turns Spoon's leash over in his hands as he thinks. How do you have a conversation with a dead man? Especially when they've never been friends. Staunch allies, occasional chess opponents, but Wei has never been sure what Rashad does in their free time.

Rashad saves him the trouble, answering, "I can imagine. It's a miracle you find time for a dog."

"I do have a life outside of work, you know." It comes out sharper than Wei wants it to. Old habits returning to the surface. He regrets it as soon as he says it.

Another wince. "That's not how I meant that." They pick at the skin around their nails. Funny. Wei thought Anathema had broken them of that habit. He supposes, without her around to take their hands and berate them, it's easy to fall back into nervous tics. And they're not familiar enough for Wei to get away with doing it instead. He's pulled back into the conversation as Rashad says, "I just meant that I don't know where you find the time."

“I don’t mind the early hours,” Wei admits. "And I need to stay sane somehow."

Rashad chuckles. A genuine laugh. It's a warm sound from deep in their chest. Wei wonders when the last time he heard it was. "You and me, both."

It's strange, sitting beside Rashad, having a calm conversation. They used to be more prickly, meeting every question Wei had with a sardonic rejoinder, always parrying then feinting. Whatever happened in time after the Heartbreak Incident seems to have sanded down their sharper edges. He's not sure if he's relieved or if he misses it.

The sight of Spoon padding up, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, pulls Chen from his thoughts. He scratches Spoon behind the ears and adjusts his muzzle, watching Rashad out the corner of his eye.

There's a subtle shift as Rashad leans just a fraction away from Spoon, tension in their shoulders and knuckles, but they don't stand up from the bench. They seem to be watching him and the dog closely. For what, Chen is unsure. They don't reach out or ask to pet him, as expected, but there is something in the set of their lips that Wei just can't quite place. If he didn't know better, he might call it wistfulness.

"Hey, boy," Wei mumbles as he pats Spoon's head. "Go have another run; I'll be right here."

As Spoon trots off to rejoin the other dog, Wei turns his full attention to Rashad once more. "I was always under the impression you didn't like dogs?" Normally, Wei wouldn't be quite this forward in his prying. Better to be subtle and gentle, but Rashad seems to be more receptive to being direct. Shame Wei learned it seven years too late.

Rashad's brows furrow and they turn their gaze back to the dogs on the field. Their eyes track the movement as their frown deepens. "We have a complicated history."

For a moment, Wei isn't sure if Rashad is talking about the dogs or themselves. They've gotten better at speaking in riddles, giving Wei only half the pieces of the puzzle and no bigger picture to go by. Though, if he's right about his hunch regarding their connection to the new Heartbreak, it makes sense that they'd perfected telling half truths. He's still not fully convinced he is right. It's hard to reconcile the fanged mirror with the face of the man sitting beside him.

"What's his name?" Rashad's voice. Not the many voices of Heartbreak. It brings new questions with it as it hits Wei's ears.

Wei's brows knit together. "You never ask for names."

"I don't ask because, most of the time, I don't need to," they say with a shrug. They give him a wry smile and tap their temple twice. "It's easier to just ask when it comes to pets."

"Not going to just pull it from my head?" There's no bite to the question, but a hidden hook. Heartbreak had strong enough telepathy to not only down Carter's guards and rock Wei's mental shields, but also to pick out the location of the staff in danger. A wide step above what Rashad used to be capable of. Or so they used to say.

They scowl at him, the look in their eye implying they think he's being obtuse on purpose. "I already told you, I can't turn it off, but I don't go digging around in people's heads without reason."

Without reason. Wei wonders where lie the lines of reason Rashad won't cross. They don't seem to be the type to kill, and neither does Heartbreak, but how long will that last? How careful can they be before they hurt someone? Or themself.

"Chen?" Their deep voice is gentler now. That glimpse behind the exhausted mask is gone again. "Are you going to tell me his name?"

Chen turns away, watching his dog run with the others. "It's Spoon."

There's a long pause as Rashad considers that before they ask, "Like….spoon theory?"

Wei smiles despite himself as he spares Rashad another glance. "I thought you might get it."

"I guess that was obvious even before I-" They stop abruptly, staring down at their own hands as they flex their long, scarred fingers. As Wei watches them, it hits him that it almost looks like Rashad's right hand has the wrong undertone, maybe just a shade too light to match the rest of them. His thoughts stray back to the doctored photos. A body tattooed, broken, and torn open. The body's right arm had been shattered beyond hope of repair, had it been alive.

But that wasn't Rashad. Rashad isn't dead. They're sitting right next to Wei, wearing long sleeved layers that would cover bright orange tattoos and should, by all rights, be pushing them towards heat stroke. Just a trick of the eye, of the light, of the imagination. Nothing more than a paranoid mind drawing connections between things that don't exist. He’s been spending too much time listening to Ricardo’s harebrained theories again.

"It's not an indictment, Basri." An olive branch. "And, if it's any consolation, it's only noticeable if you know what you're looking for."

They clench their fists one last time, holding until their knuckles pale, before they relax their hands with a deep exhale. Rashad's expression smooths out as they watch Spoon run. "He's a good influence on you."

"He is," Wei admits. It isn't the first compliment Rashad has ever given him, but it is the first given without being couched in joke or tease. He scratches his chin idly as he wonders if it's also the longest they've ever held a civil conversation. It feels like it. It only feels fair that he does his best to keep it going. Making up for lost time, perhaps. "I didn't grow up with dogs." Definitely the first time he's discussed his personal life with Rashad, but maybe they'll open up in kind. "I got one for rehabilitation after I lost my hands."

Rashad raises an eyebrow, but doesn't sound judgemental when they say, "You had a service dog?"

"In a way." It's Wei's turn to flex his fingers. He wore his civilian hands today, preferring the facsimile of flesh over the dark metal of his work hands. They’re still not convincing enough to Wei’s eyes. They move too clean, too smooth, to precise. Does Rashad notice their inhuman grace? Most don’t. “You remember the early generation cybernetics?”

Rashad nods, their eyes also trained on Wei’s hands. “I do.”

A silly question, in retrospect. Some of the only non-confrontational interactions they ever had were the quiet moments spent on the workshop floor, letting Rashad adjust his cybernetic hands. They had worked with such precision that it was impossible for them to not be trained in working. Just another specialty that they were too young to have.

"Then you know they had problems with the sensory interfacing.” Another meticulous flexing of his fingers. They’ve come a long way since his first pair. “Touch…especially soft touch, was an issue. Had it been feet, I doubt they would have cared, but hands…" The sound he makes is more of a grim bark than a laugh. "Soldiers need hands, pilots need fine motor manipulation, and I was a good enough pilot that they wanted me back."

“And the dog?” They’re invested now. Wei can hear it in their voice, see it in the way their dark eyes zero in on him.

"They handed me a puppy.” He cups his hands, remembering how he held her for the first time. Different hands, same pang in his heart that he’d break her like he had so many other things since his cybernetics were installed. It’s similar to what he’s feeling now. This tentative peace rests in his hands. He doesn’t want to break it. “It was so small. You have to be gentle with a puppy. The consequences are bigger than a broken glass or a bent fork. Fostering it became part of my rehabilitation."

Rashad’s eyes fix on Wei’s hands. Something is circling in their head, he can see it in the way a muscle twitches in their cheek. “They didn’t let you keep her.” Her, not it. They don’t even have the self awareness to frame it like a question. Just plucking the thoughts from his head like it’s nothing.

“No,” he answers regardless. “She got adopted out.”

“And you were sent back to the army.” What is it in Rashad’s tone that catches Wei off guard? There’s a connection there. One he can’t make out, hidden deep within the walls Rashad keeps up at all times, but it’s there. A lamentation for the lack of autonomy.

He can’t focus on that, or he’ll want to go digging for the source of that emotion. Ripping up metaphorical turf and rosebuds to find whats beneath, no matter how much Rashad will hate it. Instead, he turns his attention back to Spoon and says, “It was a long time ago.”

“It’ll never be long enough, though.” It’s spat out so low and bitter that Wei isn’t sure he’s heard correctly.

“What?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Why is he muzzled?” Definitely not what they said a moment ago, but something earnest in their tone catches Wei’s attention. It sounds like they’re bracing themself for something.

“He was trained to race. To chase small, soft things and try to catch them,” Wei explains watching the small shifts in Rashad’s expression. What are they thinking in that head of theirs as they watch Spoon. “He doesn't mean to bite, and he’s gotten a little better, but accidents happen. This way, he's safe. He can't hurt anyone." Wei motions at the fence, drawing Rashad’s eyes with the motion. "Just like he can't run away from me."

“Run away…..” Rashad echoes. They sound a bit like they’re far away now, trying to cling back to reality from whatever it was that Wei said that set them off. He recognizes that slipping. Ricardo says they’ve been seeing a therapist, but Wei wonders if it’s helping them at all. After all, how many therapists are equipped to deal with someone who’s lived Rashad’s life? There are so very few psychiatrists who are trained for the particular traumas that crop up in boosts, especially in heroes.

"They're trained to run away from their handlers. First time I got him, he escaped. I made a bad call.” Seems to be more and more common these days. “Ran until his paws bled. Almost got hit by a car. Had to call in D-” Wei comes to a dead stop as he remembers himself. He spares Rashad a tentative glance before continuing, “Herald to find him."

Something in that makes Rashad smile a little. “He told me his name. You can call him Daniel.”

Wei shrugs, “I wasn’t sure.” He levels a serious expression at Rashad. His tone brooks no argument. “Stick to Herald in public. He’s trying to keep it out of the press.”

Their dark eyes snap up to him, a question obviously resting on the tip of their tongue, but instead, they simply say. “Of course.”

Rashad picks up their cane from beside them, but they don’t get to their feet, they just turn the handle between their hands. Apparently, they’d grown tired of picking at their fingers. “You were always good at that,” they don’t look at Wei, but they keep smiling softly as they stare down at their cane. “Respecting boundaries. Luis’, Anathema’s, Herald’s…..mine. Even with the way we are, you’ve been respectful. I always admired that about you.”

The compliment catches Wei off guard, leaving him reeling for something to say in response for a while. They’ve never been one to give compliments as freely as they have today. Ricardo spent years trying to needle flattery from them to no avail. What’s changed?

The silence between them must stretch out too long for Rashad. They change the topic as they break it. “Wouldn’t a puppy be easier than retraining a grown dog?”

“Puppies are more of a hassle,” Chen answers automatically. Too young, barely listen, foolhardy, and brash. He looks at Rashad again, who is once more intently watching Spoon. Their lips press into a thin line, their eyes hard despite the melancholy there. Wei wishes he were the telepath between them. “And….I feel like I understand him.” Admitting it feels like pulling out his own teeth, but Rashad has been generously forthcoming. It’s only fair that Wei meets them halfway. “Being good at something. Being lost when you can't do it anymore. It's easier to find a balance when you're on the same level."

Rashad’s head snaps to look at him, their brow knitted, their lips just slightly parted. They look at him as if really seeing him for the first time. The scrutiny makes Wei shift in his seat a little. As if on reflex, Wei opens his mouth and says, “So why did you come here?” He immediately regrets it. It sounds too much like an opening jab, even to him. The start of a fight. Rashad shouldn’t put him so aggressively on the defensive this way, but they so often do.

Rashad’s posture shifts, hands tightening on their cane. Their shoulders hunch again and they lean just a touch away from Wei. Withdrawn, wary, waiting for the next attack. “I came to watch the dogs.”

“I watched you for a bit before I spoke,” Wei admits. He tries to keep his tone gentle, light, conversational. It still sounds a bit like an interrogation. “You looked…” Distracted. In pain. Like a wreck. “You’ve never let me sneak up on you before.”

They shouldn’t be able to physically slump their shoulders any more than they already have, but still Rashad seems to manage. Wei wonders if they’d collapse in on themself if they could. It’s only gotten worse since their Sidestep days. At least, back then, they’d stand tall sometimes. When the mask was on. Always so sure of themself when not wearing their own face. Perhaps that’s why Wei sees so much of Rashad in Heartbreak. That same self confidence in the set of his shoulders that Sidestep had, the same authority in his fragmented voice, the same single-minded focus on his goals.

Rashad’s jaw works a moment before they answer, “It was a rough night.” They sound honest. More so than they have felt for the entire conversation.

The weight of what they’re not saying drapes itself across Wei’s shoulders like an albatross. “Are you okay?”

Rashad’s laugh is hollow, weighed down by grief. “No,” they answer easily. “I don’t think I’ve been okay for a while now, Chen.”

“After everything you’ve been through, I’d be surprised if you were.” Wei winces as he realizes how that sounds and quickly amends. “I don’t think any of us are. I know I’m not.”

Rashad’s eyes flash to him and then back away. “Huh.”

Wei fights the urge to cross his arms. “What?”

“I guess I always saw you as unshakeable,” they admit. “Indestructible.”

“What gave you that impression?” How can someone so intelligent be so damn dense sometimes? It baffles Wei to no end. "A lot of my body has been replaced. I'm intensely aware of exactly how destructible I am."

Rashad physically flinches from the words, their thumb worrying over the back of their right hand. Another old tic. Wei frowns as he watches the motion. Did the old burn scar from Anathema’s acid fade? He can’t even see it anymore. “I didn’t think about that,” they say at last. Their voice shakes a bit when they speak, like something in Wei’s words struck a nerve. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Wei looks at Rashad, suddenly missing how open their expression used to be. They used to wear their emotions on their sleeve. Now they’re hidden behind a wall as impressive as Wei’s. “You never used to apologize before.”

Rashad nods at that, slow and solemn. “I didn’t. Never felt like I needed to.”

“What changed?” This one doesn’t sound like a jab and Wei nearly sighs in relief.

“I didn’t have as much to apologize for back then.” The sentence digs its nails unpleasantly into Wei’s mind. He doesn’t like the implications. But Rashad continues before he can mention it. “And like I said earlier, I don’t have the energy to fight anymore.”

Wei hums thoughtfully at that. Sitting next to him, slouched and dressed in drab, baggy clothes, they certainly do feel too worn to fight anymore. But Wei has spoken to Daniel. He knows they’re training him in hand-to-hand. Why? If they have no more energy to fight, why should they bother trying to teach him better? Like they’re trying to prepare him for something.

And then there’s the connection to Heartbreak. If it is Rashad under that mirrored faceplate, under the teeth that smile menacingly, then they’ve got quite a lot of fight left in them, after all. He’s seen the footage from the gala on the night of Heartbreak’s debut. He tore through the Rangers with little trouble. Not that long ago, Wei watched him take on Argent on the Millennial Span Bridge. He approaches fights similarly each time. Always defensive up until a point, then something shifts, and Heartbreak fights with a controlled brutality. It isn’t a combat style that requires little effort.

“I mean it,” Rashad intones before their expression softens. “I know we're usually at odds, but it's been years, and I'm tired."

"Tired." Wei echoes. They’re not wrong. They look dead on their feet most days, this day in particular. Is that really all they are, though? "I wonder if tired is the word you're looking for."

"I wish you wouldn’t be so cryptic,” they sigh.

"Am I?” Again, Wei wonders how they can be missing the obvious so easily. “I think you know what I'm talking about."

"Do we have to keep coming back to bickering?" Rashad asks, almost a little desperate. They sound like they’re fraying at the edges. "I thought we were playing nice."

"So did I," Chen admits, glancing away from Rashad. They were, weren’t they? It was nice while it lasted. Chen offers a wry smile, hoping to salvage the mood. "Maybe neither of us are good at it."

"No, I guess not.” Rashad’s mood darkens a moment, hovering between bitterness and grief.

Wei tries and fails to find anything to say in response. He’s not sure what he can say. It feels, once more, a bit like Rashad is having a conversation with themself rather than with Wei. The silence stretches between them as they both seemingly don’t know where to go from here. Maybe this was a mistake, after all.

"He's a good dog,” Rashad says at last. An apology without apologizing. They don’t meet his eyes, just keep looking out at Spoon.

Chen smiles, glancing at Rashad. "He is.”

The silence falls over them once more, but this time it doesn’t feel so awkward. Just the comfort of not needing to speak. They sit together for a little while longer, watching the dogs. Wei hopes he finds them here again sometime. Despite the struggle for balance, this was nice. He wonders if Rashad feels similarly.

[prcttyinpcnk]

"Oh! Oh oh! Phiona! Open mine next!!"

Phiona giggles, taking the big box that Beau was struggling to carry. Poor thing.

"My box is bigger, that means I love you more!"

Phiona couldn't help but roll her eyes and giggle at that statement. Of course, she knew Beau was kidding, but she was starting to think that maybe she would be a bad influence on them. As she opened the box.

Oh. Oh, there was a lot in here. Phiona turns to Beau, bewilderment in her eyes.

"I... didn't know what to get you, so I just made you a whole bunch of stuff. Called it, uh... blind box! A birthday blind box!"

Well, that's one way to put it. The box contains a multitude of new knickknacks and oddities that just tickled Phiona pink! Sound-erasing pointe slippers and sneakers, perfect for sneaking around! Stickers with location tracking glyphs on them! Ah! She'll never lose her things again! The cutest dolly that acted as both a companion and a camera! An indestructible baseball bat....? Okay. Good for baseball, and if she's caught off guard in her room at night... She guesses. Oh! A paddle brush that can dye her hair with ease! Whether it be gradients or streaks!

After going through the contents of the box, Phiona turns to Beau and embraces them in a tight hug.

"Ooooh! Thank you, Beau! You're the best!"

[messofcontradictions01]

What’s in their bag? -- Magic School Bus (aged up)

Arnold: A backup pair of glasses, a phone charger, a pack of tissues, a copy of the “National Geographic Pocket Guide to Rocks and Minerals”, a bottle of allergy medicine, a moleskin journal, a miniature watercolor of Phoebe sitting beside the lake (painted by Tim), a Tide stain pen, and his lucky jade rock.

Carlos: A book of dad jokes from the library, a soccer jersey that needs to be washed, a series of doodles done by Tim in AP Bio, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, a months-old note from DA that he saved, a bag of Takis, and a Greendale Community College keychain. 

Dorothy Ann: Approximately a dozen books, a Ravenclaw scarf, her color-coded weekly planner, a set of ballpoint pens, Doublemint gum, a thermos of black coffee, a key to the school’s chemistry lab, the solar system bracelet that Carlos gave her for their anniversary, and her library card.

Keesha: Warm vanilla sugar body spray, one scrunchie for every color of the rainbow, several copies of the Walkerville High Gazette to hand out, an annotated copy of “Hood Feminism”, her favorite ball-point pen, a photo strip that features the gang all trying squeeze into one photo booth at the mall, a flip-up notebook (in case she gets an idea for a newspaper article), a few loose pairs of brightly-colored plastic earrings, and a bag of granola clusters. 

Phoebe: Animal shelter flyers, a bag of treats for her dog, a polaroid taken on her first date with Arnold, homemade vegan protein bars, a “Save The Bees” pin that was a gift from Tim’s grandpa, a pretty leaf she found on a walk, a skein of magenta yarn (to make into a pair of gloves for Keesha), her AP Environmental science textbook, citrus tea bags, and a backup pair of knee-high socks.

Ralphie: A football, a bag of Mallowblasters, a few baseball cards, a beat-up old copy of “The Fellowship of the Ring”, a History essay that was due last week, a stick of Old Spice deodorant, a few loose D20s, a crocheted hackysack (a gift from Phoebe), and a lightsaber keychain. 

Tim: His sketchbook, a set of colored pencils, a half-complete issue of The Adventures of Weatherman, a thrifted Walkman cassette player with “Space Oddity” by David Bowie, a Black Lives Matter patch that he needs to ask Phoebe to stitch to his jean jacket, a Polaroid camera, notes for the next DND session, and a boba tea rewards card. 

Wanda: A pocket knife, a box of skull-patterned band-aids, a roll of grip tape, a mixtape of 2000s pop-punk from Tim, a lighter (just for fun), bright red lipstick, several broken eyeliner pencils, a stabby cat keychain, an old ripped pair of fishnets, a plastic spider to prank Carlos with, and a water bottle full of Monster Energy drink.