#i believe it. they really do suck at subtlety its embarrassing

[sarahmaybank]

imogen and chip are cute and if we're going by the "he's not an abuser" route, he's very supportive of imogen and enthusiastic about his opinion of her. It was a little sudden though. They're super cute so i wish they had more build up. They literally didn't speak until this episode?? We didn't even know they had a class together?? I demand a rewrite. All the previous eps were just painting him as a bad guy (TOO obvious) and now we get these cute af scenes?? I do not allow it

[today-only-happens-once]

clarity

Word count: 5463

Summary:  Hakoda had been hearing rumors about the Fire Lord's son for years. That doesn't mean he is ready when the truth finally comes to light... especially when the truth only confirms the worst. Companion piece to “out of focus” but can be read separately. 

Warnings: injury/burns, angst, some mentions of trauma and PTSD, canonical child abuse/mutilation, Sokka gets angry protective and yells a little, blink-and-you-miss-it mention of nausea, please let me know if I missed anything. 

A/N: Turns out, I really wanted to explore Hakoda’s POV of the events in “out of focus”. So much so that not only did I write this, but’s longer than the original. Woops. Hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3.

...

His son is good at many things, Hakoda thinks, but his poker face is not one of them. 

He’d had never been particularly good at it, if Hakoda is being honest. He’d usually been able to tell with one glance when Sokka was at fault for something breaking and would blame Katara, and Kya had been even better at reading the micro-expressions of their son. Sokka is older now—and in more ways that Hakoda is comfortable with, he carries those extra years around like a weight on his shoulders—but he still hasn’t quite mastered the art of subtlety. It was something he’d need to work on if he wanted to be chief of the Southern Water Tribe one day. 

Sokka shifts in his seat across from him, his brows pinched slightly in evident annoyance. Hakoda sees the shared glance between his son and the Fire Lord. Zuko’s mouth twitches in something like amusement. 

“I want immediate release of all war prisoners,” the Earth Kingdom ambassador, Bashi, beside Sokka demands.

Hakoda inclines his head. “I second that. I have men in those prisons that haven’t seen their family in a decade.”

Hakoda couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Two years apart from his children had caused him to feel like he’d already missed out on so much of their lives. The idea of going five times that without any news from the outside… Suffice it to say that Hakoda did not envy those men.

“Of course,” the Fire Lord says, but his voice is nearly swallowed by the loud demand down the table, “Absolutely not!”

The hard glare that Fire Lord Zuko sends down the table at the Fire Nation Admiral makes Hakoda grateful that he is not on the receiving end of it. “Admiral, people who were arrested as prisoners of war have no need to remain so after the war has ended.” Zuko meets Hakoda’s gaze, the heat in his glare lifting at the redirection of attention. “I’ll draft that mandate tonight and will ensure its circulation as soon as possible.”

The Fire Lord—dressed in the traditional royal robes and his hair pulled into a top knot—is a stark contrast to the first time Hakoda had met him back in Boiling Rock. At the time, Zuko had been Fire Nation public enemy number 2 behind Aang. The tattered red tunic of Fire Nation prison uniforms had hung off his thin, borderline-malnourished frame. He looks better now, a little. Zuko is still lean, but not quite as gaunt as he’d looked in the Fire Nation prison. Hakoda’s biggest concern when it came to the Fire Lord’s well-being these days was the dark circles around his eyes that, though he tries to hide it, indicate too many sleepless nights.

“This is an outrage!” The admiral slams his fist against the table, leaping to his feet.

Hakoda feels his jaw clench in frustration. He has little patience for men who try to assert themselves through aggression and yelling rather than calm rationality. Even so, it doesn’t surprise him, exactly. Hakoda had been around long enough to know that Fire Nation men had long been taught there was power through anger, and to wield it as they see fit.

Zuko rises to meet his feet, slowly and deliberately. “Admiral--”

“Where is the justice for the Fire Nation families whose sons and daughters were slaughtered by those criminals?”

Hakoda presses his hands together to keep them from curling into fists. Did the Admiral not realize just how many Fire Nation soldiers walked free after slaughtering  innocent people, let alone soldiers? Even the person who killed Kya--

“Admiral.”

“I remember a time when you cared about Fire Nation soldiers! And it’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten, seeing as you ought to be reminded every time you so much as look in the mirror--”

Hakoda frowns. The comment rings vague bells in his head, though he can’t remember why…

“Enough!” Zuko snaps sharply. “You will watch your tongue or you will be escorted out. You approach insubordination.”

“You are a child,” the admiral says, spitting the word child like it disgusts him, “though one that ought to know a thing or two about insubordination, given your father’s attempts to brand you with a permanent reminder of its consequences--”

“Warriors!”

“Then again, he always was twice the leader you never will be. Long live the Phoenix King!” 

Sokka is suddenly on his feet. “Zuko—!”

“Sokka—!”

Hakoda leaps up just as the admiral punches a fireball at the space between his son and the Fire Lord. His heart jumps to his throat, but Zuko is fast. He shoves Sokka’s shoulder down with one hand and dispels the fireball with the other. Hakoda leaps over his chair as he sees the glint of his son’s boomerang hook through the air. 

The admiral’s gaze locks onto him for a moment and Hakoda instinctively ducks, diving underneath a bolt of scorching flames. He feels the ground tremble, hears the roar of dying flames above him. Hakoda risks a glance towards his son just in time to see Zuko step in front of him, bending the burst of flames to split on either side of them, rather than hit Sokka straight on. 

The door ricochets open. Two Kyoshi Warriors spill into the room, and in a flurry of quick strikes, the admiral drops to the floor. Limp.

Bashi unbinds his feet with the bending from earlier—it’s only now that Hakoda realizes that tremble in the ground a moment ago had been earthbending—and the admiral hurls insults at Zuko as he’s dragged unceremoniously through the doors. 

The silence that follows echoes in the room. 

Hakoda takes a quick, calculating sweep of the room. Kovrik, the Northern Water Tribe ambassador, is wide-eyed but appears unharmed. Bashi is panting but standing upright. Sokka is hidden behind Zuko who shifts awkwardly in the silence.

He clears his throat. “Apologies for the, uh, disruption. It won’t happen again.” He looks, for all the world, genuinely apologetic. Embarrassed, even.

Which is foolish, Hakoda thinks. Zuko couldn’t reasonably be expected to have weeded out all of the Ozai sympathizers in a month. Ozai may have been one person but there was an entire ideology and system that allowed his tyranny in the first place. A sixteen-year-old couldn’t be asked to single-handedly dismantle it all, and certainly not so quickly. 

“It’s not your fault, Fire Lord Zuko,” he tells him. 

“I appreciate that, Chief Hakoda,” Zuko says. Behind him, Sokka sucks in a breath through his teeth and Hakoda feels his chest twinge in concern. He had fought in a war long enough to hear the pain laced through the noise. Zuko turns around to look at him, then turns back around sharply to address the room. “We will adjourn the meeting for today. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

Zuko hides it well, Hakoda thinks, but there’s an urgency to his words hidden behind a carefully constructed mask of stoicism that leaves no room for doubt in Hakoda’s mind. Sokka is hurt.

“But Fire Lord Zuko—”

“I think we could all use a breather, Kovrik,” Hakoda jumps in, not eager for another argument to break out. “Coming back tomorrow with a clear head is a good decision.” Besides, the sooner he can clear the room of other people, the sooner he could check on Sokka who Zuko was—almost protectively—keeping from view. 

“Yes,” Kovrick acquiesces, though Hakoda can tell he’s still not pleased. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Zuko nods his appreciation. Kovrik, Bashi, and the few other dignitaries that had been in the room bustle out the door. Hakoda waits until it’s latched shut behind them before he turns his full attention towards his son. Zuko has already turned his full attention to him, saying something in a low voice. 

Hakoda can sees the clench of his son’s jaw and the slight wince as he places his hand in Zuko’s. Hakoda steps up behind the Fire Lord, peering over his shoulder. His chest tightens a little in sympathy when he sees the blistering, angry red skin on the back of his son’s hand.

“Do you have anything that can help?” he asks of the Fire Lord, frowning. He thinks briefly of calling Kovrik back in before he remembers that the Northern Water Tribe’s men, even when benders, didn’t typically learn its healing abilities. 

“Yes, sir,” Zuko replies, not taking his gaze from Sokka’s hand as if he could heal it by staring at it hard enough. “Though it’s not quite as immediate as waterbending healers. But it should help with the pain and prevent infection. Follow me.”

Hakoda follows as Zuko guides Sokka by the elbow out the door of the meeting room and through a network of hallways. There’s something almost jarring about it to Hakoda. The image of the Fire Lord leading his Water Tribe son through the palace to get him help, rather than as a prisoner, has a part of Hakoda’s mind reeling. Sokka’s blue clothing stands out against the dark reds and blacks that adorn the walls and pillars around them.

How quickly times had changed.

Hakoda thinks back to the conversation in the meeting a few moments ago as he watches the back of Zuko’s head, moving quickly down the corridor with Sokka in tow. Rumors and propaganda about the Fire Nation, and especially about its leader, flew quickly amongst the ranks of soldiers in the war. It had been difficult to know fact from fiction, especially as it related to the royal family. 

A year ago—the memory comes crystal clear to Hakoda now—one of the men on his crew named Horrak had told him what he’d been certain was an exaggerated, hyperbolic story. Something about the Fire Lord and his thirteen-year-old son. On Tui and La, I swear it’s true. Heard it from the mouth of a Fire Nation soldier myself who was actually there.

He’s a tyrant and cruel, Hakoda had said, rolling his eyes because the idea was just… incomprehensible, but there’s no way Ozai would do that to his own flesh and blood. He’s too proud of his bloodline anyway. 

Zuko glances over his shoulder at Sokka, and Hakoda sees the angry scar across half of his face. The words of the admiral in the meeting whisper in the back of Hakoda’s mind in a way that makes his stomach turn. Your father’s attempts to brand you… Hakoda had thought that surely, surely, even Ozai had a line in the sand when it came to his own family. 

He’s less confident of that now.

Zuko says something to two of the guards stationed at the set of double doors that Hakoda doesn’t quite catch, and then slips through the door. Hakoda follows close behind. 

“Wait here,” Zuko says, and then vanishes through a door on the far side of the room.

Hakoda glances around the room. It was a bedroom, but Hakoda had a hard time believing it was Zuko’s. It seemed too simple of a room to belong to the Fire Lord. Then again, Zuko had been full of surprises from the very first time Hakoda had met him. 

He looks to his son, noticing the tight grimace to his face and the very slight sway and grabs the chair beside the bed to get his son to sit before he falls face first into the floor. 

“You had good reflexes in there,” Hakoda says. He’d dealt enough with injured Water Tribesmen to know that distraction was usually the best way to help them deal with the pain of a burn. He had no doubt that his son was no exception to that. 

“Lots of practice,” Sokka replies, obediently taking a seat. He hisses out another breath as his grip around the arms of the chair stretches the skin across the back of his hand. He swears under his breath.

“Easy,” Hakoda says softly, bracing a hand on his son’s back. 

The comment from his son makes his chest twist, but he can’t very well deny it. His son had seen more combat in the past year than he’d hoped he’d have to in his lifetime. Hakoda knows that it was an unreasonable expectation for his son to somehow be the exception to generations of pain. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sokka would be able to handle the fight—Sokka always been able to hold his own—but could you blame a father for wanting to spare his son the experience of waking up from nightmares, haunted by the people he couldn’t save?

Hakoda dealt with that enough for the both of them.

“Wish Katara was here,” Sokka says. 

“I know,” Hakoda tells him. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s coming to Caldera for a while. She’s still in Ba Sing Se with Aang.” She and Aang were working on their own negotiations of reparations and treatises. Caldera was only one location of many that were in the middle of such conversations.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sokka sighs. “Her magic water comes in handy, though… Get it? Hand-y?”

Hakoda snorts. That’s the kind of joke he used to make to get Kya to smile.

The door across the room opens again. Zuko emerges with his arms wrapped around a giant tub of water, several vials and rags gripped in his hands. He’d also pulled his hair out of the top knot so that it falls into his face, shaggy and unbrushed. It makes him look younger somehow. 

Spirits, he really is only sixteen, isn’t he?

The Fire Lord seems to be studiously avoiding both his and his son’s gaze as he crosses back to him and sets the washbasin at Sokka’s feet. The realization twists uncomfortably in Hakoda’s stomach. 

“Can I see your hand?” Zuko says in what is perhaps the softest voice Hakoda has ever heard come from the teen’s mouth. 

Sokka blinks. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Hakoda crosses his arms over his chest and watches as Zuko examines his son’s hand. The Fire Lord handles it with care, mindful of the injury even as he inspects closely. His brow is furrowed in concentration and there’s a long beat of silence. Sokka is almost uncharacteristically quiet, but Hakoda doesn’t miss the very slight way his shoulders seem to ease. There’s a familiarity between them, Hakoda realizes, and it makes him wonder in the back of his mind if maybe this wasn’t the first time they helped each other. 

“I don’t think it’ll have permanent damage,” Zuko says eventually. “But I still need to treat it so it doesn’t get infected. It… might hurt a little. But then it should feel better.”

Hakoda sees his son swallow. “No permanent damage. That’s good.” He nods, evidently steeling himself. “Okay.”

Zuko looks for a moment like he’s about to say something else, but seems to change his mind. Instead, he busies himself with wringing a cloth in the basin of water, into which he had emptied the contents of the vials. Hakoda’s gaze flickers again to the scar on his face and wonders if he might be so intimately familiar with the care of burns from his own experience. 

Hakoda wonders if there was someone else to help him and teach him. Perhaps that uncle that he and Sokka had mentioned. Iroh, Hakoda thinks his name is, though that would mean the uncle was General Iroh, as in the Dragon of the West. That seemed unlikely to the chief. No way this “wise old guy” who apparently spent his free time giving advice and making tea was also the same person who laid siege to Ba Sing Se for six-hundred days.

He watches Zuko press the rag gingerly to the back of Sokka’s hand and Sokka yelps, yanking his hand back. 

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says immediately with a bit of a grimace. “This part is painful, but it’ll stop hurting in a minute.”

Hakoda listens to the strained breathing of his son, taking a step towards him before Sokka manages, “Right. Right, sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Zuko tells him. “I know it hurts.”

Hakoda watches from behind Sokka as his son places his hand back in Zuko’s, who slowly but gingerly presses the rag back to his hand. There’s a casual intimacy to the way that Sokka willingly gives over his injury to the Fire Lord. An assured immediacy to Sokka’s movement combined with the extraordinarily careful way in which Zuko handles it that surprises him. He’d known, intellectually, that his children had become close with the Fire Lord. But the moments in which Hakoda got to be witness to that friendship sometimes still caught him off guard, even all these months later. 

It even folded into the way they fought beside each other. Hakoda had gotten very fleeting glimpses of it back in Boiling Rock, but he’d seen it more clearly in the meeting room a few minutes ago. They watched each other’s back, protecting one another without getting in each other’s way, like it was a rehearsed dance. Hakoda had watched the way Zuko stepped in front of flames to protect his son and had seen the way Sokka had timed his boomerang through to ensure the next fireball directed at Zuko would be kicked wide. 

For a long moment, the only sound heard in the room is the quiet splash of water as Zuko submerges the rag again and wrings it out. Hakoda glances at the Fire Lord’s face and wonders if Zuko had always had a habit of facing flames head-on. 

“What did the admiral mean,” Sokka blurts out suddenly, breaking the silence, “when he talked about insubordination?”

Hakoda’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze flickering briefly to his son before flitting back to Zuko. Zuko’s eyes had gone wide, the rag in his hand frozen half-out of the bowl. He blinks. “What--uh. I, uh.” Hakoda sees his hand clench around the rag and the way he takes a careful, intentional breath. “When I was younger, I spoke out at a meeting.”

Zuko busies himself back to tending to Sokka’s hand. Hakoda, however, feels something sink like an anchor in his stomach. He goes very, very still.

“After the stuff at Ba Sing Se? When you went home?” Sokka asks, and Hakoda realizes that he hasn’t heard the same rumors he had. Rumors that were at least a little bit true, but surely not all of it. Surely--

“No, I uh.” Zuko coughs a bit. “Before that. Before… yeah. Earlier.” 

“What happened?”

Hakoda stays quiet but he keeps his eyes on Zuko, who looks for all the world like a wild snow leopard caribou that had been cornered. His shoulders tense and Hakoda wonders, very briefly, if he might make a run for it. His jaw clenches, and he shifts to the balls of his feet.

Zuko doesn’t run.

Instead, he seems to focus even more on the administrations he’s giving to Sokka’s injury, as if healing something else might be able to protect him from his own old wounds coming under scrutiny.

“My uncle allowed me to attend a war meeting,” Zuko begins after a long beat as he wraps a fresh bandage around Sokka’s hand, “where they were talking about some battle strategies to use against an Earth Kingdom battalion. There was a general that wanted our newest fleet to serve as a distraction while we mounted an attack from the rear.”

Hakoda feels for a moment like he’s standing on cracking ice. He heard about that attack. The few members of that battalion spoke of how victorious they’d felt, decimating an entire fleet of rookie Fire Nation soldiers only to be attacked from the rear. Hakoda had spoken two years ago with one of the Earth Kingdom soldiers that had escaped, had listened as she recounted the bloodbath it had been. 

They must have known, she’d been saying with a haunted, far-away look to her eyes, that we’d win against a bunch of newbie soldiers. It was like they were served up as goat-dogs for slaughter. Just a… distraction. Ozai doesn’t even care about his own people. 

That conversation had been two years ago. Which meant—

“That’s not fair,” Sokka says. “Your newest recruits? They’d be slaughtered by an experienced battalion like that.” Hakoda feels a brief flicker of pride through the growing tightness in his chest. His son is far smarter than he gave himself credit for. 

“Exactly,” Zuko sighs, bitterness dripping from his voice like venom. “And that’s what I told them. I wasn’t thinking. I just… yelled at him.” Zuko secures the end of the bandage to Sokka’s palm slowly, as if reluctant to be done with the process. “My father didn’t… take it well. I was challenged to an Agni Kai, and I thought I would be facing the general in it, so I accepted.”

The steadily growing tightness in Hakoda’s chest snaps around his lungs like a steel band. So even the worst rumors—the ones he’d been certain couldn’t possibly be true, not about that, not even Ozai—had been true. And it was all because he tried to save people’s lives. 

Hakoda does not have a weak stomach, but it rolls with the lead weight of realization. 

Zuko still doesn’t look at either one of them. Unable to keep his attention on helping Sokka’s injury, he turns his attention instead to gathering the basin of water and the empty vials and used rags. Something to keep his hands—his attention—busy. Hakoda had seen some of the men he fought with do the same thing when talking about stories they mostly tried to forget. 

“No…” Sokka says in a low voice, and Hakoda knows from the horror in his voice that his son is starting to put the pieces together too.

“It wasn’t the general,” Zuko confirms, his voice quiet and heavy in the silence around them. “It was my father.”

“You faced your father in an Agni Kai?” Sokka asks.

“Not exactly. I…” Zuko stares down at the bowl, his gold gaze looking a thousand miles away. “I couldn’t fight my own father. Instead, I begged him for forgiveness. I was met with a fist full of flames.” Zuko waves a hand towards his face. 

I begged him for forgiveness. 

Hakoda thinks of the version Horrack had told him. I heard the kid was kneeling in front of him when it happened—

“He--” Sokka also sounds at a loss of words, his voice choking off. 

“I was banished after that,” Zuko continues and his voice is hollow in a way that ricochets like shrapnel. Hakoda watches him meet his son’s gaze. “I was told to bring the Avatar back and all would be forgiven, or to not come back at all. That was before you and your sister woke Aang up from the iceberg.”

He hears what Zuko won’t say.  It was before there’d been confirmation that the Avatar was still around at all. He’d been banished from his home and told to chase a ghost. It was an impossible task. Ozai didn’t want his son to come home at all, Hakoda realizes. And from the tight way Zuko swallows, he’s pretty sure Zuko knows it too. 

Hakoda clenches his grip into a fist to mask the tremble to his hands. Zuko had done the right thing at that meeting—had tried to spare lives—and had still asked for forgiveness. Begged for it. And Ozai had lit his hand on fire and… and… painfully mutilated his own son and then kicked him out, telling him to chase a legend. In some ways, Hakoda thinks, it was crueler than telling him not to come back at all. 

Zuko is sixteen. But he is still a child, though saddled with the weight of righting a century of conflict on his back. And Hakoda knows that the Agni Kai had been three years ago. 

“How old were you?” Sokka asks tightly. 

Spirits above, he was only—

“Thirteen,” Zuko says, and Hakoda sighs, shutting his eyes against the confirmation. 

“Thir--” Sokka cuts himself off, his voice strained. “Thirteen. Tui and La, when I was thirteen--” he breaks off again.

Hakoda knows what Sokka is thinking about. Sokka was thirteen when he’d left to join the war effort. He’d tried so hard to keep Sokka as safe as he could. Protect his childhood from being stolen more than the war and the loss of his mother already had. He’d seen the stubborn set to Sokka’s jaw when he’d chased after him onto the ship gangplank, and Hakoda knew that Sokka was just as protective as he was. He’d asked him to look out for the village, for Katara. 

Hakoda would have done anything in the world to keep Sokka safe. He still felt that way, despite all the ways that Sokka had proven he could hold his own. He couldn’t help it. He wouldn’t want to. Sokka was his boy. Not so little anymore, not so innocent. He’d seen and been through too much, and Hakoda had missed most of it. But he’d tried. He’d tried to keep him safe for as long as he could manage. 

At thirteen, Zuko had been hurt by a person he’d loved and then thrown out into the world with barely a second thought. The Fire Nation had robbed him, too, of so much. Too much. 

Sokka takes a sudden step towards him and Zuko visibly tenses as if expecting a blow. Sokka freezes in place. “Zuko…”

Zuko shakes his head quickly, and there’s a small part of Hakoda that uncoils when he sees the way Zuko’s gaze doesn’t look quite so distant anymore. “Anyway. That’s--that’s what the admiral was talking about.”

“You…” Sokka sounds close to tears. “You were his kid.”

“Yeah, well.” Zuko looks at Sokka again. “He spent most of my life wishing I wasn’t.”

Hakoda’s jaw tenses. He looks at Zuko who looks, for all the world, like a sixteen-year-old kid, with his shaggy hair falling into his face and in Fire Lord clothes that are maybe just a touch too big for him. At thirteen—barely a teenager—he’d spoken up out of an intense desire to keep more people safe. To save lives. In Hakoda’s eyes, Zuko was a hero. Just for that. 

How anyone could look at him and not be proud was far beyond Hakoda. 

“Zuko,” he says, and Zuko’s gaze flashes over to him almost like he’d forgotten Hakoda was there in the first place. “I… hope you understand that you didn’t deserve that.” 

The words fall short of what he wants to say, of what he means. But they feel important to him. Zuko deserved better from his nation and especially from his own father. Hakoda doesn’t know very much about the former royal family, but he doesn’t get the impression that Zuko heard that a lot. And if nobody else was going to make sure Zuko knows that he deserves better, Hakoda will at least try. 

Something softens a little in Zuko’s gaze. “I know, sir,” he says. “It… I didn’t at first. It took me a long time to understand that it was wrong of my father to do that. But I know that now.”

Hakoda inclines his head. It is a small mercy against the tremendous pain the kid carries on his back, but it’s something. And as far as Hakoda is concerned, it’s not a small thing, either.

“Where is he?” Sokka demands in a near growl.

Zuko blinks, looking far more surprised by Sokka’s outrage than Hakoda is. “Where’s who?”

“Ozai.”

“Sokka, what are you going to do? Fight him?” Zuko looks completely bewildered. “He already lost.”

“Against Aang, not against—did Aang even know?”

“Um, I guess I don’t know. I never told him. I… never told any of you.”

“Yeah--and what’s that about, huh?” Sokka takes a step forward. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Hakoda takes a step towards his son. “Sokka,” he warns. 

He wants to explain to him that sometimes things are hard to talk about. Spirits know there were things Hakoda had seen in his days involved in the war that he didn’t want to talk about and hoped he never would have to. He wanted to explain that events like that, things that linger on the edges of your nightmares and follow in lock-step with your shadow, had a nasty habit of strangling in your throat so that the words don’t come. That it is easier to carry those things close to your chest rather than lay them bare for the world to see. 

But Sokka is fuming and cuts his father off. “What, did you think we wouldn’t care? That it wouldn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Zuko hurls back at him, waving a hand towards the bedroom window. “My father already lost to the Avatar, Sokka. The war is over. The fighting is over. Aang took his bending. And that—I don’t know about you, but that’s the best, most justified end to his legacy I can think of.” 

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence. Hakoda watches the way his son’s shoulders heave with angry breaths, his non-injured hand curled into a fist. Sokka had always been fiercely, desperately protective. It runs in the family, Hakoda thinks idly. But this wasn’t something Sokka could protect Zuko from. The damage had already been done. 

Hakoda thinks, perhaps, that such a truth only makes it harder for his son to deal with. 

“Wherever he is,” Sokka growls, “I hope he rots. He deserves worse.” 

Zuko blinks, his eyes wide. Hakoda wonders briefly if Zuko has ever had someone be angry on his behalf, rather than angry with him. 

Sokka evidently doesn’t understand his surprise. “Don’t tell me you disagree—”

“No,” Zuko says quickly. “I just… nothing.” He offers the barest hint of a smile at Sokka. The reminder of the familiarity between them relaxes some of the tightness in Hakoda’s chest just a fraction. 

There’s a long beat as Hakoda hears his son suck in a deep, slow breath. Zuko’s gaze falls from Sokka’s, drifting back to the basin of water beside him. Zuko’s fingers twitch at his side. He looks suddenly uncomfortable, Hakoda thinks. Nervous, almost. 

“Thank you for helping Sokka’s hand, Firelord Zuko,” Hakoda says suddenly, and maybe it’s a foolish way to convey to him that this didn’t change their opinion of him. At least, not for Hakoda… and from his surge of protective anger, he’s pretty sure the same goes for his son. Zuko was still Zuko. And if maybe he made sure to call him Fire Lord as a quiet reminder that Hakoda did not think him less of a leader either, then maybe that was okay too.

Hakoda sees the slightly pink tinge to Zuko’s cheeks as he meets Hakoda’s gaze. But he reads the understanding in those gold eyes as well. “Oh. Uh, of course, sir. And… just Zuko is fine.” Thank you, is the unspoken words that flit across the teen’s gold eyes.

Hakoda smiles a little, inclining his head. “Understood.” He turns his attention then to his son. ”I should draft a letter to Bato tonight to update him on the treaty. Will you be okay without me?”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is tilted up in a half-smile. “Yeah, dad. I think I can manage.”

Hakoda gives Sokka’s shoulder one last squeeze and a nod to Zuko before he ducks out of the room to give them both a moment to talk more. He closes the door behind him, pausing long enough to take a breath. 

Generations of conflict had been ended a few months ago by a bunch of kids with too much weight on their shoulders and too many shadows clinging to their edges. But at their heart, they were good people trying to do good things. Spirits know they all had plenty of reasons to be otherwise. War had a nasty habit of bringing out the worst in people, of demanding sacrifices to who you are. It could latch onto the darkest parts of you and pull until it was all that remained. He’s grateful that the group of kids that ended the Hundred Year War managed to keep the best of themselves despite everything, and that they continued to do so.

Hakoda had learned a long time ago that goodness is a choice. And he’s grateful that the world was in the hands of people like his kids, like Aang, like Zuko. Kids who, despite everything and all the ways people tried to pull their darkness out of them, continued to make that choice.

[wrenhyperfixates]

Loki Odinson’s Guide on How to Woo a Noble

Chapter 1: The Color of Sunset

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: A fellow noble child in the Asgardian court has caught young Loki’s eye. After falling for you (quite literally) Loki has the opportunity to get closer to you. Warnings: none at all A/N: This is the first part of a fluffy miniseries of young Loki and his crush being adorable dorks. Stay tuned for more :)

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Epilogue 

Disclaimer: Gif not mine  Loki stared at you from across the Great Hall during dinner. You were, he thought, the most beautiful person in all of Asgard. Nay, in all the Nine Realms. Now, Loki wasn’t so shallow to like you only because of something as skin-deep as beauty. Rather, he was attracted to your sunny disposition and lilting laughs first. Then, as he came to know you, he realized you weren’t always so demure and sometimes had the loudest laugh in the room. Even then, it was music to his ears. How he wished to march up to you right now and hear the sweet melody of your voice. Sadly, a large hand clapping his shoulder brought him out of his reverie.

“Don’t you think so, brother?” Thor asked in relation to something that Loki had not been paying attention to.

“Yes, yes. Certainly,” he agreed, quickly recovering from the startle.

“Hmm, now that is interesting considering you’ve never much cared for hunting before,” his brother remarked, smirking.

Loki cursed under his breath. Obviously Thor had noticed where his gaze was and taken yet another opportunity to to tease him about it. He simply didn’t understand the subtleties of romance. Sure, his brother ran around making out with a different girl nearly every week, but Loki wasn’t quite as popular. Nor did he want to be. All he wanted was your affection, something he was more than willing to work for.

“Why don’t you just go talk to them, Loki. After all, no one can resist a Prince of Asgard!” Thor declared while his friends snickered.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Loki drawled, trying to remain calm.

“Oh, really? My mistake. I just thought you were staring at-”

Loki slapped his hands over Thor’s mouth before he could say your name. Unfortunately, in his desperation to keep his secret just that, Loki abandoned his usual elegant manner, accidentally knocking over his goblet and alerting half the hall to the scene he’d just made. And, of course, you’d been among those close enough to notice. Unlike most of the nobles who had started whispering or laughing at him, you offered a good-natured smile. Though it seemed almost apologetic, furthering Loki’s embarrassment.

“That’s quite enough, boys,” Frigga chastised her sons in a kind yet firm tone, waving her hand to clean up the mess with a spell.

“Yes, mother,” Loki and Thor chorused as Odin grumbled about being too easy on them and not upholding his legacy.

The rest of dinner was dreadfully uneventful, and Loki forced himself to keep his eyes down. The last thing he needed was to be caught staring at you again, especially after the fiasco from earlier. Luckily, it was long gone from the minds of the people by the time dessert was served. Not like anything Loki did really mattered. Not like he would ever be king. He moodily ruminated on this after being excused from the room. Needing some air, he headed out to his mother’s garden. He planted himself at the root of a tree not too far from the path but quickly changed to sitting in its branches after a couple of young lords passed, obviously laughing at his blunder from earlier. Trying to stem the onslaught of tears, Loki closed his eyes and rested his head against the trunk.

“Lupus! Come back here!”

Loki’s eyes flew open, immediately recognizing the voice that shouted through the otherwise still gardens. It was yours. Slowly, as to not disturb the leaves of the tree and alert you to his presence, Loki crawled to peak over the branch he was on. You were chasing your wolf pup through the grass barefoot, shoes in hand. Lupus ran back to you and circled around your feet. You halted to avoid stepping on your pet, and the sudden stop caused you to lose your footing and fall on your bum. Loki sucked in a sharp breath and almost came out of his hiding spot to help you. He was relieved when you began laughing as Lupus jumped onto your lap and started licking your face.

He let out a sigh and edged closer to the end of the branch. Admiring your features, Loki propped his head against his hand. You really were amazing. How he wished he had your carefree attitude. Of course, you were as refined in court as Loki was, but you knew how to let loose too. Unfortunately, he got too lost in daydreams and toppled out of the tree.

“Oof,” he breathed out, shaken from having the wind knocked from him.

You screeched at his sudden (and far from graceful) entrance. Lupus jumped off of you and growled at Loki, baring his teeth in a protective manner.

“Easy, boy. It’s ok,” you coaxed while picking him up, identifying the unexpected guest as Loki. You looked unsure of what to do for a second before rising and making an awkward curtsy-bow combo. “Your highness.”

Loki nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Here he was on the ground, rubbing his head in pain after falling out of a tree, and you were bowing to him. Or, well, doing whatever that gawky action was. Still, he knew that almost no one else would have paid him the same respect after such a display. Loki got so lost in thought that he just stared at you with a sort of dopey look on his face, not even thinking to pick himself up.

“Are you alright?” you nervously inquired, offering him your hand.

Loki took it and immediately turned beet red. He made sure to pull away once he was righted, but not too harshly as he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. He brushed his raven locks from his eyes and tried to form a coherent sentence. He hated the fact that he couldn’t remain poised around you no matter what he did. He cleared his mind and then his throat before responding.

“Um, yes. I am quite fine. Thank you.”

“Oh, it was no problem,” you responded, setting Lupus back down onto the ground. He stayed right by your side, still not entirely trusting your companion.

“Well, uh, in that case,” Loki dumbly started after an uncomfortable minute of silence and shuffling, “do not mind me. I was just, you know, enjoying the night. I suppose I should be going now. I apologize for the interruption.”

“No apology needed. Feel free to drop in any time,” you said, cracking a smile.

Loki couldn’t help the small chortle that escaped his lips. You erupted into a fit of giggles, too, and slowly it bubbled into full on belly-laughs from the both of you. Soon you found yourselves back on the ground, gripping your stomachs while tears streamed from your eyes. Lupus tilted his head in concern and began licking your hand, which made you laugh even more. Once he calmed down, Loki turned his head and looked at you through eyes still blurry from tears. You were just starting to settle yourself, and he once again appreciated your beauty in the fading light. Soon, you looked back at Loki while scratching your pup’s head with the hand he’d just covered in slobber.

“You know,” you began, “you don’t have to go, your highness.”

“Loki. Call me Loki.”

“Ok then. Feel free to stay, Loki. After all, I’d hate to be the reason you couldn’t enjoy the gardens.”

“Do not worry about that. I actually enjoy it more when you are here,” he replied, feeling a burst of confidence.

You turned your head away and put a hand over the smile making its way onto your face. You said something lowly, and Loki had to strain to make it out. His heart jumped out of his chest once your words registered. The feeling is mutual. Now it was his turn to look away in a flustered yet happy way. He realized it was probably scandalous for the two of you to be out here unsupervised on the cusp of courting age, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Besides, you were relatively hidden from prying eyes by the topiaries.

Lupus came over and sniffed at Loki before deciding he wasn’t a threat, after all. He settled in between the two of you, resting his head on your chest. Another silence settled in, but this time it was comfortable. For a while, you just laid there enjoying the stillness of the night, looking at the darkening sky.

“You know, this is my favorite time of day,” you informed Loki when the sun had almost finished its descent in the sky.

“Why is that?”

“Right now the world is just so gorgeous. Look around: Everything’s the color of sunset.”

Loki did look around before his eyes settled once again on your peaceful form. Everything about you was truly breathtaking. You dazzled him like no other, but he worried he’d never be able to let you know. Perhaps, though, if he were to allow himself to be optimistic, he’d admit his chances were probably increased by this encounter. He hummed in agreement, and eventually you looked at him too, another heart-stopping smile gracing your features.

You laid there in his mother’s gardens for so long that all the stars came out into full view. As you pointed out the constellation for which Lupus was named, a shooting star streaked across the sky. It was closely followed by another, and then several more a few minutes later. On instinct, you gasped in joy and grabbed Loki’s hand. Once the show was over, you became aware of your interlocked fingers.

“Sorry,” you muttered, but Loki squeezed your hand in reassurance.

“Believe me, it is quite alright.”

And so, you continued on hand in hand, swapping stories and making small talk. Loki already knew you were intelligent, but never before had he enjoyed a conversation as much as this one. All too soon, his oafish brother came stomping on the nearby path, calling for him.

“Brother, are you out here? I’ve come to apologize,” he called.

Loki sighed. The last thing he wanted was to end this time with you. You raised an eyebrow and shot him with a quizzical look. He just pressed a finger to his lips, which you responded to with a zipping motion across your own. The silence bought him a few minutes, at least, before Thor came back.

“Loki, come out. Mother is getting worried.”

Another sigh. Even if he didn’t want this moment to end, Loki also didn’t want to concern the Allmother. So, he stood up, and you followed suit, once again holding Lupus in your arms.

“I am over here, Thor,” Loki alerted his brother, moving towards the cobblestone pathway.

“Thank the Norns. I thought I’d be out here all night looking for- Oh! Am I interrupting something, brother?” he said with a sly grin upon spotting you.

“Just some stargazing,” Loki responded with an annoyed tone that made you chuckle a little.

“Yes, but it is rather late. I really should be going now. Goodnight, your highnesses,” you said with a respectful nod first at Thor, then Loki.

Loki was exceedingly frustrated with his brother. Who knows how long you would have stayed out with him had you not been disturbed? Still, he quelled his emotions as best he could and swept into a bow, bidding you a goodnight back.

“See you soon, Loki,” you whispered as you brushed past him.

Now he was grinning like an idiot again, which only fueled Thor’s desire to say something. He knew better than to vex his brother twice in one day, though. Loki was, after all, becoming quite the talented young sorcerer, and Thor had been on the receiving end of quite a few nasty pranks over the years.

“Well, I am waiting,” Loki said once you were out of earshot. When Thor just stared at him in confusion, Loki continued, “I believe I am owed an apology, no?”

“Alright, fine. I am sorry for teasing you earlier,” Thor conceded with a sigh.

Loki considered him for a second. “Hmm. I forgive you then. But I promise that the next time one of us makes a fool of ourselves at the dinner table, it will not be me.”

“Whatever you say, brother,” he laughed, clapping Loki on the back. “Though you must admit, I was right. I am sure that they would not refuse you, my prince,” he said with a mock bow, still laughing.

Loki shoved his brother on the shoulder, though he was laughing now, too. Sure, Thor could be annoying, but Loki knew he meant well. Besides, not much could ruin the high he was feeling right now.

“I suppose so,” Loki conceded.

And, for the first time, he truly believed that he might have a chance.

[misterbitches]

In my opinion Oh-aew had some sort of crush on Tay (I have to write it this way the dyslexia jumps OUT if I spell it Teh) or like affection whatever even if he didn’t know it which you can see when it manifests now.

(I mean ok I know it’s been one episode but I’m always right)

It’s interesting that he said he can’t handle the pain of losing a friend like that again. I was surprised when he said no to being that close again and that’s when I think it was made clear just how much it meant in retrospect.

The argument was so stupid and I’m not gonna make this explicitly about living in a Society but the idea of choosing and being jealous as if you can’t exist at once. What happens if art is fun? What happens when we realize we all have the lights in us.

When Tay was like I just want him to do poorly there was no basis besides insecurity. It’s such a stupid way of looking at things but human and immature. There’s no explicit guarantee one is better than the other but “nobody can replace anybody else so it would be a shame to make a comparison” (this is a fiona apple lyric) comes to mind. We can’t get to where we’re going together? And obviously that’s not true since they all have their friends that they grew up with.

I also like how it’s not outright opulence. Rich ppl suck and i dont want that in my eyes. I don’t feel bombarded with wealth and a fairytale. As if this would be the sole key to tbe happy ending that all media proposes is a victory in their laziness to ensure and please capital.

But that’s also clearly because this show was taken with immense care at least on the crew’s side. But for the cast yea that too I mean everyone’s so dramatic but it has its flair, very Thai, and they use the vibrancy and the landscape.

But this is what happens when things aren’t made at a constant rate and you try to churn out many episodes.

I find a lot of these shows to be unbearable and I have a high threshold for “good” acting because I’m overly critical and terrible but it was nice seeing them even if it was so much crying. I really love things that capture youth since a lot of mine wasn’t pleasant. The ups and downs are natural for them and it will be ok. They have friends and their city.

Usually I abhor the editing on most of these dramas (these = overwhelmingly the BL genre tho that recent japanese show...love...something idk they meet walking a line was very pretty and digestible) but, if I remember correctly, it’s really good here. In fact I am positive—it does absolute justice to the story. And the writing underlines the subtlety. So much of the show is about being young and exploration and I love it. Honestly, when he was trying to imitate the instagram picture it was just...wow that’s so teenage. I was so embarrassed.

That brings me to something else wrt editing. So a lot of asian dramas are very dramatic which isn’t my favorite thing but it has a clear cultural place so it means a viewer has to adjust to differences and see the merits within an alternate scope. I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever like the dramatic music they put in. I hate those musical cues like no other. This is just my preference and it will always be. I don’t know why it’s so allurin from a creative standpoint; we know the stakes! But it wasn’t so distracting that I couldn’t continue. I think I found the whole thing extremely cinematic so the hyped up musical cues kinda threw me off.

All in all it was very enjoyable and further critiques are minor and something that time can work out like some acting but seriously thag’s mostly nothing and I saw that they had acting coaches in the credit. I think they may have been on set—I haven’t watched the doc—but that’s something people take for granted and I respect it. Seriously. Or if other shows do these ones actually understand how to get their characters from point a to b.

Acting is such a cool art and comes in different atyles but I feel like our responses to it are so intuitive so the deliveryno matter what method has to embody life qualities. I could go on about this but I won’t cause ambien but even if there’s a political approach to acting (Brecht) it is stil rooted in life. For ONCE the cast and crew fix things accordingly (this isn’t just a BL problem but I also wouldn’t classify this as BL I guess gorl IDK im going thru it)

I’m more critical than usual and I’m going through a major artistic crises lol so it was nice. There’s a lot of unrest in Thailand so I won’t forget that people are struggling. I think something that moght get people to look mght is how beautiful it looks and that brings attention to artists. Artists who represent their country, or believe in something, or care and maybe introducing people to Thai film. Art can give us access to whole radical landscapes.

Even tho i’m in favor of pirating always I feel that contributing monetarily means support and it’s a big thing for me (which is why I so often opt out because I don’t support something but should have access to it bc LIFE) and the point is yo contribut and encourage, right? Which is why I believe in sharing, it isn’t capital that drives us to something, we get attracted to the merits and contribute with capital but that means a level if absolute respect back. This means that while I can’t really pay a bunch for the episodes I think I will buy two. Which never happens.

Lastly this is probably one of the worst yrs in existence. I break down crying when I think of lives lost and black people abd being inside and just the pressure of it all. I wouldn’t say escapism tho that has merit but we get to see a fun youthful world that is just missing. It’s missing. As much as I love contemplating on the absurd, theres solace in watching people go about without external pain cementing them

[youaresimplycomplex]

Lady of the Orc [Part 3]

“Sooo….” Varbuk said, “Where did you want to start.”

“I.. uuuhhh,” was all Ashlynn could manage. She had tons of questions but they wouldn't come to her.

“How about you start?” She said hoping to give herself some time.

“Uuuhhhhh…” he said as well, they were both hopeless.

“Oh I've got one! What is this place?” Ashlynn asked.

Varbuk looked confused and said “My house?”

“No, I mean the town. What it is called.”

“OOOHH! Sorry, it's called Buried Hatchet.”

“Not a particularly subtle name, is it?” Ashlynn teased his home.

“Subtlety is overrated, we say what we mean and mean what we say. Also isn't your home a valley full of Birch trees, called Birch Vale?” Well he had her there. Though the flexible Birch does make a beautiful crest for her family.

“Fair enough but if it was named like your home, it would be called Utter Incompetence.”

“Or Bad Neighbor,” Varbuk offered with a laugh, that she joined into. It was like thunder the way he laughed. She was a little jealous on how his voice boomed and filled the room.

“So the humans are experiencing famine right now right? That's why Utter Incompetence invaded?"

“Yeah harvest was bad these last couple years. You here seem unaffected though, what's your secret?” It had been a tough two years. The store houses had keep everyone from starving but not by much.

“How do I know your not a spy?” He said in his playful way.

"Hhmm well, I've obviously gone rouge."

"True," he said while pretending to think, "So I guess I can trust you." He then laughed again. "My father being so connected with nature helps. We also switch around what we are growing from time to time."

"And switching out crops helps?"

"That's what my dad told me, says it keeps the earth spirits happy."

"Earth spirits?"

"Yeah, spirits of the Earth?" Varbuk said almost confused. Ashlynn had heard of the fey and many magical phenomenon, but never considered anything so close to home.

"Sorry I've just never heard of such things"

"Well the natural world has tons of spirits. Me and my dad commune with them."

"Wait you can talk to these spirits?"

"Not me my dad can. I can more or less call on their powers with the right rituals. That's how fight by calling on the strength of a bear."

"Does it work?"

"Well I'm still here aren't I?" He said while looking away, posing with a huge grin.

"Fair enough," Ashlynn said while stealing a glance at Varbuk's still exposed chest while his eyes were elsewhere. "Is there anything else you can do?"

"Uhhhhh…" he said deflating from his pride. "OH! I know, I can talk to animals!" He ran out of the with a quick assurance he'd be back. Ashlynn could hear and feel his footfalls head down stairs and towards the kitchen. She was left alone with her thoughts again. That was most of her days honestly but now she just wanting Varbuk back in the room with her. She realized how strange it was, about a week ago she was about to be forcibly married to him and dreading it. Now though she lying in bed, eager to see him return.

"Well I don't want him like that I just want to talk to him." she said to herself quietly. As soon as the words left her she knew how much it was a lie. She had been peeking at his pecs all day. He was tall, and handsome so unlike all the other men at court. She had seen how courtly men like their women though. Not wanting love they just wanted something to own. Varbuk actually listened to her. Let her speak and was receptive to it.

As her mind swirled around, her heart suddenly thumped in her chest. It took her by surprise because she had barely noticed it all this time, muffled by the poison. Now though it was surging with life. She started to worry but then she heard Varbuk thundering up the stairs with someone else's familiar footsteps.

Sure enough Fluffy came bounding into the room and hopped up onto the bed and then laid down on top of Ashlynn. She panicked for a second but he hadn't stepped on her at all and the new weight was nice. Varbuk enter the room, with some candles and some herbs.

"This will take a minute or two but once I do this, I'll be able to talk with Fluffy." Ashlynn was a little taken aback but remained silent as the orc set about. He took off his shoulder coverings and great axe, leaving his entire top half exposed. This was the most she had seen a man undressed in all her life. She couldn't help but admire him. Hair dusting his breast and leading down to a happy trail down his stomach. His pecs were most prominent sticking out of his barrel chest.

Ashlynn tried to distract herself by petting Fluffy but to no avail. He lit candles and burned some incense. He also put painted claw marks on his chest. Then he sat down on the chair facing Fluffy. His hands were placed in his lap for meditation. He was so focused on his spell he didn't notice Ashlynn's cheeks turning red. He closed his eyes and began to speak in a low voice. She couldn't understand him but it definitely sounded orcish.

This went on for a time then suddenly he let out an animalistic growl. This spooked Ashlynn but it was not the end of the weirdness. A menagerie of animal sounds came from between his two tusks. It was strange but as quick as it happened, it stopped. His eyes flew open and glowed slightly. He then looked at Ashlynn.

"Watch this," he said turning back to Fluffy. He then began to bark at the dog in a way that could not be an impression. Fluffy's attention immediately went to the orc. They barked back and forth like they we actually conversing.

"What are you two talking about?"

"I'm just asking my best bud in the whole world how he's doing."

"And he can understand you?"

"Yeah, we've been talking to each other forever now. Though back when I was little, my dad would do the talking for me. I asked him so much he taught me this ritual so he could stop being the middleman." He went back to barking at his dog for a second.

"Fluffy says he likes you," Varbuk said with a goofy grin.

"I can tell, let him know that I like him too."

"He's said he's happy." Then as he listened to fluffy his face showed some concern.

"Everything ok Varbuk? What did he say?" He looked a bit stunned for a second but then said, "I can finally hear her heartbeat. It's been so quiet ever since we meet." He took a moment to think, "What does he mean by that?" She knew exactly what he meant.

"Whatever is affecting me seems to be affecting my heart and just now it started beating at full force again."

"Really!?" Varbuk said before putting his ear up to Ashlynn's chest. She was more than a little flustered at a half naked man who now had his head on her breasts.

"Wow it's going really fast are you ok?" The intruding orc said before looking up and seeing his blunder. He pulled away and stammered

"I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN-" Now both of their faces were painted crimson embarrassment. Ashlynn pulled herself together first.

"It's fine, no harm done, just no one else has gotten that close before."

"None of your suitors make it that far?" Her answer was plain on her face before it left her mouth.

"I... didn't have suitors. Unlady like behaviors such as quick wit and speaking out, wasn't very popular back home. What about you? There must be someone vying for your affections." Now it was Varbuk's turn to look self-conscious.

"I'm the only orc my age here. Most people were too afraid to have kids in their old orc clans. Afraid to bring kids doomed to their fate." He looked sad for a moment but then a bit of happiness warmed his face as he continued.

"Not my mother though, she had before my father convinced her to leave. They did their best to make sure I didn't fall into the hateful ways of my peers." It was quiet for a second but then Ashlynn spoke.

"Well they did a wonderful job. You're overflowing with kindness, even to me who not too long ago was a stranger, and worse your enemy."

"Thanks, I want to protect the home my parents worked so hard to build. What about your family though? They can't be all bad."

"Unfortunately yes they are." Ashlynn said with a sigh.

"Really!?"

"Yeah, my mother died after having Franklin, my younger brother. So it's just me, my two brothers and the colossal asshat that is my dad. And since my brothers want to rule one day they suck up to my father like it's what they were born to do. They all found new ways to belittle me because of how I speak my mind. The family library taught me all I needed to know though so I didn't need them."

"Geez, that must of been rough though."

"It was, I felt like there was nothing I could do and nowhere I could go. Those books let me go places I could never go." There was another silence between them. Varbuk started to awkwardly fidget and then said,

"You know I could take you sometime." Ashlynn was surprised but he continued.

"I've traveled around a good bit and still know the way around. Once we get this curse and Bad Neighbor situation figured out maybe we can go somewhere."

"I would like that" Ashlynn couldn't help but smile, this orc had that effect on her.

__________________________

“Finally I got a hit on the beast and I cut his head off with one strike of my axe!” Varbuk said while play acting out his story, decapitating the empty air.

“Impressive but if you dodged all its swipes how’d you get that scar?” Ashlynn said pointing to wound on his foot that started this story.

“Well on the way back, me and my hunting master are carrying back our prize. Then he stubbed his toe and dropped the dead thing onto me. The owlbear got its revenge when one of it’s lifeless talions dug into my foot. To this day I won’t let him live it down,” Varbuk sat down in the bedside chair.

“Sure, it was you hunter master and not you inability to evade owlbears, that earned you that shinner.” Ashlynn playfully mocked her friend’s bravery.

“It's true and you don’t believe me, we’ll go pin down ol’ Ferger and he’ll tell you the same story,” Varbuk, came back with. “Besides that how I got the feathers for your cloak.” Ashlynn picked up the cloak and started to puppet it around.

“Varbuk I’ve come for... THE OTHER FOOT!” Then she threw it on top of him as they both laughed.

Shouting from outside stopped their giggles. Another new arrival in town. One glance and then they were hurriedly getting ready.

“You think it's Rachthar?” Ashlynn said slipping into her shoes. The fancy dress shoes now carrying about six days worth of dirt, from running out to see everyone who comes to town.

“Let's pray it is, they've been overdue for 2 days now.” They both shared a worried look.

They both were making a quick pace towards the eastern gates. The orcs had fortified a lot over the past couple of days. The once small cobble walls now rose into a looming fortress barricade. Lots of Fields were left outside guarded by fences and the people who worked them. There was a tension in the air. Anyone new could be a simple merchant or a herald of war.

The odd duo made their way up one of the lookout towers that flanked the gate. From there anyone could see far along the path that wound through the hills. On that road today three figures walked to the town. Each one with a different shade of skin, green, red and blue. The green figure was obviously an orc, with a large frame Ashlynn had seen plenty of by now. The other two were strange she had never seen or heard of people with such skin tones.

“It's Rachthar!” Varbuk shouted with a leap. He started to wave at the small band.

“Where's the cleric?”

“He's the crimson tiefling”

Ashlynn paused and turned to him and said, “What's a tiefling?”

“Wait you don't know? We really need to get you out more. Maybe put you out on fluffy's old leash.” He said quite smugly before he got elbowed in the ribs by Ashlynn. “Should put you on a leash.”

“Woof woof” he said with a laugh. “Well tieflings are people with infernal blood.”

“Like demons and devils? Does that make them dangerous?”

“No they just get a bad reputation. Besides if they're dangerous because of their heritage what's that make us.”

“Fair enough. I'm sorry I didn't mean to insult.”

“I know you didn't, you just gotta be willing to have an open mind."

“Alright then, then I'll try.”

“Sweet,” he said, smiling. By the end of their talk the trio of people had reached the gates.

“OPEN THE GATES OUR FRIENDS ARE HERE!*

Varbuk yelled, his booking voice thundering out. Ashlynn, Varbuk, and his parents all meet up at the gates to meet the Peacemaker and his companions. The imposing wooden barriers swung open to reveal the new arrivals to Ashlynn.

The orc was built like many the orcs she had seen. He wore an array of colors, along with the tambourine and lute he looked more like a mistrial then a diplomat. The Peacemaker had each side of his head shaved down and hair left on top was tied into a four part fishtail braid. He walked with a confidence in his stride. He looked closer to Varungad's age than anyone else.

The red tiefling, up close, was clearly the cleric. His robes were plain but practical. He carried a pair of small wooden hands bound at the wrist with red cord, the holy symbol of Ilmater. His skin was a darker red like a velvet rust. His horns came from each side of his head and around the front like a bull's.

He had a thick tail trailing behind him off the ground. His eyes glowed with a warm yellow. The poor man of god looked a bit nervous his hands drawn up and walking as close to Rachthar as politely possible.

Now the second tiefling was a wild sight. His skin varied from sky to navy blue fading across his body. Which a lot of it was on display. He wore a jacket with no shirt underneath. And his pants only went down slightly past his knees. Unlike the other two, who each were attentive to what was happening, he seemed bored and uninterested. His horns were the wildest part about him, 6 of them rose out of his head of red hair to form a small crown. The horns in the front higher than the back. He had a tail but it was much thinner and flicked around like it had a mind of it own.

“Varungad!” Rachthar said greeting him with a hug.

“Sorry for the delay, we ran into a bit of trouble on the way. Just some bandits with bad business savvy. How are things here?” The chief paused and after a look around and responded,

“Complicated, but first we need the help of you clerical friend.” It was only a moment of surprise before the horned priest stepped forward.

“How can I help, is someone hurt?” His previous nervous demeanor replaced with a serious face and tone.

“Come and I'll explain,” and with that he began to lead the way.

_______________________________

Varungad and Varbuk caught up their guests on the recent events. As usual Varbuk was very active in his storytelling. Ashlynn sat and listened to this story again. He was getting rather good at telling it but he may be running out of people to tell it to. As she listened she found herself distracted, but not by Varbuk this time. Cackle the blue tiefling, had a presence that Ashlynn could feel. An Aura that seemed to surround him. No one noticed it, except for her but just as she started to pay attention to it he seemed to notice her eyes.

She looked away but Ashlynn new she was caught. Cackle didn't say a word, but his aura began to push outwards. Ashlynn could feel it shoving her she tried to ignore it but it shoved anyways. She tried to shrug it off and surprisingly it worked. Cackle's aura was pushed back.

She looked and saw that the tiefling was staring at her with a question on his face. Before he could ask the others had finished their retelling.

"So what I'm hearing is things have gotten messy." Rachthar said leaning toward in his chair.

"That's a nice way of putting it but yeah." Varangard said.

"You're definitely not in a envyable situation, my Friend. The Duke Brandon is going to be quite a foe to face, but I insist we try to make peace again." Rachthar said.

"AFTER SUCH NAKED HOSTILITIES!!??" Varbuk's mother shouted with slammed fist.

"Gurrock," Varangard tried in vain to calm his wife.

"THAT WORM LITERALLY TRIED TO STAB US IN THE BACK!" Despite her volume, she had some solid ground to be mad.

"Yes he did but going to war with him will lead to not a lot of good things. First of all it's exactly what they expect of us. It will confirm every suspicion that all those nobles have. Secondly if we win, he'll just limp back to his keep and call on his allies for aid. Then you'll fighting your whole lives to keep want you've gained." Rachthar paused and let it sink in, then went on.

"Now two of his plans to sweep you away have failed. So he could be a bit easier to sway towards peace. Also you have Lady Ashlynn on your side." All the heads in the room looked at her.

"Well I'm no use, he won't listen to me."

"Well he's going to have to, you're the only high ranking human that isn't in your Dad's pocket," Rachthar said. Ashlynn still wasn't sure but then Varbuk spoke up.

"And we'll have your back. We won't let him ignore you." The young orc said with such conviction that she almost believed it.

'But maybe let me see If I can remove the curse, so she's in proper health." Lumos said speaking up reminding Ashlynn of her supernatural illnesses. She got up and leaned onto the cleric letting him carry her up to her room.

"Sorry if this is weird, but -"

"If you're going to ask why I turned to Ilmater, It's okay, I get that a lot."

"Actually I was going to ask about Cackle, what's his story?." The tiefling was a bit surprised. Ashlynn was looking for any answers about that aura he radiated.

"Here go ahead get into bed and I'll tell you." She did as she was told and got onto the large bed.

"I'll be honest, I don't know much about him. We meet him along the way. He helped us out fight off some bandits that had thought we had something valuable."

"How's that he doesn't look the type to be able to use a sword too well."

"Well he's a sorcerer."

Ok that's new, Ashlynn thought.

"So like a wizard?"

"Sort of but they can use magic innately without having to study but they can't learn new spells easily." She had never heard of such powers. That might explain him having an aura.

The tiefling bowed his head in prayer as began to move his hands over Ashlynn. She felt the holy magic take hold onto her then suddenly it felt like she couldn't breathe. It's like her soul was being pulled out of her chest. The familiar darkness spiking and clinging to her. Then it stopped and Ashlynn gasped for air.

"Are you okay?" Lumos asked, sounded scared. It took a minute of deep breathing before she could answer.

"I'm okay but it's not gone."

"I've never seen a curse like that."

"Any other way to get rid of curses?"

"A dispel magic by a powerful wizard might work but I'm not sure." Lumos saw the despair forming in Ashlynn and tried and comfort Ashlynn, but then a shout from outside

"SPY!"

Ashlynn ran outside with everyone else. They saw a human running and jumping from house to house. Varbuk and Varungad ran after him and without thinking so did Ashlynn. They chased after him barely managing to keep up. The human ran for the wall. The orcs shouted for him to stop but he rudely keep running away. Ashlynn could feel whatever darkness flaring up inside her. The pain was growing in her chest.

It was certainly one of her Father's spies. He had built up a 50ft lead on them and wasn't getting slower. Arrows and crossbow bolts flew at him but all missed.They had to stop him, her father already had enough of an advantage. All the people he would hurt.

Thump.

The people trying to live their lives.

Thump!

The pain in her chest swelled but her heart started to beat over it.

THUMP!

So she reached out a hand and with the most commanding voice she could muster she shouted,

“STOP!” The pain shot into her arm. Suddenly the spy twisted and stopped, paralyzed.

There was a pause a long shadow stretched from Ashlynn to the frozen human. She could feel that she was holding him in place, somehow.

This moment was short lived though, as she had only stunned him. Gravity took hold and had him tumbling down and off the roof. He landed on the ground face down and some of the guards ran up and grabbed him.

"How did you do that?" Varbuk asked as he rushed over to Ashlynn side?

"I don't know I just reached out an-" she was cut off by a loud laughter, a Cackle if you would. The blue tiefling was bent over laughing. Before anyone could say anything he spoke.

"I KNEW YOU WE'RE LIKE ME!" He said pointing rather triumphantly at Ashlynn.

"What are you talking about?" She asked worried and confused by it all.

"You a sorcerer too!"

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #12 (don’t move)

TW: none

Fandom: Good Omens (Aziraphale, Crowley)

Notes: This is hot garbage, these characters are really difficult to write, and I struggled with this one. Moving on...

—–

Hell, Crowley had decided, could kindly fuck off.

The demon didn’t know whose sick idea of a joke this was. (A lie. He knew exactly which perverse bastards would play this game, and once the angel was safe, he was going to rip them apart, starting from their colons.)

Somewhere between Hell and Earth, the punchline was lost in translation. Or more likely, there wasn’t any punchline to begin with, just a long set up followed by pain.

Those were the only jokes Hastur enjoyed, anyway.

Aziraphale sat, prim and proper as always, straight-backed in Crowley’s own fucking throne, hands folded neatly over his thighs. He smiled at Crowley, absent, the kind of polite expression one adopts when greeting a teller at the bank or some other long-suffering civil servant.

Those assholes won’t know what hit them, the demon growled, gritting his teeth as he conjured a thousand different scenes in which he would make. someone. pay.

“Is everything okay, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, azure eyes rounding, his lips pursed in that particular way. The angel patted his thighs, a tell-tale sign he was about to do something ill-conceived, and Crowley’s non-existent heart leapt into his throat.

“No!” He shouted, snarling. “Don’t move!”

Aziraphale stiffened, obeying the vicious reprimand. Above him, the sharp metal weapon swayed, dangerously, drunk on its promise of death.

Crowley cursed under his breath. He didn’t understand the why behind it all. Tie the angel up under a scimitar of Hell, so any movement would trigger the blade to fall directly on the soft, exposed flesh of Azirphale’s neck.

Yeah, yeah, Crowley got the whole Damocles connection, as thin as it was, but it wasn’t like he or the angel were trying to rule over anything. Crowley had spent the past several centuries avoiding that any kind of responsibility, and with the Apocalypse behind them, his desire to do…well, anything aside from yell at his plants and annoy Aziraphale was at an all-time low.

But Hell did like to send a message, even if the subtleties were lost in their vapid imaginations. And botched literary references aside, they had managed to pull a doozy, with the combination of a literal damned sword hanging above Aziraphale’s neck and a well-executed (Someone help him, he hated to admit Hell sometimes could get their act together) memory-wipe which had the angel regarding Crowley as he did the waitstaff at the Ritz.

Caring, polite, and distant.

It was as if the last four months (nevermind the last 6,000 years) had never happened.

“Young man, there is no need to use such a tone, I was merely trying to help.”

Of course you’re trying to help, thought Crowley, bitterly.

“It’s - ah - no, it’s fine. Just, I need you to stay there. And not move. At all.”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the elaborate death trap suspended from the ceiling. If he crossed the circle, the sword would drop (and Crowley would be demon toast with a side of marmalade). If Aziraphale moved, the sword would drop, and while the angel might avoid its cursed blade, the ancient sigils burned into the floor (his floor, thank you very much. It was a good thing demons didn’t believe in security deposits.) portended a Very Bad Outcome if they were to interact with the blade.

So what are we supposed to do? Sit here for eternity with Aziraphale’s memory wiped and me fretting like a nervous old lady?

Crowley paused. Actually, that was a well-thought punishment.

Damn Hell. Again.

“Well,” the angel sniffed, moving to adjust his waistcoat and then thinking better of it. “If you are going to insist it just sit here, you could be kind enough to offer some form of entertainment.”

Crowley’s eyes popped wide.

“Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale continued, ignoring Crowley’s indignant tone. “A book or two would be most welcome, but lacking that perhaps a rousing debate on the comparative ethics of…”

Crowley snarled.

“Right. A story, then?”

“You - you want me to tell you a story?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

Yes.

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley sighed, kicking at the floor. Aziraphale wasn’t going anywhere, and if the angel was staying put, so was Crowley. At least until he thought of a way out of this whole mess.

“Fine, fine, just let me - “ With a snap of his fingers, a chair materialized just outside the binding circle. Crowley turned it around, longs legs straddling the back, arms perched on top.

He pushed his sunglasses up his face.

“Once upon a time - “

“Really, my dear boy,” Aziraphale scolded.

“What?”

“It’s a bit hackneyed, the opening.”

“A bit - “ Crowley gaped. “A bit hackneyed? This isn’t literature class, ang - gah. You’re getting what you pay for.”

“So it seems,” the angel muttered, discreetly wiping his palms on his pants.

“Anyway. Once up a time,” Crowley grinned at Aziraphale’s pained expression. “There was an angel and a demon…”

Crowley didn’t now how long he sat there, recounting the events of the past six thousand years - civilizations rising and falling, cities built and destroyed, humanity, eager and curious, pushing at the boundaries of the known. (Of all his demonic acts, he could never conjure quite as much guilt for the whole apple business as he would for anything else. Look at what the humans had done, after all!)

“Do they fall in love?”

“And then there was that whole business with the paintballs and you, I mean the angel - “ Crowley froze. “I’m sorry, what?”

Aziraphale worried at his lip.

“The way you talk about them, this demon and angel. The whole story seems like some kind of Regency romance.”

Crowley’s heart threatened to leap from his mouth.

“I - uh…don’t want to spoil the ending. I mean, I don’t know the ending. There is no ending, ha! That’s the great thing, it’s a story that keeps on going.” Crowley found sudden interest in the patterns on the floor. “Hopefully keeps going and if I could just - “ The blade shimmered in the moonlight. Crowley had talked into the night, maybe into several nights.

The glint of metal played across Aziraphale’s features.

“What do you think?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a disappointed pout.

“Ahhhhhhh, fine,” he groaned, jumping to his feet. “I think, I hope, I mean I’d for - “

The angel giggled.

“This is your story, no reason to be embarrassed. You could say they were abducted by an overgrown cephalopod in roller-skates in the end, and no one would be the wiser, no one could argue with you.” Aziraphale tilted his head. “I mean, I would, it would be poor story-telling, but it’s your tale, my dear. You call the shots, as it were.”

It’s *our* tale, you stupid angel. And I can’t be the one to write the ending, not if it’s like this.

Crowley threw his arms up, hissing. “Ssssure. They fall in love. Live happily ever after. Get a cottage somewhere, by the sea and become horribly domestic, it’s cavity-inducing really. The demon finds some semblance of peace and the angel acceptance and it’s all lovely with flowers and a bloody red bow tied on at the end.” Dashed hope was a bitter elixir at the best of times. Crowley made a face, moving his tongue around his mouth, trying to rid himself of the sour aftertaste of having chugged a two-liter bottle of regret in one sentence.

“Please don’t move,” the demon whispered as Azirapahle made an aborted attempt to stand.

It was better this way, perhaps. Even if he was able to get the angel free, Crowley didn’t know if his memory would be restored and that might not…be a bad thing. No expectations, no guilt for fraternizing with a demon - Aziraphale could be happy, go back to his books, and Crowley would come around and bother him, drink wine with him, and bury every last emotion he had ever had towards the angel somewhere on Alpha Centauri.

If, if…he could get the angel free.

But the only way to free the angel was the angel himself.

And for that to happen, Aziraphale needed to remember.

“Crowley?”

The demon spun around. Aziraphale’s eyes, which had been clouded, a thick fog over a blue sky, were clear, an impossible shade of azure.

He smiled.

Light years away, hydrogen atoms fell, sucked into a dark, gravitational vortex from which they would never escape. Light years after, a small ball of light shone through the dusty, hazy aftermath.

And on Earth, for the first time in centuries, a demon felt hope.

legobiwan does whumptober

[galvatronsthighs]

Based off @allsoundwavesarebeautiful‘s concept. I have never lived on/seen a college dorm before and it shows, and also no attempt at giving them ‘human names’ so meh. Also spurred on by an idea from @werdbytes

“FUCK” he hissed.

There was a dull thud and a splash followed by hurried footsteps as a panicked student dived across the room, scrambling to retrieve books and notes from the rapidly dampening floor, paper crunched as he messily clutched the prized results of many, many late nights to his chest. Gasping breaths turned into a relieved sigh as most of the messed up papers at least felt dry against his baggy hoodie. With a grunt, he tried to muster as much anger and annoyance he could into a glare at the cause.

On his desk sat a preposterously fluffy cat, it’s amber eyes were vivid enough he almost thought them to be red on more than one occasion, it’s fur long and messy but incredibly dark yet when the light hit it he could swear it seemed purple. Some light grey accents seemed to stripe it’s rear, tail and form a peculiar trident mark on its head, only contrasted by its bright pink nose. A thoroughly bizarre cat. Cyclonus hated it half the time.

The blasted thing was feral and seemed to loathe everything which only sucked even more as his dorm didn’t allow pets and as if his courses and lessons weren’t stressful enough he came home to an afternoon of keeping this fluffy piece of shit under control. He’d given up on taming the bastard thing it never listened. Yet, he also liked it for that reason he guessed, A little wild and free thing that was there, by him. He’d talk to it at length about what he’s doing and writing and it made him feel less alone. Also helped him pick out errors in his own work and his bored, overworked mind often liked to imagine the meows it made were some sort of conversation happening between the two. But. And that was a big one. He couldn’t leave this feral monstrosity alone. He found it in a dingy alley he’d ducked through to cut time off his journey and there it was, howling like a banshee the moment it saw him but he didn’t blame it, seemed it had gotten its leg caught in some trap and had been injured and with the aid of a towel over the head he’d gotten the fussy creature back to his dorm. There he’d nursed it back to health, really he should’ve taken it to some animal welfare agency but a streak of embarrassment combined with the nervous, paranoid voice whispering that they’ll ‘totally’ not believe him when he says he just ‘found it’ and he’d get slapped with a fine and some sort of animal keeping ban. Not that Cyclonus had planned on keeping any animals anyway, he just didn’t want any marks against his name.

At least he had a reason, unlike that damn Rodimus guy a few doors down. He just had that flaming bear of a mutt with him because he somehow could, or as some kind of flipping joke. Who knows and who cares, the less he had to see that shaggy lump of fur and the half-brained idiot it dragged along the better.

At least his cat could get on the bed with him and not suffocate him under hair.

Oh yes, for all it’s feral behaviour and on-off refusal to be touched he knew this cat would get into bed with him, sit at the end and purr. If it thought it hadn’t been detected it would move up a bit more. Then more. Right up until it curled into the back of Cyclonus’s neck, and there it would stay, warm and happy until the morning when it left it’s spot before Cyclonus woke and sat by its food dish as if it hadn’t been anywhere near him all night. Cyclonus had figured out that if he moved or got up to look at the cat at any time during the night it would quickly stop purring and act as if it had just been walking across the bed and hop off, that was until it had thought you’d gone back to sleep, at which point it’d come back and get on the bed again and restart the process. That and it never left him alone, it always insisted on being in the same room as him. It could try all it wanted to be ‘mean’ but it also hadn’t grasped subtlety.

It was warming up to him at least, that should’ve made things easier. Should’ve. Every time he seemed to make any progress with keeping the cat in some kind of control it immediately rebelled as if it realised it was ‘slipping’.

Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, and give it to his mom, she could look after it and home it while he would be confident that the animal was being looked after rather than running around on the streets.

He slipped the last piece of his notes into a nearby drawer, someplace where the feline wouldn’t be able to get its grubby mitts on them.

It was getting dark and Cyclonus decided that bothering with any more note-collecting/organising could be done later. For now, it was time to clean off before bed.

It was the perfect time, the showers were always empty around now, with other students either going out with their mates or studying and seeing as Cyclonus just stopped studying and hadn’t talked to Scourge in a while he was going neither of those routes.

With his desired towel and kit under one arm Cyclonus, he made one look over his shoulder to check the location of a local nuisance, the cat wasn’t directly visible but was probably hiding under his desk, dark fur blending it in within the shadows. Good enough.

He shut the door as quietly and quickly as possible and made sure to scurry through the corridor as quickly as possible, lord knows Rodimus’s mutt would start growling at him if it sensed him nearby for too long.

It always felt oddly exhilarating to rush over to the shower building in the dead of night with nothing but the cold air and stars for company. The showers were a bleached white with stains on many walls, desperately scrubbed away by those who cared enough to try and keep it clean, only for more to appear thanks to someone coming back a bit too sloshed to think straight or to the younger fellows who thought it hilarious to write along the walls.

Either way, he only needed a quick wash over, to get rid of the stale grime and sweat of a day spent hunched over books and blearily listening to his teachers. Kup was a fascinating man with great tale’s but, boy, they went on for a while.

The clunking of the pipes and gentle rumble of the heating system filled the room as the water flowed. The sound drowning out anything else, such as the door creaking and thumping again quietly as Cyclonus’s follower slinked in after him. Slit pupils homing in on him in one of the cubicles, still valuing the minute bit of privacy the cheap curtain gave him, as it settled on a box to watch.

He lost time in the shower, he always did, how could he not, showers were pure dissociation tools, they sucked down your time as your mind floated in whatever void it found itself soaked in.

He sighed, he thought, well it seemed the pipes must’ve as he turned the water flow off. They really needed someone to come look at these pipes. He let his gaze linger on the water control a little as he pulled the curtain back.

He stood with the curtain open for a moment as he acclimatised to the non-shower air, still looking back, when another noise happened. Except that noise could not have been made by a pipe. It was the kind of noise someone makes when they breathe out of their nose sharply, eagerly.

Turning around, all attempts at keeping quiet at this late hour vanished, he shrieked, loudly.

Perched on a box, watching him, was some person. He’d never seen them before and they were hunched over watching him. His wild movements lead him to slip on the already slick floor, curtain pinging off its rings as he grabbed it in a vain attempt to keep himself upright while simultaneously trying to bunch it up and cover up his junk. The person, however, seemed amused but at least turned away.

Their hair was wild and fluffy, rushing past their shoulders, shoulders which were speckled with what seemed to be purple freckles. Their nails were claws and a body that was chubby which rolled lightly with their pose. Their arms were in front of them, this fact being the only saving grace to the fact they were buck naked too, breasts pressed together between their arms shielding most of them and their hands thankfully being just in front of anything else.

“WHO ARE YOU!?” Cyclonus hollered as soon as he’d smacked against the floor, one hand covering his privates while the other groped at the walls aimlessly.

This got the person's attention and they turned back to him, looking confused.

“You… you weirdo!” He yelped needlessly.

It was their turn to yell and jump now, they looked even more confused before catching a sight of themself, which, for some reason, caused them to yell and leap into the air and struggle through the fall to hide themselves behind the box they were on.

“Who are you and what do you want?! Creep!” Cyclonus gathered up some courage after watching the other person yell as if he hadn’t done the same thing himself. His empty hand helped him up as he balanced against the wall, the other did not budge an inch from his crotch.

“It’s… I.. oh.. Ah” the nameless one didn’t answer him but tried to shuffle along the floor away from him, “This wasn’t…”

“What are you doing here!?” Cyclonus yelled, feet dancing back and forth as he had no idea which step to take next.

“Wh.. bhu… I followed you” The person seemed far more interested in their own hands than anything going on around them, they waggled their feet and stared at them incredulously, “I was stuck...”

Quickly the person surged to their feet and Cyclonus tensed up, nervous at the weird persons next action, which was a good reaction it seemed as they rushed over to him and grabbed his shoulders.

“I was stuck!” They yelled happily, shaking him energetically, “I was stuck for so long! I couldn’t! I couldn’t change!”

“Change!?” Cyclonus had to look over their head, trying not to glance at their unabashed nudity, “You were just sat there watching me shower! You weren’t stuck at all!”

“You don’t geeet iiiiiiiit!” They shook him more, “Hands I have them again! I have them! You don’t understand! Paws are so bad to hold with! So bad for so long!”

“O-ho-ho-kay! Okay” Cyclonus tried to use his free hand to push them away but couldn’t bring himself to grab them as he wasn’t looking where he was going, “You’re clearly high on something, you need to-”

“Go home, probably, I… I don’t know where it is…” Cyclonus groaned at this reply, “I definitely don’t know after you took me to an entirely different part of town!”

“I didn’t take you anywhere!”

“You fixed my foot!”

“I didn’t fix anything!”

The person decided this was the moment to pull him closer, drawing a sharp gasp from Cyclonus as the weird person's chest pressed against him, but had the effect they wanted as he looked down at their face, noting the height difference but more interested and stunned as their eyes did indeed go red. Pupils thinned and their nose upturned slightly as it pressed back into their face, their upper lip swelled a little as thin whiskers sprouted out. Their face merged into that of a cat.

“I just… I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t want to be near anyone” Their face moved in odd ways as their now-feline lips warped to make the human sounds. There were a few breaths of silence before they hugged him, clinging tightly to him as if the physical contact was the only thing holding reality in place.

“You’re the cat…”

“Yeah”

“You… shapeshift”

“I kinda like calling it transforming, but yeah”

“You’re naked”

“So? You are too”

“This is a public place”

“T… take me home?”

“WHAT” Cyclonus did manage to break out of their grasp this time to look them in the eye, their face having reverted back to something more human by now.

“Yes” They righted themselves up and tried to put on a more authoritative pose, “You did take me home before and I don’t know this area”

“I thought you were a cat…”

“And that changes...?”

Cyclonus stuttered a bit, no idea what the hell was even going on let alone what to do next, running on about 4 hours sleep over 48 hours was probably the only thing keeping him from really losing his mind at this. “I don’t know your name?”

“Galvatron, you can call me Galvatron” They finally introduced themselves.

“R… right… and what were you doing watching me shower?”

“OH! O..oh, I…” Their face went bright red, hands only just raising a little to shield their body, but not very well, “I think it’d be better to talk in your room, this is a public place, after all, someone could walk in on us”

“Walk in on us? You make that sound…” Cyclonus didn’t finish what he was saying as he thought about how two people naked and half-embracing in the showers usually meant one thing and he started going as red as Galvatron.

“F… fine, just… use my towel to cover yourself… and maybe not watch me change… again, it’s weird now I know you’re not a cat-cat”

“That’s agreeable”.

[yallreddieforthis]

I’ll Stop By Your Room

Fandom: It (2017)

Pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Rating: T (for language, talking about sex, mentions of past sexual situations)

Words: 7.1k

Movie canon-compliant but not book. Aged-up (16-17) Also posted on AO3

The Greater Fool Series: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.5 (NSFW) | Part 5

“Oh God,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes and whacking his head on the seat in front of him because he can’t believe he was so stupid as to think that maybe once in his entire life he could just have a goddamn normal, boring-ass field trip where nothing humiliating or life-changing happens because he just had to go and develop feelings for Richie, who never lets anything be boring or normal. Not even Eddie.

As he steps onto the bus to head back to Derry High, Eddie is prepared for the first time in his entire school career, to declare this field trip A Success.

He’s made it almost halfway through tenth grade without ever having gone on a field trip where no disastrous shit went down—either for the class in general, or just specifically Eddie-related shit. There was one in sixth grade where the bus driver got lost and they didn’t get home until after five, and Eddie’s mom had already gotten the police involved by the time the bus pulled into the parking lot of Derry Elementary. Or the eighth grade one to the botanical gardens where Eddie got stung by a bee. Or when they went to the zoo in second grade and some asshole monkey managed to fling his shit far enough out of his enclosure that it splattered Bill right in the chest and like, okay, maybe that was more of a tragedy for Bill than it was for Eddie but Eddie was standing right next to him when it happened. It was scarring for everyone, okay?

Well, maybe not for Richie, who laughed so hard he almost peed his pants and still brings it up anytime anyone mentions monkeys, even in passing. Like someone will say this is so easy, a monkey could do it, and Richie will invariably butt in with haha, hey Bill, remember the time…

In fact, Eddie thinks that a large part of what has made this art museum field trip such an unmitigated success is that he has managed to stay as far away from Richie as possible. Not the actual art part; that was boring as fuck. Bill and Ben were the only ones who got anything at all out of that shit—Ben was all, did you know that this painting was commissioned for Colonel Assface during the War of Whateverthefuck in the year Long Enough Ago That No One Cares Anymore, and Bill was quiet the whole time but his eyes were all lit up and Eddie could practically hear him thinking about color and brushstrokes and shit. Which is fair, because Bill’s art is starting to get really good. He drew Richie during chem last week and Eddie liked the sketch so much he managed to muster up the courage to ask Bill if he could keep it. He’s positive that if he’d bothered to pay any attention at all in the gallery of Frou Frou di Fifi or whoever, he’d be able to see influences from the trip in Bill’s sketchbook.

But he didn’t. He spent the whole time glued to Stan, because Stan is terrified of paintings (which is understandable, Eddie thinks), and Eddie felt bad that he was forced to come on this field trip. Usually, Bill would be the one to partner up with Stan and like, be supportive or whatever, but Eddie and Stan both knew that the lure of a real art museum was going to be too tempting for him, and Stan’s best bet for company would wind up being Eddie. Stan was miserable the whole time anyway, and Eddie doesn’t blame him. It’d be like if Eddie had to go spend the day in a lab staring at Petri dishes full of diseases and then write a two-page essay about how much he loved it. Like, fuck that shit. He suppresses a shudder at the thought.

So he stuck with Stan, inching along the far wall away from the artwork, and avoided Richie, who mostly told jokes over Ben’s A History Of Everything In the Art Museum lecture and spoke at Bill, who uh-huhed him in the middle of sentences so many times that Eddie thinks even Richie might’ve eventually caught on that he wasn’t listening. Avoiding Richie, especially for Eddie, is usually very difficult for a multitude of reasons, the chief of which being that Eddie is in what essentially amounts to a relationship with Richie. Today, it was surprisingly and suspiciously easy.

It’s not that Eddie doesn’t want to be around Richie—he does, actually always, to an alarming and almost disgusting degree—it’s just that Richie is super inappropriate and keeps Eddie in a constant state of worry about what he’s going to do next. Sometimes, for example, he acts like he’s going to start macking on Eddie in public which...they haven’t really discussed it out loud before, but Eddie thinks they have a mutual understanding about not doing shit like that because Richie has never followed through on it. He’s not exactly embarrassed about the...relationship or whatever, at least not very—Eddie figures he has no more reason to be embarrassed of Richie than Richie does to be embarrassed of him—but he knows and he prays to God that Richie understands that obvious PDA would be just as bad as painting a target on his forehead. A big rainbow target.

Eddie files into a window seat on the bus so that he won’t get carsick and hopes Stan will fill in next to him so he doesn’t end up having to sit with someone mean.

Eddie gets picked on enough already, for plenty of reasons. People had been calling him gay for years before he realized he actually is, in fact, gay. Like, the gay was totally always there, tapping him on the shoulder occasionally like hey, uh, It’s Raining Men is a pretty great song, you should listen to it on a loop for six months... and Eddie was just ignoring it until the whole Richie situation sort of forced him to turn around and look it in the eye. And once he did it was like my guy, listen. Dudes. Dicks. Richie. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Eddie sometimes wonders if other people were actually able see it before he could. Were they just calling him gay because people do that, or because they knew? Like maybe he’s been walking around leaving a trail of glitter behind him without realizing it?

There’s no way of knowing for sure without asking someone, and since Eddie hasn’t technically ever said the word gay out loud yet… Presumably, Richie is aware that he is—even if that understanding is based on nothing but the fact that their lips are touching more often than not when they’re alone together—but Eddie hasn’t managed to work up the balls to even talk to him about the implications of being gay. Let alone the implications of being gay in Derry. Jesus, Eddie doesn’t even want to have that discussion mentally with himself, much less verbally with another person.

As soon as he spots Eddie, Richie weasels his way past Stan to cram in next to him. Stan rolls his eyes and gets pulled along into another row. Well, fuck.

Luckily, the museum is about a half hour drive from school, so Richie only has thirty minutes left to work his magic on upholding the streak of shitty field trips. The bus driver turns on the engine and Eddie realizes that he’s picked one of the wheel seats, which will ensure that his legs are numb from the wheel vibrations by the time they reach school. Awesome. Richie drops his backpack in between himself and Eddie, which is only notable because he uses its cover to grab Eddie’s hand where no one can see it. At the very, very least, Richie still remembers that subtlety is the name of the game here.

Not that Eddie really thinks the other Losers will care. That time in the sewers...everything they’ve been through together...Eddie doubts there’s anything he could be or do that would make them hate him. He could kill someone and they’d all just be like yeah I bet he deserved it and you need any help burying the body? He’s aware that he has the best friends on the face of the earth and that once he gets around to telling everyone about him and about them he’s probably going to feel a lot better. Hell, they might even already have guessed. He doesn’t know why he’s putting it off. He keeps telling himself next sleepover, next weekend, tomorrow at lunch and then backing out. It just feels so...daunting. Like—

“So, what do you think about blowjobs?” Richie asks Eddie, in a completely normal tone of voice. Which is to say loud. Richie’s normal tone of voice is very loud.

Jesus Christ.

“You wanna say that a little louder?” Eddie hisses at him.

“SO, WHAT DO YOU THI—”

Eddie clamps his hand over Richie’s mouth and gives him his most murderous glare. Richie just shakes his head and stares at Eddie with his best puppy eyes. Yeah, those eyes that Eddie used to be able to match with a dead-eyed stare and now they just make him feel all melty and gooey and shit because Richie really does have the longest, darkest, most beautiful eyelashes and his eyes are soft and—

Richie uses the momentary hesitation to lick Eddie’s palm. Eddie automatically draws his hand back in disgust.

“BLOWJOBS,” Richie shouts the second his voice is no longer muffled in Eddie’s hand. Eddie elbows him as hard as he can in the ribs and almost remembers to stop holding hands with him under the backpack. Almost.

No one even turns around. From the front of the bus, Mrs. Eisner calls back a vague “that’s enough, Richard,” but that’s the only response he gets.

“See?” Richie says, turning back to Eddie. Eddie wipes his wet hand viciously on the front of Richie’s shirt. “No one’s listening. Say whatever the fuck you want. I like you like you. You’re hot. I wanna suck your dick. See?”

“Oh God,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes and whacking his head on the seat in front of him because he can’t believe he was so stupid as to think that maybe once in his entire life he could just have a goddamn normal, boring-ass field trip where nothing humiliating or life-changing happens because he just had to go and develop feelings for Richie, who never lets anything be boring or normal. Not even Eddie.

He spares a single thought for Richie saying you’re hot. Did...did he mean that? Was he just saying that shit because he was trying to demonstrate that no one was listening? Like, does Richie really think Eddie is hot?

“So, what do you think about blowjobs?” Richie asks again, in exactly the same tone of voice he used the first time, which makes Eddie feel like if he’d just given a real answer way back five minutes ago, in a simpler time before he knew Richie thought school buses were an appropriate setting for sex conversations, then it would’ve been easier.

Also, Richie doesn’t seem likely to drop this topic anytime soon, and when he gets like this Eddie has found that the best course of action is to just grit his teeth and plow through the conversation until Richie is satisfied with his answer, after which they are typically able to move on with their lives. The last time this happened was a Power Rangers versus Ninja Turtles debate that lasted for forty five minutes. Hopefully they can breeze through this one before they get back to school, because Eddie doesn’t relish the idea of Richie passing him terribly drawn notes with diagrams of dicks and tongues during math.

So that’s what makes him decide to take a second and actually consider the question. Blowjobs and sucking dick are things Richie talks about regularly—not with any real seriousness, of course—but Eddie’s never given the idea too much thought because honestly? Gross.

He’s gotten almost all the way past the ickiness of kissing on the mouth and like, in the face-area—mostly by just refusing to think about germ transfer rates and mononucleosis—because Richie has made that worth his while. It took a couple months for him to really get the hang of it, but now they’ve got that shit down; Richie knows how to kiss Eddie’s neck to make him go jelly-legged, and Eddie can get Richie all red-faced and panting just by sucking on his ears the right way, and once they get going, kissing on the mouth is the furthest thing from icky. Eddie sometimes feels like there are moments where he will internally combust if he can’t kiss Richie.

So it’s not that Eddie doesn’t think a blowjob would feel good. The opposite, actually. Just...it feels like asking for some kind of nasty disease.

“Nuh-uh,” Eddie says, shaking his head and staring out the window as they pull onto the main road leading to the highway, “I don’t think I can like...do that. Dick in the mouth. Nuh-uh. Nope.”

“No I mean me give you one,” Richie presses. “I’m not afraid of your germs.”

Eddie bristles a little at that because it implies that Eddie is afraid of Richie’s germs which...okay, maybe he kind of is, but Richie didn’t have to say it. He knows that’s not really what Richie meant though—it’s not a jab at Eddie—he’s actually trying to be reassuring. Trust Richie to accidentally backhanded compliment his way into sex. What a fucking catch. And now he’s looking at Eddie with this earnest smugness, like he knows he’s going to convince him to let him do it and he’s stoked. But why does he even want to? Like, what’s in it for him?

Does he really think Eddie is that hot?

“Did you mean it?” Eddie asks, before he can stop himself.

“Totally,” Richie says, giving Eddie’s hand a squeeze under the backpack. “I’d take a faceful of your jizz over splashing around in graywater any day.”

Ew, what the fuck?!

“No,” says Eddie. “What is wrong with you? I don’t mean—I meant when you said I was…” Eddie drops his voice to a whisper, “... hot. Do you really think I’m hot?”

“Of course I do, dumbass,” Richie says. “Don’t you think I am?”

Eddie’s first instinct is to say no, dipshit, because “hot” is a word reserved for like...like Ethan Hawke or River Phoenix. Not people like Richie, who has been at peak teenage awkwardness for what feels like a decade at this point and looks to be in real danger of staying that way forever. He has terrible taste in clothes and the glasses and the crazy hair and as a package he’s just...so overwhelming, and that’s not hot. Not even a little. It’s—

“I’m just messing with you,” Richie says cheerfully, knocking his knifepoint-sharp elbow into Eddie’s arm. “Everyone knows you’re the beauty and I’m the brains.”

“God, I hope not. We’re really fucked if you’re the brains,” Eddie says before he can stop himself.

Richie snorts and squeezes Eddie’s hand in such a way that it makes a fart noise and Eddie yanks it out from under the backpack. He folds his arms across his chest and Richie spends the rest of the journey home trying to coax him back into holding hands. By the time they get back to school, Eddie is red with both embarrassment and suppressed laughter, and he thinks about how this kind of thing happens so often that he’ll probably never blush again without thinking of Richie.

As is customary on school nights, Eddie goes straight home after his last class. He’s not allowed to have friends over or go to the arcade unless it’s a weekend, which he used to think was because his mom wanted him to have plenty of time for his homework but now feels more like one of her arbitrary, controlling restrictions because she doesn’t seem to actually care all that much about his grades. It feels like it’s more about just...having him home while she watches The Young and The Restless by herself in the living room. Why exactly Eddie’s presence in the house improves this activity, he doesn’t entirely understand.

Richie took to sneaking in during the night years ago, which always makes being alone for the afternoon slightly more bearable. He’ll get on his bike after last period and turn to Eddie and say I’ll stop by your room after I’m done doing your mom, which is actually a polite offer for company in disguise. Eddie will either say if you really have to or I’ll make sure to put the lock on the door then and Richie has never not respected the answer.

Today he said it and Eddie told him to get lost because they’ve got an essay due tomorrow on the impact of our trip to the art museum and Eddie had had a feeling that writing it was going to require some premium-grade bullshitting. He’d been right, too; he didn’t get done with it until ten. But it’s not like that’s really what ate up his entire evening, because then he’d debated internally with himself for half an hour before caving and rewatching Footloose. By the time he’d brushed his teeth, put on pajamas (his warmest ones—reindeer-printed and made of fleece—because it’s chilly and it’s not like anyone is going to see them anyway), and gotten into bed, it was after midnight. So now he’s still wide awake and feeling kind of like he wishes he’d invited Richie over after all, despite the fact that he really should already be asleep.

It used to be that whenever Eddie said yes, Richie would come straight over after the sun went down. Eddie could always tell if they’d all gone swimming without him because Richie’s hair would be damp and he’d smell like quarry water and the grass at the top of the cliff, and he’d flop onto Eddie’s bed and get those smells all over his sheets. Those nights, Eddie would always go to sleep wondering if Richie was just wearing wet briefs under his shorts or going commando. He was never sure which idea he liked less.

Since this summer though, I’ll stop by your room after I’m done doing your mom has taken on a connotation that sets off a shivery, churning feeling in Eddie’s gut. Sometimes Richie will lean over and whisper it in his ear—sometimes he leaves off the last part too. I’ll stop by your room, he breathes out, warm air hitting Eddie’s neck, and Eddie bites his lips and goes all hot because it means that that night, sometime around eleven or midnight or so, he’ll hear a dun dun dun dadadundun tapping at his window. Eddie is still not sure if that’s a reference to Under Pressure or Ice Ice Baby and he honestly thinks he doesn’t want to know.

He’ll wedge a towel under his bedroom door to soundproof it as much as he can. Then he’ll lift the latch on the window and open it as far as it will go. Richie just barely fits now. A couple of years ago it was nothing for him to hop through, now he has to fold his long legs every which way and his skinny arms flail around and his big feet get caught on the other side of the sill and sometimes he whacks his giant head on the wall as he tumbles through. It’s never a quiet process, unfortunately; there’s always some swearing involved, and Eddie lives in fear of the day Richie looks at him from the other side of the wall, moonlight shining off his glasses, and says “well, fuckity fuck, I’m stuck.”

That’s a problem for Future Eddie to deal with though, because once Richie’s in, well. Once he’s in the room, those skinny arms are immediately wrapped around Eddie’s waist and the long legs bump into Eddie’s as Richie backs them toward the bed. And then they get there and...god.

Eddie turns over onto his side and fiddles with the sleeve of his pajama top, thinking about how if Richie were here, the shirt would be gone before the backs of his knees even hit the mattress. Richie is always the first to start taking clothes off—he does it like he’s starving for him—like touching Eddie is what he lives for and he can’t hold off another second. It’s...feeling like that, like someone wants him so bad...it’s kind of wonderful and powerful and scary.

Every time they do it ends basically the same—they take everything off and then they touch each other until they can’t anymore and their fingers are gooey and sticky and then Eddie has to shove Richie out of bed or he’ll fall asleep right there—naked and on top of Eddie for Eddie’s mom to find them the next morning. It hasn’t happened yet, thank God, but it’s a closer call every time because it’s getting harder and harder to kick Richie out after.

In fact, Eddie has taken to spending a worrying amount of time just sort of lying there and stroking Richie’s naked back or smoothing his hair over his head. After is always kind of awkward for Eddie, because he can’t think of anything to say that isn’t incredibly embarrassing, and silence feels weird too. So far he’s managed a that was good twice, which he was super proud of both times even though he also wanted to roll over and hide as soon as the words left his mouth.

Richie does not appear to suffer from the same affliction, because he always starts talking again pretty much as soon as he catches his breath, and Eddie is usually too tired to complain about whatever stupid shit he says. Richie’s pillow talk typically includes such topics as: an enthusiastic play-by-play of what they just did (during which Eddie always just mumbles please stop every few seconds), complete with commentary, which is as complimentary as it is mortifying; a detailed tactical gamplan of what they should do in the event of a zombie outbreak; who Richie would cast if they made a movie about the X-Men and for some reason wanted his opinion; and a ranking of his favorite types of candy based on the logistics of building an edible house. As long as he keeps blabbering, Eddie can privately enjoy that sick-happy feeling in his chest and put off kicking him out. If he’s being honest, Eddie just wants to hold him super tight and close and stay there until he can watch the sunrise illuminate the faded freckles on Richie’s nose.

Eddie snuggles deep down in the covers and thinks about his favorite parts—between when Richie squeezes into and out of his window—and lets himself relish in the fluttery, fidgety excitement that comes with the memory of Richie, shirtless and pale and glowing faintly red in the light from the numbers on Eddie’s alarm clock. The way his mouth looks after they’ve been kissing, soft and full and open, how his wild hair splays across Eddie’s neck when he bends down to breathe warm air onto Eddie’s nipples. His hands unzipping Eddie’s pants, rubbing him over the front of his underwear like he can’t even wait the two seconds it’ll take to pull them off. The way his back looks as he arches into Eddie’s fingers, the way his head falls forward when he gasps and the way he moans like Eddie’s mom isn’t literally two rooms over oh my god, Richie, shhh. The way he exhales sometimes, like he’s so turned on he doesn’t know how else to express it but with those shuddery breaths that almost sound like the ghost of laughter. Eddie’s whole body goes warm at the memory because it’s the hottest thing he—

And then it’s like Eddie’s brain douses him in ice water because it is. It’s hot. It’s hot as fuck and Eddie remembers that Richie asked him on the bus a few hours ago if he thought Richie was hot and he did not give him an unequivocal yes. And that’s obviously bullshit because Eddie was totally getting ready to start jerking off just now thinking about how fucking hot Richie is when he’s naked and they’re in bed together. Eddie had somehow been under the impression that hot is this kind of ethereal concept that only applies to celebrities or strangers, when hot has literally been sucking face with him for months. He is officially the biggest dumbass ever. Eddie wonders if there’s any other obvious shit staring him down that he hasn’t picked up on yet.

And suddenly Eddie cannot stand the idea that Richie might be sitting at home thinking Eddie doesn’t find him hot. It’s Thursday...well, technically it’s Friday but it still counts as Thursday night and there’s no way Richie isn’t planning on coming over for some sweet handjob action tomorrow night, but this can’t wait until tomorrow. And he can’t call, his mom will want to know why he’s using the phone at this hour and it’s possible that someone other than Richie might answer and then Eddie will have to come up with some reason besides I’m sorry to bother you at this hour Mrs. Tozier, but it’s an absolute emergency because I have to tell Richie right now that he’s hot and thinking about him naked gives me a boner.

Yeah, not likely. This situation calls for desperate measures, like an entirely unprecedented course of action. Eddie puts on his sneakers, throws on a sweater, and walks to his window.

If Richie can still get in, it’ll be nothing for Eddie to get out. He’ll just close the window most of the way from the outside, but not so much that he won’t be able to get back in. His mom might come in (unlikely, Eddie can hear her snoring) and find him gone and completely blow a gasket, but that’s a big might and the fact that he needs to see Richie right the fuck now is a definitely, so. Down he hops, quiet as can be.

It’s early December and fucking cold. Cold as fuck. Eddie hops back and forth from one foot to the other while he untangles his bike from where the garden hose fell on it and tries not to think too hard about how the frigid wind in his face is going to feel when he gets going.

The less that can be said about the seven minute bike ride to Richie’s house, the better. The word frostbite comes to mind more than once, as well as death by exposure. Eddie thinks it’ll be unfortunate but understandable if his dick decides never to make an appearance again; he’s pretty sure it has retreated up into his body for good. He can’t feel his hands but manages to peel his fingers off the handlebars nonetheless, leaning his bike up against the side of Richie’s house without bothering to hide it because, according to Richie, Richie’s parents are heavy sleepers. Eddie wouldn’t normally just take Richie at his word on something like that, but he figures they would’ve had to have caught their own son sneaking out at least once out of the hundreds of times he’s done it if it wasn’t true. Eddie walks around the back and looks through the curtains of Richie’s room.

Richie, wearing the same pajama bottoms and old tee shirt he usually shows up at Eddie’s in, is so deeply involved in Sonic that Eddie wonders if he won’t hear him rapping on the window, but he does it anyway. Dun dun dun dadadundun.

It’s Under Pressure, Eddie whispers to no one in particular. Richie doesn’t hear that or the knocking.

Dun dun dun dadadundun. Eddie knocks again, a little louder.

This time, Richie turns around. He does one better, actually: he does a double take and his jaw drops wide open, hair flopping into his face. He looks utterly stupid by any account and yet the first thought that pops into Eddie’s head is beautiful.

Richie drops the controller onto the floor to live amongst the general covering of junk that populates his bedroom before loping over to the window and opening it.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, staring out at Eddie like he can’t believe he’s here, which is kind of annoying because like...Eddie has a bike too. Just because it’s always Richie who appears at Eddie’s house in the middle of the night doesn’t mean Eddie isn’t capable of reciprocating every once in awhile. It’s just that it’s obviously nicer to get it on in Eddie’s room than in the garbage heap Richie inhabits.

Richie reaches out a hand to help Eddie clamber inside. He must have the heat cranked up full blast because Eddie starts regaining feeling in his extremities right away when Richie shuts the window.

“What the fuck are you doing here?��

“I just needed to—” Eddie starts, then clamps his mouth shut.

In that moment he realizes that he’s just shown up at Richie’s house at one in the morning on a school night without warning, wearing fleece reindeer pajamas, sneakers without socks and a sweater, and he has literally no idea what he wants to say other than I just needed to tell you you were hot. Right now, apparently.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Richie demands, in what might sound like a normal tone of voice to an outsider, but Eddie instinctively recognizes it as being seconds away from abject panic.

Eddie looks up into his eyes and god damn, how has he never managed to see how insecure Richie really is? Of all the millions of things Eddie could be here for… He could’ve had a fight with his mom. Winston from the Sweet Valley High books that Eddie definitely doesn’t read could’ve been killed off. Eddie could just be horny. He could have a homework question—well, probably not that one because going to Richie for homework help would be worse than just not turning in the assignment and taking a zero—but a breakup? Like, that’s what he jumps to? A breakup? Really?

“God, no,” Eddie says, and then the next words come out of his mouth with absolutely no leave to do so from his brain. “Why the fuck would I do that? I love you.”

Richie sits down hard on his bed and just...stares. And Eddie a little bit wants to freak out because I love you sounds like a really big deal but like...is it? Is saying it that big of a deal? Feeling it is, maybe, but if Eddie’s being honest with himself, he’s been feeling it for like forever. He might not have always been willing to admit that, but if you take a dump in a toilet and call it a flower, it’s still shit. Saying it doesn’t change that.

“Actually I just wanted to tell you you’re hot,” he continues, fidgeting with the zipper on his sweater and still standing awkwardly by the window. That part comes out easier, probably because he just dropped a live one with I love you and nothing else he has to say could possibly be as enormous as that. “Cause on the bus, like I didn’t. But you totally are. Hot. You’re...hot. Like super hot, like…” Eddie gestures vaguely up and down with one hand, “all of you. Your hair and your back and shit—I mean, your...yeah. So I just wanted to tell you. Bye.”

And because every single word after you’re hot has increased his discomfort exponentially, Eddie feels like this is as good a time as any to make his exit. Actually, about fifteen seconds ago might’ve been better, but it’s certainly only going to get worse if he just stands there doing nothing, so he turns toward the window and prepares to bail. This apparently snaps Richie out of it because he gets up, still staring.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Richie asks.

“‘Why the fuck am I here, where the fuck am I going,’” Eddie repeats, one leg already out the window. It is so fucking cold outside and like, this whole thing was such a bad idea, Eddie wishes he could go back in time fifteen minutes just to smack himself in the face and tell himself to stay in bed. “Where the fuck do you think I’m going? I’m going home. It’s a school night.”

“Uh, no way,” Richie says, striding toward him. He wraps a hand around Eddie’s wrist. “You don’t get to say something like that and then just like fuck off. Nah, come back in here and let me blow you.”

Let him what now?! It takes a second for Eddie to make the connection—like why Richie is bringing that up—but then his mind presses rewind on the part from the bus when Richie said Eddie was hot and...right. The conversation was originally about blowjobs. Why do they always seem to have these important discussions about feelings in conjunction with sex stuff? At this rate, Eddie’s never going to have a cute story about their relationship that’s fit for mixed company. Like he’s gonna tell the others at a sleepover, so then I said “I love you, Richie,” and he was like, “that’s sick dude, lemme suck your dick.”

He’s about to say no because ew, but...it’s Richie. And Richie is looking at him with his big brown eyes and Eddie knows that Richie would be a hundred percent cool with it if Eddie truly didn’t want to, and if Eddie says not gonna happen, Richie will probably never bring it up again. But he can also hear the excitement in Richie’s voice, and it seems...crazy, like it’s crazy that Richie really wants to blow him that much.

“I didn’t say that shit because I wanted a blowjob,” Eddie tells him.

“I know,” Richie says.

“I don’t think I can really stay,” Eddie says, although he also pulls his leg back in the room and allows Richie to shut the window again. “It’s a school night.”

“Fuck yeah, it’s a school night,” says Richie, in what he clearly thinks is a California Surfer Dude voice, but it’s new to his repertoire and still sounds more like he’s having a mild stroke than anything else. He grins and gets straight to work pushing Eddie’s sweater off his shoulders. “Think about how tired we’re gonna be in first period tomorrow. I’m gonna get hard just looking at those bags under your eyes.”

“What the fuck?” Eddie whispers back to him. He shrugs his cardigan back on. “You say the weirdest shit Richie, I swear to God. Is think about how tired we’re gonna be in first period tomorrow supposed to be like, dirty talk? Because uh, that’s not sexy. I—”

“But you love me,” Richie interrupts, “so everything I do is sexy.” He yanks his own shirt over his head and smiles down at Eddie.

“Yeah, that’s not how it works,” Eddie says, placing both hands on Richie’s bony chest and trying not to focus too much on how good his skin feels because he is not going to get distracted by the lure of impending nakedness.

“Yeah it is,” says Richie immediately, sliding a hand up under Eddie’s pajama top. “We’re in love, so everything is like automatically a million times more sexy.”

“Oh really? What so...so, my...like when I had to shove Tylenol down your throat when you had a 102 fever last month? You find that sexy?”

“Hell yes,” Richie replies immediately, “you can play doctor with me anytime, baby.”

“Don’t you dare start calling me ‘baby,’” Eddie warns him.

“Try and stop me,” Richie laughs, and he pulls Eddie in closer with his hand on the small of his back. Fuuuck, no way is Richie going to let that go. Eddie hates the nicknames, but he knows it’s a losing battle because Eddie Spaghetti eventually got replaced with Eds and he can already imagine baby gaining ground on Eds. In fact, Eddie would bet his whole allowance that baby is going to eventually turn into babe. He can see babe sticking long-term. He’s just gonna have to get used to the idea.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eddie sighs, resting his forehead on Richie’s shoulder.

“Dude, I’m trying,” Richie says, grinning his shit-eatingest.

Eddie starts to giggle and has to put the brakes on it because he’s not getting sucked in. He’s not. He came here with a mission and he accomplished it. Just because it’s kind of making him die a little inside to leave right now doesn’t mean he can’t suck it up and do it anyway.

“I have to go,” Eddie says again. He stands on his toes and kisses Richie a little harder than usual, and hopes that Richie understands he’d much rather stay here. Someday, Eddie wants to tell him...someday they’ll finish high school. It feels like a million years from now, but then he knows he’s going to blink and he’ll be holding a graduation cap and a college acceptance letter. And Richie will be there too, holding...well, Eddie’s hand, at the very least. He really would get good grades if he applied himself, like all his teachers say, but Eddie doesn’t love him any less for his 2.7 GPA.

“Tomorrow,” Richie says. Eddie’s not sure if it’s a promise or a question. But either way, the answer is yes. If Richie wants to do what they usually do or… whatever else. Eddie’s down for it. One great thing about Richie—one of many, Eddie thinks—is how he doesn’t really try to force Eddie to stay. It’s kind of like when he goes to high five Stan and Stan gives him that please die now look, and Richie just immediately cuts his losses and moves on. He’s like that a lot. Eddie sometimes wishes he could just let shit go the way Richie does.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Eddie tells him. “Definitely.” He can’t quite bring himself to say how much he’s looking forward to it—so much, so so much—but he thinks Richie can tell anyway. They lock eyes and there it goes, that melty feeling, like the first sip of hot chocolate after playing out in the snow. That’s what should’ve tipped Eddie off that he’s—that they’re—in love. It’s love or fever delirium. Either way, he’s such a goner.

Eddie steps away from Richie and turns toward the window. Once they finish school they’ll leave Derry and only be forced to come back for like, Christmas or whatever. They’ll get a dorm or maybe an apartment together—some cheap place in a horrible neighborhood, probably—and Eddie will eventually have to break it to his mom that Richie’s a lot more to him than a roommate, but it’ll all be so worth it because—

Eddie steps on the uneaten crust of a forgotten PB&J on his way to the window. This is it, the future he has chosen for himself. No one goes from being the kind of person who tosses sandwiches on the floor to a liveable human being in the span of a few years. Someday, it’ll be their room and Eddie will be getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and stepping in peanut butter, and he’ll have no one to blame but himself. He picked this idiot—this somehow super hot idiot—he went and fell in love with all that hair and those dark eyes. He fell in love with Richie’s knobby knuckles and his bitten cuticles too. And his strange, infuriating, perplexing mind. Richie never lets anything be boring. Eddie can look forward to an entire lifetime of being, at the very least, kept on his toes. If not literally, to avoid stepping in discarded food.

“You know,” Eddie says, swinging his leg out of the window and back into the icy wind, “I hope you plan on getting a good job, because I’m going to be stuck cleaning up after you as a career.”

Eddie only realizes when he’s halfway home that he just essentially admitted out loud to Richie that he wants to spend the rest of his life with him, which in hindsight makes Richie sound like a really smooth motherfucker for saying, “Nah, I was already planning on hiring us a housekeeper,” without missing a beat.

Eddie slams on his brakes and there, in the middle of the street in the freezing pitch-black night, he comes to his third Big Realization of today. This, Richie and him, it’s the real deal. The things he’s been thinking about—an apartment, a shared bed, a shared life—are not daydreams. They’re plans. Shared plans.

Eddie’s so rarely sure of anything—like how he used to think there was no such thing as supernatural, shape-shifting killer clowns—but he's always sure of Richie. He’s sure of how he feels about Richie, and of how Richie feels about him. Even the fact that he’s out alone so late and not panicking can be attributed to Richie. Eddie used to be afraid of being by himself and the dark, but Richie gives him courage just by existing within a ten-minute biking radius.

Someday isn’t soon enough, but living with Richie is going to have to wait. He can’t believe he’s excited about the idea of Spaghetti-O’s every night and yelling at Richie for leaving the heater on and brushing crumbs off his sheets before bed but, God help him, those things can’t come soon enough. Just a couple more years, Eddie tells himself.

Tomorrow isn’t soon enough, either. His teeth are chattering, mostly because he’s actively freezing to death but also from the almost tangible ache in his chest that started when he walked around to collect his bike from the side of Richie’s house and left Richie watching him from the window. It’s what Eddie usually does when Richie leaves his house and God, Eddie’s not sure how Richie manages to do it twice a week. It almost made Eddie want to cry. He still feels like he might cry. If he goes home and gets into his bed alone right now, he will undoubtedly cry.

It’s a fucking school night, but Eddie is rapidly losing his ability to care. He sits there on his bike in the middle of the road for a second before…

“Fuck it.” He shakes his head, smiles out into the darkness, and swings his handlebars back in the direction of Richie’s house.