#leaving little breadcrumbs so we could confirm

[aka-indulgence]

Imminent Threat: Baby Pictures Confirmed!

I was bitten by the inspiration bug and I do love this idea a lot, heheh…

Wanna see what happens if HT!Sans catches a glimpse of your baby pictures?

(HT!Sans x Female!Reader)

(No warnings just be prepared for silly, fluff, and cute (aggression))

——————

Sans twiddles his thumbs, watching you leave with the dishes into the kitchen. Your parents had forbidden him from doing the dishes.

“You made us this wonderful meal! It’s her turn on the chores anyway,”

“What! I come home to see you and you’re just making me do chores?”

“Yes! It’s to catch up on all the chores you missed these past few months! Hahahah!”

He turned to you and whispered a pathetic little “sorry,” but you waved him off.

“It’s ok, I’m used to it. Might as well treat them since I can’t cook like you, right? Keep them company.”

So here he was, sitting on the table, feeling like he was going to expel the meal he just ate, watching your parents wipe their lips with tissue like they were about to interrogate him.

“So, how’s living with (Y/n) like?”

“good.” no no. too fast. talk more. “she…… she’s nice.”

nice? is that all i have to say about her?

“Ah. That’s good to hear,” your dad replies, taking a sip of tea from a mug.

…

i guess if i said the other things i thought of her, they’d probably want to take her away from me.

“Hey, I hope she’s more active than how she used to be. She used to stay home for days, and we’d have to remind her to go outside and get some sun!” Your mom chortles, and Sans rubs the back of his neck.

“a… actually… she’s the one that wants to leave the house now. i don’t… like leaving. the house is nicer.” Sans forces a grin, but he can’t tell if it’s coming off as awkward or spine-chillingly horrifying.

He can’t gauge how your parents reacted. Your dad smirked, and your mom tilted her head. What does that mean? Do they not approve? Sans usually prides himself in being able to read people like a book- even after the head injury. But his skull is full of thoughts.

“I imagine you’d have to stay at home to hone that cooking skill, then?” Your mom offered, “that stew was amazing! The blend of herbs and spices, the broth wasn’t too thick or thin, and the meat was cooked to perfection…”

Your dad chuckles. “I don’t know about cooking as much as my wife does, but I’ll tell you what, that’s one hell of a stew you’ve got. You could probably start a restaurant,”

“heh… heh you think?” His grin turns more genuine as his cheeks turn a tinge of dark blue.

“How did you learn to cook so well, Sans? Did you go to culinary school?” Your mom pries.

“oh… no actually, i learnt it all myself,” Sans explains, “back in the underground we didn’t have much to go on but we didn’t want to eat something completely tasteless so i learnt how to make things taste good with what we had…”

Sans realizes too late that maybe he brought up the underground a bit too casually, because all of a sudden your mom looks stricken with guilt, and your dad looks awfully uncomfortable.

“O-oh, I’m so sorry Sans, I didn’t mean to…”

“no no. i-i brought it up, you don’t have to apologize,”

Is he smiling too much? Should he be frowning? Wait hold on he’s looking at your mom too much, he should look at your dad now. Oh he’s looking away…

Why was he so bad at this? He’s relied on looking scary and stopping everyone from trying to talk to him. B-but he likes your parents, they’re nice, some of the few humans that actually look past his scary face and see him as… sort of harmless?

Your dad broke the silence.

“Yes, I’ve always tried to make the most of my meals. Like when I have crumbs I’d toss them near the anthill we used to have in the backyard. Hahah, one time when (Y/n) was very little she saw me throw breadcrumbs and asked me what I was doing. I told her I was feeding the ants, and she must have been really impressed with that idea… because,”

Your dad got into a fit of giggles, and Sans perks up.

“Tch… hih! Because the next day I found her standing in front of the anthill… with bread on top of it. Whole wheat, whole bread slice. I asked her what she was doing! And she said ‘I’m feeding the ants!’ She looked so proud I had to take a picture of her! I think I have it on my phone,”

Sans mouth opens. He all but quaked in his chair, having to physically restrain from grabbing your dad’s phone.

“m-m…” Sans coughs trying to regain composure, “may i see it,”

“On it, just… give me a sec…” Sans watched as your dad scrolled and scrolled, until…

“Found it,”

He turned his phone around.

There you were, no older than 3, in a little bucket hat, sleeveless shirt and shorts, with tiny flip flops. You had a bright, sunshine smile on your face, and humorously… a slice of bread sitting amidst the grass and dirt just a foot or two away from you.

Sans’ eyelights shrinks, his grin gone. Carefully, he takes the phone out of your dad’s hands and zooms in on your face. You had dimples in your cheeks, and they… they looked so plump like little squishballs. Your eyes were round and sparkled in the sun. His hands shook.

He must’ve looked unhinged.

“What do you think?” Your mom asked.

“sh…… she’s so small……” Sans breaths, then swallows, turning to your dad. “d… d’you… do you have more…?”

Your dad snorts, his arms crossed. “‘Do you have more’ he says,” he scoffs. “Kid, we have an entire baby album.”

****

You tuned out of the conversation in the kitchen, earphones plugging your ears, a tried and true ‘dish washing’ playlist playing as your background music. It was a nice break. You’re happy to see your parents again, but they can be a bit overbearing at times… ask Sans odd questions about monsters, sometimes mention how tiny you look next to your boyfriend (which had Sans hiding his face… they thought he was offended but he was mortified, worried your parents were hinting at how he was like with you in private).

Though you certainly didn’t miss doing chores back home, you did see it as a bit of a reprieve.

But then over the music, you heard laughter… loud laughter. It didn’t sound like your dad. And Sans doesn’t usually laugh that hard. It started soft at first but it got louder and louder, until you were sure that was Sans. What were they doing to him? It almost sounded like they found his most ticklish bone and was torturing him with him.

A laugh startled you so bad you almost dropped a clean plate onto the floor. You took off an earphone just in time for your mom to walk in.

“Hi dear, this is your dad’s, he’s finished his tea. You don’t have to wash it if you don’t want to…”

“Yea, ok-” you say, distracted and looking over your mom’s shoulder as if you could see what was causing all the ruckus. “What is happening???”

“Oh,” your mom laughed, “Sans is such a sweet, delightful monster. Your dad’s showing him your baby pictures-”

“Excuse me my WHAT?!!”

You threw the gloves onto the sink counter, washed your hands hastily, and yanked the other earphone off, tossing them haphazardly into a pocket. Tripping over your feet to sprint into the room, though you realize you’re too late.

Sans is vibrating on the sofa, having migrated from the table it seems. His eyelight was blown wide, the widest you’ve seen it, glued to the open book in front of him. Your dad flipped a page, looking unaware of the murderous skeleton next to him.

“And here… oh this was on a trip to the beach. She’d gotten scared of water because of a wave too big had brought her out from shore and her legs couldn’t reach the sand. It wasn’t out to sea or anything, but when you’re that small it must’ve been scary. But the hotel had a pool and I couldn’t have my daughter stay afraid of water… this was after a fun session of swimming in floaties and being swung into the pool.”

“ah… HAHAHAH! bright… orange…!”

It was clear to you now. Sans wasn’t laughing from something funny. He was overjoyed. So overjoyed he can’t contain it in himself that he just bursts with it. His eyelights warbled. They looked like hearts shimmering under a running river.

You grabbed your head in despair. “No, no no- what have you done!”

Your dad had looked up immediately, while Sans’ didn’t, holding onto the album. Though… his grin had twisted into something dark.

Dad took a photo out, the one he was just explaining: a picture of you laughing in orange floaties, floral swimwear, carried by your dad in a clear blue pool, looking up at the camera. The sides of the picture were slightly yellow.

“Do you remember this, poppy? It’s weird to think you were ever scared of water now… it’s hard to stop you from swimming, nowadays,”

You can’t help but smile in your heart a little. It brought back happy memories of travelling with your parents when you were little.

Unfortunately, there are far more pressing matters at the moment.

“No, wait, dad… what did you do?”

“What?”

“You… you showed Sans my baby pictures?”

“Baby and toddler pictures,” your dad corrected. “Also there’s no need to be embarrassed, I feel like it’s a right of passage to have your baby pictures shown to your significant other by your parents.”

“No, I’m not embarrassed,” you shake your hands helplessly, “it’s just… Sans is gonna kill me,”

There was an incident, almost a year ago now. You were shuffling through some things you found in a box you never unpacked… at the bottom you found a polaroid of you rolled up in a baby blue blanket and, admittedly, looking pretty darned cute.

You showed it to Sans, innocently. It’s cute, you can admit it, and you knew Sans would appreciate it.

Oh how naive you were.

He held the picture, stared at it. Was at a loss for words, though he kept trying to form them helplessly, bringing it close to his face like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then he muttered.

“b… baby…… b… baby…”

Then he went crazy. Picking you up, not listening to your protests- usually when Sans gets in a cuddly mood he ignores your complaints but that time, it was like he really couldn’t hear you. His pupil was blown wide and constantly shifted from heart to circle. He squashed you in bed, smooshed your cheeks, kissed you until you were gasping for breath- you don’t even think it’s a sexual thing, he was just overcome with cute aggression!

It wasn’t a one time thing either. Carelessly, you’d leave the picture propped up on the window as a cute memento aesthetic… thing, maybe, but every time Sans looked at the picture too long, he’d get into his violent cuddly moods and kidnap you to the bedroom to squish you. Eventually you had to hide it to avoid inducing anymore ‘cute-induced murderous rage’ in him.

And your parents just opened pandora’s box for you.

Your brows furrow in worry as Sans looks up from the album to you, his eyelight tightening into just a fraction of what it was before, zeroing in on you. His grin was wide and deranged. He chuckled, a low, threatening sound.

“heh heh… i’m going to crush you.”

[akingdomscrypt]

Make a Mercy Out of Me

Part Three

Pairing; König x m!reader

Word Count; ~7.66k

Warnings; kinda sorta graphic depiction of stitching up wounds near the end. So if you don't like needles.. be careful.

A/n; König is a sergeant bc I said so and it fits my narrative. There's also plans in work for why he's a part of 141 & background knowledge on him. Lore. Eventually.

(we need more clips of this man istg-)

--- "babysitting duty" ---

You were a frustrating man to work with. You had hardly said much of anything during that sad excuse of an interrogation, at least nothing of much use. All they knew now was that there was someone out there who held your leash. Or, well, used to. You were a wildcard now, without someone to keep you on lock and key, and there was no way in the deepest pits of hell they could set you loose on the world with what they knew–which wasn't much. Not unless you were hanging off their every word or buried six feet under an unmarked grave.

"You talk about him like he's some sort of lab experiment."

"Mm." Well… "maybe he is. Who knows."

"He isn't some feral dog, König."

He didn't like it. As much as your words had ignited a–often ignored–spark in him, there was something itching at the back of his mind telling him you weren't trustworthy. That you'd stab him and the rest of the task force in the back the moment you were left to your own devices.

"We should keep him."

"He's a person."

"Not a good one."

"Neither are we."

They had to keep you, if at least for society's sake, on that straining lead. As any slack would surely be the catalyst of his very own demise.

I could make the world bleed.

The words were stuck on replay in König's mind, as well as the man who had spoken them. It was a horrible thought to have–but he couldn't help but find it.. intriguing. The idea made his heart skip a beat and the corner of his scarred mouth curl.

"He said he'd make the world bleed, König. That's fuckin' creepy as shite!" Ghost spat, arms crossed over his chest, as the two made the journey back to the rest of the team.

"You have said much stranger things, Ghost."

"You can't really be considerin' this." A few beats of silence from the larger man was all the confirmation Ghost needed. "Price would never agree to it."

"He said he could help."

"Help." Ghost huffed. "Right. Help with what exactly? He has no idea what we've been working on."

"Ja, he doesn't know. But what about that bomber? Could it be relevant?" Besides Mouse, the team had been tracking a much more persistent threat. Something that left behind more than just breadcrumbs in the form of mutilated bodies.

"...are you sayin' he could be involved in this?"

"He has been showing up right after every hit."

"Right." Ghost pauses in his tracks, turning his head slightly to look up at the other man. "So you think he's with them? Or.. maybe one of their targets?"

König comes to a stop too and takes a moment to mull it over. Could you have been a part of the group they'd been hunting these past few months? It was a little.. suspicious that you'd show up and take out another high-profile figure right after every strike made. Were you cleaning up their mess? Or your own?

"That's all the more reason to keep him, no? To find out? We know he has someone he reports to." There was also the fact that the explosion had gone off practically right under your own two feet. That had to mean something.

Just following orders?

"It's a little concerning when I of all people have to remind you that he is a very real, living, breathing, capable-of complex-thought person." König brushes off Ghost's concerns with a noncommittal shrug.

If they took the route of you having been just another victim of the explosion, that left many unexplained variables. Such as why you were a target–wouldn't one terrorist organization blend well with another? Why would they be at odds? It also leaves the question that, if you had really been abandoned by your crew, why had "she"–the woman who you'd mentioned–left you for dead? Was it legitimate? Or a ploy of some kind?

Then there was the more believable scenario that would tell it as; you hadn't really been betrayed by your group, or whoever held your metaphorical leash. And the explosion was some kind of distraction, a way to get their attention. Maybe–if one applies the theory that you were in cahoots with the people they'd been hunting–you had wanted to get caught. Or, maybe not you specifically, but whoever "she" was. Maybe you were sent as bait and they'd fallen right into that mouse trap–heh.

Maybe you didn't even know this was all a farce. That would make it all the more believable, no?

Either way, they need you here. For information. And if they played their cards right, if they burrowed their way under your skin and into your heart–like a damn parasite–you would give them exactly what they wanted. Lead them right to both the core of your organization and the group behind the bombing. And if the people or persons behind the bombing were by some miracle connected to who they had been tracking…

"He can help." His words help a certain air of finality to them, a small grin making an appearance under his hood.

Another sigh, but not a no.

Price wasn't as thrilled by König's proposal as Ghost begrudgingly was.

"You want to what." König wasn't a fearful man–unless he was ordering from a drive-thru, that shit was terrifying–but when the Captain looked at him like that. Let's just say he was forever grateful for the cloth that obscured almost the entirety of his face.

"Keep him." And if his voice comes out a little smaller than normal… no one mentions it.

To his right, König hears Ghost let out another heavy sigh. For a man who used to take a blowtorch to a hostage's skin and quite literally wears a skull stitched onto his face every day- if you'd asked König, he'd tell you the Lieutenant had grown soft. Or, well, soft-ish. He would still slit a man's throat without question.

"Why'd you wanna do that?" Gaz pipes up, giving König a blank, indecipherable expression. Coupled with his tone, König couldn't tell which side of the fence he was leaning towards. He knew Gaz, out of all of them, was the one with a more strict moral compass–something König both admired and thought of as foolish–but he also already didn't like their current hostage. So, discerning whether the other man would be for or against his proposition was a complex feat. König would have to walk that fine line, choose his words carefully, to sway Gaz's opinion in his favor.

"We could use his help." Is what König finally lands on. Not leaning too far into what Ghost had described as treating you like a tool, but not dipping into friendly territory either. An even middle ground.

"From what Ghost and I managed to gather," well, König had gathered. Ghost more or less just stood in the background as a silent spectator. "He claims he's been abandoned by someone he'd only refer to as "she". That this woman brought him here from wherever he came from to follow some lead- but that lead seems to have been a dead end."

"A dead end?" If Gaz's thing was compassion and strict morals, Soap's was intrigue. Puzzles and demolitions, that's all it took to draw in their resident impulse-driven pyromaniac.

"A dead end," König repeats, now switching his attention to the Scotsman. "Turns out there was no target, not really. Or, at least, that is what it appears like at first glance."

Soap's eyes light up when König moves to reach into his pocket, fishing for the blank note. Bingo.

"At first, when we pulled this off him, we had assumed it to be blank," he unfolds the crinkled-up paper, mud, water stains and all. König reaches his hand out to pass the note to Price, keeping the others on the edge of their seats. "But if you take another look.."

Price inspects it with a deep frown, then passes it to Gaz, who looks at it with a skeptical raise of his brow, next is Soap then Ghost, and finally back around to König. Upon closer inspection, past all the grime and stains, there was a faint red scribble.

"It is like there was something here," he mutters, smoothing a gloved thumb over the worn parchment as if that will somehow make the faded words clearer.

"But someone must've purposefully scrubbed it away." Ghost adds, seeming much more interested than he had earlier.

Any other person would probably have brushed the now-pinkish, washed-out markings as blood. And König almost had; after all, you were practically swimming in your own blood right now. Clothes stained with it far past recognition.

Even so, he knew that wasn't it.

The paper had a slew of things it was coated in–some recognizable, some not–, but blood was, surprisingly, not one of them.

"Dae ya think 'e knows?" Two.

"Maybe he was the one who erased it?" Three.

"We won't know unless we ask him. But,"

They all look over to Price, waiting for the man's next words with bated breaths.

"We can't jus' do it outright." Price's steely gaze lands on König and he subconsciously stands a little taller.

"König's got the right idea. We can't jus' kill 'im. Not yet." Four. "Not until we know everything he does."

"Aye, Captain." Soap grins, pushing up from where he'd been resting against a wall. He tilts his head in the direction Ghost and König had come from. "Let's go wear 'im down then, yeah?"

"Preferably before he bleeds out." Ghost reluctantly grumbles. "Bastard already looks to be halfway through death's door."

Price looks to König, cocking his head slightly to the right.

"You said he believes he was abandoned, right?"

"That is correct, sir." The corner of Price's mouth ticks up.

"So no one's coming for 'im then?"

A sick twist of anticipation began to swell in König's chest, and suddenly he was a lot more confident than he was a few seconds ago.

"Precisely."

__

The last thing you were expecting after those two giants left was for them to return with the whole damn crew. You'd be lying if you said the leader didn't make every inch of your being tense up. There was just something in his eyes; that cool blue, warmer than König's but still so cold, gave off a deceiving "I'm not a threat" while simultaneously saying "flinch and I'll kill you".

The dark-skinned man and the baby-faced one stood a little ways behind you, and closer to the door. The leader took a seat in the chair König had been sitting in–assuming the same position the Austrian had. Skull-face stood in the same place and König took his place on your right-hand side. Standing just far enough behind you to barely graze your peripheral but close enough where you could feel his presence looming near you. Invading your personal little space bubble with his, so close if he leaned any closer he'd be brushing up right against you.

The leader tried his hand at interrogating you again. It went a little something like this;

"Do you know why she left you?'

"Probably had something to do with my bad attitude."

He gives you an unimpressed look. You simply raise your eyebrows in question. You had broken your vow of silence, but that didn't mean you were going to make it easy on them.

"König said you could help us. Mind tellin' me what exactly you could do to help?"

"I have connections. People who owe me a favor or two." Or five. Hey, in your defense, you had been in the game for a while.

"Are these connections… legal?"

"I highly doubt you care about legalities if you are conversing with me still," Then, just to be a little shit, you add a snide, "sir."

You swear you hear a small huff behind you and you brush it off as a figment of your imagination. After all, you had lost a ton of blood.. It was a miracle you hadn't passed out again from blood loss. At this rate, you should probably be dead. Or, at the very least, comatose or something. Not back-talking the man who was very literally your golden ticket to freedom.

You blamed it on the blood loss. Made you say stupid shit.

"What else can you offer us?" In other words; why should we keep you?

"One less Brit in your ranks?"

"..what?"

"You all could really use some diversity."

There's a pregnant pause before,

"Is making jokes all you're good for?" Skull-face speaks up from behind the leader.

"What can I say? It is part of my charm."

The bearded man in front of you lets out a heavy sigh. Something about that sigh told you this type of thing wasn't new to him. A small part of you perked up with curiosity. You then proceed to beat that part of you back down into a bloody pulp.

"Are you goin' to take this seriously or not, Mouse?" The leader captures your attention again and you shrug. You really should take this more seriously… but the lack of vital, life-supporting fluid in your system was making you loopy.

And stupid.

"König?"

Very stupid.

A small grunt from behind you.

"Hast du darüber nachgedacht, was ich gesagt habe?" (Have you thought about what I said?)

The man in front of you frowns, looking from you to König, to you again. But he doesn't stop you. Someone probably should.

There's a terse silence before König replies.

"Deshalb sind sie hier." (That's why they're here.)

Despite your slightly dazed state, you smile a little to yourself.

"Did you tell him?" Now the leader looks even more confused, if not a little more frustrated. Good.

"Tell me what?" His glare is now trained on König, and you know you've gotten the giant into deep shit now. Even better.

"Nein."

And just like that you, very foolishly, let out a small puff of what was obviously an attempt at laughter. Though a poor one.

At this is rate, you'd sooner get yourself killed than cut loose, but your mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. It also seemed to be keen on digging you into deeper shit.

"It is a good deal.." you trail off, narrowing your eyes a little at the leader. It would be great if you knew their names. But no one seemed interested in filling you in on that, so you continue, "you all could really use the help. After all, the only reason you lot even caught me was 'cause I was having a bit of a bad day."

"A bit of a bad day?" Leader asks.

"Aye," you drawl. Your heart thudded a few times in your chest, slowed, then picked back up again. Really, you should be dead, slumped over in your chair, by now. "Got blown up. Stabbed a few times.. broke a few bones.."

You give a sloppy grin beneath your mask. Yeah, definitely shouldn't be awake right now. "Bit of a bad day."

"He's useless like this, Cap'." One of the men from somewhere by the roll-up door pipes up.

"Agreed." Skull-face huffs. "Poor guy's all hopped up on adrenaline. He's not much use to us now."

The leader–Captain?–scrutinizes you for a few more moments before exhaling heavily.

"Alright." He grumbles, standing up from the chair.

"König," the Brit calls on the man beside you but keeps his stare trained on you, as if daring you to utter another smart-assed quip. "You were so damn adamant about keeping 'im, yeah?"

It's obviously a rhetorical question and the atmosphere shifts, the tension in the air palpable.

The leader, or, you guess, Captain–these men and their pretentious titles..��adjusts the beige-colored, boonie hat on top of his head and signals something to the two men by the door. You hear the telltale clanking of the metal being rolled up.

"You're on babysitting duty, Sergeant," he says in that displeased rumble–one you had become very familiar with during the first attempt at interrogation–as he makes his way for the door. "So get his arse back in the van, we're moving to someplace more permanent."

The other three men proceed to file out after their Captain, leaving you alone with the, now fuming, Austrian.

Annnnnnd…

"Maus." He grits out from behind you. You proceed to, very smartly, not respond.

Shit.

Instead, you stay stock still even as König leans over you and unsheathes a knife from someplace on his person. One heavy hand gripping your, thankfully, non-injured shoulder and the other reaching around to rest the blade beneath your chin. He urges your head up with the tip of it until your eyes–oh, yeah, he was definitely pissed–lock with his. In the short time you'd known him you had almost forgotten how downright intimidating only being able to see those pale, glowing blues staring through your very soul was.

"Sie werden es bereuen." (literal; you will regret it. Contextual; you're going to regret this.)

He, while maintaining eye contact, removes the knife and brings it down to hover just above your waist. Your own gaze can't help but flick between his and his weapon-welding hand. Self-preservation, you call it. König, after all, has that sharp metal alarmingly close to your dick.

You choose to ignore the thrill that causes your breath to hitch, an unfamiliar feeling stirring somewhere in the deepest pits of your hindbrain.

You watch as he–in a strange show of caution–places the gloved hand that had been on your shoulder beneath the coarse rope, thumb and fourth finger keeping the binding in place, and swiftly slices through the thickly twined fibers. He then makes quick work of doing the same to the rope wrapped around your thighs and ankles. The barest hints of warmth emitting from him easily seep through the thin, ruined cloth of your pants. But before you can think too much about how long it's been since you last felt the touch of another not-currently-dying human being, König pulls back.

When you look back up to search out his gaze you find he is no longer staring you down, his own focus entirely on freeing you from the bindings. The lack of pressure on your worn body is a relief and the next breath that leaves you is shakier than the last–you choose to believe it's just your body coming down from its adrenaline high.

The last of the rope that had been keeping your lower half bound to the chair falls away to the floor with a soft thump and König retreats completely to move onto your hands. Thank fuck for your own fabric-clad hands, you aren't sure how much more of this non-threatening touch you could take before you fucking imploded or something. All you can feel is the slight graze of his deft fingers against your concealed wrists, and even that is muted. Courtesy of the current lack of decent blood circulation to your bound extremities.

After that final piece of rope is removed, you're being yanked to your feet. Off-balanced and stumbling as blood rushes back to every limb, you nearly come crashing straight back down. König's firm hold on your forearm is the only thing that keeps you from taking an embarrassing nosedive into hard concrete.

Panting heavily behind the fabric of your mask, you groan as the world swims around you. König only spares you a few seconds to steady yourself and then he's making a sudden appearance in front of you and trading out his grip on your forearm to engulf your wrist–and subsequently almost your entire hand–in one large hand. He wastes no time in tugging you forward to follow in his footsteps.

You realize quickly that the time between the rest of the group leaving and König's undoing of your bindings hadn't really been more than a few moments–half a minute at most–, as the other members of König's team were just now turning a corner and leaving your field of vision.

How embarrassing, you think, it felt like a fucking eternity.

König easily uses his tight grasp on your wrist to lift you up just enough so you don't have to make the small hop off of the elevated ledge and out of the storage unit–thank fuck it wasn't your injured arm. You aren't sure whether to be annoyed at his blatant show of strength–seriously, the movement seemed entirely effortless on his part–or grateful you didn't have to make the jump. Your depth perception wasn't exactly the best right now and you probably would've just fallen right over. You doubted you would have even had the energy to catch yourself.

The walk out of this seemingly abandoned facility and back out into the scalding heat–huh, they must not have taken you very far–was surprisingly quick. Your barely lucid brain blocked out the majority of the dizzying twists and turns it took to find the exit. And soon enough you find yourself back in the loading space of that damn van.

This time you are mostly conscious, so you're granted the wonderful opportunity of bearing witness to the burning glares of the three other men seated on the opposite bench. König takes his place beside you and actively decides to not even glance in your direction. Instead silently communicates something to the other passive-aggressive passengers. Well, skull-face was definitely more on the aggressive side of the spectrum, but you were mostly certain he couldn't do anything. Or so you hoped.

The baby-faced one was looking at you with more curiosity than anything, a minor hint of defense hidden somewhere in those–why the hell does everyone here have the same eyes??–vivid blues. That barely concealed interest was more terrifying than skull-face's obvious death stare.

The Captain turned his attention to the Austrian beside you, nonverbally communicating his displeasure with a hard glare and deep frown. Ah, the dark-skinned man must've been the one driving the damn thing.

After a few more painstaking minutes of having a half-assed staring contest with the two men across from you, you give up and let your eyelids fall half-shut. Still nauseous with blood loss and possible infection, you pant lightly within the confines of your mask. Heat continues to build in the suffocating cloth and you let out another soft groan, unable to help yourself when you slump backward against the metal wall of the vehicle.

The ground moving beneath you does nothing to aid your current lightheadedness and you find yourself focusing most of your limited attention span on not vomiting in your mask. That would be a hellscape on its own to clean, and the humiliation would probably kill you off before the budding infection had the chance.

It doesn't take much time before you can no longer fight off the exhaustion weighing down the big ball of throbbing pain that is your entire body and your eyelids finally slip shut. Before you have the chance to force your eyes open again–this is definitely not an ideal place to fall asleep–a sudden heavy thwack against your mutilated shoulder does the job for you.

Your eyes snap back open, fully alert as you search out the culprit. You find König giving you a blank, deadpan stare and the venomous words sprouting on the tip of your tongue quickly fizzle out when you notice the van has stopped moving. In fact, you two are the only ones remaining inside. The other four are piling up just out of earshot, the backdoors wide open and showing off- well, nothing. It's dark and all you can make out are vague shapes in the background.

You huff and go to stand but König beats you to it. Still holding onto your wrist, he gives a sharp tug and you stagger out of your seat. You send him a seething glare but find that his attention is no longer on you.

König pulls you out the same way he had the storage unit; efficiently lifting you by your arm and out of the vehicle. You barely manage to keep your balance when your boots touch solid ground again and just that little bit of exertion has you sucking in ragged gulps of air.

When the Captain glances over to you two, König makes a show of lifting your arm into the air as if to say got it and the Captain gives a small nod in acknowledgment. You don't have the wherewithal to give a shit about being treated more like an object than a person, brushing it off and trading it out to take in your surroundings instead. Besides, it wasn't something you were exactly.. unfamiliar with.

Surrounding you is another compound. More well-kept than the storage facility you had previously been in, but still obviously worn. The stark white walls were practically glowing in contrast to the pitch-black, starless night sky. Besides some crumbling and scuff marks here and there–most likely from environmental weathering over time–the cinder block walls were almost pristine.

Your fuzzy, mush of a brain briefly considers asking König where the hell they had brought you, but your tongue is like lead in your mouth. Not that it really mattered, you highly doubt he would've told you anyway. You were a prisoner, after all. A prisoner who they were only keeping alive on the off-chance you could help.

Help with what exactly? You had not a clue. Hopefully, they'd soon get their shit together and tell you sooner rather than later. Then again.. what would they do with you once your use to them came to an end? Would they just end up killing you anyway?

Floodlights abruptly make an unwelcome appearance, bathing the courtyard in a blindingly white light and knocking that train of thought right out of your head. You cringe away from the sudden brightness, squeezing your eyes shut momentarily before blinking a few times in rapid succession to adjust.

You only have the time to register the sheer size of the compound before you are being tugged forward again and into the said building. As usual, you silently curse König's unfairly long legs and subsequent far longer strides as you try your damnedest to keep up. The nausea, burning full body ache, and pounding against your skull have yet to lessen. If anything it's become more of an issue now that you're not running on pure adrenaline.

You find yourself fumbling over your own miscalculated steps more often than you make a successful one, König having to more or less drag the majority of your dead weight along with him. The behemoth of a man doesn't even have the decency to make it look like doing so is any struggle. Bastard.

The interior lighting of the compound is somehow far much worse than the blaring exterior. You squint against the harsh brightness and it takes a few seconds for your pulpy mess of a brain to make out the shapes and colors in front of you. Or, well, the astonishing lack of colors. Dull shades of grey coupled with a blinding light. Perfect.

Someone's talking. Multiple someone's, really. But your ears are too stuffed full of cotton to make any sense of what's being said. The most you can do is try to read their lips–which proves to be futile–and try to gauge the emotional state of the men in the room.

The plainly, uniform-dressed men standing guard seem to not at all have a problem with the crew that had brought you in. Though obviously holding a subordinate position in comparison to the team, they shared easy smiles and small laughs with the group. The Captain appears to be keeping up a polite kind of façade–was this not his base?–as he converses with the two newbies. Skull-face, mohawk guy, and the Captain's obvious favorite all stand behind the Captain in an organized order. With skull-face standing the closest–was he some kind of right-hand man?–babyface and the third man stood at a respectful distance. Not too close, but just near enough to assist if needed.

König kept you a little more ways away from the others, a firmer grip on your wrist than before. It would probably hurt if the remainder of your body wasn't currently one giant sore spot. You realize why when one of the guards spares a glance at you and, spotting your eyes on him, immediately shrinks back and averts his gaze.

Ah, this definitely wasn't their base. Made sense. They all were clearly European and unfamiliar with the normalities of wherever the fuck you all were right now. Faintly, you remember the dark-skinned man complaining about how weird it was driving on the right-hand side of the road.

You're snapped out of your own musings by a harsh pull on your arm. A small noise of surprise escapes you and, before you know it, the guards are moving out of the way and you are being escorted further into the building.

Going off the darkness you had awakened to, it is obviously late at night, maybe even well into the morning by now, and the only people you all pass are all exhausted-looking security personnel.

König follows behind the other four down corridor after corridor, dragging you along behind him. Eventually, you all make it out into what appears like a sort of gathering place or common room. For a split second you think they're going to stop there, but, no, they keep going. Down more confusing hallways and through nonsense doors.

Then finally, finally, it all comes to a stop at an unremarkable metal door. Nothing on it, not even a little window, with the exception of the room number plastered next to it.

You squint at the numbers, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes. There's a small tugging in the back of your mind and, if you were any more aware, you'd almost say it was familiar. Huh.

The Captain unlocks and pushes open the door, then, before you even have the opportunity to protest, König yanks you close and shoves you forward. You stumble–again, seriously, did they think you were made of fucking steel??–through the doorway and only barely manage to break your fall on the closet wall. You stand there for a moment, panting and bracing against hard concrete, while the others file in.

If it wasn't for the unnecessarily heavy thunk you probably wouldn't have realized that the door had been shut. Your vision blurs then blacks out for a split second while you catch your breath, and the only thing on your mind is; how the hell am I not dead yet?

You're only given a few more moments of rest then you're being pulled by the wrist again. Unable to even really feel your legs anymore, the sudden brushing of something solid against the backs of your knees is all you have to tell you you've even moved. You don't have to be told twice to sit, hell, you probably wouldn't have been able to hear them if they had given the order.

You drop your weight instantly, unable to hold yourself up any longer. You can't feel much through the fabric separating your fingertips from what's below, but from the slight give when you press down, if you had to guess, you'd say you were seated on a cot of some kind. It's not the most comfortable, but it's the best thing you've had in a long, long while.

Lifting your gaze at the sound of someone's voice, you blink rapidly in a vain attempt at refocusing your vision.

"Hm?"

All four men standing in the room give you vaguely concerned grimaces. Well, you assume König and skull-face do, judging by the crinkling of their limited expression.

"I said-" the Captain begins. Not that you hear any of what comes after that. Head full of cotton and feeling simultaneously like you're both floating and being weighed down by a ship's anchor, you're left futilely trying to read his lips. But that only makes the pounding in your head worsen and you screw your eyes shut again.

Cradling your head in your hands you lean down, elbows propped up on your knees. You suck in shallow, shaky breaths, fruitlessly trying to get the proper amount of oxygen to the lump of mass that is your brain.

When your eyes flutter open again the lights have been dimmed just enough to take the edge off, reducing the strain on your eyes, and you immediately slump in relief. You think you mutter your gratitude under your breath, but, really, you're far too out of it to be certain.

A few more muffled words and the soft thumping of footsteps later and the door opens then shuts one last time. You look up expecting to see nothing but an empty room, a little caught off guard when that behemoth of a man is still looming near the door.

"We should really get you checked out," König says, giving a brief once-over at your disheveled appearance. Giving a noncommittal hum, you take a look down at yourself.

You had not bothered to take full stock of your person since the initial confrontation–and even that was a laughable inspection at best.

Every inch of your exposed skin–which, truthfully, wasn't much–was coated in a layer of mud and your own blood. Your thin civilian outfit was in a similar state of disrepair; caked in blood, more mud, and bits of stuck-on foliage as well. Accompanied with the occasional tear and hole here and there, of course.

"I'll get a medi-" Before he even gets the word out you're launching yourself up and off the bed. Charging at him despite how unsafe that currently is and reaching up to slam your grimy, gloved hand over where you assume his mouth is.

König quickly and easily peels your hand away by the wrist, staring down at you with less anger and more of a really, what are you doing? kind of look.

"Nie." (No.) You breathe as your only explanation. You had had enough of fucking medical staff in your time before your years-long solo operation began. Unknown injections, emotionless stares, and needles. Needles, needles, needles. So many fucking needles. You didn't visit those sterile, frigid laboratories often these days–though you were still required to come in every now and again for a routine 'checkup'.

"No?" König finally breaks through your suddenly hazy headspace–this time said fuzziness wasn't the result of excessive blood loss. You'd rather it were.

"Nie." You repeat again, and there must be something in your voice–something unlike yourself, something a bit too human–because König relents without further question and drops your arm.

"I can't really let you die on us, Maus." He points out with a deadpan stare. Then, probably realizing that phrasing sounded a bit too worried, he adds, "What use would you be to us then?"

"Let me do it."

"You can barely stand up straight and you expect me to hand you a needle?"

"I would rather me than you or some pea-brained white-coat." You huff, narrowing your still very unfocused gaze up at him. You hope it lands, you can't really see clearly right now.

König holds your stare for a few seconds longer before letting out a resigned sigh and looking away. "Fine."

He gives your uninjured shoulder a nudge with a gloved finger and rumbles a low, "Sit down."

You're about to bite back with some witty retort but the words get stuck in your throat when you realize just how close you two are. In your rush to cut off the words spewing from his mouth, you had somehow ended up crowding into his space in a very.. unprofessional way. Chest puffed up in a show of defiance and, subsequently, pressed right up against the other man.

That same, unfamiliar twinge in the furthest recesses of your mind from back in that god-awful storage unit begins to stir and you jolt away sharply. Jumping back and scurrying over to the cot at a faster rate than really necessary, as if that simple touch had burnt you. And, to be frank, it had. Indirectly.

König cocks his head, analyzing you for a brief moment, then shakes it off. Thank fuck. Having quickly averted your gaze, all you hear is some faint rustling and then his legs appear in your line of sight. A small first-aid box materializes from his hand and you lift your own trembling one to take it.

"Thanks." You mumble. You were a monster, not impolite.

König makes a light huff and retreats. Grateful for the, mostly likely unintended, room to breathe, you fumble with the kit before finally managing to wrench the damn thing open. Placing the box beside you on the bed you ungracefully free your first victim from its confines; your thigh.

Stab wound number one, thankfully, has stopped bleeding. On the other, far less favorable, hand, the injury is already a burning, angry red. A light poke at the inflamed skin with your finger has you hissing against the sharp sting.

Deciding keeping up appearances was much less important than your health, you make efficient work of removing both gloves. Also soaked with mud and blood, they would do no more than worsen what was already the beginnings of a very, very serious infection.

There's a bottle of saline solution in the kit and you uncap that first. Folding the bled-through, makeshift bandage in half, you use it to catch the liquid rather than letting the filthy solution drip onto the floor. After flushing out the wound as much as you can–without running the bottle dry, you've still got another to clean–the next step is the worst of them all. Stitches.

If you had it your way, you wouldn't use them at all. You had a tendency to forgo using a needle and thread whenever you could–only stooping to that level when it was absolutely vital. Like right now.

Even then, you only knew one form of sewing; intermittent sutures.

Tearing open a sterile needle packet you, surprisingly enough, make easy work of threading the surgical cotton through the eye of it. Pinching the slice shut with your non-dominant hand, you position the end of the curved metal about a centimeter from where the damn thing starts.

The first pierce of the needle into your tender flesh forces a strained whine from your throat, eyes beginning to water. You blink away the budding tears, exhale a shaky breath, and tie the thread off.

One suture down, an ungodly amount remaining.

Your hand only gets more unsteady as time goes on. Making each stitch more lopsided than the last.

Your vision swims for a brief moment and you swallow back the growing lump in your throat. Come on now, you can do this. You've done this so, so many times before. What was so different this time around?

Just a few more to go. That's all. Then you will be done.. well, then onto the puncture in your shoulder. The shoulder that also happened to be connected to your dominant hand. Great.

"Maus."

You can do this- just stab, push through- wait no, not like that. Pull it out again. Now, do it properly this time-

"Maus." Black gloves invade your sight and you grunt, trying to look around them.

The next time the needle pierces your skin it goes in just short of perfectly–success!–but it's good enough. Will keep your blood in, at least. Then comes tying it off and- come on, don't be difficult now.

Just toss over- like tha- wait, no. Just lift and- fuck.

A low rumble is all you hear and then those gloved fingers are wrapping around your wrist once more and effectively halting your progress. You huff, looking up to glare at him only to find his own hardened gaze staring down at you.

"-keep trying, you are only going to hurt yourself." Wait, had he been talking this whole time? "Then what use would you be then, hm? You would be of no help if you died because of your own damn stubbornness."

You feebly try to tug your hand back, but he doesn't budge, simply using his other hand to pluck the needle from your hand. Narrowing your eyes, you do the only thing you can do; throwing hundreds of imaginary knives at that stupid smug look in his eyes and internally cursing him out.

After your two's little staring contest goes on long enough for your captured hand to start going numb, you relent. Letting out a heavy sigh and dropping your gaze.

König makes a small noise of approval and releases your wrist. You don't watch as he finishes up the mess of stitches sewn into your thigh, nausea returning with a vengeance and forcing you to shut your eyes again.

He finishes up relatively quickly, faster than you probably could have in this state, and rinses the wound again before pasting a bandage over it.

"I need you to look up."

"Hm?" Light pressure under your chin causes your eyelids to flutter back open and you frown.

"Wha-?"

"Up." He reasserts, using his guiding touch to urge your head up and out of the way. Forcing you to straighten out your shrimp-like posture and provide König with access to your injured shoulder.

Said shoulder that was more bruises and blood than it was untouched flesh; able to get a decent look at it now that König had removed the sloppy work that was your mess of torn fabric and duct tape.

He repeats the same steps you had to clean the wound and this time you watch. Less so keeping an eye on the weeping wound and more so on the hand sticking the–new, he had discarded the one used on your thigh–thin metal through your skin. He's surprisingly delicate with it, despite his size he is far more precise with his sutures than you had been. Carefully inserting the needle and tying off every knot with practiced ease. Unlike you, he hadn't foregone his gloves, and that's why you notice it when you do. Having been so attuned to his busy hands.

His gloves are still stained with your blood.

Coated in a thick, dried layer of it. Dark against the already black fabric, flakes of crimson chipping off and drawing your eye.

It was the only part of him that showed any hint of wear from the morning's efforts. Every other inch of his uniform was speck-free, not a single item out of place, scuff mark, or splatter of blood.

It didn't make much sense for you to be fixated on such a minor facet after the laborious events of today. There were so many other things to draw your attention. Like the repeated motions of the curved metal puncturing your skin over and over again, for example. Or maybe his close proximity–accompanied by that weird feeling again.

But, no. Every last bit of your remaining attention span was focused solely on your own blood marking his hands. You sounded insane, even to yourself and that was an entire feat of its own.

You release a small breath of relief when he pulls away, slapping on another thick bandage over your second, freshly stitched injury. Then comes a sudden sting right above your eyebrow and you jolt away with a hiss.

Refocusing back into reality, König is still standing above you. Only this time he's welding an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball, also tarnished with your blood.

"Cut is deep." Is the vague explanation you get, coupled with a small gesture to your face. "No stitches will be needed. But,"

He reaches down to rifle through the first aid kit and makes a soft sound of victory when he finds whatever he's looking for. Holding your face still in one hand, he dabs at the cut a few more times before switching sides and drying it off. König throws the dirtied cotton along with wherever he'd discarded the scraps of your clothes and other miscellaneous trash.

Next comes another burning sting as he presses something over the wound. A few 'something's.

"A few pieces of tape should do the trick." He muses as he smoothes the sterile strips against your skin, the faint metallic scent of your own blood flooding your senses. Gross.

You really needed some sleep, or maybe it was finally time to check yourself into some kind of mental reform. Seriously, this was getting out of hand.

"Now," König pulls away for the final time, doing a brief scan of your exhausted form and nodding to himself. "Sleep."

You half expected König to leave it at that, to exit the room like the other four had. And probably lock the door behind him. Your hopes are crushed when he takes a seat a few feet away from your cot, settling into an uncomfortable-looking chair you hadn't noticed beforehand.

Oh, right. The Captain had assigned him as your personal babysitter. How fucking lovely.

Scooting back to slump against the wall furthest away from the other man, you send him a weak glare. Wanting nothing more than to argue that you can't sleep like this–not with him watching over you like some damn stalker–you find that when you try, you can't.

For what feels like the millionth time today, your eyelids droop until you cannot resist any longer. Falling completely shut and likely not going to open for a while, you give in. Unable to find it in yourself to give a damn right now.

Besides, you could.. moderately trust König wouldn't murder you in your slumber. He hasn't yet. And that seems to be enough for your sleep-deprived brain, as sweet unconsciousness soon drags you under.

___

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(finally figured out how to tag y'all properly! Sorry bout that. Thought I was doing it right this whole time 😞)

@cptg00s3 @ruthgrimxiao @20nerd04-blog @gloma08 @mikahrh @in-down @hauntedapplefarm @mello-life69 @unkn0wnd3ad @tayaisback @starre-eyes @ravage-reposts @suhmie

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[itsclydebitches]

The Bumbleby scene feels too random at this point. It’s like they literally picked the scene out of a hat to “confirm” it. As you mentioned, the don’t even hold hands. You’re telling me that’s more intimate than the freaking cheek holding head touched in V8? Wait a minute, didn’t everyone think BB started back in V6 after they killed Adam? What the fuck is even going on anymore?!

People have always shipped it, but yeah, 'canonizing' them started post-Volume 3 and ramped up into 'Oh damn I think they're really gonna do it!' territory in Volume 6. We've got:

Yang grappling with Blake leaving post-Beacon. (She's not, for example, similarly concerned that Weiss 'abandoned' her too. Yang shouldn't have any idea that Weiss was essentially kidnapped by her dad)

Tender and then rejected hand-holding in the shed at the farm

Agreed upon hand-holding while fighting Adam which, yeah, a lot of people read as the moment they 'solved' their relationship troubles, seguing into something new. Hand-holding is often used in RWBY to indicate a romantic relationship, the only problem with using this as a confirmation is that all our other examples also have something more overt: Saphron and Terra are married, Nora kisses Ren/he says "I love you," etc.

Adam's "What do you see in her?" line. Although, this one is severely complicated by a contradiction in the fandom. Many fans claim this implies that Adam recognizes Blake's interest in Yang precisely because she was once interested in him - how can you like her over me? That's compounded by his motivations changing from being politically focused to what feels like stalking and hunting down an ex. However, these fans don't want to admit to the other implications that Blake and Adam were an item due to a lot of anti-men sentiments, biphobia, gold star lesbian nonsense, and the like. Basically, some fans want to use Adam's potential relationship with Blake as proof that she's in a relationship with Yang now, but not actually admit that they ever had that relationship because ew, how could perfect Blake like a male villain? There's also some of that with Sun: fans using Blake's interactions with him to support an interest in Yang ('She has a type!'), but simultaneously denying that blacksun was ever a possibility because that supposedly (not actually) threatens the sanctity of her One True Sapphic Love.

Forehead touch after Adam dies + a promise to never leave

More hand-holding in the airship

Blushing over Yang complimenting her haircut

Having fun pre-outing in Atlas that kinda implies it might be a date, but no one actually establishes it as a date and everyone is going out together, so...

Taking silly pictures together when they get their licenses

Nora's comments to Ren about how they're likely more than friends

Yang being worried about Blake even though she fought with Ruby

Yang tenderly cupping Blake's cheek when they're reunited

Blake loosing it when Yang "dies"

Tackle-hug when everyone else gets...uh, a knee touch?

Blake being flirty, leaning in, finger brush

Weiss' "It's about time" comment

I've probably missed some stuff, but the point is that it's been four years (or even six years depending on how far back you're willing to go) and we're still in this flirty, teasing, ambiguous stage where, as demonstrated above, reading a romantic relationship often requires making a lot of assumptions that rely on having a lot of trust in your writers. I don't know if I'd call all this random, but it is a holding pattern. They blush, hold hands, and others vaguely comment on what they might be. But unlike our straight couples, we're not given anything solid to canonize them with.

I mean, even if you're a fan who believes that these little breadcrumbs are enough to prove the love between them (and here I'm addressing the fandom at large, not you specifically, Happygaynoises2) we get how the queer couples aren't given equal treatment, right? Pyrrha kissed Jaune. Nora kissed Ren. Ren said "I love you." Jaune asked Weiss to the dance. Weiss blatantly chases after Neptune. Ozpin marries and has kids with Salem. Everyone but Adrian has married, straight parents.

Compare that to our queer rep (with May being an exception due to her gender) and it's pretty obvious that this glacial "slow burn" has less to do with the needs of the story and more about RT hesitating to make two of the main girls unambiguously queer. After all, if most of your fans are happy with those breadcrumbs and a canonical relationship would drive away the homophobes... why not just toe the line to keep both groups around, giving you more money?

That's a form of queerbaiting and it's why so many of us remain nervous. I seriously hope given what we've seen so far that this will FINALLY be the Volume when we can set the 'Will they, won't they?' to rest. But who can actually say.

[the-firebird69]

A $120, 000 diameter planet surface area is a lot and one 10,000 MI diameter planet by comparison you need 200 of them so I think there are many smaller ones and several very big ones and potentially a couple that were in half and left and combined because the tunnels are not round and our examination of Antarctica confirmed that also the date of the disturbance in Antarctica is before the fleet and the incident and the date where new crew boarded the death Star and a whole bunch of them where we leave was well after the incident it's an important date. It means that the death stars were returned after the incident and to the remaining fleet not the fleet that had an issue I could go one way or the other and we don't think so so what exactly happened and why would we think that it places them in and amongst all these ships with a lot more death stars than you thought and the question is answered with the surface area of what it looks like a 120,000 mile diameter death Star and there could have been drones and the drones could have simple systems where redirects the lightning or microwave energy and we think they have those too tons of them we found a few this is not good

Billium

I told someone that they're singing on it with their fat ass they're never going to let it out and we have to find it

Zues Hera

I went up there and they're smiling and said we know why you're here and it's nothing silly and he said circumference and diameter times something so we started laughing they started and that's the problem and all the sudden I said this we got to get the hell out of here and they had computers that were fast filling in for the communications they had the most up-to-date passkeys and really there's a little time they look pretty good this day no but still the voice sounds the same I'll tell you what this always a mess up there and this is kind of normal but you can't see those things is the difference will and Bill have a few we might have a few this is this is what they should have been after but apparently they're leaving breadcrumb some purpose and he says yeah it seems their man and they're leaving their heavy hitters behind who can program and not really the clans but I can hang around for quite a while as a heavy hitter programmer and that's really absurd what he's saying is terrible but he knows it's not really the greatest and he would have to do something and at that point it would be misery and he says other things but okay we need to get going on this and I've been seeing it all day and we need this insane people away from him this news needs to get out

Mac daddy

We see why it's important but we have drive and yet sick and it's wrong it's usually misplaced we've chasing a small stuff and stupid people people don't have anything and that's pissing us off and we're motivated and we're going to go for it and what he says is the enemy is going to be a disaster for anyone the max or him or them really and in between is not where anyone wants to be except for people like me and I agree

Trump

Google f*** out of here get the f*** out of here that's what he's been saying not Google but he's been saying it and he kind of means it and it doesn't care and I'm starting to see why and he's laughing and he says nobody noticed all those damn ships and we knew about it and we're told it wasn't so he started looking for the diamonds to find out Tommy f was getting ready and he was our hope and you started attacking him no people did and the max are having it done and it came out later and all sudden people said this we're too then they heard about Jesus Christ and now they're saying we're doomed again and what you say is hold on your hands even though it's not that many ships it is the max it's a different ball game he says they can tie their shoes six times a day get up in the middle of the night and five times more and run through darkness and still get where they're going and we can't and we probably won't understand it but that's life I get what you're saying they're not discombobulated all the time and they have the mass straight and they know how to do it and the math is always there and they're focusing on the physical world now this is gross but it's hard for us so we're getting that and everybody knows about it no but we are starting to see what you're saying we don't know the status exactly yet either they fed them the ball idea that was part of that and this is what I say wow cuz the death Star could make a bigger lasers and I do understand why it's the cloak so we're moving out right now

Jenna

Now the song is on and it makes sense he says the partial but he's going to sing it and it's going to go back somehow and it is about John remillard and when he ruled the world and he's going to sing it and he's going to know that it's a lot of problems going on

Mac daddy

And oh okay it's really me probably

..

It's actually your character Mac

Ben Arnold

I got to tell you something people are actually praising me and now I get it

Mac daddy

It's partially me but yeah it's him

Trump

Olympus it's been a real pain in the ass and he's been the ruler for a long time he says he's still rules that's what he's saying that remains to be seen

[northrnfool]

You make a really good point and I reread only the quotes without the context of the authors opinion, but based off the comments from Kate and the showrunners, plus fact that everything we got onscreen was vague enough that, yes we could see it as romantic as shippers, but many could watch it and see it only as friendship leaves me a little dissatisfied. I love that they’re still so important to eachother, as is it’s an absolutely beautiful relationship, but after 7 years of breadcrumbs ultimately leading to disappointment at the end of the show, letting this ship go, and getting to revisit them all these years later, I was just hoping we’d get enough confirmation that (and I know this probably sounds petty) the general viewers would see it too. As far as I’ve seen, no one writing about the show has addressed it as a romantic relationship. It’s not confirmed enough to change their status in their character profiles. And we’re left with comments about how a clear romance would cheapen their relationship, kind of patronizing to the shippers.

I do love the relationship they do have onscreen, and I have all the respect for you and everyone else who are satisfied with what we got. I’m really glad this show has given a lot of the fans a satisfying resolution to J/C… honestly, if I was left with this instead of C/7 at the end of Voyagers run, I would’ve been so happy.

[iwillgiveyoumyhappiness]

Xu Minghao (徐明浩)

Happy belated birthday, @aliceu!! You always tease me with this concept (because of that SINGULAR typo I made that one time), so hopefully, I can beat you at your own game and make you soft with this! You’re always so kind, fun, and accepting, and I hope your birthday was the bestest. Love ya!

.

.

.

You and Minghao bust through the front door of your apartment in a flurry of damp hair and wet limbs, trying your best to escape the sudden vicious downpour outside. You slammed the door behind you like you’d just escaped the clutches of a pursuer.

There was a heavy moment of silence where you just stared at each other before breaking out in giggles.

“I’m so sorry!” Minghao got out. “I checked the forcast, but I guess...”

You shook your head. “No, no, it’s fine!” you assured him. “Your poor hair, though,” you said, pointing to his dyed locks that now trickled droplets of red down his ears and neck. You slipped off your wet shoes and socks, scurrying off down the hall to grab your matching bathrobes, leaving water droplets in your wake like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs.

Without really having to say anything, you both just naturally turned away from each other, peeling yourselves out of your wet clothes and slipping on the warm, fluffy robes. You both still looked like a mess, but at least you were warm. “C’mon,” you said, ushering him to the bathroom. “Let’s get you dried off.”

“What about you?” he asked, pouting a little.

“You first,” you insisted with a smile. “You’re gonna get stained if we leave you like that, and that’s not a cute look.” He couldn’t really argue with you on that, so he just let you lead him to the bathroom, sitting him down on the edge of the tub.

You grabbed a towel, gently drying his pretty locks. The rain trailed down the window panes in wavy lines, casting these dreamy, psychedelic shadows into the room. It looked like you were underwater. The occasional rumble of thunder felt calming, and somewhat like the ocean’s rolling waves.

“You’re very pretty,” Minghao said, entirely unprompted and out-of-the-blue.

You furrowed your brows. “Oh, is that so?” He nodded in confirmation. “Well then, thank you. Kinda random, though.”

“I’d just been thinkin’ about it for a while,” he shrugged. “Not just today, but like, all the time. And having you here, soaking wet but still choosing to take care of me first, and being so careful not to pull my hair—it just feels domestic, and y’know... I wouldn’t mind stuff like this happening all the time.”

You smiled, a glint of mischievousness in your eyes. You knew exactly the intention of his words, but you couldn’t help but tease him. “You wish we’d always get stuck in the rain? What a weird fantasty.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile was obvious. “You know what I meant,” he said. He sighed contendedly, staring up at you. Wordlessly, he rose to his feet, taking your hand in his own and placing your other on his shoulder. Slowly, he swayed you back and forth, starting to hum a tune after a moment.

The bathroom was too small for any big movements, but he held you close to maximize the space. You could feel his cold skin pressed against you, but for whatever reason, it felt so warm. You giggled at each other as he spun you under his arm.

You teased him, as you always would, but you’d have to admit... You could get used to bathroom dancing with him, too.

[tomatograter]

New to the fandom, Could you explain June? 💯 Love and support her. But homestuck 2 doesn't have her and I'm just confused?

June Egbert precedes the concept of homestuck^2! I’ve seen a lot of people be confused about this because they weren’t active on the fandom at the time the epilogues dropped, when reading her as a trans woman got a lot of discussion going and eventually lead to multiple confirmations.

So here’s an attempt at contextualization:

Throughout Homestuck, a few key ideas about Egbert’s identity and motivation to push forward with her hero’s journey are dropped like breadcrumbs. She’s meant to play the default straight-man protagonist. Her defining traits are ridiculously… generic, when compared to how all the other kids present themselves and stick to exaggerated bits. She’s a perfectly normal, regular suburban kid with normal, suburban issues. 

She may not leave her room a whole lot. She may not have a lot of real life friends in the neighborhood. She holds a comical irritation for the concept of birthdays, even though her father is extremely supportive, and is delighted to see his son grow up nice and healthy. There’s no reason for her to be so irrationally upset at cakes and gifts, and that’s what makes the setup funny! June doesn’t even know why she’s annoyed with half of the things that annoy her, what the heck.

But under all that playing around there is a sense that her life is so normal, so blasé, so unexciting and limiting and hollow and fake that she’d give anything to not be herself, even if only for ten minutes. This goes way, way back. It’s why June needs SBURB to happen.

June lives as though her life hasn’t started yet. She’s stuck in the Tutorial stage. I would argue while most kids (and trolls) play SBURB to escape a shitty environment or the end of the world as they know it, June plays for a simpler reason: She needs to escape herself, and she needs to do it before it is too late. 

Being thirteen means crossing the homeric abyss between being a child with no care for the world sporting a generic hand-me-down identity and becoming a Teen (capital T) who needs to figure out how to cope with atrocious bodily changes while building the adult they’re meant to be AND deciding what the fuck they want out of life, and how they’re going to work to get it, forever and ever.

When you’re trans, and you don’t yet know you’re trans (or that this is a thing you’re even ALLOWED to be) the above feels a lot like serving a life sentence for an intangible crime.

You know what you’re supposed to do. You’ve seen it on tv, you’ve heard it from your dad, you know what are the normal trials and tribulations. You know you'll grow a few pimples and stubble and you'll need to learn how to shave, obviously, because it's basically a tradition in your family, and no one is really happy to be a teen. You know at some point you'll find a nice girl and you'll grow a hat out of your skull and then you will have to pay taxes and maybe you will have a baby daughter? You'd like it to be a daughter for no particular reason. And when you get a daughter you're going to name her Casey and she's going to be adorable and this is something you've dedicated a lot of thought to. Maybe its because you thought Nic Cage looked really cool with those long flowing locks in con air, the movie who featured a trans woman as a minor character for a few minutes (and she gets quite a bit of compliments, regardless of how the movie has aged), and he had a really exciting life, but goddamn did he love his daughter. There is no purer love than the bond between a father and his daughter. 

This absolutely has nothing to do with your father and you, or how you hold no excitement for becoming an adult man, or how your father's excitement for you becoming an adult man in your stead feels a little stifling.

But i digress.

June spends her time on SBURB mostly hassling karkat, and readily following the instructions of zany, dangerous, COOL girls that seem to know what they're doing. June lets Terezi lead her to certain death without blinking. June lets Vriska dress her up as soon as opportunity presents itself. June thinks its really funny to trick this troll Who Types Really Oddly into believing she's Rose, and also into believing that she's a very silly girl. You may even say Homestuck employs a few of jokes pertaining to how her name looks like EGG !

June has a ball playing this game until it starts to get shitty. She's never able to mend her relationship with her dad, as he's one of the first causalities. She has to spend a lot of time waiting around with jade on a ship until things get cool and exciting again, but she never stops growing during those three years. Its fine, though, because there's always more things to be done and more people to fight.

Until there aren't, and they make a new earth, and while everyone cheers and claps for the birth of a new planet June realizes all her excuses are over. Her friends begin to grow up. Rose gets married. Jade is living her best life. Dave has a not-boyfriend glued to his hip. Jane has a job. Jake is on TV for some reason. June doesn't want to leave home. June's birthday is around the corner again. Here come all the congratulations for becoming a strong lad for yet another year! Vriska is gone. Terezi is gone. SBURB is over. Wacky hijinks have been swapped for real-ass, boring-ass Regular life. We watch her unsuccessfully chase after the glory of days gone by when Rose presents her the possibility of going back into the game, when things were cool and mattered, or her flimsy decision to settle down with a nice girl she hasn’t really made an effort to know and become a father and be absolutely miserable for four decades as she asserts nothing is real, not anymore, and this is just how it is.

Depersonalization, depression and general apathy towards the world are all pronounced aspects of dysphoria that seem like unrelated incidents for someone who hasn't came out yet. June's trainwreck of a life post-game, specially her feeling of hollowness and chasing after anything that could fill it struck a chord with trans readers who left the epilogues to read HS again and discovered this has always sort of been here. June being a trans woman who doesn't have the proper vocabulary to express she is a trans woman makes a lot of earlier bits from the comic click into place, now in a broader context. We settled in the name "June" because it's what she imagines Vriska is calling her at some point, amid laughs, but even that was discussed for a lengthy period last year. What would she want to be called, what are possible tags for this, etc. But it was mostly for fun and games, because the prospect of the protagonist of a 10 year old beloved cult series being ACTUALLY confirmed as a trans woman just wasn't something that was done.

Until word got around to Andrew Hussie and he was reportedly so pleased with this interpretation of events he’d be making references to it, and some time later, a box of toblerones was left in a cave as a gift for fans to find. The first person to find a toblerone thought it would be funny to dedicate it to June, because now she was an ongoing reference that was fun to make. Instead of it ending there, Hussie logs on twitter for the first time in a long while to say 'Oh yeah, i'll make it happen' and that's when the whole thing exploded. I have a post detailing this made a year ago (with pictures!) so i won't keep you here.

In the year since, June has been vaguely alluded to in Pesterquest (in jade's end card, she's having her nails painted by rose.) Has been widely adopted by the community, those making their own fanventures and continuations, and the team behind Homestuck^2. In every way that matters, she's already thriving within the community that brought her to light a year ago. But her coming out in canon is something that will take time and a proper narrative arc to happen, one that is still being set up. We know it'll come eventually, the only question is “how”.

Not that the wind waits for anyone.

[fairestwriting]

Hi there and Happy spring! I'm new to your blog, so I hope I'm doing this right- anyway, can I request some fluff/romantic headcanons for Malleus, Silver, Sebek, Vil, and Epel sharing their first kiss with their fem s/o on a picnic please? Thank you!

happy spring to you as well!! i hope you enjoy your stay in this blog ^_^

as a side note, i just noticed i write so much stuff set outside the pomefiore building...and the diasomnia boys have picnics around ramshackle because near their building its just. thorns.

(by the way, i have a ko-fi now, so if anyone feels like supporting my writing you can do it there!)

Malleus Draconia

You’ve known that Malleus liked outdoor dates since you two started going out like this, so you decide to surprise him with a picnic date.

It wasn’t anything too...fancy. You ask him about his favorite snacks and do your best to prepare them, then lay down an old tablecloth near the Ramshackle building, somewhere you two could see the moon well.

It’s the evening when you’re bringing Malleus to the spot you’ve picked, chirping about your surprise for him, and when you get there and tell him about your picnic plans, he’s a bit confused -- You’re nervous, thinking he might not have liked it, but then you realize he just didn’t know exactly what a picnic was.

It’s up for you to guide him through the motions. You explain to him that it’s just eating outdoors, really, usually on the ground like this. He follows you curiously as you instruct him to sit down, and you go on about the things people commonly did during them like storing the food in a basket, and the tablecloths...

“I thought you might like it, since we go for walks here so much.” You explain, nervously fidgeting with your hands a bit. Malleus hadn’t said much yet, just watched.

He’s inexpressive enough you’re afraid he really didn’t like it, so you ask him about it, but then a small smile appears on Malleus’ lips.

“I must say I’m surprised." He admits, with a tenderness in his eyes that you haven't seen before. "I'm sorry for the silence, Child of Man. I was thinking about how to thank you. But I believe I've figured it out now."

You're about to question what he means -- But then Malleus kisses you softly, your thoughts leave your mind as your eyes flutter shut.

When he pulls away, he's still smirking. Maybe he had been planning that, somehow...

Silver

After a couple of dates with Silver, you had noticed you needed to come up with more... low-energy ideas, at least for a while, because his perpetual sleepiness seemed to have gotten especially bad.

You two brainstorm a bit over lunch, when Lilia butts into your conversation and suggests a picnic -- And it's actually a good idea, especially now that the spring weather left the outdoors feeling more pleasant than usual. You two agree on meeting up next afternoon near Ramshackle for it, where maybe it wouldn't be the prettiest date spot, but you'd definitely have some time for yourselves.

Each one of you bring some snacks that you like, you arrange a tablecloth, and soon you were ready for your quaint picnic date -- Silver sits next to you over the cloth, head leaning against your shoulder, and you eat some cookies he bought while chatting idly about school.

When he falls silent in the middle of you telling a story about what one of your classmates did yesterday, you already know what to expect -- And when you turn to look at him, your suspicions are confirmed.

Silver is asleep, leaning against you cutely. You know it's not because he's bored, by now, and you planned this date so it's okay if he dozes off, so you don't mind.

But he looks so cute like this, eyes fluttered shut and expression so peaceful. You set the cookie down on the container, letting your hand pet at his silky hair for a while as you stare. He really was so pretty -- You leave a gentle kiss on his forehead, letting your fingers sort through his whiteish locks, and he stirs, eyes beginning to open.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty." You tease, smiling. Silver, still a bit half asleep, looks at you with half-lidded eyes. You're just about to assure him there's no issue he's dozed off -- Then suddenly his lips are on yours in a chaste, yet slow kiss.

"Retribution for you kissing me before." He explains, voice and smile drowsy as he does so, and returns to cuddle up to you.

Sebek Zigvolt

The picnic date is a product of your and Sebek’s current situation -- You’re his first girlfriend so he doesn’t know a lot of interesting date spots, it’s been exam season lately and you’re both tired, so something easy and simple seems ideal.

Today at lunch, right after your last exam, you tell him you have a surprise for him after all his activities. Sebek gives you a lecture about how he won’t put off any of his duties to see you, but after some coaxing you get him to cut some time from his studying, since exams were already over... and he comes to see you in the evening, at the exact time you had planned.

While he had been busy, you set up the picnic for both of you, and you show off proudly the food you got, put together over the tablecloth as you tell him to sit down -- Some you bought, some you made yourself. It’s mostly simple snacks, but there’s a sparkle in Sebek’s eyes.

You tell him it’ll be like a celebratory dinner for getting through such a difficult period in your school lives, and he’s actually quite excited for it. You sit down together and begin to eat, you listen to him talk about his day, everything is pretty sweet.

Pulling out some nice glasses you’d found stashed away at the Ramshackle attic, you suggest to Sebek that you have a celebratory toast, Sebek likes the idea, and you pour some juice for yourselves in it.

You two toast to your success in your exams cheerfully, he’s smiling quite brightly, happy to know that you’re proud of his efforts too -- As you sip your juice, you notice his face grows pink, you ask him what’s up. There’s a pause.

“...can I kiss you?” He asks, blurting out the question. You blink in surprise, blushing too, but you nod. Sebek blushes a bit more, he tentatively reaches forward... and his lips are on yours, all sweet and gentle. He smiles at you when he pulls away, happy to have had his first kiss with you -- Then you probably spill the forgotten juice on yourselves.

Vil Schoenheit

Isn’t really outdoorsy, so a picnic date isn’t the first romantic outing to come to his mind -- But when you two are taking a stroll on the woods close to Pomefiore and you mention how nice it’d be to have a picnic there, he gets the idea.

Vil liked surprising you like this, putting together all sorts of different dates to impress you, so he takes a couple days to make sure everything’s arranged nicely. He picks a nice spot on a flowering field, fills the basket with your favorite food, and on a Saturday morning, he comes to your dorm to tell you to wear your best sundress, you two are going on a picnic date.

You set up the picnic and eat together like any other meal you’d share, Vil points out the recipe for his favorite food items and fusses over you when you get breadcrumbs on your cheeks. The weather is nice, the sky is a bright blue, everything is so pleasant and you’re here, smile brighter than the sun itself.

He didn’t really bring you here with any second thoughts in mind but when you two are sharing a place of apple slices and you look around at the flowers with this dreamy look in your eyes, your beauty is so blinding to him, and he can’t help but remember he hadn’t kissed you just yet. Well, that just wouldn’t do.

“You’ve got something of mine on you,” He mutters, scooting closer, and during the second that you’re confused, about to ask what it was, Vil holds your chin delicately, tilting your face up as he steals a kiss from you.

Epel Felmier

Epel had been nervous since you two started going on dates, he really liked you and he wanted to do this right! So, lately he's been looking for good date ideas to impress you, and a picnic comes up.

He makes it a surprise! Tells you on Friday, fidgeting with his hands, that he wanted to meet up with you on the garden near the Pomefiore building tomorrow morning. When you get there, after some walking around the flowering bushes, you find Epel standing next to the little picnic setup, awkward but excited smile on his face.

It's a very classic setup -- The straw basket, the red checkered tablecloth. Epel actually has a sort of sappy, cliché romantic side to him. He announces the surprise, opening the basket to show you the food he's arranged for you two, mostly apple based snacks and some bread from the cafeteria. It's all so simple but so earnest you can't help but smile.

You two hang out like usual, chatting the pretty morning away, though it's visible in Epel's sudden cheerfulness that he's trying to impress you, and he feels as though he's succeeding, proud at himself for making his cute girlfriend happy.

"A-Ah, can I feed the cake to you?" He asks when he sees you've picked it up from the basket, and you decide to humor him. His eyes sparkle. You hand him the tupperware and the fork, and he takes a piece off the slice with it. "Say ah!"

You follow his suggestion, letting him feed you the piece of cake. You're a few forkfuls in now, all chuckles and content smiles as you chew your food, when his previously peppy expression falters a bit, and you see his face growing more red -- Well, he had been mostly just hyped about this, and being a good boyfriend, and all, but... he's taken off guard by how cute you can be.

You ask him what's wrong when he's setting the tupperware down, blushing like crazy, and he acts on impulse -- Even in all his clumsiness, Epel cups your face and surprises you with a kiss that lasts a while.

"What was that about?" You'll question, breathless and flustered, and he just mumbles, embarrassed, that you were acting too cute for him to handle, before quickly and excitedly asking to do it again.

[bikeandarrow]

"Wasn't nothin'," he assured her, and though his search for her may have nearly cost him his life twice over, he still meant it. She didn't need to thank him for looking for her, he was never going to just leave a child lost in the woods - not in the old world, and certainly not in this new, meaner one.

He couldn't help the self-satisfied smile that formed on his lips when she confirmed that she had stayed at that house after all. "Knew it. Told ya, Shane," he muttered under his breath. This whole time, Sophia had been leaving them little breadcrumbs to follow, and it felt like he was the only one that could see them, that could accept them for what they were rather than just random noise in the woods. "Think I found that place just maybe a few hours after you left. Couldn't figure out where you went from there. But it's alright, you're safe now. Gonna get you back to your mamma."

If he'd just picked a different direction, looked a little more carefully - but it didn't matter. She was safe now, and all she'd gotten from this adventure as far as he could tell was a sprained ankle. She'd be fine. He'd found her after all.

"'S alright. We'll take it in turns, yeah? I'll carry you so you can rest that ankle. and when I need a break you can stretch you legs a bit. It's gonna be a couple hours' walk at this pace, don't want you on your feet the whole time. We got a doctor at the farm - he's a vet, but did alright with me an' Carl an' T-Dog. He can take a look at that ankle for ya." He crouched down and readjusted his crossbow, gesturing for her to hop on. A piggyback ride would probably make it easier for him to carry her, and it'd make it easier for him to have his crossbow ready fast if he needed it.

Was it stupid to be so worried about a doll? Probably, given the circumstances, but that doll was special to her. Her friend had given it to her, and it was the last time she was able to see her, so that doll was the last little piece of her that she had to hold onto. So, for Sophia to know that she was safe and sound was a relief. “ Thank you for finding her … for finding me. ” The thought of returning to the group had been what kept Sophia going for so long. She was starving and weak, but the idea of stumbling upon one of the others, just like she had stumbled upon that other group, was something that the young girl prayed for daily. And now that she could envision this new life on a farm? Sophia was reeling with excitement, just ready to be back with her mom and have a little something to eat. Her eyes turned to Daryl when he mentioned their efforts to find her, telling her all about the setup they had left for her on the highway and his searches out in the woods, tracking her all this way. When he noted the house that she had slept in, Sophia smiled and nodded, “ Yeah … I found that place, hoped to find somethin’ to eat there and I did – nothin’ good though. Better than nothin’. I wish I had just stayed there longer, but stayin’ in one place didn’t seem like it was workin’ out too well for me. ” She gently lowered her foot back down to the ground as he stood back up, meeting his gaze once more. He had always been the serious type – quiet and mysterious, but it was nice to see this caring side of him. She was almost certain that side of him was reserved for special instances, and she was honored to be someone deemed worthy of that treatment. “ Okay … but if I’m too heavy, don’t be afraid to put me back down, alright? It’s not gonna hurt my feelings. I can walk, but I’ll just need to use you as a crutch. ”

[dethkomic]

I have a theory about the Doomstar in DSR granting Dethklok their powers. Is this also true for Nita and would she be getting the same power from something similar, or perhaps the Doomstar itself?

Get ready for a marathon question-answer-a-thon because I'm sick and it's helping me pass the time, goofballs!

So, I think in answer to the above, it's a solid maybe. I don't want to come off as knowing more than I know (which is very little to begin with in a lot of respects, hurr) but the theory you've posed, I believe is widely speculated as canon or practically canon. To me at least, it looked like the Doomstar was imbuing Dethklok with... well... something. And if that's going to lead to what most fans commonly refer to as their "god powers" or whatever coming to light, then it won't surprise me.

As for Nita, she isn't a God, if that's the implied question, here. But where she gets her powers from would potentially be the same source (whatever that is). Regardless, I don't think I'll explore that until we get some solid answers from the finale, if we do. For now, though, I'm on the side that assumes your theory is correct as it pertains to Dethklok, at least. Ask anyone -- I'm always on board for supermassive celestial entities going about distributing raw power to metal bands.

And it appears you have two questions in my pile, @hercannonyourface

Yes.

Caja is her legal name before she decided to shorten it to its male form, Caj. Skwisgaar might be doing this because he's known her since she was using her feminine name, or he might be doing it to be a dick.

As a writer, I just think it's great point of interest that she's genderfluid enough to give zero shits when Toki refers to her as 'he/him' with her preference being 'she/her' (and that the script for the very next update will see her apparently referring to herself as 'daddy'), but it drives her batshit insane that Skwis still calls her Caja.

Here again, I don't want to confirm any false assumptions that I know more than I do. I am using the Falconback logo in parts of this story as a sort of branding, and not a real allusion to the project as a whole. I feel it's just easier when it comes to plot devising to utilize it as something easily associated with General Crozier (at least, for the audience... frankly I'm damn impressed Pickles' fuzzy brain was on it enough to put the fact that he saw it on a missile's casing, and again on Cherry's tracking device, together).

tl;dr: We won't see the actual Project Falconback in this story. It's too early for it. But here again, since we know how season 2 ended, I've left it open enough to allow for the conclusion of canon to happen without anything within dethkomic getting in the way. At least, I hope I did. Watch us get a "it was all just a cocaine dream" or something for an ending. okay, I'm gonna shut up and not will that into existence, right now

Oh, for sure. Can't put out fever dream art and leave people hanging.

When it comes to knowing a little bit more about the girls in general, you're going to get a lot of back-stories right out of the gates once I start chapter four, here. I realize I have a lot of ground to cover in what I'm planning to be just 25 pages of 'komic left to go, and I don't want to have all the breadcrumbs I've been leaving lead to nothing.

You might be able to discern a few things from just the questions I've answered here, in fact, but I promise there's a lot more on the table, and I do have a script laid out that takes it somewhere. That goes for all corners of this question and what it could mean: The girls themselves, their mission and what it really is, as well as their connection to Dethklok on the prophecy front.

That's all I've got the brain power for, for now., gang Thanks for your questions as always, and remember... Dethkomic loves you!

[somedrunkpirate]

learn the dead | Arthur/Eames

Read here on ao3 or continue below Tags: Presumed Dead, First Time, Angst with a happy ending, pining Rating: T Wordcount: 5,4k 

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

Everything checks out. 

The hospital records, the police report, even the fucking local news because, to quote scruffy looking anchor, with a stutter no less, “There has— sn’t been an lethal acc—sident for over ten years on this s—street.” 

The information is bare-bones, but that isn’t remarkable for an open and shut case like this: drunk driver meets tree trunk. Happens a thousand times a year, and will continue to happen whether you make a fuss out of it or not. Write down the licence plate, try (and fail) to inform relatives, do the paperwork and get home on time for dinner for once. Simple as pie. 

Except. Except Arthur wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have driven drunk. His stick reaches too far up his ass to do something so utterly reckless in reality. 

That thought is what had spurred Eames to begin his search— there had to be something, anything, that could explain the whole bullshit situation. Even if that something is a hit, covered up like an accident. Then at least Eames would have some to blame— Someone to kill. 

But everything checks out. 

Even that initial discrepancy. Arthur couldn’t have been drunk, but after many phone calls and bribes, Eames had learned what Arthur could have been. 

He could have been high. 

His last job had been an experimental trial. Not with a chemist Eames knew. An academic who had shit his pants when Eames barged in with a smile as sharp as a knife— and a knife in his hand, of course. Wouldn’t do to be less than intimidating in this case. The chemist had spluttered into a rant Eames had understood half of, so he’d called Yusuf and held the phone up without responding to the cursing at being awoken in the middle of the night. But he’d caught on quickly, started to ask questions Eames wouldn’t have thought to ask. Then more, sharper. With a hiss.  

“What is he saying?” Eames had asked, after the chemist had run out of breath. 

“Eames—“ 

The way Yusuf sounded, a sigh more than an utterance. The tone of his voice as it tried to fold in pity— badly. Yusuf was never quite made for compassion. Though the attempt had been enough to haunt Eames’ nightmares since. 

“Eames. He’s dead.” 

The confirmation had come without fanfare in the end. Eames didn’t even kill the chemist, after. It hadn’t been his fault that the mix Arthur had taken voluntarily turned out to suppress reflexes when tired. Not tired as they would call it— after a rush job, when exhaustion nipped at your heels. Just tired; about to drink a cup of coffee tired. Arthur probably hadn’t even felt any different until it was too late. But it had been raining, and he’d been driving for more than six hours. It was no one’s fault that Arthur had lost control over the vehicle just in front of the only tree in a three mile radius.There had been a rabbit flattened between the car and the bark. He’d probably been trying to save it. 

A fucking rabbit. 

Eames had hung up on Yusuf without a word. It had been the last time he’d spoken to anyone for a long time. 

Except that isn’t quite true. 

“Well, darling, you’ve gotten me in quite a pickle.” 

The grave doesn’t respond. It never does. 

— — — — —

If someone had told him that his reaction to Arthur’s death would be to stand before his grave every day for a month straight, he'd have laughed his lungs out of his chest. 

It would’ve been sad, of course, to see such a talented colleague go. He might even have gone on a bender for a week— drinking away the sorrows that come with a lost acquaintance— maybe a friend. But he’d have better things to do than indulge himself for longer than that. He’d been indulging himself with Arthur for far too long, and death should have been the end to it. 

Because he had been thinking about it, sometimes, when he was feeling fanciful. You would have had to be blind not to see the chemistry. The push and pull that led to delicious flirtation — as much as Arthur wanted to deny it — and even more delicious dreamsharing. They made each other better and that was honestly the only thing Eames ever looked for, when, if ever, he thought about that nebulous concept of ‘settling down’. 

So yes, there would be something more to losing Arthur. Eames had known even then. It was losing that slight hint of potential. Though that is always a treacherous word. 

Because he never truly believed he’d make it that far— not just with Arthur, who would’ve laughed even harder if Eames were ever to confess his vague future plans for them — but with life in general. Why plan for something that would be cut short anyway? Even if Arthur could be persuaded to make something out of the spark between them, it would’ve been cruel to do so. Eames knew himself well. He wouldn’t have stopped taking risks, stop wanting more-- craving freedom like a drug. The idea to set Arthur up for inevitable heartbreak had been enough to avoid thinking about practical steps. A fantasy was fine. Eames got paid to live in them. He didn’t get paid for reality. 

So, Arthur’s death would of course be sad. But it shouldn’t have been more than another scar on his back— the punishment of the trade he chose, along with a whisper of nostalgia at losing a construct of his imagination. Even he wouldn’t have had the heart to keep the fantasy of a dead man alive for his own entertainment. A week, a few drinks, and it should’ve been over. 

It shouldn’t have destroyed him. 

“I just never thought I’d be the one left behind, darling,” Eames says to the wet dirt below him. It feels off to tell the headstone itself— the name is fake. Aaron Fister. Arthur had thrown a knife past his head when Eames had shown him the forged papers. To say he regrets the joke now is an understatement. 

“In all fairness, it should’ve been you here, it would make more sense for you to fall in love with me, once I’m not there to bother you anymore. Absentia makes the heart go fonder, hmm?” 

The dirt seems to be judging him. It’s good that some things never change. 

“I know— I know it's hypocritical. I didn’t even— I didn’t even love you. It was just a game. A fun thing to theorise about when the goings got tough. Would you be as snappish if we lived together? Would you forgive me faster if I sucked you off? Would you kiss me goodbye in the airport?” Eames stops himself, and rubs a hand over his face, groaning. “It’s humiliating, darling. I should’ve just gotten off at the thought of you like half of the dreamshare community was doing. Hand on or in their whatever and imagine you moaning next to them. But I had to be pathetic about it. Though this is reaching new heights, I must say.” 

He leaves, abruptly sick of himself. He comes back the next day, as always. 

Some days, though, Eames doesn’t devolve into confessions that make the little old ladies passing by their lost friend’s grave raise their eyebrows and linger by a random grave to listen anyway. 

Some days, Eames is angry. 

The first time, he breaks his toe in the process. 

“You bloody cunt!” He’s aware that he’s shouting, but he doesn’t stop. “Never experiment alone! Isn’t that what you fucking say to the newbies? You need someone to be a baseline. Someone who can bring you home safe. You fuck. Why didn’t you call me. Why didn’t you fucking—“ 

Kicking the gravestone had not been his best idea, but the pain of it brings a rush of satisfaction. There is— so much, inside of him. Eames is drowning in it, and the throb in his feet cuts right through it. Clarity. He kicks again. 

“You fucking bastard.” 

The old ladies have gone from curious to concerned now. Eames hobbles away, hissing, before he gets a restraining order on a grave. 

The next day he’s back, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and finds himself apologising. 

“I know— I never made it quite clear that you could call me, for stuff like that. That I would pick up. Maybe I wouldn’t have. Or no, I would have, but I might not have bothered for that. The jobs— I knew how to handle you on the job. But outside of that. I don’t think I would’ve had the courage. I wouldn’t think that way then, of course. Convince myself that I’m above errand runs like that. Throw you a bone recommending some up and coming kid I knew or something— intern type, for all that we have those here. But I don’t think I would’ve come. So it isn’t your fault. You made a mistake, not getting back-up, but it isn’t your fault. You didn’t know you had any. And I didn’t dare to believe I could be yours. That you would let me. That it wouldn’t end in disaster.” 

Eames leans against the cold stone and sighs. “’Suppose it has, already. Would’ve been too good to have it end any other way.” 

— — — — —

When Eames isn’t in a graveyard, or in a bar, he’s in the warehouse. 

It had felt too… personal, to get a hotel room for this. To do his research in a living room, as opposed to the dreary, dusty and echoey spaces where most of their professional relationship had flourished. It’s too big for a one-man job, but Eames had managed to fill it up anyway. Boxes upon boxes of information, any trace of Arthur he could find. Every email, record, police report, college paper— printed and archived. Eames can find his way through the documents blind and drunk. Arthur has taken over every nook and cranny of the warehouse— and every nook and cranny of Eames’ mind. Eames has read everything, twice over. 

If Arthur had been alive to know, he would’ve killed him. 

Because Arthur had always been a private person, for all that he pries in the lives of clients and collaborators both. He was the one who asked the questions and rarely answered them. It had always been a luxury— a rare reward, to be thrown a scrap of information. He’d always said something with that slight subtle smile, like he knew the power his breadcrumbs of personal life held over others. Everyone ravenous for more intel on one of the greatest pointmen of their generation. 

How horrible is it then to revel in the mountains of information that Eames had been able to gather after his death. He’d always known he’d had enough pull to find something, and after the inception job he’d had more than enough cash to buy the rest. But he’d never done it; at first because of the wrath that would quickly follow. Then because he’d known it would tarnish Arthur’s trust in him— something he’d wanted to protect at all costs. And then lastly — but maybe from the start — because it was so much more thrilling to learn bit by bit, piece by piece. To earn his knowledge of Arthur, and to ensure that his curiosity would never run out. He’d become slightly addicted to the feeling. 

But now, with no one left to tell, it had only taken the excuse of the suspicious circumstances of his death for Eames to turn into the hoarder he’d always known he could be. It had gotten to a point where new packages arrived every so often— criminals even beyond dreamshare having caught wind of an individual willing to invest heavily on any information. Someone had even hacked the pentagon to get classified documents. From the message on the box, the hacker thought they were helping a spy of some kind. Eames had sent him enough bitcoin to blow wind in the direction of that particular fire hearth of urban legend. He’d rather have people think there is a whole network of people digging into this, than anyone realising it’s in truth only one pathetic man. 

So Eames drinks. Eames talks to a grave. And Eames reads. It only takes him two boxes until Arthur makes him laugh for the first time since the car crash. It was due to a spirited essay on the importance of open source information that was clearly written to spite the professor leading the course, who’d been forced to give it an A+ regardless. Eames had chuckled, imagining the self-righteous satisfaction of this young Arthur as he got his grade back, and then began crying. Not to grieve the loss of a future he hadn’t realised how much he wanted, as is his wont, these days. But from the unfairness of it all. That a person like this, who had so much to say in this world, should’ve been taken so early, and in such a meaningless way. 

Arthur would’ve denied it, but Eames knows he’d only be content with a death from sacrifice . He’d shown that side of him clearly when he jumped into Cobb’s mess headfirst and without hesitation. If Arthur had died from a bullet taken for Cobb, Ariadne, or maybe even Eames, he would’ve been at peace— or as much as you can while bleeding out. 

Eames had known that, but as he learns more and more of Arthur, he realises how true it is. How, despite everything, Arthur cannot stop himself from being a silent hero. There are so many instances where Arthur, behind the screens, helps someone. Whether it was connecting the right people to each other under the mum of a potential project, or taking jobs way below his pay grade because he sympathised with the client, Arthur did not let their line of work destroy the possibility to be kind, every once in a while. 

It’s not like he advertised it. He didn’t do it in a way people would recognize his actions— which was smart, as it could be seen as a weakness in their circles. But whenever the chance came along, even if it was to his own detriment, Arthur chose the rough road home if it would ease someone else’s way. 

And this, Eames realises, is the secret to his competency. All other pointmen are expert researchers through and through, but no one had the reach Arthur had. Arthur knew everything, and if he didn’t know, he knew someone who knew— and most importantly, someone who would tell him. Eames doesn’t even know if Arthur ever realised that it was his kindesses, in and out the community, which led him into such a position of power. His actions are too random and inconsistent to be a strategic scheme to build an empire. Some of his biggest successes are results of a nicety five or ten years ago, something that he might have forgotten doing, but the people receiving it definitely haven’t. 

On the surface Arthur had been known as cool and effective— someone with a distance to the rest of the world that resulted in a highly detailed overview of any situation, even if it brought a side of professionalism to even the most informal of interactions. The people who witnessed a more casual side of him were few and far in between, but even those came away with the impression that to Arthur, doing the job in the best way possible was the only drive to his actions. 

No one had seen every little thing he did that had no other reason at all besides that he could do them for someone.

Eames maps out everything on the walls of the warehouse. And when he stands back to take it all in, he realises that more than anyone, the person Arthur had silently helped was him. 

Everything he’d done for Cobb had been grand and obvious, but more out of loyalty to Mal and her children than kindness without any other motivation. And Ariadne’s training had been as much for the inception job than for herself— maybe introducing her to the life hadn’t been a kindness at all. Continuing after could be seen as one, even if you could argue that her honing her raw talent would directly result in better and more stable dreams in later jobs. 

But Eames— what Arthur had done for Eames—

Eames can’t think of a single reason besides just being plain nice. 

Because it hadn’t been like he needed to. Eames had made him very clear that he’d be down for almost any job Arthur put in front of him. Just him being himself had always been enough, he didn’t need to do him any favours to persuade him like everyone else did.

And maybe Arthur had gotten the memo, because he’d done Eames favours without ever telling him, and those you can’t pay back. Eames had no idea the reason he got out of that trouble in Chicago was because Arthur bailed him out— it was presented to him as a procedure mistake. And then there was the Telula job, with an extractor-architect team Eames had wanted to work with for ages, but the chemist they’d been looking to hire was someone from Eames’ not so smooth first years of dream-share and he’d almost cut out of the job to not be forced to confront that past. That was until the chemist suddenly dropped out with an offer he couldn’t refuse— an offer Arthur had been behind. 

There were so many things like that. Little things, small things— warehouses next to Eames’ favourite restaurants; nuggets of information given anonymously through the channels of dreamshare gossip to hit Eames’ ears right on time before a betrayal; a job a week delayed because of Eames’ mother’s funeral. 

It’s not like Eames had been the only one, but he was by far the most frequent of all of them. More and more so over the years, like Arthur had been finding more reasons to be nice to him, while Eames had still been stuck in his pathetic imaginations, blind to what was already in front of him. 

A friendship. 

He’d been so preoccupied with his own flights of fancy, that he only realises how close they had been all this time until it was too late to experience it. Too late to thank Arthur for everything he’s done. 

The agony of it— the longing. His heart thundering with the sudden need to have Arthur in his arms, alive and real and—

“Oh god. I love him.” 

Eames drinks until he can’t remember. He manages to avoid the grave for a little while, but he doesn’t last long. Inevitably he’s pulled back to the grave yard, whiskey in hand, ready to talk to the love he lost again. 

— — — — —

His cemetery  routine— because he has one of those now — is usually to be at the grave around noon. Late enough to roll out of bed reasonably comfortably after a long night of drinking and/or reading, but early enough for there to be time left to check the new documents coming along and pay the right people before they send thugs to his hideout. 

But this time the afternoon light shines golden over the rows and rows of headstones and Eames shivers in the Autumn breeze. The old ladies are all dressed in fur coats. He recognizes some of them, and wonders if they noticed he was gone. None of them greet him as he passes, so he assumes not. 

Eames takes another sip of his bottle, allowing his feet to lead him over the familiar path up the hill, and then he drops his bottle all together. 

A man is standing before the grave. 

Tall, hunched a little in the wind. Long coat and thick black beanie. Nondescript. Anonymous. 

He does not turn as Eames nears. 

“You’re late.” 

Eames’ hand is on his gun at the first syllable, but before he can put it on his temple a leather gloved hand snatches it from his fingers. The clip ejects with a decisive click. 

Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. “Don’t be dramatic. We don’t need a scene.” 

His face— a little gaunt. His eyes— tense, intent, darker than they should be. Eames doesn’t recognize the coat. But he’s there, pressed in close to hide the gun between their bodies. His breath— warm, hits Eames’ cheek. It isn’t— It can’t. He can’t be breathing because he’s—

Eames squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of metal against the palm of his hand, the smell of gunpowder. 

A sigh falls between them. “It won’t work. This isn’t a dream, Eames.” 

The hell it isn’t. “Experimental somacin, three levels.” 

Raised eyebrows shouldn’t be audible only through speech. “Do you remember how you got here?” 

Eames opens his eyes and says, “Deep immersion dream.” 

Arthur huffs at that. “Do you really think they’ve been keeping you under for years? Fine. When have you last lost memories?” 

Oh, that’s easy. “Two days ago.” 

There is a pause, and Eames hates the fact that he can see the exact moment of tension in Arthur’s jaw that signals him suppressing a question. It’s too detailed, too precise, too re—

“Later,” Arthur murmurs under his breath, almost to himself. Like later is a given between them. He seems frustrated. His eyes keep flicking to the side and his hand hovers near Eames’ arm, like he’s trying to keep himself from hurrying Eames along and is annoyed that Eames is stalling them. 

“I’m sorry darling,’” Eames drawls, “but in case it has escaped your notice: we are having this discussion on your fucking grave, so forgive me for being reasonably sceptical about the reality of this situation.” 

Arthur breathes out a deep sigh, clenched teeth. “Eames, think about it, is there any forger you know capable of forging me in a way you can’t see through it? Or for that matter, is there anyone who would dare to try steal from the fucking person who invented the craft?” 

No. The answer is no. It hits Eames with a muffled weight. He wonders what his face is doing, but whatever it is, Arthur responds to it with a curt nod. It suddenly strikes Eames as absurdly hilarious, in the way only the most traumatic experiences can. 

“You know, complimenting me really doesn’t help with the reality argument. Never mind doing it twice. Death changed you, darling.” 

Arthur stills in the middle of putting the clip back in Eames’ gun. There is the slightest flicker of his lips, and he huffs. “Maybe it did— can I trust you not to shoot yourself the moment I hand this back?” 

“Come on now Arthur,” Eames says, “Don’t be so dramatic.” 

And there— there it is. Arthur rolls his eyes as he presses the gun into Eames’ waiting hands, and a part of Eames’ breaks with it. Still muffled, still numb, but something is lumbering closer. He can almost hear its laboured breaths. 

“There you are,” Eames says, smiling. “You don’t know how much I missed that.” 

It is a miracle he doesn’t choke on the words. 

“Glad to be remembered for something,” Arthur is saying, and now he’s pushing Eames— gently but with intent, away from the grave. “And I’d like to keep it that way, so we need to talk before your insatiable curiosity ruins everything I worked for.” 

Eames doesn’t know if it's the words, or the press of Arthur’s hand against his back— barely sensable beneath all the layers but even the slightest hint of pressure sets him alight— but all at once everything falls into place. 

“You faked your death.” 

“Have you always been this slow on the uptake?” 

Eames barely hears him. Reality is roaring and there is space for nothing else. Arthur isn’t dead. Arthur isn’t dead. They’re standing on Arthur’s grave— an empty grave. A lie. A trick. He’s been fooled because Arthur isn’t dead, he’s right here. He’s touching him because he isn’t— 

Arthur isn’t. He isn’t. 

He’s alive. 

Eames doesn’t say anything the rest of the way to wherever. If Arthur speaks, he doesn’t strain to listen. Because Arthur isn’t dead and if he hears anything at all he’s either going to scream or kick the shit out of him just like he did on that stupid fucking grave— just to check that this one isn’t made of stone but flesh and blood and he is alive.

His fists hurt from clenching by the time they enter a hotel room. Something of the turmoil must have reached Arthur because he’s gone quiet. The roar lets off the very moment the door clicks closed and Arthur stands before it, uncertain, almost as if he regrets closing off his only exit. His expression is one Eames knows very well— preparing himself for a fight he saw coming too late. But he isn’t reaching for his gun. He just stands there. 

He’s just waiting to take it. 

Eames kisses him. 

He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s—

A heartbeat feels more real when it’s underneath your lips. A pulse against a jaw— up, up to feel breath against breath. To hear the rush of it— a hitch of— of surprise. 

Strength— dead people don’t have strength and Arthur is pushing him so he can’t be dead. 

“Eames—“ 

Alive, alive, alive. 

“Eames! Wait!” 

Eames pushes closer. He places his forehead against Arthur’s, presses them both against the door. Arthur isn’t pushing him away anymore but his hands are still on his chest. Eames wonders if he can feel the beat of his heart. He hopes, quietly insane for a moment, that Arthur will never forget to make his heart beat as long as he is feeling one. As long as he’s given an example on how to live. 

“Eames,” Arthur says. A word, a question, a name. All in one. His eyes are wide. Breathing heavy— breathing, breathing, breathing— and he’s flushed. Sharp cheekbones stained red. Lips wet. 

Eames’ hands move of their own accord and cradle each side of Arthur’s face. 

“Let me, darling. Just let me.” 

Arthur breathes again. 

Eames trembles, trying to hold himself back. Trying to breathe. But one more moment and he will collapse and he can’t— he can’t risk it. He can’t risk losing another chance. He needs this as much as he needs Arthur to be alive. He needs to stop regretting not having done this when he could and now he can again and how can he let this undeserved second chance slip through his fingers. He has to. Please. He has to. 

Arthur’s mouth falls open. “Eames. Eames, it’s okay. You don’t have to— You don’t have to beg. It’s okay.” 

“Let me, Arthur,” Eames repeats, “Let me.” 

Arthur lets him. 

Arthur lets him do everything. 

— — — — —

It’s after when Arthur whispers, “I didn’t know.” 

His head is on Eames chest, moving ever so slightly when he breathes. In and out. Eames has his fingers tangled in his hair. The strands slip away when Arthur turns around to look up at him. 

“I didn’t know,” he says again. There is a rasp in his voice and his eyes are wet. Eames has never been apologised to like this before. Arthur sounds as if he believes sorry would be an insult, the word too small to encompass his regret. There is guilt there, in the flush of his cheeks, and the way he can’t seem to hold eye contact. His pupils flickering, microscopic twitches of shame. 

Sometimes he’d dream of this. Arthur’s return. A fantasy, a different one, yet still addictive like a drug. He’d expected to be angry, to want to spill his pain onto Arthur’s feet and watch him try and walk through it; burn in it. A stimulation of the magmatic life Eames has been living since his death. 

But now, face to face with an Arthur who is alive, Eames doesn’t want any of it. 

So he leans down, and kisses Arthur on the forehead, like a benediction, trying to extract the regret from his face. And he tells him, honest in a way he’s learned to be in the last scant weeks, “I didn’t either, darling.” 

Arthur doesn’t relax, but there is something about his misery that is easily pushed to the side for curiosity. 

Eames smiles at him and continues. “You were— you were a fantasy. A what if. Something amusing to think of when I was bored, or something  life saving to dive into when reality drew a knife and stabbed me with it— literally, sometimes. But it was always a fantasy. An escape. It— it couldn’t have become real, if you’d given it a chance back then.” Eames takes a breath, shakes his head. 

Arthur reaches up with a hand, frowning, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“But the trouble is, darling, it is incredibly hard not to fall in love with you the more I learn about you.” Eames smiles under his finger tips. “That is what changed. You never let me learn you. But who is to stop anyone from learning the dead?” 

Something flickers over Arthur’s face— guilt, again, but different. “I didn’t know you wanted to learn about me— I thought you only gave a fuck about what I could be for you.” 

Eames lays his hand over Arthur’s. “You’re right. I was blind— too blinded by the possibilities and too selfish to do anything about it. Maybe I needed to lose you in order to learn how to see .” 

“No— No I should’ve,” Arthur shakes his head sharply. “I should have told you. There would’ve been another way without— How long have you been drinking?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to darling.”

“Eames.” 

Arthur takes his hand off and moves off of Eames’ chest, sitting up straight. Eames follows him, struck by a sudden vision of Arthur slipping out of bed— out of his life, dogged by misplaced guilt and regret. He curls his hands around Arthur’s wrists, as gently as he can. Don’t trap him. Don’t chase him away. 

“No. It’s fine. We’re fine,” Eames hurries to say. “Why would you tell me? I was a colleague at best, bane of your existence at worst. I had— I have no right—“ 

“I should have told you because I did know you,” Arthur interrupts him. “I was supposed to know. You said possibilities? I am supposed to be the one who sees them— all of them. I’m the one who has to prepare for all scenarios, know the players, do the research and put the pieces together. That is what I do, Eames. And I missed something.” Arthur takes a shuddering breath, looking forlorn and tired. “I’m so sorry for missing the most important part.” 

“You can’t apologise for missing something that wasn’t even really there yet.” 

“Yes, I can. I’m sorry for missing our potential. For underestimating us. Underestimating you.” Arthur laughs. “I’m so fucking stupid. I thought you kept searching for me out of— curiosity. Or that I fucked up, left a trail somewhere and you wanted to prove to me that you found it, you figured it out. Fuck. I never thought it was because you missed me.” 

“I did,” Eames says, and it almost chokes him. “Every day.” 

Arthur looks at him then, eyes flicking to the side, his hair covering half of his face, but his smile is visible. “You know, I did too. That’s why I knew you were looking for me. Kept tabs on you, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.” 

Eames swallows at the sight— at the hope it instills in him. Arthur let him, yes. It could have been a kindness. But this smile, shy and bashful, and the words that follow it. Maybe potential comes in twos. “I didn’t keep looking because I missed you,” Eames tells him, because he has no time for secrets anymore, no time for regret, for either of them. “I kept looking because I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t bear it. Darling.” Eames slips his hands from Arthur’s wrists and puts them on either side of Arthur’s face instead, bracketing the smile. “You’re my future. You couldn’t be dead.” 

“I’m not,” Arthur tells him, like a confession of his own. “I’m not dead, Eames.” 

“Good.” Eames pulls him in closer, and Arthur lets him. He lets him trace the smile with his thumbs, lets him breathe close against his mouth and whisper, “Next time darling, when decide to you kill yourself. Kill me too.”  

The grin that blooms doesn’t fit between Eames’ fingers, so he kisses Arthur instead. Deep, possessive. Loving. Arthur lets him, and he never stops. 

[thanekrios]

The way fall smells

SUMMARY: Tommy always loved the distinctive scent of fall. After a day patrolling with Joel, he remembers why.

The leaves had grown old and begun falling, laying carpets of warm hues on every trail surrounding Jackson. Tommy took a deep breath, taking in the unique sharpness in the air that came with the last months of the year.

It had been a good day. They had patrolled until noon, everything clear – no signs of Hunters or infected– and after checking in, left for the rest of the day to hunt and walk, to talk and have a snack under the orange light of the late afternoon just like they did when they were young.

Joel was having a good day too; Tommy could see it. For the whole afternoon, his shoulders had been relaxed, arms resting at his sides; every now and then, he stopped to take in the shushing of the leaves or the landscape. He was at peace.

Over the course of two years, Tommy had seen how his brother’s sharp edges had begun to dull and a smile would come to him easier than a frown. He talked more, about Sarah and Tess and sometimes even about himself; he hummed around Tommy, sang around Ellie. For a long time, Joel’s hatred for everything was like an all-consuming fire. But Tommy knew that as catastrophic as fires could be, they could also restore – he had seen it with grasslands, entire fields cleansed by the flames, making way for new vegetation to thrive. And now, he had seen it with Joel.

“We should head back.” Joel said as he got up and brushed breadcrumbs off his jacket. “We don’t want it getting too late.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed as they began walking in Jackson’s direction. “Got any plans for tonight?”

“Watchin’ a movie with Ellie.”

‘You’re both welcome to join us for dinner if you like.”

Tommy made a pause and considered his words.

Whenever they had them over, it wasn’t just dinner. It was a series of stories from any period of their lives. The brothers grew more excited with each anecdote, Maria would bid them goodnight long after their plates had been cleared; and as their laughter turned loud like thunderclaps, Ellie began knocking down every miserable object in her proximity as she became overexcited while shouting No fucking way! Then came the guitars. More laughter and clatter. And before they knew it, Maria was walking out the door for an early patrol.

So, Tommy added:

“Before your movie.”

“Thanks, but we don’t wanna interrupt Maria’s sleep two nights in a row.” Joel’s eyes ran across the golden foliage, the corners of his mouth curving.

“Well, I’m sure Ellie would appreciate some leftovers.” Tommy found himself smiling as well. “I can leave’em by the porch.”

“Usual place?”

“Usual place,” he confirmed.

“Appreciate it.”

They walked in silence for a while, enjoying the brittle sound of falling leaves and with each step, they walked into memories.

Tommy loved fall.

He first became enchanted with it as a child. He craved the crunching of a dry leaf under his booted feet, having a hot drink when his lips were chapped, listening to Joel play soft melodies as the sun set fire to the clouds. But above all, he looked forward to the unmistakable scent of summer’s perishing.

Tommy knew he came across as simple, devoid of imagination. Even before the outbreak people had assumed there wasn't much to him, that he never dreamt of anything other than a job in construction, blindly following Joel’s steps. He knew why it was easy to believe he had chosen an uncomplicated life rather than having settled for it. He didn’t make any effort to correct anyone. His dreams had been his own. Truth was, Tommy had wanted to be a storyteller in his youth.

During his childhood, he imagined the playful winds that came with fall were whispering stories, travelling through the rattling orange and yellow leafed trees, there for anyone who was willing to listen. Tommy imagined, to escape the empty rooms, the absent parents. He opened his mind and closed his eyes to craft tales of floating homes in the sky and flying whales and homemade dinners.

Fall shaped each story and realm that sprang in his heart and imagination. He didn’t speak of any of them, for whenever he had attempted to put it into words, the intricacy of each story, the vibrance of every world, the heartbreak experienced by each character became colorless.  

"All imagination and zero talent," he confessed to Joel in his early teens.

Joel, who wasn't the wordy type either, comforted him the only way he knew how: by handing him his treasured guitar.

"You can tell stories with this, too."

By trading words for melodies, Tommy had compromised. If that was to be the only way to set his stories out into the world, it was enough.

Joel stopped and took in a deep breath, catching Tommy’s attention. His older brother let out a pleased sigh:

“I like the way it smells.” He didn’t need to say more, Tommy knew what he meant, but he continued, “Y’know, fall.”

He took in the words and allowed them to travel the usual road, back into his heart. 

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed. He buried his hands deep in his jacket pockets and filled his lungs with fresh air. He had heard that many times before but never from Joel. “Y’know, Sarah used to say the same thing.”

Something softened in Joel’s eyes, the look on his face echoing the one Tommy had seen on him countless times, whenever he had braided Sarah’s hair with so much care and tenderness it made it difficult to think of him as anything other than a loving father.

“Did she now?”

Tommy nodded:

“She said she liked the way fall smelled and then, uh, asked me what the smell was.”

“What did ya say?”

“I dunno, somethin’ dumb, like dust from a dirt road or somethin’.”

“That…that’s pretty accurate. Why’d you say it’s dumb? Was Sarah disappointed or somethin’?” Joel asked after a moment.

Tommy quirked a brow:

“Sarah? Our Sarah? That girl didn’t act disappointed a day in her life.”

“Yeah” Joel agreed in a whisper.

“But she asked me again the year after that. And then the one after that. And it kinda became a game we played. I gave her the thickest answers and she took’em. Then she started havin’ answers of her own.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d she say?”

“Well, a bunch of stuff. Good stuff. I think one time she said, uh, sharpened pencil. Yeah, that was it. Sharpened pencil. She also came up with…”

In recent years, Tommy had become an active forgetter, a problem that had triggered countless arguments with Maria. But those moments with Sarah, he remembered better than entire years.

“Apples, yeah. Refreshin’ and sweet and sour. There was, uh, wet soil after rain and hot hay dryin’ in the sun.”

“That’s…that’s a good one” Joel chuckled before kneeling to tie his shoelace. Tommy was certain his brother was only pretending to do it to shield his face. Then, as he stood up, he held his gaze. His smile was wide, eyes gleaming. “What else?”

Tommy didn’t have to think too hard. He knew just the one.

It had been a late afternoon, two days before the outbreak. Orange tinted the town as if the moment already belonged to a memory. Sarah had a plan; she would go to Tannhaus Watches & Jewellery to get Joel’s birthday present and he would go to the bakery next to it and place an order for a cake.

“Divide and conquer!” Sarah had repeated on their way to town.

The breeze carried the earthy sweet scent of the piles of leaves, tickling his nose. For once, he had decided, he would ask the question first:

“What does fall smell like?”

It had taken her but a few seconds to whip up an answer, taking Tommy by surprise:

“Fall smells like you, Uncle Tommy.”

Tommy’s words had died in his throat. He looked down, speechless still, and rested his eyes on her smile, equal parts sweet and smug. The realization of never having felt more loved dawned on him—it was a similar sensation to floating downstream. He felt weightless.  Tommy remembered how when Sarah was little, they spent most of their time lying on golden grass, looking for shapes in the clouds or loudly singing along in his car. Sometimes they sat on the porch and drank extra sweet hot cocoa and he told her – in his own convoluted way – the stories he had told himself as a child to feel less alone. Tommy had reminded her, through his stories and his terrible mac and cheese dinners, that he would always be there for her – just like Joel had been for him.

“Alright. You win, sweetheart,” he said when he meant to say Thank you, I love you too.

Sarah had wrapped her skinny arms around his waist. She would never do that again.

They made their way down the street, their sneakers brushing against the asphalt, the musky fragrance of wisterias faint in the air.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to win but I’m glad I did.” And she had meant I love you more.

Jackson peered through the trees, lights dotted across the county. The temperature had dropped, the chill bit at Tommy’s ears, pink shading his cheeks. A big lump had formed in his throat — there was no way he would be able to speak without his voice breaking. It didn’t matter, he wanted to share it with Joel. The words poured out of his lips as tears ran down his cheeks. He stopped. He half laughed; half cried. Then explained, in vivid detail, how Sarah had made him feel. He apologized. Hell, he didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. Talking about Sarah? Crying? He had grown so used to getting burned whenever he had brought her up, it was still easy to forget just how much Joel had changed.

After Sarah’s death, for the first part of the nightmarish years they spent together, barely scraping by, surviving at the cost of their own humanity, he dreamt of her almost every night. Waking up in sobs, the light dissolving into grey shadows. Joel had refused to look at him, splintering Tommy’s heart. They never spoke of the past. They never spoke of her. They took. They survived. And their hollowness deepened with every wretched day.

Time moved forward; the changing of the seasons serving as the last remaining proof of it. He found comfort in the breeze that came as the year was about to end, revisiting memories and his old stories. Sometimes, as he patrolled, he ventured back into his worlds and again greeted the heroes of his childhood. He knew that there was no room for dreams or stories and his heart ached as he gave them up all over again. And then, he watched how the seams of Joel’s humanity continued ripping one after the other. He had believed he would never get his brother back. But now, Joel’s eyes glistened, a combination of longing and joy. He told him there wasn’t a thing to be sorry for. He listened and placed a hand on his little brother’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Joel said softly once Tommy hung his head and fell quiet.

Tommy nodded, letting out a trembling vaporous exhalation.  

“I’ve always wanted to tell you about that,” Tommy said as the knot in his throat loosened and he looked back up at Joel “I just didn’t know how.”

“I’m glad you finally did.” Joel gave Tommy’s shoulder a little squeeze before letting go.

Tommy watched him walk ahead, his silhouette against the sinking sun. He couldn’t see it, but he knew Joel was smiling. He was smiling too. The wind blew. It smelled like fall. It smelled like home. 

[myimmortalisimmortal]

Why Chapter 39 of My Immortal was due to an actual hacker

After considering some findings, I’m confident in this theory. And thus, I’m confident anyone who claims to be Tara Gilesbie while claiming the hacked chapter was faked is not being honest. Below I will explain why I believe so and how I came across this information in the first place.

All this was from a long chain of breadcrumbs. Let’s go back... all to the mid 2000s in the LiveJournal days when Tara Gilesbie had a dedicated fan club.

The Tara Gilesbie Fan Club

One thing that particularly stuck out was members mentioning finding Tara through IMDb. Yes, you heard right.

[ID: Two comments on the Tara Gilesbie Fan Club LiveJournal.

The first is from ‘golden_helikaon’ on 2008-01-19 writing, “I found it on the Order of the Phoenix IMDb board. There were several long threads dedicated to ripping her apart with every new chapter.”

The second comment is from ‘heartdreamerz’ on 2008-01-20 writing, “It was almost 2 years ago and I've told this story many times. I knew Tara a month before My Immortal was published. It was on IMDb's board for My Chemical Romance. When the story came out I knew about it but didn't pay attention because I wasn't into HP at the moment. Then, like icarus_malfoy wrote, there were the threads about her and that's when my interest started. There were also another troll on the His Dark Materials...” (Image cuts off.) End ID.]

According to this, Tara Gilesbie was already tyrannizing the internet before she posted My Immortal. This actually is very consistent with the fact “Tara Gliesbie is totlly Gottik” was a petition that existed in November 2005. (My Immortal was posted in March 2006.)

This IMDb profile seemed very intriguing. It hasn’t been mentioned much, and isn’t considered to be official by most people. Was it a legitimate account? If so, was there gothicness we were deprived of all along? I searched to try find out more about it, hoping screen captures or something would turn up. Luckily, one of the same members copied and pasted Tara’s bio in another comment.

[ID: A comment on the Tara Gilesbie Fan Club LiveJournal by ‘heartdreamerz’ on 2007-05-05 writing, “All her posts are deleted now. I can still visit her profile because she's on my friend list. Her bio:

‘hi im tara. im a goth (n prode!). i have died blak hair n blu eyez. i wer eyeliner a lot of da time. i hav a bf. his naym is justin. he rox! i liv in Dubia.

likz: eyliner, goffik makep, beng goffik, GOOD CHRALOTTE, death, sleting my rists, drak colorz, hot topik _

dizliks: beng alive, bo, pop music, brite colors, pink, brabie, hiraly doof da music i lik: linen prak, GOOD CHRELOTE, evinezenz, simpl plan, akon, arvil levine, blink-183, panik! at da disko, foll oot boi, mcr. HIRALY DOOF IS A PSR!

fav moviez: when a stranger kallz, da grudge, da grudge 2, korps bird, da nitemare b4 krismas, da ring 2, da ring, shrak attak, undreworld 2, da texas chonsow massakre da bogenning

ps 2 all da prepz nd pozers tryin 2 diz me u r jus jeloz!!!! so yolsentik nd hartdremer u kan go fok ur momz 4 al i ker ok U SUK!!!111′

I feel so special to be personally insulted by her on her profile.” End ID.]

People like to copy & paste things stupid things to laugh at all the time (no offense Tara), so I thought: why not Google some of the bio? Maybe whoever did that posted additional stuff.

And it worked! (I found more content from Tara’s supposed IMDb, but more on that for a different post.)

When searching the bio, a Reddit thread about Rose Christo popped up.

During Rose Christo’s brief reign, a user said Rose’s claims seemed to check out. This user actually happens to be the same commenter, Heartdreamerz, in the LiveJournal thread. (Which makes sense, considering she’s the one who originally had the bio I was searching.) 

If you don’t feel like clicking the Reddit link, basically she confirmed Rose’s claim that two Filipino users from the forums hacked the account.

Because of Heartdreamerz’ long involvement in My Immortal and the fact she never claimed to be Tara or Raven, I take a lot of trust in her word.

Heartdreamerz linked the FF.net profile of the original hacker: Coruscate Corruption.

Looking up “Coruscate Corruption” had me come across this from the LiveJournal fan club, which implies that there were two hackers.

[ID: post on the Tara Gilesbie Fan Club Livejournal by 'nicespice' on Dec. 28th, 2006, writing, “Just a little thing I drabbled down. Hope it's not too horrible. What do you think?

There is an evil on FF.net and All who encounters it feels their Respiratory system give out And become too scared to scream. Gruesome, it is. The anti-christ fanfiction, My Immortal, written by a total idiot. Does she Leave you to cry tears of blood, because I have before. EarnestInBerlin and Coruscate Corruption, the hackers, Sought to bring My Immortal redemption. Too Bad the real Tara had to come back so soon to ruin the fun. I wish she had at least continued her story, I look at her fic Everytime I go online, wishing she'd just update so I could laugh at... Tara Gilesbie." End ID.]

While searching “Coruscate Corruption”, a few posts popped up from a forum for The Bartimaeus Sequence called Bartiforums.

[ID: Two images showing 3 forum posts by Mwamba.

The first post was a reply to, "Mwamba, how did you crack both passys? Just guessing or what?"

On December 8th 2006, Mwamba replied, "Tara's was just pure luck. It didn't take long to get. The password was tara. *snorts* Post's was just guessing too, but I remembered when his passy was cracked on here, so I tried out the same password. It worked. Oh yeah, and I wrote a fanfic for Post, it's a rip off of Tara's story, but meh.”

The last two posts were made on January 14th, 2007. The second post wrote, "It was me. I had complete control for two days. And then EarnestInBerlin had to hack in too and change the password. But then she told what it was and then the real Tara had to come back and rechange her passy so nobody could get in. But that's old news. That account is most certainly not mine. I could not continue that fic for 39 chapters, I'd get bored after the first fifteen.”

The third post wrote, “*Shrug* It doesn't matter. Call me whatever. Though if I have to pick, I suppose you can call me by my FF.net name, Coruscate Corruption. What book category are you writing this fic in? Just curious.” End ID.]

Chapter 39 was posted late November 2006, so that first post was only a few weeks after it happened.

The password was “tara”... does that ring a bell at all?

[ID: A screencap from Rose Christo’s now-deleted blog. It says, “And My Immortal? You can come to your own conclusions. This was really never about the fic; it was the marketing team at SMP that decided to make My Immortal the main part of the story. Our email address was gofikchick@hotmail.com and our password was tara.” End ID.]

-- Rose Christo’s claim before deleting

 You may be asking, “Rose Christo? The woman who lied about her family, being Native American, and writing My Immortal to sell a book?” Yes, that Rose Christo. Yes, she was a fraud and a scammer, but she peppered in some little-known true details to make her claim seem more legit. For instance, she talked about a Voldemort rper in the reviews, and that ended up being true. You can actually find this Voldemort reviewer in the web archives of Raven’s stories. (Apparently, that Voldemort even came out and said “hey, that’s me!” Cannot find it unfortunately.)

Keep in mind the only way I found any of this was because Rose Christo made that claim. Without it, Heartdreamerz wouldn’t have made that post that led to Coruscate Corruption and those posts on Bartiforums. It’s possible Rose somehow came across the same information I did, but it’s more likely she was there. Rose Christo may not be the author of My Immortal, but it was likely she was a spectator as it all went down. (As I was a spectator for Rose’s ordeal when it all went down.)

 Since it was said the hackers posted on the fanfiction forums, I sought to find it by searching “Tara”, “My Immortal”, etc. on FFnet’s search. The posts are unfortunately long gone, but there is a surviving forum called “My Immortal Forum Tara Gilesbie is a genius!”

[ID: A screencap of “My Immortal Forum Tara Gilesbie is a genius!” from Fanfiction net. Someone named Ebony Dark’ness wrote, “I have personally logged on to Tara’s account when her password was revealed after she got hacked.” End ID.]

TL;DR: Multiple, separate people made consistent claims over the span of years. Because of this, I personally believe Tara’s account was legitimately hacked.

(Sources/links will be added in a reblog.)

[improbablecarny]

A Post About Making Adrian Shephard Interesting

The Half-Life series is full of engaging characters, ranging from loveable, to love-to-hateable, to Adrian Shephard. Who is Adrian Shephard? He is a guy, who has a gun, which is extremely surprising for video games. He and his gun are the stars of Half-Life: Opposing Force, the first game’s first expansion, where he is sent into Black Mesa after it becomes an interdimensional shitshow, so he and his gun can shoot some aliens. 

The game sets him up as a foil/rival/antagonist to the iconic Dr. Gordon Freeman, as if we are about to play a thrilling game of cat-and-mouse with the feral physicist. This setup is a lie. Adrian encounters his sworn enemy once, immediately loses him, and gets distracted with putzing around on whatever tasks the plot puts in front of him until the G-Man shows up and says “I don’t really know what to do with you” and indefinitely stuffs him in cold storage, which is, incidentally, also what Valve did.

Despite this, Adrian still has a decent following of fans, mostly attributed to the fact that he is a guy with a gun in a video game. His defining feature as a character is that he always wears a gas mask. His only defining feature as a character is that he always wears a gas mask. Okay, that's not fair: he has a couple diary entries where he mostly talks about how he and his gun want to shoot stuff, which makes him relatable to gamers everywhere.

What I’m getting at here is that, in a series where the POV characters have ranged from everyone’s favourite perpetually put-upon physicist to rebellion leaders, Adrian stands out to me as a piece of limp bread.

But what if I told you he doesn’t have to be?

What if I told you that the limp bread we know is merely at one end of a breadcrumb trail that leads to a whole loaf?

1. MARINES HUUUGH GUNS GO BANG

Okay, so it isn’t a secret that I think “military guy who shoots stuff” is, perhaps, a little played out. I see a guy with a crew cut and my eyes glaze over. I hear a chopper and begin to snore. I can no longer perceive olivedrab as a colour. We could get into the nitty gritty of American nationalist/military propaganda and its relationship with video games, but that isn’t funny, so I’ll just say that it sucks and I hate it.

Half-Life 1 was not overtly kind to our pals, the Marines. By that I am referring to the fact that they were consistently portrayed as sadistic meatheads. My approach to Opposing Force was hesitant, as to suddenly make one of them the hero is to say “but what if the sadistic meatheads kind of had a point?”. Luckily, as the game opens with Adrian silently shooting the shit with a handful of tongue-in-cheek war movie stereotypes, I got the sense that this wouldn’t quite the case -- which is more or less confirmed when Adrian’s chopper goes down before he has the chance to receive his orders to do war crimes.

So we have our first ingredient: a macho kid with stars in his eyes who goes out on his first mission and is immediately blasted in the face with a healthy dose of...well, blasts, but also, uncomfortable truths.

2. PAUL BLART, SCIENCE COP

Corporal Adrian Shephard has landed, the sole survivor of his unit, the quintessential badass, our gritty hero. Now the action begins, we think. He busts in, guns and wrenches blazing, and begins to kick some alien can. Right?

Well, he tries. But to his dismay, Black Mesa has a lot of doors, which as we all know, are impervious to guns.

Luckily, there is an aggressively Midwestern security guard wandering around who just happens to have the clearance Adrian needs. His name is Otis. There are actually multiple Otises (Otii?) because Black Mesa security guards have a bit of an esoteric relationship with reality, but let’s just pretend the ones that don’t die immediately in comedic scripted sequences are Otis Prime.

Otis is everything Adrian isn’t. Zombies stalk the halls and Otis is more upset with a wayward vending machine. Bullets fly and Otis jokes about how he should’ve taken the mall job instead. He’s an affable, goofy uncle of a man, and he’s not necessarily there to show us just how cool Adrian is in comparison... he’s there because Adrian needs his help.

And there we have our second ingredient: your coolguy action hero archetype isn’t maybe that effective as a lone wolf, and the unexpected kindness of strangers may be what he needs to pull through.

3. THE SHEPH(A)ERD

As many have pointed out, our pal Adrian develops a peculiar and hilarious habit: picking up random aliens and using them as weapons.

Opposing Force itself seems to be, more than anything, an exercise in showing off cool weaponry and cool enemies. Adrian’s fleshy new friends are just a means to a tech demo. But with the goggles of plot and characterization on, just as Adrian has a horrible barnacle grappling hook on his hand, we have something hilarious on ours: a flock of freaky friends there to help him on his journey.

And who doesn’t love the “head scritches for the spore launcher” animation?

I don’t know if this is what they intended when they gave him (a mutation of) “shepherd” as a surname, but Adrian’s Multidimensional Menagerie is the third ingredient of incredible potential: your loose-cannon commando came in here to kill aliens and ended up adopting a bunch instead.

A PATTERN EMERGES

Keeping these three things in mind, a vision of Adrian begins to solidify, and it is one that doesn’t quite match the image of the elite commando power fantasy that the dudes in the comments section of all Opposing Force-related Youtube videos are clamoring for.

What is Adrian’s goal in this story? Well, first off he seems ready to track down Freeman -- but once the slippery scientist slides on through his fingers like a handful of bright orange soup, it’s mostly a matter of fighting some aliens, fighting some black ops dudes, disarming a nuke, and pissing off a giant terraforming alien so bad that it just gives up and leaves. What can we pull from this to make Adrian compelling?

It’s not that he’s the coolest dude with the baddest guns: He is set up like every other badass military shootman, only to be immediately humbled by the horrifying truth behind his mission and the alliances he needs to forge in order to survive. He befriends some of the creatures he was sent in to destroy. He disarms a nuke and repels the Gene Worm without killing it. Adrian carries with him the framework of a character whose purpose is to de-escalate. 

Then we begin to see him as an actual foil to Gordon: where the good doctor was unwillingly plunged headfirst into violence and chaos in order to survive, what if Adrian had to reject these things to survive -- despite everything he’d been trained to be?

And if he returns to this post-apocalyptic world, under the G-Man’s thumb, without an Otis in sight (but plenty of aliens)... where does he go from there?

[tsuisou-no-despair]

Tsuisou’s Theory Time: Three-Way Thunderdome?

So, time for a theory that’s a little bit out there, and yet is still mostly just refining an existing theory that someone else made.

After Episode 14 and the introduction of the Onigari-no-Ryuoh, it’s pretty apparent that there’s more than one looper that’s going to show up and vie for the sword for the sake of their own goals. We’re already intimately familiar with our first looper, Rika. The other looper’s identity is not yet known, but the main theory, expounded on by myself and others, is that it’s Satoko. This would explain a lot about how suspicious she’s been, though the why isn’t clear yet. (Not to mention that Episode 16 makes that whole notion simultaneously a lot more and a lot less clear) (EDIT: Well, Episode 17 pretty conclusively answered this question!)

But what if... there’s a third looper in Hinamizawa?

So, I’m not the first person on Tumblr to suggest that Rena might be a looper - some searching seems to point to this post being the first one at least circa Episode 15, and therefore I’m giving the credit to @bat-itude​ (until further information comes in). The screenshots they took cover the interesting nature of the scene at Angel Mort, and I don’t have much to add there.

So, where is there to cover, then?

Episode 3 - The “USO DA!” Scene

One of Higurashi’s signature scenes got a new and interesting tweak in Onidamashi. In Onikakushi, the scene progresses and gets more and more tense before Rena loudly calls Keiichi a liar. Immediately after that, she gives him a creepy “we all have secrets too :)” before saying that it’s time to head back. (See 7:15 onward in the below scene - I confirmed that it’s basically the same progression in the manga)

Whereas in Gou, there’s something interesting between the accusation and the scene’s coda:

After accusing him of being a liar, Rena gets up in Keiichi’s face and makes an almost desperate statement about how hard it is for her to live a normal life. Then she turns, makes her cryptic statement, and leaves.

Now, others have commented that the things she says are lines from Tsumihoroboshi. Given that the episode immediately after also brings up Tsumihoroboshi-based information (namely, Rena’s devotion to her father), this might just be a breadcrumb, a primer to get the audience thinking five arcs ahead. Indeed, if it wasn’t for Episode 15 putting the idea of a looping Rena into my head, I’d have left it at that.

But it’s still a very interesting choice, tweaking what might be the most famous scene from Higurashi, and it would take on a whole other context if it turns out that Rena’s been trying to be normal for far longer than Keiichi could ever know.

“...and I’ve been trying so hard. I’ve been trying my hardest for so much of my life.”

(Look at the face she makes in the manga. If you told me that was her being absolutely exhausted from living out dozens of horrible Hinamizawas, I’d believe it)

Another thing I like (and it might not be anything, but I like it) is that through this lens, there ends up being a parallel. A looper, venting to Keiichi about their personal frustrations with how their extended lives have been going in their own way, as their eyes become alarming and unnatural...

Other Thoughts:

Mostly I wanted to focus on Episode 3 but I have other thoughts on the idea:

Another episode that takes on an interesting new context is Episode 13. Again, I’d have just left it as Rena screaming at how uncaring and cruel the world is if the idea wasn’t put into my head beforehand. If Rena’s a looper, this could be a mix of that and venting about how cruel and senseless this mystery is being.

(The following is me writing up what looper!Rena would be like and is probably distinctly non-canon)

I don’t think that Rena has anyone like Hanyuu or the witches facilitating her looping. I think she’s like Keiichi in that her memories are bubbling up naturally, except at a much greater level, and she’s hit the point where things start clicking and she hits looper status. She’s ultimately on her own side, but her motivations are “save myself and everyone from the loop so we can have a happy life”, meaning that she’s aligned with Rika barring a change on the latter’s part.

If this is the case, I don’t think she’s anywhere close to Rika’s level of recollection of past arcs. It’s probably a relatively small number of loops and events she’s remembered - it’s just that she’s bright enough to connect the dots and perhaps remembers just enough of what Rika’s said to extrapolate that she’s been in this hell for centuries.

Rena doesn’t have the experience of looping that Rika does, but she also doesn’t really need it. She’s already an expert at hiding her own feelings and understanding others.

A looping Rena with a flawed recollection could go a long way towards explaining why Onidamashi’s smaller changes exist - something as simple as a “hey, we shouldn’t mention Satoshi to Keiichi” to Mion in private would explain why he’s never mentioned, for instance. Ditto for the “needle” prank.

So, what about the elephant in the room that is Episode 4? How Rena could get there despite her looping depends on the source of her L5 (and whether or not it exists). If she’s getting incited into it like those in Episode 15 almost certainly were, she’d have no way of seeing it coming since it’s new, and her memories of Rika’s good-heartedness could be just enough to get her to dismiss whatever’s pointing her at Rika. If it’s just that she’s going through effectly Tsumihoroboshi off-camera... well, she’s not perfect. Looping doesn’t make you inherently immune to Hinamizawa Syndrome, and “think about how to make sure this time loop doesn’t go to hell” probably doesn’t win against “protect my dad” in the moment.

At the end of the day, I think it might end up being Rena going up against Rika’s adversary and possibly even Rika herself if the latter ends up fighting for an unhealthy idea - which, if my Majodamashi-hen theory is right, would mean Rena going up against any combination of Lambda and maybe Bern.

Honestly, the main reason that I’ve had this theory is... well, I like it. There’s something about the idea of Rena, the mascot of Higurashi as a franchise, standing up against part of the Umineko cast and telling them in no uncertain terms to leave her friends alone and let them be happy resonates with me and brings a smile to my face. That’s all.

[angelqueen04]

Hamliza Month, Day 25

@megpeggs @historysalt

Dusty Summary: Eliza and the children return to Philadelphia and to Alexander after spending the summer in Albany. Note: Three guesses as to which summer this is, and the first two don’t count. 

Eliza did her best to stem the tide of her impatience as the carriage rolled through the dry, choked streets of Philadelphia. Traveling was not something she particularly enjoyed under any circumstance, and it was even less pleasant when it was done with several rambunctious, excited children all in a small, enclosed space. Still, what truly had her attention was her eagerness to view the new home Alexander had acquired for them. He’d had it ever since July, and had sworn to follow her instructions for its furnishing and decoration, and now she was keen to see the result.[1]

Market Street was in a fine neighborhood, and the house, according to Alexander, was only a short distance from the Presidential Mansion, another aspect of it which made Eliza happy. It would make it easier for her to make her calls upon Mrs. Washington, and to attend the levies and other social gatherings that were held there. Eliza’s social responsibilities while she was in Philadelphia were extensive, a result of being the wife of the Secretary of the Treasury, so anything that aided her in those duties was always welcome.

When the carriage finally came to an abrupt stop, the children began to shift and shuffle, all of them eagerly looking out the window at their destination. More sensibly, Eliza moved to exit the carriage first. As she pushed the door open, Mr. Meyer, the young employee of the Treasury that Alexander had sent to meet her and the children in Elizabethtown, appeared at the step, holding out his hand to assist her down. “Thank you, Mr. Meyer,” she said as she stepped out.

“You’re most welcome, Mrs. Hamilton,” the young man said. Once she was safely on the ground, he turned back, ready to assist Angelica and Fanny, who had pushed ahead of the boys to be the first ones out of the carriage.

Eliza walked around the carriage so she could gain an unobstructed view of the house. It was lovely, was her first thought as she took it in. Constructed with fine red brick, and dark wood trim surrounding the doors and window, there was also a lovely iron fence in front along the street, completed with a hitching post for visitors. She couldn’t help but smile, pleased. Alexander had indeed chosen well.

“Oooh, it’s so pretty, Mama!” Fanny exclaimed as the young girl appeared at her side. Eliza looked down at her foster daughter and smiled upon seeing the child nearly gaping at the house, her bright, dark eyes wide.

“Yes, it is very pretty,” Eliza agreed. “Now, let’s get inside and see what we have waiting for us.”

Fanny nodded and hurried toward the gate, Angelica and Philip both at her heels. Eliza herself turned to see Mr. Meyer leading both James and Alex toward her. Their eyes too were on the house, though they were quick to take Eliza’s hands when she reached out to them. Eliza thanked Mr. Meyer again for his assistance with the children, and then asked him if he might oversee their trunks being unloaded. The young man agreed and hurried off to the task, and Eliza looked down at her two younger sons. “Shall we go see the new home Papa has found for us?” she asked them.

Alex nodded eagerly and James, who, though clearly tired from the journey, perked up. “Papa!” he said.

Eliza laughed. “Yes,” she said, “Papa.”

But the boy clearly meant more than that. He tugged on her hand and pointed toward the house. “Papa!” he repeated.

Eliza followed the direction of his finger toward one of the large windows on the front of the house. She saw no one there, but the curtains were swaying in the open window, and there was no breeze. This was a bit surprising. Alexander had written to her of the yearly complaint he suffered in his kidneys – it was why he had not come to meet her and the children in Elizabethtown and sent Mr. Meyer in his stead [2] – but if he was well enough to be out of bed, then surely wouldn’t he have been at the Treasury offices? There was always so much to do there, and he could hardly be convinced to leave the work to his hirelings there, always insisting that his oversight was needed.

She led the two boys toward the gate, following in the older children’s footsteps. As Eliza stepped through, the front door opened and out swept Alexander, full of verve as he hurried down the steps to meet them. “Here is my family!” he cried as he held his arms wide, inviting them to come to him. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me!”

All five of the children shrieked in delight and threw themselves at him, little Alex and James dropping Eliza’s hands in the process. Eliza laughed and followed, intending to get a closer look at her husband to ascertain the state of his health for herself.

He looked surprisingly healthy, she quickly saw as the children began to all but climb all over him. While his letter had assured her that the attack of his kidney complaint was a mild one, she knew from experience how even the most minor of attacks could often lay him out and exhaust him. But there was little sign of that at all, if his boundless energy as he swept the children up in hugs and tickling was anything to go by.

It was then that Alexander straightened again, and his attention landed on her. “Ah,” he said, his tone softening, “my dearest, loveliest, most wonderful Betsey.”

The children seemed to sense that they should make way for them, because they stepped aside, leaving Alexander and her a clear path to one another, one they took full advantage of. They met each other in a fierce embrace, and Eliza reveled in feeling her husband’s arms around her for the first time in months. All of the stresses she had been living under – the terror over James’ health when he had been sick, the constant worry for Alexander when he did not appear to be writing to her for weeks on end – began to melt away as Alexander tried to cover her entire face in kisses. “Oh, how I have missed you,” he murmured between each kiss.

Soon enough, Alexander pulled away just enough to gesture for the children to go inside, and then he accompanied Eliza arm-in-arm in bringing up the rear. As they stepped into the front hall, Eliza looked around. The house was a great deal larger than the previous home they had rented here in Philadelphia, which pleased her. The room to the immediate right of the front door had clearly been marked out as Alexander’s study – she could see his desk just through the door, covered in various papers, as always.

“Can we see our rooms, Mama?” Philip asked eagerly. Eliza turned her gaze on her eldest and saw him fidgeting near the staircase, clearly eager to run up and explore the second floor.

She smiled, and nodded, saying, “Go on, but be prepared to unpack. There’s much to do before supper.”

That was all Philip needed for him to take the stairs at a run. Alexander and James hurried after him, struggling to keep up on their shorter legs. Angelica and Fanny latched onto Alexander, tugging at him. “Come with us, Papa!” Angelica implored. “I want you to show us our room!”

Alexander gave Eliza a sheepish smile, to which she laughed softly and waved her hand, encouraging him to go along with their girls. As the three of them followed the boys, Eliza continued her initial survey of the ground floor. The house had been kitted out very well, she saw. The furniture, a mix of their own pieces and those owned by Mr. Stein, the man whom they were renting the house from.[3] He seemed to have excellent tastes, she noted with some pleasure.

The same, however, could not be said for Alexander’s housekeeping, Eliza thought as she looked closer. Running a single, gloved finger along a hall table, she looked at her fingertip and wrinkled her nose at the dust and stray hair. Clearly, he had not yet set out to hire new servants. She would have to see to that herself, and ensure the house was given a thorough cleaning before she began to entertain guests.

The quick tour of the rest of the ground floor confirmed what she had seen from the start. The kitchen at the back of the house was perhaps in the room that was in the best shape of all of them, save for a few breadcrumbs on the counter. Alexander knew to keep the kitchen clean, if only to prevent a rodent infestation.

There was no second staircase for the use of servants, so Eliza backtracked to the front of the house. The front door was open and their various traveling trunks were being stacked inside, waiting for a final destination. She did not see Mr. Meyer anywhere, and assumed he was either still outside or had already left the premises to return to his own home. She turned to the staircase and began making her way upstairs. She could hear the laughing voices of her children, and smiled. They seemed happy with what they had found up here.

When she reached the landing, Eliza peered in the first doorway on her left. The chamber was a bright, airy room with a large canopied bed dominating the space. Angelica and Fanny lay stretched out across the mattress, still in their traveling dresses, giggling conspiratorially together. Smiling, she left them to it.

There were four bedchambers altogether, from what Eliza could see. Glancing in one, she saw Philip speaking excitedly to his father, telling him about a fishing trip he had gone on with his grandfather. In another, James and Alex were curled up on the bed, fast asleep. That didn’t take long, she thought fondly.

Though she did not inspect the rooms closely, Eliza could still see that they were in much the same state as the ground floor – all in need of a good dusting at the very least. As she came to the final bedchamber, what must be hers and Alexander’s, Eliza stepped inside expecting it to be in much the same condition.

The chamber was the largest of the four. Their bed, the frame being an enormous thing that had been one of their first important purchases after Alexander had established his law practice, was in place and as welcome a sight as ever. The room also had a decent-sized fireplace, near which a large upholstered chair had been placed. Eliza smiled as she gazed upon it, imagining herself seated there by a crackling fire, working on her mending or some piece of embroidery. Just from a quick look, everything appeared perfect.

Wait. She stopped. Perfect? She surveyed the room again, looking at things in further detail.

This chamber, unlike the rest of the house, was spotless, she realized. The furniture gleamed. The rugs under her feet looked to have been just recently beaten. Eliza took off her gloves and ran a hand over the counterpane on the bed. The linens were freshly laundered too.

The chamber had been cleaned from top to bottom. There was not a speck of dust, not a single stray hair to be found.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, my love?”

Eliza spun around to find Alexander standing in the doorway, a soft smile on his lips. Instinctively, her lips turned upward to return the gesture. “Nearly so,” she told him as he walked into the room, crossing the distance between them to take her into his arms once again.

“Oh?” he cocked his head. “And just what has been found wanting? Where have I failed to follow my darling’s instructions?” he asked her with a teasing grin.

Eliza couldn’t keep herself from laughing at her husband’s antics and she cuddled closer, resting her head on his chest. She had missed him so, missed everything about him. His arms came up behind her, holding her against him and she sighed contentedly. “Other than being in sore need of a good cleaning, there nothing wrong,” she said. Then she paused, considered again the state of their bedchamber and its marked difference to the rest of the house. “It’s instead something that puzzles me.”

“Oh?”

She pulled back from him a little so she could meet his gaze. Raising an eyebrow, she nodded toward the chamber around them. “Why is our chamber so clean in comparison to everywhere else?” Eliza grinned at him. “Have you been up to something naughty in here? Something I should know about?”

She had only been teasing him, of course, and Alexander’s smile didn’t falter. Still, there was something in his eyes, his manner, which reminded her suddenly of a deer, frozen in fear when it spotted a hunter about to take his shot. The moment of silence was oddly tense, though for what reason she truly could not fathom. So, Eliza chose to break it by asking in her sternest tone, the one that set their children to standing at attention like soldiers, “Alexander Hamilton, have you been eating food in here?”

He didn’t respond at first, just stared at her before blinking rapidly as her words finally sank in. “Eating?” He almost stuttered as he said the word.

Eliza stepped back, and his arms fell limply to his sides. Placing her hands on her hips, she demanded with mock-severity, “What have I said about bringing food into the bed?”

He blinked again, and slowly seemed to be returning to himself. “That it will get crumbs everywhere, and invite vermin to invade the house,” he recited.

She nodded. “Exactly.” Waving her hand to indicate the spotless chamber, she asked, “Is that why this room has been cleaned to the point where I can almost see my reflection in the wood? Were you trying to remove the evidence of your crime?”

The last of the tension held on for another moment, until Eliza could not take it and Alexander’s almost-punch-drunk expression anymore. She burst out laughing.

His vacant stare began to morph into an incredulous gape, which only caused Eliza to laugh harder. Leaning against the bedpost, she said between bouts of laughter, “Oh, Alexander… you should… see your face!”

A faint, sheepish smile began to creep across Alexander’s lips and he too began to chuckle. “It seems you’ve caught me, dearest,” he said, his voice sounding strangely relieved, of all things. “I can hide nothing from you.”

It took some time for Eliza to regain control of her mirth. As she regained her feet, she took his arm in her arm and squeezed it lovingly. Nudging his shoulder with affection, she said as she began to lead him out of the room. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m home now. I’ll break you of this unsavory habit soon enough.”

-----

Oh God, Eliza… she doesn’t know. Not yet. *whimper*

Damn it, Ham.

[1] Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, 27 July 1791.

[2] Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, 4 September 1791.

[3] Clement Biddle to Alexander Hamilton, 28 June 1791.