#rns ficlet

[silverskye13]

rns angst prompt: something to do with evil beesuma and helsknight? And argument? A particularly bad fight? Maybe this was when hk wasn’t champion yet?

The Champion didn't like him. Of that much, Helsknight was certain. Which was a shame, because if Helsknight were being completely honest, he would have to say he looked up to the Champion. Sure Evil Beesuma was sharp and prideful, and seemed to walk around with a permanent chip on his shoulder, but he was also the brother of the man who ruled hels. It was a long, dark shadow to live under, yet he somehow still managed to burst out of it like a second sun rising. When people talked about him, they didn't talk about his brother. They talked about him. His strength. His perseverance. The fact that he built himself from nothing, with no help from Evil X. All his success, he earned himself. It was magnificent. His fights were legendary, all form and poise and bloodless efficiency. Mechanical. Perfect.

[It was a shame, too, that Helsknight was admiring that perfection from the ground.]

Helsknight's mouth tasted like blood. His head swam. There was an ache so deep in his teeth, he wondered if his jaw was broken. Above him, the hels ceiling shifted with phosphorescent colors as stars receded from his vision. Helsknight groaned and slowly, painstakingly, he turned onto his side and spat.

"Alright," Helsknight said raggedly, "give me a few minutes."

The showrunner coaching him relayed his request to the metal goliath standing over him. Evil Beesuma made a loud buzzing noise that Helsknight had come to associate with contempt. On his shadow on the sand, Helsknight watched him sign a dismissive motion, and while he couldn't hear what was said, the intention seemed obvious.

"Give the fool a few minutes. It won't change anything."

The showrunner helped Helsknight stagger to his feet, and together they limped to the stone bench in the practice arena. The broken nose and busted jaw were not the only hurts this particular bout had earned Helsknight. There was a wicked gash on his hip that was bleeding pretty badly, and he had a collection of bruises on his arms and chest that ached deep in his muscles.

"Listen Hels," the showrunner sighed, handing him a health potion.

"Helsknight."

"Whatever. Listen, I know you did well in the starter bracket--"

"Undefeated," Helsknight hummed, licking blood off his lips. It took him a few tries to get the potion uncapped, but when he managed it, he tossed it back. It warmed him all the way down his throat, and as the pain eased away from him, he felt tense muscles relax.

[Gods alive these things were good.]

"And I know you showed promise in the championship tryouts--"

Promise. He'd won eight out of ten of his matches. To get a sponsor, most only needed to win half. Helsknight didn't know who his sponsor was yet, but he knew there was a waiting list involved. A waiting list for him. A waiting list of people who hoped to outbid each other just to buy his gear, and sit in his box, and maybe shake his bloody hand after the match. It was ridiculous.

"But maybe going after the Champion is a little much for you still, yeah?" The showrunner asked pleadingly. "You're clearly outmatched, and a bad starting round can end your career if you're not... Mindful."

The showrunner did not say, if you lose your temper in front of the stands. The showrunner did not say, if Evil Beesuma wipes the floor with you, and it's a bad fight. He did not have to say these things. Helsknight was very well aware.

"We have two weeks before the match." Helsknight said steadfastly. "That's two weeks to prove I can take him."

The showrunner hissed out a long breath and pinched the space between his eyes. "Aren't you tired of getting your ass kicked?"

Anger, hot and quick, flickered to life in Helsknight's chest. It must have showed in his eyes, because the showrunner took a step back, hands raised in exasperation.

"Fine. Far be it from me to keep you from breaking all the bones in your body. Champion." He signed to Evil Beesuma, who had by now cleaned the blood off his knuckles, and retrieved a new sword to practice with. His other one had grown dull against Helsknight's armor and blade. "He still wants to train. Would you--"

Evil Beesuma buzzed something. It was a loud, long, grating note, nearly a roar. The lights of his eyes were narrowed in a glare, all four fists clenched. There was vicious humor there, and no small amount of loathing.

Helsknight didn't blame him. He was a threat to the Champion. The showrunner couldn't tell. It wasn't his job to tell. But Evil Beesuma knew, in the same bone-deep way Helsknight knew, that Helsknight was learning. Perfecting.

When they had started, Helsknight had lasted, oh, about half a minute. Compensating for Evil Beesuma's multiple arms was, unfortunately, the least of his problems. It was the efficiency of movement, calculated dancer-like grace, that was the real trouble. It was the fact that every swing of his sword was always just as strong as the last. No room for error in mechanics. Once a pattern was recognized, it took a fluke to flaw it, and Evil Beesuma was just person enough to compensate for flukes where computer efficiency failed.

But Helsknight was efficient too. He was not the perfect brawler. He was not the perfect gladiator. But he was the perfect knight. At least, he was the perfect knight by his Hermit's standards. His perfection included strength of arms, and a cunning blade, and a thirst for battle that could not be slaked. It apparently also included the ability to adapt and learn. And Helsknight was certainly learning, and learning well.

Two and a half minutes that last round had lasted. Two and a half minutes of dodging, and parrying, and figuring out what hurts he could fight through and what he couldn't. Two and a half minutes of pain tolerance, and the limits of adrenaline, and muscle memory. Two and a half minutes of learning what made a perfect warrior perfect, and adapting it into something he could achieve.

And he would achieve it. Like the sun rising. Like a wave devours a cliff. Helsknight would learn. It was only a matter of time.

Helsknight got to his feet. He took a moment to drink some water, and rinse his mouth, and wash the drying blood from beneath his nose. He made sure the buckles on his gauntlets were tight, and checked the guard on his sword.

Helsknight and the Champion met again on the sand. They were vicious; limbs and teeth and steel. Helsknight imagined someday he would go deaf from the ringing of metal. Someday. Today though, he was going to lose to the Champion again. It would take less than two and a half minutes. Even if the health potion revitalized his muscles, it didn't take the weariness out of his mind.

The Champion got him in a headlock. The movement was so baffling, Helsknight didn't even know how he'd managed it. He'd simply twisted, and what once had been freedom, and the shiver of stung nerves as blade met blade, turned into a vice around his neck and arms tangled in his, holding him still.

[Cheating. Helsknight thought scathingly. That's cheating.]

It was cheating for a knight. There was a certain amount of honor and decorum he was held to that the Champion was not.

The Champion was a brawler. He hadn't spawned into this world strong and implacable, a diamond and netherite wall. He had built himself this way, piece by piece and code by code. It was admirable. Enviable. He turned Helsknight feeble with flippant assuredness, and Helsknight had started strong. It was part of why Helsknight admired him. The Champion had achieved his greatness by building himself into something better.

It hadn't made him kind, and that too, Helsknight envied in its own way. The Champion was a weapon that was blunt and unyielding as a club, and he broke people precisely. He did not grieve his actions. He took pride in their efficiency, no matter how ugly it was. That was the nature of violence.

Evil Beesuma held him still, choking, until stars devoured his vision and novaed black. It was not a slow squeeze. There was no threat of slowly strangled air or struggle to wrench his arms into place. Evil Beesuma had closed on him like a bear trap, and did not release his iron jaws until Helsknight was sure he intended to suffocate him to death.

Helsknight awoke on the sand, gasping like a hooked fish, his throat refusing to open completely even when freed. It hurt. His lungs burned, and his throat was bruised, and the simple action of swallowing was thick and unbearable. He tried to turn onto his side, to help his damaged muscles move, but the Champion landed a foot in the center of his chest, pinning him on his back. Evil Beesuma looked down at him, arms crossed over his bent knee as he leaned his weight down on Helsknight. For someone already struggling to breathe, it was a cruelty. Helsknight felt his chest fall when his breath was squeezed out of him, and he felt every muscle in his chest protest as it struggled to rise against the weight.

"I ought to kill you," the Champion said, his voice a bored drone that seemed to leap into Helsknight's head when their eyes met. "You seem to think some passing skill with a blade entitles you to something. It doesn't. I don't owe you anything, knight."

Helsknight gripped at the Champion's ankle, a new burst of adrenaline spiking him as fear at his situation sank in. Stars, slow pinpricks, were gathering on the edges of his vision again. His entire world narrowed to the effort of breathing. The Champion reached down, and doing so pressed what was left of the air out of Helsknight's lungs. Cold metal splayed against the side of Helsknight's face as the Champion forced him to meet his eyes.

"You are a waste of my time," Evil Beesuma said, cold and inflectionless. The contempt of someone convinced they were watching someone far beneath them try to struggle upwards.

Helsknight realized he was scared. It surged to him through the stars devouring his sight again, followed swiftly by the darkness beyond. He was scared. Scared and cornered. Cornered. And angry. Rage filled the gaps in his lungs, consumed the stars in his vision. The world in front of him went briefly red, consumed by the determination to be spiteful and petty, and to make the Champion think twice before belittling him like this again.

Helsknight punched Evil Beesuma as hard as he could in the knee, the only thing he could really reach. His gauntlet saved him the sharpness of the metal around the Champion's legs, but he felt his knuckles break. He also felt the Champion's leg slip away from him. He fell like a tree, landing halfway on Helsknight's legs.

Helsknight gasped in a breath of air so deep he had to cough it all back out again. Everything about him to do with air and breathing rioted, tangled with the wash of nausea that came in the aftermath of adrenaline, and he nearly gagged. Helsknight tried to stand, made it halfway to his knees, when a shove to his side sent him back over again. Helsknight braced himself as best he could, waiting for some show of cruelty. He glared up at the Champion in ragged defiance, trying to find his breath.

The Champion was laughing at him. Elated. Surprised. Wholly unbothered. Helsknight had probably broken his hand on Evil Beesuma's knee, and it had all the effects of a bird landing.

"I'll give you one thing knight, you've got some fire," the Champion laughed, his voice cloyed with the derisive affection one might reserve for an arrogant child. "But you need to learn when a fight is lost." He made a dismissive motion with his hand, sweeping the idea of Helsknight aside. "Try me again in a few months, when you've figured out how to bend iron."

The Champion turned away from him. He was leaving. The tide of Helsknight's rage at the dismissal surged him to his feet. He reached for the dagger on his belt, determined to do something, anything, to chip away at that iron wall. Just a scratch would do. Proof the Champion was fallible. Mortal. Beatable.

He threw the dagger.

Later, months later, when Helsknight and EB were friends, EB would teach Helsknight how to properly throw a knife. It would be a game they played fondly, friendly competition, where they could get fierce safely. Where they learned how to challenge each other to be better. Now though, Helsknight didn't know how to throw a knife. He still felt vindicated though, when the handle hit Evil Beesuma squarely in the back of the head.

The Champion stopped in his tracks, turned with red eyed fury on the impudent knight. Helsknight's lip curled in a sneer. He moved his hands rapidly, in the only sign language he knew.

[He had meant for it to be a good thing, learning sign. Helsknight knew the Champion had a sizable crowd of deaf and mute fans; people who saw in him a brighter future, where they were seen and understood and appreciated equally. A world where people listened to them. Helsknight thought it was unfair then, that only the Champion bothered to incorporate sign into his sets. They should be able to hear the Champion's challenger without the help of an interpreter. And, just like they did, Evil Beesuma deserved to be met where he was, with words he could follow easily. He shouldn't have to memorize stage directions, and distant indecipherable mumbling, just because his challenger was lazy.]

[The showrunner Helsknight had been assigned told him it was a bad idea. He said he would be learning a language just to insult it's Champion with it. Helsknight had argued Evil Beesuma was the Colosseum's darling. For all his prideful shortcomings in the privacy of the cells, outwardly, as much as he could be to a crowd of thousands, he was just and strong and kind. If Helsknight was going to depose him, he was destined to be the heel anyway.]

[When Helsknight had told the Champion what he wanted to do, Evil Beesuma had actually considered his challenge. It was probably the only reason he'd humored him this long.]

[Helsknight really was stupid when he was angry.]

"Pride comes before the fall," Helsknight signed, and then he shouted, because Evil Beesuma was looking at him, and he didn't know the signs for his next words: "You absolute piece of shit!"

It was not his brightest moment.

It wasn't Evil Beesuma's either.

The Champion's eyes reddened and narrowed with anger. His hand flew to his sword, and he lanced forward in a flickering of color.

Helsknight respawned in his room in the cells, gasping in sucking breaths around a hole in his throat that was no longer there. He was still angry. Angrier, now that he'd faced a terror of respawn, and it had shaken him far more than he thought it would. When he rolled off his bed, his hands were shuddering, his nerves jangled. His only sword and armor were in the training yard, and he bolted for them. He shoved past gladiators in his way, pounded up the stairs, tore through the mess hall. When he burst onto the sand, Evil Beesuma was waiting for him, all wrath and stung pride.

He at least had the grace to let Helsknight grab his sword.

The moment their swords crossed again, Helsknight knew something was wrong. It took a few minutes for that wrongness to bash its way past his fury, but in a bone-deep way, he noticed it. Evil Beesuma was moving too slowly. Inefficiently. There was a jerkiness to his movements that hadn't been there before. Imperfection. A crack in the iron wall.

At first, Helsknight chalked it up to a loss of composure. He'd managed to piss the Champion off, and so his poise was slipping. Helsknight didn't lose his composure in quite the same way when he was angry and fighting. He slipped deep into muscle memory, and turned into a creature of reactions and instinct, all conscious thought fled in the wake of emotion and brute strength. It had won him more than one match. He was ready for it to win him this.

Helsknight slammed his blade into the Champion's near the hilt, and Evil Beesuma, strong as a hoglin with hands like vices, didn't drop it, but he backpedaled. It was not the appropriate response to what Helsknight had done. Imperfect. The wrongness Helsknight's conscious brain noticed needled at him again. He lifted his sword into a guard position and waited.

[He will spring for me, Helsknight thought. He is stronger, and his skills are more finely tuned. He works best when he overwhelms.]

The Champion did not spring forward. He took a step back instead, and seemed to catch his breath. The Champion was made of metal and redstone. He did not breathe. He did not bleed. And from what Helsknight could tell, nothing on him was broken. Helsknight wasn't strong enough, harmful enough, good enough, to break the Champion. He wasn't even sure he'd hit him once.

Helsknight narrowed his eyes, and let out a long slow breath, and dragged his anger down, called it to heel.

"Champion Beesuma," Helsknight asked, trying not to grind his teeth, trying not to be spiteful. He was a knight. He needed to act like one. "Are you well?"

Evil Beesuma laughed. It was a haughty thing, meant for bravado, but it too sounded off. Shaken. Yes, something was wrong. The Champion looked down to one of his hands, which Helsknight realized was shaking. Evil Beesuma blinked down at it. His sword lowered, and then dropped from his grasp. His sword hand, too, was shaking. He said something, speaking to himself, soft inflection. A question. The Champion wasn't looking at him, so Helsknight couldn't decipher the words, but the tone was dread.

Not here. Not now.

Helsknight sheathed his sword. He held out a hand, trying to show he meant no harm. "Champion?"

Evil Beesuma, the Champion of the Colosseum, collapsed. It happened so slowly, he almost seemed to fold in on himself. Not a swoon. Not a faint. Just a slow sink first to his knees, and then to the ground. The only sign the movement wasn't intentional was from the continued shaking in his hands, and the way the bright screen that made his face flickered and jolted through expressions, breaking into off-color pixels.

Helsknight's first worry, as he sank down beside him, was that in his anger he'd broken something irreparable. He didn't think he had, but he knew the Champion was different than a regular helsmet. More fragile, in odd ways. Redstone and mechanical pieces, much like his armor and weapons, didn't mend on respawn. The soul of a person did, the bits that made them work, but a broken ax didn't regain durability just because you died holding it. Evil Beesuma was subject to that; his mechanical parts more often than not needed mended and replaced after heavy matches. He had a small fleet of drones to help with this, little bee-shaped helpers who flew around him when he went about his business. But whatever was going wrong with him now seemed to infect them too. The two or three that had even managed to flit over to him flew in dizzy, decaying circles overhead, bumping into each other. One, simply dropped out of the sky.

"Champion, can you speak?" Helsknight asked as calmly as he could, trying to meet the Champion's eye, but finding it hard to know where to look when the screen was glitching so badly. "Can you tell me what's wrong, or how I can help you?"

[If he could help at all, besides simply holding the Champion's hand and saying useless platitudes about how all things pass.]

The showrunner, who had until that point, apparently, been content to watch them kill each other, materialized at his side in a rush.

"You can't help him," he said nervously. "I'm surprised you've never seen this before. It's--" he looked away and cleared his throat. "The Champion isn't well."

Helsknight blinked. His first instinct was to snap yes, of course he isn't well. He just blacked out, or fell into whatever equivalent an android could have for a seizure. Obviously he wasn't well. Then the statement sank in, the implication beneath digging hooks in.

The Champion was dying.

Helsknight, very stupidly, found himself on the verge of asking why. Why him? Why now? Why this? Why like this? Helsknight had only seen someone on the verge once before, the Universe temporarily dithering over someone's mortality. It had been when he was still a squire, and one of the knights had... It wasn't a fit exactly. They'd been training, and she became lightheaded and shaky, and had a hard time breathing. At the time, Helsknight thought it was heat stroke, or maybe that she'd overexerted herself. When she sat down to cool off, she'd fallen asleep.

It had taken her three days to wake, and when she did, she was quiet, and meek, and scared.

Helsknight sighed, and he swore. "How long has this been happening?"

"Last I heard it'd only happened once," the showrunner answered skeptically. "Then again, he hadn't wanted anyone to know."

"Well. They're going to know now," Helsknight said grimly. "Make yourself useful and get me a strength potion." Then he snapped, when the showrunner blinked at him in exasperation, "Unless you'd like to carry him down to his cell yourself?"

They scampered off. Helsknight sighed again, running a hand through his hair. Respawn had done him one good turn at least; he wouldn't have to take any armor off before trying to drag the Champion downstairs.

"Alright then," Helsknight grunted as he got his arm beneath Evil Beesuma's shoulders and started lifting him. He was heavy and unwieldy, with too many limbs that were all too long. The Champion was taller than Helsknight by just enough that it made a difference when trying to carry him.

It was hard work getting the Champion downstairs. It was even harder work trying to be discreet about it. People saw him. Helsknight couldn't help that. But he at least stuck to the less traveled stairways, so news would travel slower. When he finally made it down the long, loud hall to Evil Beesuma's cell, he was relieved and grateful. He deposited the Champion into his bed, and arranged his limbs into a position that seemed comfortable. Then, not entirely sure what to do, Helsknight left.

It took the Champion a day and a half to wake. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't very long. Helsknight had heard of helsmets nearer to death falling asleep for days or weeks. The idea was terrifying to Helsknight, that he might, out on the streets one day, simply pass out and never wake again, smothered in the jaws of the Universe. This was not nearly so dramatic, Evil Beesuma might really have only suffered a handful of the episodes.

But it was enough time that people noticed, and they talked. They talked about whether the Champion was fit to fight. They talked about whether they would risk killing him. Some people were even so bold as to talk about him like he was dead already. They talked about what his statue would look like in the Colosseum hall. What they would do if he perished before a new Champion could be made. It made Helsknight angry hearing it. When he stumbled into those conversations, he found himself glowering and looming until the discussion broke off.

The day after Evil Beesuma woke, Helsknight gathered his courage and visited him. The Champion didn't like him, probably wouldn't appreciate him coming. Helsknight didn't blame him. It would sting someone's pride to act so high, and so cruel, and so triumphant, only to be felled a moment later by the hels equivalent of a lightning strike.

Evil Beesuma was alone when Helsknight entered his cell. He was sitting on his bed, face held in his hands, papers spread out on the sheets beside him. Helsknight caught a glance of a missive with the Colosseum seal on it.

"Your sponsor is concerned that, should you die in your next match--"

Helsknight averted his eyes quickly. He quietly backed out of the room, awkwardly considered his options. He thought, probably, the Champion might appreciate the chance to save some face around someone he didn't like. He sighed.

[Respect the honor of your fellow helsmet, he repeated to himself, trying not to feel ridiculous.]

Helsknight retreated up the hall a ways, and then made his footsteps loud when he came back again. He knocked obnoxiously on a few doors, and asked loudly and stupidly for directions to the Champion's cell. The walls in the cells were thin. He was easy to hear, even if the Champion couldn't catch the words. He would at least know someone was coming.

Sure enough, this time when he answered, Evil Beesuma was standing. The missives were collected in a neat, face-down pile on the bed. A dozen of his little buzzing drones hovered around his shoulders, scanning and doing maintenance. He had put on a practiced air of disdain and unconcern. Good. He didn't know his moment of despair had been witnessed.

"What are you here for?" Evil Beesuma demanded, all four of his arms crossed.

Helsknight briefly considered the best way to be respectful. He decided the best thing he could do was treat the Champion like nothing had changed. Enough people were treating him like he was fragile.

"I came to ask if you were well," Helsknight said simply, and when he was met with stony silence, begrudgingly added, "and I came to apologize for losing my temper."

Evil Beesuma side-eyed one of his drones, as though they were passing secret messages between each other. Helsknight thought it was a handy little trick to make people feel scrutinized. It added to the Champion's air of skepticism and disdain.

[Don't get angry, he hissed at himself, when the burn of emotion flickered in his stomach. Don't get angry.]

"Generally speaking, my Order is against outbursts like that," Helsknight continued, valiantly pretending he was unphased. "And it was arrogance on my part. I'm well aware I'm beneath your skill, and you offered me a kindness in using your time to train me."

Briefly, Helsknight considered kneeling. It would be a very knightly thing to do. He also thought his pride would eat him alive if he did it. He was still a bit too resentful of that foot planted on his chest, squeezing the life out of him. Helsknight settled on a small, stuff bow. It made Evil Beesuma laugh, a sharp derisive noise. Helsknight stubbornly ignored the thorn of anger pressing deeper into his side.

"I humbly ask you continue training me," Helsknight said, "and you consider accepting my challenge for the Championship."

"If you think just because you carried me down here I owe you something, I don't," Evil Beesuma said sharply.

"I don't think you owe me anything," Helsknight said, trying to keep both hands on his patience. "I'm asking politely for your time."

"And why in hels should I give it to you?" The Champion stepped towards him, towering. Anger, and the soft touch of nervousness, pulled a little harder against Helsknight's restraint. He wasn't used to being intimidated. He decided immediately he didn't like it. "As you've clearly noticed, I have little enough of it to go around. What makes you think you deserve it?"

"Because I'm a knight."

"Because you're a knight?" Evil Beesuma laughed. "Am I supposed to be impressed because you walk around in a fancy cape all day?"

Helsknight scowled. He clenched his fists at his sides, and for a long, cold moment, considered punching the Champion as hard as he could in the face. It probably wouldn't do anything besides wound his own knuckles, but gods alive it would feel great. And then he would wash his hands of the stupid gladiator, and all his spiteful, biting pride.

[Saint help me. Saint keep my temper somewhere else.]

"Being a knight means I will treat you with honor and respect, Champion," Helsknight said, trying to keep the aggravated growl out of his voice. "No matter what state you're in when the fighting starts."

The Champion narrowed his eyes at him.

Helsknight took that as a... positive sign.

"The showrunners aren't going to want to risk you in the Colosseum now," Helsknight said quietly. "Your fellow fighters will be tempted to stay their hands, to take it easy on you, because they're scared they'll be the ones to kill you."

"And you're not?" Evil Beesuma snorted skeptically. "I suppose you'll take pride in being the one that finally kills me."

"Don't insult me, Champion!" Helsknight snapped fiercely, taking an angry step forward, so they were chest to chest. "I would never take joy in something like that. Losing you would be a greater sin to this world than anything my winning would gain. People look up to you. They aspire to be like you -- at least the kind show you put on for the crowd."

Evil Beesuma made an uncomfortable noise, guilty.

[Good, he should be, for how he'd been acting.]

"And despite your ruthlessness teaching me," Helsknight said, trying again to regain control of his emotions, at least enough to keep from yelling quite so vehemently, "I respect you. For your strength, and perseverance, and what you've built. You have a legacy here. Something you are rightly proud of."

Helsknight huffed out a tense breath through his nose. "I think it would be a shame to be robbed of that legacy, and the vindication of the works of your hands, because someone else is too scared to accept your challenge. You should have the choice to fight, and keep fighting. Not to rot at the top because ambition fails. If I were in your place, I would hope someone would offer me the same."

Helsknight stepped back from the Champion, breathing intentional, slow breaths through his nose. Embarrassment was starting to chase him, the feeling of stupidity at his fervency, and his vulnerability. Evil Beesuma's gaze slid away from him, some of his previous spite and fire gone. At the very least, he didn't loom threateningly anymore.

Helsknight sighed. Perhaps... A tactical retreat was best. Before he opened his mouth and said some other ridiculous thing. He offered the Champion another stiff bow, silently dismissing himself. Just before he crossed the threshold, buzzing filtered towards him, low and weary. Helsknight turned to look at him.

"Tomorrow, first thing in the morning," the Champion said quietly. Then, with a bit more of his former bite, "Bring your dagger. That throw was trash."

Helsknight nodded. He exited into the hallway, wandering with ever quickening steps back to the stairs that would take him to his cell. Halfway up the stairs he sighed, and stopped, and leaned his forehead against the wall. His hands were shaking.

"If I'm the one who kills the Champion, they'll hate me," he whispered to himself. Between hels and his Hermit, and the spiteful Champion below, he supposed he would have to get used to being hated.

"Nowhere in your tenets does it say you need to be loved," Helsknight murmured. He sighed again, and ascended the steps.

[Some things were more important than his image anyway.]

[sgt-tombstone]

Contrary to popular belief, when Soap joined the 141, he didn't attach himself obnoxious and irrevocably to his glowering lieutenant. There was no baby duckling moment, no imprinting from the sociable sergeant, no following Ghost around like a lost puppy

For his first few weeks on base, he was bright and loud in the way of the new kid on the block trying to make friends however he could, but he gravitated mostly towards Gaz, a man equal to him in rank, passion, and mischievousness. He sought out Ghost with the same enthusiasm that he sought out latrine duty or paperwork; a part of everyday military life that's easier to accept and move on than fight against. He didn't go out of his way to avoid Ghost, but he also didn't actively try to gain his attention either

Contrary to popular belief, it was Ghost who attached himself to Soap, not the other way around

Ghost has always stuck to the shadows, taken advantage of the brightness of others to stay hidden, to fly under the radar until he erupts with deadly force, and no one was brighter than Johnny. When Soap walked into a room, no one had the wherewithal to even think to check for anyone behind him; he stole the attention of everyone he came in contact with. He was a blaze of energy and charm and excitement, and Ghost shamelessly used it to his advantage, placing himself behind Johnny like he was deploying a decoy flare, knowing that he could rely on the shadow that Soap never failed to cast with his intensity. It wasn't a fear thing, either; Ghost never cowered in Soap's shadow. At worst, he lurked. At best, prowled. He did what he did best, assisted by an oblivious, brilliant sergeant

And when Soap caught on... Price never knew peace again, because Soap turned the glow up tenfold, intentionally creating pockets of shadow for his lieutenant to hide in, the two of them working in tandem until they didn't even have to speak, until they could move around each other with alarming, exceptional ease

Around base, Ghost took advantage of it for fun, or to get out of paperwork, or to avoid social interaction; he could trust his sergeant to distract anyone from anything for long enough that Ghost could slip away entirely unnoticed, with everyone around them none the wiser

In the field, though... They had never been a more deadly duo. There was risk involved, of course, because intentionally drawing attention to yourself in a firefight is less than ideal, but they trusted each other implicitly. Whenever Soap kicked up dust, Ghost took cover in it, hiding in plain sight, secure in the knowledge that the combination of Soap's diversion and his own trigger finger kept them completely safe. No one ever saw Ghost, not when they were too caught up in the pandemonium that was Johnny MacTavish, and then it was too late, because Ghost had already taken them out

And when Soap turned that wildness on Ghost himself, well... Simon could admit that he used his sergeant's influence to his advantage, but he'd never claim to be entirely immune to it himself...

[alchemistc]

"What's this?" Eddie asks, wide eyed and curious as he shifts the papers on Steve's desk, shuffling past unopened mail and timestamps for the page buried beneath it all, and Steve has just enough time to turn in horror before Eddie unearths it.

It - his shame, his fear, his heart laid out in graphite against a backsplash of fine white paper. He'd splurged on the stack of it hidden in one of his desk drawers, a luxury he couldn't really afford anymore but one he'd decided was worth it now that his parents had made it clear they wouldn't be back any time soon to take it from him.

He knows every line of it, every piece of shading, all the highlights he'd agonized over and the spots where he couldn't be satisfied by the shape of the nose, the angle of the jawline.

Eddie takes it in for long enough that Steve can feel time dilating around them, an infinite gasping maw of nothingness and everything all at once.

And when he's taken his fill of it, his gaze flits up again. Meets Steve's, and holds.

"It's me."

Steve breathes. In, out, two careful measures. He swallows. He contemplates, just for a moment, leaping out the window. He breathes. He swallows, again, his throat tight. He breathes.

Eddie in profile, bottom lip pinched by his teeth. Eddie, with dark shadows tilted across his jaw, his nose, his Adams apple, where a curtain of hair blocks out the light. Eddie, eyes crinkled at the corners, smile lines rushing into the heavy dip of a dimple barely visible beside the fall of his hair.

Eddie.

"But -." Eddie stares. At Steve, for a moment, before his eyes flit back to the stark lines of the portrait Steve had liked just enough not to take out and burn with the rest of them.

"I'm sorry," Steve tells him, and he means it. Sorry, for not saying anything earlier. Sorry, for accepting Eddie's friendship and taking advantage of his easy way with people. Sorry for drinking in the sight of him and squirreling away the details of each moment, hoarding each memory away for the long winter that would come to be when Eddie eventually moved on.

"You..." Eddie swallows. Breathes. In and out, a rattle of bones and teeth and sinew Steve is intimately familiar with. "It's me," he says, again, confusion furling out over his brow.

But it's not - he's not -

"I thought you'd be mad."

Eddie startles. "Mad? Mad for - why would I...?" Eyes dart to Steve, studying him. And he knows - Steve has recounted to him every missed birthday and every cool and quiet dinner with his parents, every detail of his surface level friendships before Robin, every hurt he and Nancy ever doled out to one another in their anger and fear and pain. He knows.

He knows Steve just as surely as Steve knows him.

"Sweetheart," Eddie says, in that soft, sweet voice he has for broken things he means to repair.

Steve swallows, and he breathes.

[steddiealltheway]

For some reason, Steve and Eddie do not know how to greet each other. Maybe it's because their friendship is somewhat new, and they both don't know how to outright say, "How the hell am I supposed to say hello?"

So, it just kind of becomes a thing between the two of them to almost rapid-fire greetings until they land on a mutual one. And usually... it takes them a while.

This time is no exception.

Eddie sees Steve and lets his heart do a little flip that he knows isn't just nerves from their little greeting thing, but eventually, he'll learn how to push those feelings down. He just can't help it when Steve always looks like a- like.... okay, he's hot, and Eddie's brain goes to mush whenever he's around him.

Speaking of being around him...

"Hey!" Eddie says throwing his arms out wide for a hug while the kids walk around them.

Steve counters him by thrusting his hand forward going for a handshake while saying, "Hey, man!"

They both laugh at their awkward greeting and move on to the next one. For some reason, Eddie goes for a bow, and Steve does Eddie's signature devil horns while sticking his tongue out which really should not be so damn attractive.

Then, Eddie stands up straight and goes for a high five while Steve goes for a fist bump. "Almost had it," Steve says with a wide smile.

"We'll get it on this next one," Eddie states. Then, he moves his elbow forward as Steve does his little finger wave.

"I definitely should've seen that coming. That's on me," Steve says running a hand through his hair.

"No worries, man. But I won't lie, I'm starting to run out of greetings, and they're about to turn weird," Eddie admits, but this is usually the fun of this game. Somehow they always get to some mutually weird greeting that no human would actually ever do.

So, Eddie prepares himself when Steve gets a rare mischievous look in his eye and asks, "Ready?"

Eddie nods then jumps into the air as Steve raises his foot up, luckily not kicking him but getting fairly close.

"Were you trying to kick me?" Eddie asks with a laugh.

"Was going for a footfive," Steve replies with a smile.

That smile is going to be the death of Eddie one of these days. And for some reason, with that thought on his mind, Eddie suddenly remembers that sometimes people kiss each other on the cheeks as a greeting, and wouldn't that be funny?

"Ready?" Eddie asks, excited for his plan.

"Ready," Steve replies.

Unexpectedly, Steve steps forward as Eddie does the same. But Eddie doesn't chicken out of his plan. So, he quickly leans forward, but Steve must entirely misread him because suddenly he is kissing Eddie. Like... full-on kissing him. On the lips. With his hands gently cupping his face.

When he pulls away, Eddie is still a bit in shock, but Steve just raises his hand in a high five and excitedly yells, "We found a greeting!" Like they usually do as if he did not just kiss him.

So, Eddie does the only thing he can think of and celebrates with him as if nothing life-changing just happened.

When Steve walks away, Eddie can't help but get stuck on the fact that they're going to have to go through the same process when saying goodbye again. Is he allowed to test his luck?

He glances around and realizes that no one else witnessed their little moment, having gotten used to their antics long ago. But maybe when everyone is leaving and they're around the two, Eddie won't be so lucky. If anything, he can say he was going for a cheek kiss.

So, the night goes on, and Eddie tries as hard as he can to forget the kiss.

It does not work at all.

And before he knows it, people are starting to leave, and Steve is even looking at him expectantly. So, Eddie walks up to him and says, "Bye, man." And before he can even think of a way to say goodbye to cover how much he wants to kiss Steve again, Steve is already leaning in.

This time, Eddie easily meets him in the middle to properly kiss him which gives him butterflies in his stomach until he hears Dustin say, "What the fuck?"

Steve and Eddie jump apart breaking the kiss, but Steve quickly defends them. "We found our new greeting!"

Eddie thinks he might die on the spot. This is going to be a recurring thing? Jesus H. Christ. Steve is going to be the death of him.

"Good for you?" Max says as she walks out the door clearly weirded out but Eddie thinks she could care less.

Everyone else kind of dismisses it as well, but Dustin just stands there flabbergasted.

Steve takes a small step forward with his hands on his hips and his eyebrows raised. “You got a problem, Henderson?” Steve asks, more fearful than accusatory.

“No!” Dustin squeals then calmly continues, “No. it’s just I…” he trails off and looks between the two before shaking his head. “I don’t want to see any tongue,” he states.

“Gross, I would never in front of you kids!” Steve says shoving him out the door while ruffling his hair.

“No promises!” Eddie shouts after him, but then it hits him that Steve just said he would make out with him with the kids not around… and right now the kids are all gone.

Oh shit.

The door closes behind Dustin, and Eddie knows that he needs to leave the Harrington house. Especially because he’s the kids’ ride home.

He ducks his head, letting some strands fall in front of his face, and says, "Goodbye, Steve." He takes a few steps toward the door but is stopped by Steve's hand on his shoulder.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, sounding a little too hopeful.

Steve just steps in front of him and cups his face. "This okay?"

Eddie melts into the touch and grabs Steve's hips. "More than okay."

He's not sure who moves first, but Steve is pinned against the door, and Eddie fulfills his secret wishes of taking Steve apart as he learns that Steve wasn't lying when he said no tongue only in front of the kids.

There's a loud knock on the door, and Dustin is suddenly yelling, "Hurry up in there! Some of us have a curfew!"

So, Steve and Eddie reluctantly pull apart, but Eddie can't help but kiss him one more time and wish him a good night.

In the car, the kids grill Eddie to answer when the hell they started dating, but Eddie assures them that they're not. Then, they all take bets on how long it will be, and Eddie chimes in that he's pretty sure he's not supposed to hear their bets.

(Secretly, he wants to make El's bet of two weeks come true.)

Eddie knows it's just a fluke though. Steve is probably just kissed starved after his series of failed dates, and Eddie is just an outlet.

It's pretty depressing when it's put like that but... Eddie is willing to take anything from Steve.

So, he can't be too upset when Steve kisses him the next time he sees him. And the time after that... And the time after that...

But, then it shifts to whenever Steve sees Eddie after he goes in another room, the bathroom, hell, sometimes Steve just says he hasn't looked in his direction in a while and misses him before he swoops in to kiss him.

It shifts even further when Steve starts purposely making excuses to get Eddie alone only to make out with him. They're not even good excuses. He once asks, "Eddie, can you come in here to observe the color of the inside of this door?"

But every time Eddie thinks maybe this is not good for my heart, Steve looks at him sweetly and says, "Hi," before leaning in to kiss him again.

And maybe it would be easier to distinguish whatever the hell this whole greeting thing is if only Steve wasn't acting all lovey-dovey outside of it. He starts insisting on sitting next to Eddie and slinging his arm around his shoulders. He even starts whispering flirty stuff in his ear that makes Eddie turn bright red - he didn't know someone could do that to him.

And the kids are getting worse in the van, insisting that they each have their bet in the bag with it being any day now.

And Eddie knows they're all wrong.

Steve has just hit a rough patch and he's content with using Eddie until the next girl comes along.

Once again… that sounds really bad. But it has to be the only way that Eddie deserves this.

But maybe he should end it before things go too far.

With that in mind, Eddie goes to Steve’s house unprompted and without anyone else for once. He needs to make it clear that a new greeting is needed.

He gets there quickly and rushes to the front door before he can change his mind. He can do this. He can set a boundary.

But then Steve opens the door and his whole face lights up when he sees Eddie. “Finally. I was wondering when it would just be you, but I didn’t want to push it.”

Instead of dodging the kiss once he’s through the doorway, Eddie completely gives in to the way Steve desperately throws himself at him practically devouring him. And Eddie is a very weak man.

Every kiss breaks his will and he begins to wonder why he should say anything and instead just accept anything he can.

Then, Steve starts kissing his jaw and down his neck and Eddie freezes up. Whatever comes next, he definitely does not want it to mean nothing.

Luckily, Steve notices and pulls back. “You okay?” He asks looking him in the eye.

Eddie shakes his head. He’s not. God, he really likes him. But he can’t go any further or this will tear him apart.

“Hey,” Steve says gently. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Eddie thuds his head against the door and feels so dumb when his eyes start to burn and his bottom lip starts to tremble. “Please don’t hate me when I tell you this.”

“I could never hate you, Eddie.”

Eddie laughs humorlessly. He’s going to flip out when he finds out. “I like you, Steve. As in, I have feelings for you.”

Steve waits a moment, brows furrowed, and Eddie is sure he’s going to kick him out. Instead, he asks, “But…?”

Why is he prompting him? “No but. That’s it,” Eddie states. Maybe Steve just heard him wrong?

“Okay?” Steve says as if it was the most obvious confession in the world. “And why would I hate you when you told me that?”

Eddie’s eyes widen. Does he not get it? “Because I like you! Like… romantically! And I can’t have you kissing me since it means nothing to you and everything to me!” His heart pounds in his chest as Steve takes in what he’s saying.

“Holy shit,” Steve says having the realization.

“Yeah, holy shit.” Eddie thuds his head back against the door again. Hopefully he’ll let him down easy.

“No, I mean holy shit holy shit,” Steve crowds into his space and cups Eddie’s face. “Did you not think I had feelings for you too? Hell, I thought we were like… dating by now.” Steve pulls away and runs a hand through his hair anxiously. “Holy shit,” he mutters in disbelief.

Eddie just stares. “You thought we were dating? Like… you have feelings for me?”

“I thought I made them clear after the second time I kissed you! Why would I make out with you if we were just friends?”

“I don’t know!” Eddie yells back and runs his hands over his face. He laughs. “Oh god, none of the kids will win the bet because we have no idea when we started dating.”

“There’s a bet going on?” Steve asks with a small smile. “What did El say?”

“That’s who I was hoping for! She said we would be dating two weeks from… Oh, that was two weeks ago exactly,” Eddie realizes with a big smile. Maybe she won fair and square after all.

“Want to make it official then since I somehow forgot to?” Steve asks with a big smile.

Eddie pretends to actually think about his answer before considering, “Maybe I should review all the bets first.”

“Eddie,” Steve says exasperated.

“I’m joking. I will be glad to be your boyfriend… if it means El wins the bet.”

“Eddie.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh at Steve’s irritation. He leans forward and easily kisses him. “You’re going to get tired of me so fast, boyfriend,” Eddie can’t help but tack on at the end.

“I’d like to see you try, boyfriend,” Steve replies before kissing him again.

From then on, their greetings only slightly change. In addition to the kiss, they always say some form of, “Hi, boyfriend.” The kids quickly get tired of it, but Steve and Eddie never do.

[necrotic-nephilim]

Tim's unternet suit really is the most glaringly obvious hero worship/crush for Dick thing he ever has. in the unternet, where Tim's subconscious creates what he is. that's the suit his brain comes up with? something so clearly derivative of Nightwing? down to the *finger stripes*?

red robin #19

this is gay as hell. the reason Tim can't wear this soul irl is bc the first thing he would do is jerk off in it. and he couldn't handle the embarrassment of Dick seeing how similar it is. if DC ever made this Tim's official suit the first thing they would have to do is make Tim and Dick fuck in it. i'm so close to writing that fic i won't lie.

[rosyhoneydew]

911 8x04 sneak peek coda with buddietommy because my brain wouldn't let this go until I wrote it.

"Okay," Tommy lifts his hands placatingly. "Well, if we're going to talk curses, I'll need to be way more caffeinated. You want anything, Eddie?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"Right," Tommy says. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Eddie's been flipping through the hospital-provided magazines in Buck's room for the better part of an hour, but his eyes flick up to catch the movement of Tommy leaning toward Buck.

He doesn't mean to watch, it's instinct that has him looking on. Nonetheless, he catches the way Buck shifts just a little as Tommy moves in, and feels a sympathy pang for the way Tommy changes course to pat a hand on Buck's shoulder rather than the kiss it had initially looked like he was going for.

Eddie quickly flicks his eyes back to the magazine, not wanting to let on that he'd seen.

He hears Tommy head back out into the hallway and sits up, turning his attention on Buck.

"What was that about?"

"What?" Buck asks, fiddling with the top sheet on his bed.

Eddie levels him with a look when Buck finally makes eye contact again. Really?

"It's nothing," Buck sighs eventually.

"Sorta felt like something," he counters.

Buck grimaces. "I don't know..." Then he finally caves. "I guess I just thought it might be weird."

"Weird? To... kiss your boyfriend?"

"Weird for you," he says, looking at Eddie out of the corner of his eye. You knew what I meant, goes unsaid.

"Buck," Eddie starts, uncrossing his legs and leaning closer to the bed so he's impossible to ignore. "I told you that you being with Tommy doesn't change anything, remember?"

"Yeah, I-I know but like it's different, knowing that we're dating and, like, seeing us make out or whatever."

A random, hot thrill strikes Eddie when the thought conjures up the image. He thinks of the way Tommy's hands must fit, sure and heavy, on Buck's jaw, his neck, as they kiss. He imagines the way Buck tilts his head back to let Tommy's tongue slide in deeper, moaning when the wet slide of it imitates something even dirtier.

"Make out, huh?" he manages weakly. "Didn't realize hospital beds got you going like that."

Buck flushes and rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Eddie says. "Look, Buck, it doesn't bother me, okay? You shouldn't do anything you're not comfortable with, but you don't have to hide this part of you for my sake. Not ever. Got it?"

Buck nods, looking relieved.

"Plus-" Eddie starts before he realizes what's about to pour out of his mouth. He snaps his mouth shut.

"Plus?" Buck prompts.

"Plus, I don't know... it's not like you guys are, like, hard on the eyes or anything." He's stammering. "I mean, it's not like a hardship, you know?"

Buck sits back wide-eyed. Shit. Eddie hadn't meant to make it weird, but it definitely was, right? That's probably not a normal thing to say to your best friend about him and your other best friend dating.

"You-?"

"Sorry." Buck cuts himself off at the sound of Tommy's voice, thank god.

"I had to wait for someone to track down the creamer, at least it's somewhat drinkable now." Tommy frowns at his coffee like it's insulted him just by existing.

Buck smiles at Tommy. He's shaken himself out of the state of shock he was in when Tommy walked back in, but he's got a glint in his eye that's making Eddie feel a little on edge.

"Can I have a taste?" he asks.

Tommy cocks a brow. "Sure."

But when he steps closer and holds out the paper cup, Buck bypasses it altogether. He grabs Tommy's hand, the free one, and pulls him down enough to get his other hand around the back of Tommy's neck.

Eddie couldn't look away if he tried. Tommy lets out a huff of surprise as their lips lock, a gasp as Buck deepens it immediately, licking in so fully that Eddie can see the movement from his chair. There's thick anticipation and intrigue simmering in his gut at the sight, but it's over all too quickly.

Tommy leans back, smiling and pecking Buck once more, before clearing his throat and looking over at Eddie a little sheepishly.

"Okay," he says, voice low, "what did I miss?"

[varpusvaras]

It had been a busy day.

Part of it was Bail's own doing. He had needed something to distract himself from the ongoing investigation, so he had picked up all the work he had been putting aside during the past couple of weeks, and finally started to go through them. He was in the middle of going through the budget draft of ship manufacturing for Frigate-class ships, when the office's door's alarm lighted up.

Someone was trying to get in.

Emphasis on trying to get in. They weren't trying to break in, as Bail could see that they were trying to use their clearance on the door, but the reading kept being interrupted for some reason.

Bail frowned. He stood up and started to make his way towards the door, when the alarm shut down and the door slid open.

Fox all but stumbled in, his whole upper body pitching forwards as he moved, and he swayed still when he stopped and just stood there.

Bail was very thankful for having long legs, because he got to Fox with only a few quick strides, just in time when his swaying got worse and he started to list to the side, with his knees buckling. Bail managed to step to his side, so Fox would just easily fall towards him. He all but collapsed against Bail, his helmet diggin hard into Bail's chest as he let his head drop as well.

"Careful", Bail said, trying to take a batter hold of Fox, but as soon as Bail laid his hands on his back, Fox flinched and dug himself deeper against Bail. That was the last sign Bail needed to know that Fox was hurt.

When had this happened? Bail had not heard about any other operations where Fox would've been needed for the day, as they were busy with the attack on the Temple. Had something happened there? Bail had been under the impression that the situation was under control, and that there hadn't been any further attacks-

He could think about all of that a bit later.

"Fox?" He called. "Where does it hurt the most?"

Bail had learned to not simply ask if Fox was hurt, because almost every single time, if Fox just still had all of his limbs and his head attached to him, he would start to deny that he was injured in the first place, or insist that it was not, actually, even that bad. Fox did answer when asked what was exactly bothering him, even if he would try to downplay it anyway right after. At least it gave some sort of general direction for things.

Fox made an odd noise under his helmet, that almost didn't come out through the vocoders. It sounded almost like a whine.

"Head. Back. Arms. Hands. Legs", Fox muttered against Bail's chest. "Everywhere."

Alright, then. A little help, but a lot to be worried about.

"Alright", Bail breathed out. "Let's get you to sit down."

The few meters from the door to the office's couch took a lot longer than they usually did. Bail tried to keep most of Fox's weight on him, but it was still a struggle.

Bail couldn't understand how this had happened, and how any of the other Guards had not taken Fox back to the base immediately to be treated. They were all very protective of their Commander, and if they had been present, Bail knew that they would've taken action immediately, unless...they had not been there at all.

There was only one situation that Bail knew where Fox would be alone, that would end up like this.

The burning of anger lit up inside of him. Bail had never previously thought of himself using blackmail or any other unsavory methods like that, but even he had his limits. It was high time he started to weed out all the unsuitable people, who thought it was appropriate to treat the Guard how they liked.

But first, he needed to tend to Fox.

They got to the couch. Fox looked like he was ready to just fall onto it, which would most likely just aggravate everything more, so Bail had to very slowly and carefully put him down and arrange his body so it didn't look like it hurt too much.

"I'm going to take the helmet off", Bail informed him, before he reached for it and gently lifted it up.

Fox had mentioned head pain just before, and Bail could see why straight away. He had seen enough concussions to know what they looked like, and the way Fox's eyes were dark and could barely keep track of Bail, even though he was right in front of him, told enough.

Bail took in a deep breath and then took a better look of Fox as a whole.

Another immediately noticeable thing was his left arm. Fox was holding it close to his abdomen, and the commlink on his vambrace had an error-light on, as that entire piece of armor seemed to be slightly dented inwards. That explained why he had difficulties getting the door to read the clearance. It was either that the device didn't work properly, or Fox had difficulties keeping his arm still, or both, as Bail was already sure that the arm itself was also broken.

Bail glanced down, and held back a grimace and then a snarl. If the arm was probably broken, Fox's left leg definitely was, as the foot had rotated inside in a way that was clearly forced. No wonder he had been stumbling, with both the concussion and this.

Head, arms, hands, legs. Back.

The armor was not fastened properly, so Bail had an easier time getting it all of, even with Fox sitting up. He still ended up jostling him a little as he took off the backpiece, and every sharp breath Fox took in only served to fuel the anger more.

Bail carefully rolled the blacks up. He didn't need more than a peek to see the deeply darkened skin as bruises were already starting to form.

Bail never stopped to be both impressed and horrified of the way the clones were able to just push the pain aside. He almost hoped that some of it was because the concussion was making Fox confused enough to ignore some of it.

Bail tried to breathe in deep. He hoped it would've get the anger at bay for a moment longer.

It did, in a way. It pushed it down, but at the same time, gave it enough air to grow.

Fox looked at him then, his eyes wide, and even though Bail was almost scared to touch him, he had to. He needed to.

So he took Fox's face into his hands.

"What happened?" He asked, stroking his thumb over Fox's cheek.

Fox let out a wavering breath.

"I- we got a suspect brought in", Fox started, his voice stammering bit at the start. "She requested a visitor, a Jedi. It was- in her rights, so, we brought the Jedi in, and she- we saw though the monitor her strangling the suspect, so we took her in. We had to."

He sounded almost pleading at the end, for a reason Bail didn't yet understand.

"I know", Bail said. "I know, you were just doing your job."

Fox swallowed, and grimaced, pressing his eyes shut tight for a moment. Bail ran his thumb over Fox's cheek again, and Fox tilted his head more into the touch.

"I-" Fox started. "Admiral Tarkin told us that this was not a Jedi matter anymore, and we couldn't let anyone else in. He ordered us not to let anyone in. But then Skywalker came and wanted to go see her, and-"

He grimaced again, and Bail wondered if speaking was aggravating him. He started to lean forward, and Bail let him fall to him again, tucking him against him as gently as he could.

"What was Skywalker doing there?" Bail asked. He hadn't thought that the Jedi would put him out of all people to investigate a crime like this. Skywalker was a capable Jedi and a General, but what Bail knew about him, he was not the most experienced in situations like these.

"She's his Padawan", Fox said against Bail's shoulder.

"Tano?" Bail asked, perplexed. "You arrested Ahsoka Tano?"

Fox stiffened.

"We had her on camera", he said. "There was no one else in the room. We didn't hurt her, we just-"

"Of course you didn't hurt her", Bail hurried to say. There had been a desperate edge sneaking into Fox's voice just now. "I know that."

Bail had to admit that he didn't know Ahsoka Tano too well, but from the impression he had gotten, he wouldn't have suspected her first, at least not without any evidence.

Well, it seemed like there was evidence, wasn't there?

Fox's right hand closed around the front of Bail's shirt. Bail held him as tight as he could.

"I told Skywalker", Fox said. "I told him my orders. I told him. He didn't listen. He got in. Tarkin found out I failed. One of his guards kicked me down. I think I- I think I broke my foot more."

Bail frowned, something like dread starting to trickle in into the anger.

"More?" He asked.

Fox didn't answer. He just curled up against Bail, and Bail heard his breath hitch.

"Fox?" Bail pressed on. He had to know. "What do you mean by that?"

Fox pushed his forehead hard against Bail's shoulder.

"Skywalker didn't listen", he said. "He demanded to be let in. I told him no. He didn't listen, he forced himself in, I couldn't- Tarkin didn't listen when I told him-"

He stopped, and breathed, almost heaving.

"It hurts", he whispered. "Nobody listened to me. It hurts."

Bail held him as tight as he could, stared at the wall of his office, and saw red.

---

Bail got the recording of what had happened in less than an hour.

The Guard was very willing to give him anything he asked for. They had all seemed just as angry as Bail was, and has kept apologising over and over again, for letting this happen. For leaving Fox alone. It had been in between rotations, and Fox had taken it upon himself to watch the security point for that one moment. During that one moment, Skywalker had come in, and started to demand to be let in.

It wasn't their fault, and Bail said so every single time. Skywalker was a Jedi. The Guard should've been able to trust a Jedi not to hurt them.

Bail watched Skywalker and Fox talk. He watched how Skywalker got more and more upset with every single second. He watched how Skywalker lifted his hand and pointed it towards Fox on the other side of the security glass. He watched Fox tell Skywalker no.

He watched Skywalker threw his arm towards Fox. He watched as the whole panel around the glass bent and broke away, the glass shattering. He watched Fox being flung across the room and crashing hard against the far wall, shards of the glass raining all around him. He watched Skywalker not giving any of it a second look as he made his way inside.

He watched Fox lay there, dazed, before he rolled on his side and just managed to push himself up when two officer guards strolled in, with Tarkin soon following them.

He watched the guards kick Fox down and beat down on his already battered back one, two times, before the recording cut.

He couldn't stomach watching it for a second time.

There was a request to enter coming from he door. Bail pressed the door open.

Padmé stepped in, with a tight smile on her face.

"I'm sorry it took me a while to get here", she said, as she sat down on the chair on the other side of the desk. "Things have been...hectic."

"I can only imagine", Bail said.

The anger had stopped burning a long time ago, now. Now, Bail felt like ice.

He leveled Padmé a look.

"Anakin has had a hectic day as well", he said.

Padmé was an intelligent woman. Bail knew that she would be able to connect all the implications and come to a conclusion on her own.

She did, as the smile dropped away from her face.

"What happened?" She asked. "Did...did something happen at the prison?"

Bail almost had a feeling that she knew already, on some level.

"Yes", Bail said. "He attacked Fox when Fox didn't let him in."

Colour drained from Padmé's face. She opened her mouth, closed it, and hesitated for a moment before she opened it again.

"Is he alright?" She asked. The correct question for the situation.

"No", Bail answered bluntly. "No, he isn't. He got seriously injured by Anakin, and then injured further by Tarkin because somehow, an armed Jedi attacking him means that he failed to follow orders."

Padmé shook her head.

"I can't believe it", she said. "Are you sure-"

"It's on record", Bail said. "And before you mention it, yes, I am aware that Tano was innocent and framed. That didn't happen here."

Padmé didn't say anything to that, even though she looked like she very much wanted to.

Bail stood up.

"I asked you to come here as a courtesy", he said. Padmé blinked at him.

"Courtesy?" She asked. "For what?"

"I'm warning you in advance, because you are still my friend", Bail said. "I am reporting Skywalker to the Jedi council and asking them to demote him. He is not suitable to be a Jedi."

"Bail", Padmé said. "Can we talk about this-"

"We cannot", Bail interrupted her. "I am not going to let this happen again."

"It's not going to happen again!" Padmé stood up as well. "Anakin was just worried about Ahsoka. Bail, please."

"That doesn't give him the right!" Bail almost felt bad as Padmé flinched at his voice, but not quite. "I have kept your secrets, Padmé! I did that because you are my friend and I care about you, not because I wished to shield Skywalker!"

He went around the table and stood in front of her.

"He is going to face consequences for this", Bail said. "And you will not interfere with it. If you try to, my loyalty for you is over as well."

Padmé drew in a sharp breath.

"You wouldn't", she said.

"I would." Bail looked her straight into the eyes. "And I advice you to look hard at your choices. This meeting is now over. Leave my office."

He could see from her eyes that she understood him to be serious. Padmé walked out of the office without saying another word.

Bail stood there for a moment, before he took his commlink and his cape.

First, the Temple. Then, he was going to the Guard base to see Fox.

[theladycarpathia]

Billy’s not expecting the call from his dad.

“Billy?” Hop sounds distant, the faint sound of an idling engine in the background. Billy blinks, because his dad is at work and as far as Billy knows that usually means sitting behind a desk at the station and arguing with Flo.

“Don’t you have paperwork to be doing?” Billy says and Hopper snorts. There’s the sound of background traffic that’s then shut out by the clang of a car door.

“Don’t give me cheek, I am still the chief,” Hopper says as though that means anything in a small town where the most crime that they get is some drunk idiot attempting to rob the gas station.

“Yes, sir,” Billy quips and changes the channel. No one else is home and he’s bored. Jon and Joyce are still at work, and El and Will are doing weird nerd activities. The diner didn’t have a shift for him today and he doesn’t have a date, so he came home. He’d half expected someone to be here, instead of getting stuck with a protein bar and old reruns.

“That’s more like it,” Hopper says and then clears his throat awkwardly. “I was just wondering…are you definitely single?”

“Dad,” Billy says, attention now fully away from the TV set. Hop’s called him before, to ask him shit like do they need milk and to take the trash out. He doesn't call to talk about Billy's love life. They never talk about that, not after that time Hopper came in his room without knocking. “What is your next question, because this could make the next family dinner a little uncomfortable.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Hopper gripes. There’s the sudden cackle of laughter in the background and Billy sits up.

“Are you with someone?” he asks and then sucks in a breath at the implications. “Did you put me on speaker?”

“I may have done,” Hopper says, sounding sheepish. “I just picked up a young man outside the movie theatre and he’s about your age…”

“I’m nineteen!” the mystery guy hollers from the backseat. Hopper keeps talking like the guy hadn’t spoken.

“I don’t know, I just thought he was your type.”

Billy presses a hand to his temple, unable to believe that his dad has just said those words. “What’s my type?” he asks, wondering if he’s going to combust right here and now. Hopper makes that little awkward throat clearing again, like he can’t believe the situation either.

“You know,” he says stiffly. “Sort of…pretty.”

Oh God. Billy can never look Hopper in the eye again.

“You think I’m pretty?” the guy asks curiously, and Billy can’t blame him for sounding a bit weirded out.

“I think you look like a lot of the doe-eyed pretty-boys my son brings home,” Hopper snaps. Despite his obvious discomfort, Billy can’t help the rush of affection at Hopper trying to be supportive. Neil would have beat the shit out of him. Hopper tries to hook him up with appropriately aged delinquents in the back of the police car.

“A lot?” the guy asks and Billy flushes. He then regrets it because he has no idea if he even wants to impress whatever guy Hopper has picked up.

“It’s not a lot,” he says defensively because Hawkins isn’t exactly big on the gay scene. His last boyfriend he met at Tina’s Halloween party and to be fair, if you wear a kilt and not a lot else to a party in October, Billy’s absolutely going to beg you to rail him in the downstairs cloakroom. The relationship hadn't exactly worked out.

“Look, I get the feeling I’m never going to hear the end of this so here’s the situation,” Hopper says, sounding tired. “This is my son, Billy. He’s about to finish high school, he likes cars and burgers and loud music. He has shit taste in men even though he’s attractive, clever and a smart mouth. Billy, this is Steve. I was on my way back from the mayor’s office when I caught him peeing in an alley. Judging by his big brown eyes and the fact that public nudity doesn’t seem to be a problem for him, I thought of you.”

“Aww,” Billy drawls, sitting back on the couch. There are lights in the drive so someone has just arrived home. Which is good because he needs to tell everyone this story so they can give Hopper shit about it over dinner. “Pops, that’s so sweet.”

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” Hopper says, like he hasn’t already done everything for Billy by getting him out, giving him a home. “I’ll take an extra polaroid when I process him.”

“I had to take a leak!” Steve protests and Hopper sucks in air through his teeth.

“There are public bathrooms, kid, I’ve heard those work pretty well. Billy, help your mom with dinner when she gets home.” Sucks for Hopper, it’s Jon heading up the path, keys dangling from his fingers. Billy can’t wait to tell him this story.

“Or what, you won’t bring me any more dates?” Billy asks, but he’s only half-joking. Hopper means well and kind of fucks it up a lot but this time he might have hit it right on the money. He thinks he might like Steve.

“Do I get a picture?” Steve asks. “Or does the Hawkins Police just pimp out young innocent men with full bladders?”

Oh yeah. He’s definitely going to like Steve.

“I have a picture on my desk,” Hopper admits grumpily. There’s the jangle of keys in the door as Jonathan lets himself in. “You can look at it if you’re good.”

“And what if I’m not?” Steve asks and Jonathan walks in just in time to raise his eyebrows at Billy.

“I can help punish him, if he’s not,” Billy suggests, and Hopper hangs up the phone just as Steve begins to laugh.

This has probably been done before because it's based on that famous tumblr post but it's so dull during school holidays I have nothing to do but write. And I have no in progress Harringrove fics which is probably a problem I should fix.

[enjoythesilentworld]

Love Will Tear Us Apart

based on the results of this poll, the very lovely game created by @saynomorefic 💜 (i did a deep dive into the meaning to this song and it's actually heartbreaking. so, sorry for this!)

Where Wilhelm keeps Simon and the Crown.

The ride home is silent, sitting on opposite sides of the car, heads turned in opposite directions to watch the dark city slide by. Wilhelm places his hand, palm up, on the seat between them. Simon doesn’t seem to notice. 

It is just as silent in their cold, dark apartments as they undress. 

���Simon,” he whispers, reaching out to skim a hand along his goosebump-covered arm.

Simon turns away, pulls away, shaking his head. He takes off his ring and sets it on the nightstand, then slips under the starched sheets, curled up on the edge.  

Wilhelm climbs in on his side of the wide bed, so far away, and traces the outline of Simon with his eyes, illuminated by the window of moonlight reflecting off snow in the Drottningholm gardens. 

“Sorry,” Simon mumbles, back still turned to him. “Just tired.” 

They used to come back from events like these and spend the night pulling pleasure from each other. They used to fall asleep tangled together in this huge, stupid bed. And, now. 

“It’s okay,” Wilhelm assures him. 

His eyes burn. Simon’s shoulders begin to tremble. He wants to reach out again.

“I love you,” he says. I’m sorry. 

Simon’s only response is a gentle hum, and the space between them widens a little more.

[smiley-mcdoggington]

DONT ASK ME WHAT THIS IS I'M SPEED RUNNING THIS BEFORE I PASS TF OUT TW COERSION I GUESS??? TW STANCEST TW SMIDGE OF IMPLIED/REFERENCED SA TW A/B/O DYNAMICS

Ford's long fingers curled tightly into the blankets as he tried to swaddle himself even smaller. He almost threw the blanket when it didnt bring the relief he wanted.

Ford had read about the omegan estrous cycle - he had to, when he turned fifteen and it became clear Stanley was growing broader but he was not. He knew if he was just held by familiar people it would calm the knashing pain in his stomach and the pulsing in his head.

But instead he was alone, because Ma had locked the door and told him not to let anyone in except her. It was day three, the most optimistic estimate was he still had another two full days of trying to figure out how to hold himself the way someone else would hold him - touch himself the way someone else would touch him.

Then there were three quick knocks before the door was shoved open. Ma looked pale. "You and Stanley stay in here until you don't see your Pa's car on the road, capiche? Don't open this door for anything until then, there's money on the counter, leftovers in the fridge, Stanford you call my sister when it's safe, I love you both, goodbye." She said in a whirlwind that barely made it through Ford's cloudy thoughts. Then Stanley was shoved in the room and the door was slammed behind him.

Ford stared at Stanley for a second with wide eyes. Ma hadn't allowed him in their room since Ford had presented, acting cagey whenever he asked before eventually just saying that Stanley looked like an alpha and alphas couldn't control themselves. That was why Pa wasn't allowed in. Ford knew it was factually incorrect - alphas were capable of resisting urges, they simply chose not to in many cases. Part of him wondered if Stanley would be so forceful once he presented. He certainly had the build for it.

Then a wimper drew Ford's gaze away from his indimidating form and up to his face. His face was a deep pink, tears rolling down his cheeks and trembling where he stood.

Then the scent cut through his own. Oh.

Stanley had presented.

Ford slowly drew away from his blankets - the open air was suffocating, but Stanley could help that - Stanley was just another omega, he could help, wrap those big arms around him, press that heavy weight into his ribs until he didn't have to feel anything anymore.

"Stanley. Why are you crying?" His voice dragged as he got closer - he was only wearing his boxers, he couldn't find it in him to care.

"I wa-was s'posed to be - be an alpha. That-That's what Ma said." He babbled. "How can I prote-ct us if I'm an omega?" He whimpered, digging his heels into his eyes. "I'm sor-ry." He hiccuped.

Ford felt a rush of something wash over him. In the next second he had Stan's face in his hands - so warm, he fit perfectly between 12 fingers. "You're still a great boxer, Stanley. But now - now you can help me. Don't you want that?" Stanley looked up at him with those big brown eyes, hopeful. It made Ford's stomach roll in a new way.

"H-How?" Stanley asked, laying his own smaller hands over Ford's with such ease, as if the contact Ford had needed was just so easy to give.

Ford pulled Stanley closer. "Physical contact. Familial omegan contact can bring smaller amounts of the endorphins released during copulation. You want it too, don't you?" Stanley nodded quickly. "The come here." He purred, and Stanley curled around him in a tight hug. Stanford shivered, clinging back to his twin. For a moment, they stood there, similar scents intertwining, both making small pleased huffs as they gripped eachother tighter.

But like an addiction, he started itching for more. "Stanley." He muttered into his brother's ear. "We should go back to the bed. I tried building a nest it--" Stan's nose touched the gland on his neck and he made a quiet keening noise. "--it isn't great, but omegan behavioral studies were very vague with how they're made."

Stan hummed. "Nest. Yeah. That - that sounds so good." He said, before picking Ford up. Ford took the chance to wrap his legs around him. When Stan finally pressed him into the mattress Ford whined loudly, a purr still filled with the cracklings of puberty rumbling in his chest. Stan shoved his face into Ford's whispy chest hairs, whining right back at him.

"You're - You're right, your nest is crap." Stanley teased breathlessly. Ford jabbed him in the back with the sole of his foot and Stanley giggled, eyes still red-rimmed but smiling, now. Ford couldn't help smiling back.

"Fix it then." Ford replied, and Stan pulled away very slightly before dropping back down.

"Nah." Stan said simply, clinging to Ford.

The cramps were still there - but with Stanley they were barely a nuiscence. Just a low presence to match the feeling of his wet boxers.

Then he noticed Stan's slight shifting.

He still looked completely distracted, blissed-out and clinging to Ford like a piece of driftwood in the ocean. But lower down his hips were twitching into the mattress just a little. Ford traced the tiny erratic rolling of Stan's hips in a trance. Did Stanley even notice?

Then Stanley made a little groaning, huffing noise and Ford's own hips twitched. Except any movement on his own part resulted in directly jutting into his brother's stomach.

Stanley's eyes snapped open. He looked up at Ford slowly. Before he could say a word Ford had pushed up his glasses. "it's perfectly normal to have the same physical symptoms of arousal during an estrous cycle, Stanley." He said almost defensively, but Stanley's relief seemed to be directed inward. He rolled his hips more brazenly against the mattress.

Then Stan's whole body froze, and he started pulling away. Ford tried to follow him, but Stanley looked close to crying again. "Whats the matter? I promise it's normal, Stanley - what's wrong?"

"I gotta go." Stan said stiffly.

"You can't go, Stanley - Pa isn't gone yet." He said, sitting up and reaching for him.

"I don't care about Pa, I'll just punch him again if I gotta." His voice wavered with a little bit of fear.

Ford stood again. "Don't be ridiculous Stanley - why do you have to leave?"

Stan looked away.

"Stanley."

"I think I peed myself."

Ford stared at him. Then down at his perfectly dry jeans. Then he snorted.

Stan's face twisted angrily, though his eyes were glassy again. "Shut up."

"You didn't pee yourself, Stanley - did you even read the omegan biology book I lent you? Or were you too busy drawing Lil' Stanley in the margins?" Stan shrank in on himself a little. Ford sighed fondly. "Here - it's happening to me, too, it's just discharge." He wiped some from his inner thigh onto his finger for Stan to see. "The pH is within the acidic range, though, so you should probably get out of your good jeans before you bleach them." He said, and Stan just kept staring at his two damp fingers.

Ford would have let Stan indulge his curiosity, but the lack of contact was getting to Ford. "Stanley?"

His brother nodded, clearing his throat and unbuckling his belt. Ford watched his hands make quick work of the leather, before he slid the denim down over his tight boxers and his large, chubby thighs. There was a small wet spot on the inside of his jeans. Ford wondered if he would add it to their nest.

Stan threw his shirt over his head and then they were both in similar attire. Ford pulled Stanley closer to him again - he just couldn't stand the itch of not touching his twin for long. "Now that that's established..." He dragged Stan back into his bed. They laid facing eachother, legs tangled and arms clinging.

Stan was just so perfect as an omega - so pliant. Ford wondered how he ever could have thought Stan would be an alpha, even with his build. He was so perfect, so trusting, he fit just perfectly in Ford's arms, held into every word despite the physical advantage and the primal mindset an estrous cycle brought to the forefront. Watching Stan happily nuzzle into his smaller chest made Ford almost understand the gaze of an alpha. Stan would just be so easy to take and claim for himself - not because Stanley was weak but because he was Stanford Pines and Stanley was pliant for him and him alone.

He curled a little further towards his brother, when his thightouched something warm and wet. Stanley didn't move away, his nose just scrunched a little and he whined softly. Ford studied every subtle change in his expression.

Then Stan's hips rolled against his thigh. His dick was solid, pressing into his stomach, but Stan was more interested in the new sensations his hole brought, grinding it against Ford's thigh with tiny huffing whines, getting his leg wet while Stan lost himself with his nose still pressed into Ford's ribcage. Ford was like this, too, the first day. It was so cute on Stanley, though. Ford pushed his leg a little harder upward and Stanley moaned quietly, like he thought he was being subtle.

Stan's whines got a little more desperate the longer he went without orgasm, chasing an end that wouldn't come just from a bit of frotting. Ford let him get frustrated, felt his thick thighs quiver under the blanket while he tried to grind harder. Ford felt a drip of hot discharge run off his knee and he snapped.

He grabbed Stan by the hips and Stan stopped dead. "Proper orgasm during an estrous cycle is nearly impossible to achieve by one's self because of the lack of physical contact. This is enough to get rid of the cramps, but if you want to come then you have to ask." His voice was rough from the sight of Stanley, he felt his own slick running down his thighs.

"P-Please." Stanley whimpered. Ford immediately surged forwards, bracketing Stan's larger form under him and pressing their lips together for a searing moment. When he pulled back, Stan tried to follow.

"You want something in your hole, don't you?"

Stan nodded quickly, back arched just a little, neck exposed obscenely.

"Gorgeous - god, Stan, you're so pretty, you know that?" He mumbled into Stan's jaw between short, soft kisses. "You probably want some big alpha to stretch you out, don't you? Fill you up while you take it so perfectly?"

"No." Stan whispered. "Jus-Just you. Please, I want - need you, please." Ford shivered at the words.

"Perfect, Stanley, you're so perfect." Ford purred into Stan's skin while six fingers dipped under Stan's waistband. Stanley was a mess, sopping wet for him and Ford would spend hours licking it all up if Stan hadn't asked to be filled.

Two of his fingers grazed Stanley's soaked enterance and Stanley keened. "M' ready, m'ready - please, Stanford--" Ford pulled his own boxers down and rubbed Stan's slick onto his skin before grabbing Stan's legs to put on his shoulders.

Stanford put his thumbs on either side of Stanley's hole to watch it stretch, watch a little bit of clear fluid burble out. Stan whined under him. "It's gonna hurt, Stanley, I'm telling you."

"Then hurt me." Stanley demanded.

Ford lined himself up and pushed into Stan's feverish warmth. He keened, feeling Stan all around him, slick dripping down into two puddles under them, close enough to merge. He took a breath while Stanley shivered and moaned.

"Move - damn it Sixer gimme all of it--" Ford pulled out and thrust back in again, the smack sounded in the room and both omegas groaned.

"Perfect - g-god Stanley, my perfect little omega - fuck. Gon-gonna full you up, fill you up with my pups - gotta - god - gotta let the world know they lost the perfect omega to an-another fucking omega." Stanley yelped when Ford found his prostate, grinding against if for all he was worth.

"S-Six - gotta - gonna--" Stan sobbed.

"I've gotcha, I've - Stanley." Ford whined, taking one of his hands off Stan's hips to run over his own hole, wetting his fingers in his own sopping mess. "I'm close."

"Please - please--!" Ford shoved two fingers in alongside his dick as his orgasm peaked, and Stan squealed on his pseudo-knot while he came himself. Ford kissed the fresh tears from Stan's face and waited for Stan to come down before gently easing his fingers out.

Stanley's arms wrapped fully around him in a crushing embrace the second Ford was out of him, and his own more practiced purr rumbled them both out of consciousness.

[maxcuntstappen]

for a prompt,

max as the f1 world champion. charles is the heir to the monaco throne. [lorenzo is king currently]

max and charles love each other. max wins the monaco gp for charles. monaco goes crazy.

"Max," Charles tries to sound stern, he really does. But he doesn't think it comes across too well with how he cannot stop giggling.

It's not his fault really.

It's his boyfriend's.

His boyfriend who has him pressed against a wall of his motorhome, relentlessly kissing at Charles' cheeks.

"Maxxxx," Charles tries again, "You need to go."

A 'uh-huh' is the only indicator of Max having even heard him.

Max redirects his attack of pecks to Charles' neck and it makes Charles squirm.

"Max, that tickles!" he exclaims, trying to wiggle his way out from under his boyfriend's grasp.

Max chuckles, finally moving his mouth away from Charles' body, to look him in the eye, "I know," he grins.

It makes Charles' heart jump, how happy Max looks, how pretty.

Time seems to stop as Charles cradles Max's face in his palm, relishing in how Max turns his face to nuzzle into it.

Blue eyes twinkling, lips perpetually pulled upward, cheeks pink and puffed up. Max is a beauty.

Charles opens his mouth to tell him so when a firm knock interrupts him.

"Prince Charles," one of his guards calls out, "Nous devons partir maintenant. Prince Lorenzo et Prince Arthur attendent."

Charles sighs, wishing he could stay with Max longer.

Max seems to be wishing for the same, if his drawn out groan is anything to go by.

Yet, Max doesn't move away. He only snuggles into Charles harder, head buried into the crook of Charles' neck.

Charles laughs, running his fingers through Max's hair, "Come on, mon amour. Time to go."

Max huffs, "No."

Charles rolls his eyes, fondness seeping through his pores, and gently tugs at Max's hair.

Max pulls his head away with an exaggerated moan, "Ouch," frown lines covering his pretty face.

Charles pecks Max's nose and all of them disappear in a second.

"I'll see you after, okay?" Charles says, squeezing the nape of Max's neck.

"Yeah," Max says, a small smile on his lips, "Yeah, okay."

Max steps back and Charles walks to the door.

"Wait!" Max exclaims, making Charles jump.

He turns around.

"What about my good luck kiss?" Max asks, the corner of his mouth twitching as he pouts, clearly trying to suppress the smile trying to break through.

"You don't need a good luck kiss, mon amour. You're Max Verstappen," Charles reminds him.

Even after all this time, ever after multiple world championships, countless podiums and several records broken, Max still lights up when Charles compliments him.

He hopes he never stops.

"Charles, but what if you don't kiss me and the race goes badly? Do you really want that on your conscience?"

Charles scoffs, "Okay but what if I do kiss you and then the race doesn't go well? Will it be my fault then?"

"Of course not, schatje. Then it'll mean that your kiss protected me from anything worse happening," Max replies, like it's the most obvious information in the world.

Charles' heart throbs with adoration. He takes a quick two steps and grabs Max's face in his hand, pressing a firm, soft kiss to Max's lips.

When Charles pulls away, Max looks dazed.

Charles gets it. He feels it, the overwhelming rush he gets when he cannot believe this is his life.

"Good luck, mon amour," Charles smiles, dropping his hands, and walking backwards to the door, "See you on the podium, okay?"

Max simply nods, seeming to still be too lost for words.

That's okay. Charles knows what he would've said anyways.

--

"And the winner of the 2024 Monaco Grand Prix... Max Verstappen!"

The roaring in Charles' ears nearly blocks out the raucous applause of the Red Bull team. But Charles hears them still, faintly. Acknowledges them, thanks them for loving Max and appreciating him and taking care of him.

His cheeks ache because of how hard he is smiling.

And yet, when Max steps up on the top step, quickly turning around to catch Charles' eye, his grin somehow widens.

Charles winks at him, his hands not pausing their applause, and Max laughs, softly shaking his head, before facing the crowd.

Charles' eyes are glued to Max's back as the Dutch and Austrian anthems play. It's a beautiful back, all broad, strong shoulders, tapering down into a small waist.

The only thing that could make Max look any better is if he was wearing red, Charles thinks to himself.

Well, all in due time.

Soon, he's being indicated to step up to award the second place trophy.

Charles looks straight ahead as he walks to the platform, not risking turning into an ooey-gooey mess for a glance of Max's face.

Lando stands tall and proud on the podium, his face split into a grin.

Charles hands Lando his trophy and Lando holds out a hand for Charles to shake.

It makes Charles roll his eyes. There's no need to pretend that Charles doesn't see Lando every other weekend, that he hasn't seen Lando sloshed out of his mind and passed out on the floor of Max's jet, that he doesn't send Lando memes constantly and bitches about it if he doesn't give an adequate reply.

Charles grasps his hand and pulls Lando into a hug.

Lando yelps, and gosh, Charles so hopes that there is some camera somewhere that has recorded the noise.

"Good job, mate," Charles says, arms tight around Lando.

"Thanks, mate," Lando replies, and Charles can hear the smile in his voice.

Charles beelines back to his original spot, next to his brother, standing behind the podium finishers.

As Lorenzo awards Max with his trophy, Charles has to suppress the urge to shout and scream and hoot.

All he can do is clap a bit more aggressively than he did for the others.

It doesn't miss his notice how Arthur does the same.

It's soon after that Charles and his brothers, along with the other dignitaries, are being hurried off of the stage in an attempt to keep them safe from the champagne flying in the air.

Charles has just stepped into the protection of the wings when he's being pushed back out to the stage again.

"Va!" Arthur urges, literally shooing Charles away with his hand.

"Ne fais rien de trop stupide!" Lorenzo warns, but he's grinning wide too.

God, Charles loves his family.

It's Lando that spots him first.

The very next second, Charles is drenched head to toe.

But it's worth it to have Max's giggle in his ear as he hugs him tight tight tight.

His race suit under Charles' hands feels sticky and cold and like home.

"Mon Dieu, Max, tu es incroyable. So incredible. I love you. I'm proud of you," Charles rambles, trying to make the most of the couple of moments he'll get to speak to Max before he's swallowed up by his team and media duties.

Max pulls away, smiling at him, all crinkle eyed, "Thank you for your good luck kiss, schatje," he gives him a quick soft peck before gently pressing the trophy into his arms, "This one is for you," and then Charles is swallowed up in Max's embrace again, the roars of the crowd ringing in his ear, nowhere as loud as the beat of his own heart.

[silverskye13]

Ooooo it was so hard picking just one prompt, but for the Situation Game- Could you do #48? Enemy caretaker fic with Tanguish and Wels? Tanguish finds Wels unconscious and (against his better judgement) takes care of him until he wakes up. (Alternatively, you could do Helsknight and Tango, if that first prompt doesn't click. I've been drawing those two interacting so they've been on my mind lol)

He hadn't expected to find him there, was the thing. Tango had asked him to go check through Decked Out while he was gone -- some meetup with Impulse and Zed, it sounded like it would take awhile. Tanguish had heard rockets and wisely hid, and then the rockets left. He assumed someone was dropping something off, or maybe had planned to see Tango only to realize Tango wasn't there. And maybe that was exactly what happened.

The important thing was: Tanguish didn't hear what direction the rockets went. He didn't hear the Warden caged downstairs growl or shriek. He didn't hear a crash, or a scream, or any other indication that an accident had happened. So when he stumbled on Welsknight on the lowest floor of Decked Out, unconscious, it had been... Well it had been a shock. He hadn't even known it was a person at first. He saw a bundle of something on the ground, and he placed down the shulker box he'd been carrying and went over to investigate. When the pile of elytra and armor resolved itself into Welsknight, Tanguish froze, heart racing.

(He should leave him here.)

It wasn't a kind thought, but Tanguish was, rightly, he thought, terrified of Welsknight. If their situations were switched, and it was Welsknight walking up on Tanguish crumpled and unconscious on the floor, he was sure the knight would kill him and he done with it. Just one less problem to deal with. Simple. And while Tanguish was far from able to kill in cold blood -- or killing in general -- leaving the knight here would serve a similar end. Not his problem. He would wake up, or he wouldn't. Tango would find him, or he wouldn't. Whatever happened, it didn't have to be Tanguish that dealt with it.

Except, standing over Welsknight, Tanguish was struck by how much he looked like Helsknight. Their differences were unmistakable up close. He was an inch or two shorter, his hair a sun-gilded auburn, and even bruised he looked gentler, like the world had been kind to him. Their resemblance was brotherly, something about the build and the set of the jaw. But it was enough that Tanguish imagined Helsknight crumpled on the ground somewhere, and how terrible it would be to leave him behind. So, lanced with guilt that made no sense, but compelled to act on it regardless, Tanguish set to work making sure the fool knight didn't die.

Tanguish didn't have much on his person to help with healing, and even if he knew where Tango kept potions, it would be a long climb back up to the Decked Out storage room. He did his best to check for broken bones, looking for odd angles or swelling or crooked joints and finding none. He had to take off the knight's helmet to check for a head injury, found a pretty decent welt, but nothing that suggested blood or breaking.

Tanguish glanced around. They weren't really in the safest place. Beneath the unfinished game, scaffolding blocks and incomplete redstone lines cast long shadows where creatures spawned and congregated, and it wouldn't do to get them both killed by a spider or a zombie down here. Tanguish tentatively explored around, and managed to find a suitably defensible crevasse (a hole in the wall really, probably dug out while Tango was measuring something or other to do with the game). He circled his arms around Welsknight's chest and, as gingerly as possible, tried to drag him in that direction. Then less gingerly, when the knight barely budged. And then Tanguish slumped to the ground because, gods and saints, were people always that heavy? He knew he wasn't the strongest, but he could carry his own weight up the side of a building. Surely he could drag a knight a couple dozen blocks?

Tanguish huffed out a sigh and stared down at Welsknight thoughtfully. "You're more trouble than you're worth, you know that?"

(That was mean. Even enemies were worth saving, so long as they didn't do something mean to make him regret it after.)

Tanguish took another pensive look around, and content nothing was about to attack him for his efforts, knelt and began taking the knight's armor off. He had a little knowledge of all the different buckles and bracers and how they worked (he'd seen Helsknight take them on and off a thousand times). It took some fumbling, especially around the chest plate, where he had to gently turn Welsknight over and prop him up, and support his head because flopping around on his neck like that couldn't be good for him, and, gods, this was stupid and awkward and terrible. He really, really should've just left. But then he was done, and when he slipped his arms around the knight to drag him again, he actually managed to move him a few steps without his back breaking, so he took that as his sign from the universe to keep going.

Tanguish wanted the universe to know he tried to be gentle. He wasn't big and strong like Helsknight (and probably Welsknight too). He couldn't casually pick up people and carry them around, or throw them over his shoulders. And if Welsknight were conscious enough for a piggy back ride, Tanguish was pretty sure he would just fall over if he tried to take a step. So dragging the knight two dozen blocks to a little hidey hole in the wall was the best, safest, and really only option at his disposal. Once inside, he scurried out to his shulker box, snatched it up, and dropped it in the entrance to the hiding place so anything that might want to come in would have a harder time. He wished there was something useful inside. He had planned on mob proofing while Tango was gone, stringing around glow lichen so his double would have a safer time working on his game. He had a few snacks, some water, and about a stack and a half of lichen left. That was all he'd bothered to bring with him. Now he wished he had brought something actually helpful.

Tanguish weighed his options, staring down at the still unconscious knight. Leaving sprung to his mind first -- Welsknight was reasonably safe now. The chances of something finding him was relatively small, and if he hung up some glow lichen before he left, the light might ward off anything that did notice him. He thought about maybe bringing the knight to hels, where he might find some help. But that help would probably be Helsknight, and he didn't know how much he trusted those two together. He was... Reasonably sure Helsknight wouldn't kill his double while he was unconscious, but he had no idea what he would do when Welsknight woke up. And Welsknight probably wouldn't take kindly to waking up in hels anyway. He could try to get help? Wander around the server just hoping he stumbled upon Tango, alone? No. No he wasn't going to do that.

Tanguish sighed, rolled his eyes at his own powerlessness. After a few more moments of deliberation, he pulled out his water and a few clumps of lichen. He had a half-remembered thought from somewhere that lichen could be medicinal. He had no idea if this lichen was, but he at least knew it was spongy and could hold a bit of water. He made himself a little ball with the stuff, soaked it, and gingerly placed it against the lump on Welsknight's head. He knew his hands would chill it, and frost crept around his fingertips the longer he held his makeshift compress. He pillowed the knight's head in his lap -- it seemed the most comfortable for both of them in the combined space -- and settled in to wait until Tango came back, or Welsknight awoke, and he hoped the knight would either be too incoherent or too grateful to kill him if the waking came first.

Outside his little hideaway, Tanguish listened to the sounds of monsters crawling to life. The tip-tap-skitter of spider legs. The moans and grumbles of the nearly sleepwalking dead. The occasional croaking mutter of an enderman. He didn't hear creepers (He didn't think anyone could hear creepers.) They crept around on quiet claws, a breath of fur and dark, glaring expressions. One snuck up to his hideaway and peered inside, gazing at him with bottomless black eyes. It hissed, smelling or sensing him and trying, vainly, to threaten him. It couldn't come through the wall, and it didn't give off its tell-tale flashing. Tanguish narrowed his eyes at the thing and hissed back, a keening noise that sent a shiver down his spine, and echoed off the walls of his little hideaway like a sculk shrieker. The creeper lurched backward (most natural things feared sculk on an instinctual level) and it scuttled away into the dark. Tanguish snorted in the general direction of the fleeing creature, and looked down at Welsknight. He gently moved his compress, and felt some satisfaction at seeing the swelling had gone down.

"You know, you knights really are strange sometimes," Tanguish informed the unconscious Welsknight, as though he could hear. "All the armor, and the oaths, and reckless danger -- and you're just as mortal as the rest of us." Tanguish leaned his head back against the wall behind him. "Do you have tenets like Helsknight does? Stuff you swore to do? You've got to, right? That's what makes you a knight, instead of just a guy with a sword."

Tanguish's tail twitched thoughtfully. "You and Helsknight feel the same way about technicalities, so you probably can't truly lie. You just dance around the truth a little, like he does. Let people come to their own conclusions... You shouldn't do that."

Tanguish readjusted his compress. "It makes people feel patronized, like you think they're too stupid to figure out what you're saying. And it makes us feel stupid for trusting you. Like on the aqueduct. I didn't really have a choice but... I really did believe I was safe. It was... Cruel... To take that back."

Tanguish felt nervousness reignite in his stomach, a turning and writhing at the danger he was in, implicitly.

"That would be like me waiting for you to wake up, just to hurt you," Tanguish said quietly, his free hand dipping down to the dagger on his hip. The cold metal, the waiting intention the weapon held, felt almost electric and alive against his fingertips. "All this trouble and effort to keep you safe, discarded over something as petty as who the universe likes best." He thought about Helsknight, and the importance he placed on time. "What a terrible waste of time."

Tanguish sighed and studied the ceiling, tracing the textures in the stone overhead with his eyes. He could see the pickaxe marks where Tango had tunneled this out, long gouges and sharp-edged chips.

"I think I understand why he feels the way he does about you. About all of you. You don't understand what you have." Tanguish looked down at the knight, who, despite what had surely been a terrible fall, merely looked like he slept. "It isn't just death that's a mild inconvenience. Everything is. Eternity is sitting in front of you. Even the largest problems, miseries that could span decades, will be nothing in the blink of an eye. There is no such thing as wasted time. There is no discomfort in doing something badly, or even passably. There's just... The endless possibility to try again. Even my saving you right now is, at best, a very odd, kind gesture, because you don't have a limited number of times to come back. There's no fear in the universe deciding this time it will just swallow you. What I'm doing is meaningless, so meaningless it might not even change your opinion of me, unless it's impressive to you that someone who shouldn't have bothered, did. Impressive, and not terribly stupid."

(He was starting to feel terribly stupid, all things considered.)

Movement caught Tanguish's eye, and he sat quietly as some monster or another passed their hiding place, shuffling off in the dark.

"There's no urgency for change." Tanguish whispered. "There's no pressure for legacy. It's like building sand castles in the desert, with no waves to knock them down. There's no reason to find them precious, no urgency to finish before the tide comes, no cherishing the seconds before they're weathered away. They'll just be there tomorrow, or the next time you get around to paying them attention. It's a beautiful gift, and you have no context to appreciate it. I understand why. You've never lived anything different to give you perspective... But I also understand why he hates you for it."

Tanguish blinked out at the world beyond his little keyhole, where danger stalked, undisturbed and wholly uninterested in him.

"No wonder the universe makes us," Tanguish said. "Why else would you have any reason to change?"

Tanguish looked down at Welsknight again. He studied the knight's face, all the things about him that stayed steadfast and unchanging, uncaring that his existence weathered Helsknight away everyday. That he was a wave, and Tanguish and Helsknight and everyone like them were just sand castles waiting.

"You probably won't," Tanguish murmured, "but I hope someday you figure out how to love him. Love the parts of yourself you hate so much right now. Helsknight is terrifying, and overbearing, and too strong for his own good. He walks through the world like he wishes he could bully it into being fair." Tanguish let out a breath. "But he tries so hard to be good, and any goodness I've learned, I think I learned from him. In spite of him. Because of him."

A sadness washed through him then, and Tanguish spoke soberly. "Someday it will be just you and Tango. A month from now. Or a year. Or whatever our lifetimes amount to. When that day comes, I hope you'll look at each other, and somewhere, me and Helsknight will glimpse each other again. I hope whatever the end looks like, it isn't lonely."

Tanguish fell silent, waiting with infinite patience for Welsknight to wake. He must have dozed off, because he roused to the sound of a groan, and Welsknight slowly rolling over to reach the sore spot on the back of his head. Tanguish held his breath. He probably should have figured out what he was going to do when Welsknight woke up. He had no plan, no idea-- hels he was trapped in a confined space with him! Wait -- his coin. Right.

Welsknight's eyes fluttered open. He frowned first in confusion, then recognition, and then Tanguish's coin was in his fist and he was gone.

In hels, Tanguish leaned against the front door of the house, eyes closed, trying to calm his breathing. It really shouldn't be a big deal. Welsknight hadn't even had the time to threaten him. It was just the residual terror of past bad experiences, the adrenaline rush of realizing he was trapped in a room with a tiger. But he was home now, and he shouldn't be afraid -- didn't have to be afraid.

"You're home early," Helsknight said, sounding concerned, and very close by. He must have been writing at the table. In the time Tanguish had been forcing himself to calm, Helsknight stood and cautiously crossed to him. "Did something happen?"

(Did Welsknight happen?)

"N-no," Tanguish said unconvincingly. And further discredited himself by stepping forward, and hugging Helsknight. He could feel Helsknight's concerned frown in his posture, in the slow way he hugged him back, offering confused comfort.

"Are you... sure?"

"Just glad you're still here," Tanguish said.

"Ah." Helsknight hummed, as though he understood. His hug deepened a bit. "Still here. Are you?"

"I think so."

"Good. I guess I'm glad too, then."

[setmeatopthepyre]

Enlist

[ @118dailydrabble day 26] [part of antarct-fic | bucktommy | 118 words]

Every year since he enlisted, Tommy has spent New Year's Eve the same way: in the desert, looking up at the stars.

The first time, he'd been a city boy half a world away, stumbling half-drunk into the desert night towards the barracks. He'd never seen the Milky Way before, and staring up at all those stars had overwhelmed him with vertigo as well as a sudden sense that he... didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things. It had been strangely comforting. Freeing. So he'd done it again, and again, and again.

There is no night in the Antarctic Summer, no starry sky.

But there, across the galley, is Evan. The light twinkles in his eyes.

[starry-bi-sky]

realizing i have. a lot of untapped trauma potential for clone^2 danny because i just Fully Processed Four Months Late the fact that his parents were capturing and torturing ghosts in the basement before he became Phantom. and the fact that he was on house rest for 2 weeks. during that time period. and he wasn't really leaving the house. he could hear their screaming through the floorboards

*points at clone danny* i can give you suuuuuuch a bad time babe ahaha. i've got two untouched years before you meet damian what fucks you up before then

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

Kindly asking you to tell the class about your gilf Constance x teen ford thoughts

oh anon you want my thoughts?? You want my THOUGHTS on teen ford x gilf constance?? MY thoughts?? my gilf loving and teen ford loving thoughts?? oh bitch ill give you my fucking THOUGHTS

So fuck it lets do a 2stans here because ive grown some damn empathy and realized i want this little loser to finally get some of his sisters delicious pussy and even better his SUPER HOT COUGAR GILF OF A SISTER. all her curves of her ass hips thighs and tits all filled out. corset/girdle and tights and pants and buttons on her suit shirt fighting for their LIVES with how tightly squeezed into all of it and so is ford, with how hard he already is. teen constance can mald about it but this isnt about her rn

but you know how old stan would totaly fluster the hell out of teen ford, well imagine that BUT SO MUCH WORSE. constance would flirt and play with teen fords hair and glasses and kiss his cheek and bend over unnecessarily infront of him just to get a rise out of him and it WORKS every single fucking time. shes just a hot hot older woman and hes a weak teen boy barely in control of his hormones with his oblivious same age sister, but here Stan is TOYING WITH HIM SO MUCH AND DRIVING HIM CRAZY, it takes no time for him to be on hands and knees for her WHEEZING AND BEGGING FOR A CHANCE

making out already has him be a whimpering mess on top of he and hes so cute HES SO CUTE TO CONSTANCE. so red and clearly having no idea wtf hes doing but hes humping her thigh already hard as hell and his hands are trying to get on as much of her as he can, especially all over her boobs the pervy little thing but can you fucking blame him. whatevers holding them up is his mortal enemy, but just about hes gonna let his teenage aggression get him constance is like "you wanna slide in there?"

"are you you serious??"

"why not" with a familiar but way WAY more dangerous smile with all her red lipstick smudged across and ford almost cums right there on the spot.

and when hes in her, barely two minutes and he's already milking himself in her in whimpers and crying, pathetic teen stamina failing him so bad as hes just riding it out and rutting in her desperately. hes red as hell from embarrassment but constance would have a fucking virgin kink and be SOOO fucking turned on HOLY SHIT. her brother was always cute but GOD hes so fucking cute when hes blushing sweaty and humiliated and profusely apologizing to her  while still barely controlling his humping.

its so hot, ford is so fucking hot to her. even if he tries to guilty pull away she'll wrap her legs and big fat thighs around his skinny waist and forces him to cockwarm in her. ofc this just turns ford on even more and theyre back at square one.

then when she makes him eat her out because hey she still hasnt cum, would you please be a dear sixer and help this lady get off. obviously he wouldnt know what THE FUCK hes doing but he'll do it, overly enthusiastic and unskilled and thats the hottest thing ever to her just to watch and feel how eager he is, lapping up his own cum without complaint because of the TASTE of her, this tongue moving against her like hes dying of fucking thirst until she finally comes all over his face, and theyre both euphoric and ford cant believe how fucking hot his sis grew up to be and how that blissful look on her face is because of HIM. stan is eyeing up how ADORABLY proud ford is. square one. AGAIN.  youd think their staminas would be shit but everything here aligns perfectly for them anon you dont get it

also teen constance, wherever she is is just mad as hell ford ditched her for a grandma. shes not THAT hot. ford cant be that into power suits or cougars. god bless her

[feroluce]

For me, as much as I adore the theme of travel companions, henghill is more of a "someday" thing in that regard. I love Boothill being a weird loner Galaxy Ranger rather than a Nameless- man is undomesticated and belongs sleeping in the cargo holds of supply ships, threatening silence out of anyone that tries to report him. Let him be wild and free!!

I would LOVE it if Boothill just hitched a short ride off Asdana to whatever the Express' next destination is, though!

Like maybe the Express decides to stick around Penacony for a while, the same way they do other destinations, and Boothill is there anyway to investigate Oswaldo Schneider. It's rare to find a planet where the IPC is present, but doesn't actually have a lot of power; he can't pass this opportunity up!

And in that time, he sees a lot of Dan Heng.

Boothill gets text messages asking him to the quieter parts of the Dreamscape (he threatened and made a scene - it's called standing up for your rights, Dan Heng was given a room with a Dreampool by The Family for helping root out The Order) or mostly to the Express, where Dan Heng curiously asks him about Paths, about aeons and Emanators, The Rangers, all the worlds he's seen and places he's been.

Boothill isn't really surprised the first time they spend an entire night talking and discussing- after all, they'd chattered a lot that first day they met at the bar in the Reverie! But in talking so much, of course the topic of home comes up.

Dan Heng asks about Boothill’s homeworld.

Boothill tells Dan Heng it's gone now, and changes the subject.

Boothill asks about Dan Heng's past, before the Astral Express and the Nameless.

Dan Heng freezes up and closes off, and changes the subject.

In yet another moment of tacit understanding, neither of them ask again.

But this continues, all throughout their stint in Penacony, finding each other and seeking the other out for no reason other than good company. Dan Heng adds ridiculous amounts of data to the archives that Boothill dictates to him. They both know he could get that information elsewhere if he really wanted. Boothill finds he's kinda happy he doesn't.

And Boothill is someone who's hard to keep up with. He knows he is, and he has no problem with it. It's part of what makes him excel as a Galaxy Ranger. But there's something fun about how Dan Heng just rolls with it, and so effortlessly! Boothill finds something shady going on, grabs a guy who was preying on people, and has this dude held up by the collar with his feet swinging while he cackles right in his face, when Dan Heng shows up.

Boothill says they're just having a friendly chat. He makes zero effort to hide what he's actually doing. Boothill's new friend pleads for Dan Heng to help him, please! This guy's crazy!

Dan Heng materializes his spear.

The guy apologizes even harder, tells them he won't do anything shady ever again, promise, promise! Boothill's jabbers at him and shakes him around some more before Dan Heng taps the pole of his spear against the covered metal of Boothill's leg and tells him come on, he's already scared the man witless, they have a date to keep. Boothill drops the guy and watches him scurry off like a cockroach.

"So, now it's a date, huh?"

"...Come on, let's go."

They go to the Dreamflux Reef after that, because Boothill just so happened to totally by coincidence find that shady guy's wallet (read: robbed him blind) and he wants that money to go back to the native Penaconians before anyone else. Dan Heng follows, and stuffs all of the man's credits into the tip jar of the bar they go to.

And even when the Express embarks anew from Asdana (with Boothill hidden away in some corner or compartment, because the IPC finally got pissed enough to start looking for him under The Family's noses skzikske) this continues. The next planet is difficult to get to because of Stellaron activity; so they have to fly manually part of the way instead of warping. Boothill doesn't get his own room since he's only hitching a ride, but Pom-Pom graciously allows him to sleep on a couch-

("Thank ya, Fluffy. No hard feelings about before, right?" "You're lucky my other passengers like you. And no shoes on the couches!!")

-in one of the cars. And it becomes normal commonplace to find Boothill telling stories, and Dan Heng rapidly writing them all down, at obscene hours in the parlor car while Himeko and Welt ask if either of them even slept.

Boothill teaches Dan Heng all about his favorite drinks and liquor in general, how to aim and shoot a gun, how to hunt and track prey. Dan Heng teaches Boothill about a lot of the teachings of Lan and The Hunt from the Xianzhou, what it's like there, some of the culture, some of the fables and old tales.

Boothill still leaves when it's time to go. He's still got things to do and people to kill, after all.

But it never feels like he's very far. The archives are full of him, even if he's never mentioned by name. The article on the Galaxy Rangers is several times longer than it was before. There's new data on multiple planets and worlds.

There's one that's still just a header and title. Boothill doesn't know about it yet. Dan Heng hopes he can fill the page on Aeragan-Epharshel someday and show it to him.

And even if he doesn't stay, he does return. Boothill breaks in stops by any time he happens to be nearby. He's used to traveling without much rest, and only takes what he can easily carry on him- nothing that can slow him down or hinder him. He can't put a bullet between Oswaldo Schneider's eyes if he gets himself killed over something as stupid as being weighed down in a fight, after all.

Dan Heng is similarly sparse. He still sleeps in the archives, with nothing but his futon and old suitcase to mark the space as his.

But there's an old wooden guitar carefully propped in the corner, just waiting for its owner's return.