#that sock is the real mvp

[teacakes1799]

a rowdy tavern commission with the bois!

© 2022

[violetsiren90]

Pairing: dom!Hoseok/sub/brat!f!Reader

Genre: Oneshot; hard smut (eventual fluff 😂); BDSM lifestyle; friends to fwb to?; canon-compliant (idolAU)

Summary: You've been friends with Hobi for years, and he's your comfort zone - but when he gets wind of a dark secret you drunkenly let slip, things between you take a sudden extreme change.

Warnings: 18+ (minors, dni); hardcore BDSM themes/relationships; full consent and safe-words ❤; Hobi is a hard dom; MC is a brat (mostly); dominance and submission; elements of primal play; sexual degradation (deg-play use of the word "b*tch"); mentions of MC's hair and hair pulling; rough physical contact in a sexual context (manhandling); mentions of drinking; kink-outing; Jimin is a menace lol; Hobi in the studio 👀 (The full oneshot will come with more specific warnings - a looooong list lol)

Mood board here! ⛓🖤

Release date: Christmas? 🎄

Author's note: Hey, y'all! I am catapulting out of my comfort zone with this one and, honestly, having the time of my life. I've been in my Hobi era lately and when the concept of dom!Hobi possessed my mind I knew I'd have to write it out or else. 😅😂 I hope to pop this under your trees around Christmas! Hope you enjoy the teaser, and as always, if no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

Also, a big thank you to @orchidyoonkook for beta reading this - you are the real MVP! 💕

If you want to be alerted via the tag list for this when it drops, let me know!

_______________________________________________

  "What?" Hoseok's wide grin stretches further as he regards your flustered face with giddy anticipation.

    You groan into your hands, willing the cushions of your friend's leather couch to swallow you like quicksand.

    "Fucking Jimin - I'll kill him!" you whine, pressing your fingers to your temples, and keeping your eyes glued to the hardwood of the studio floor.

    The rapper laughs as he swivels his baseball cap to sit backwards on his fluffy brown mop of hair. 

    "Come on! Tell me!" he insists, sprawling back in his rolling chair, the tips of his fingers touching deviously together as he regards you with twinkling eyes. 

    You sneak a glance at him before sighing defeatedly, which only earns another chortle of laughter from across the room.

    Park fucking Jimin. You really were going to kill him. Too many bottles of soju the week prior saw you blacking out at the BTS member's pad, the one he shared with your mutual friend, Jung Hoseok. You woke up the next day, memories of the night before obscure concepts of debauchery merely alluded to by the taste of bile and the dull cranial throb of dehydration. When Jimin rather gleefully handed you, along with an iced americano, one of the booze-fueled revelations you had let slip, you begged and pleaded with him to erase the memory from his brain...or at the very least to take it to his grave. He made no such promises. And now, you are facing the man of the hour - the subject of your divulgement - who had apparently been informed that you harbored certain strong opinions in his regard. Humiliating.

    You flick mildly irritated eyes back up to your friend who waggles his brows in a way that makes you want to crack a smile and sock him at the same time.

    "Before I say anything, I want to know exactly what he told you," you demand, crossing your arms defensively, no cracked smile to be found.

    He rolls his eyes up to the corner of the ceiling in recollection.

    "He just said that you had gotten wasted and admitted something kinky...about me." 

    At the last two words he drops his voice dramatically low and pins you with a grin that is sickeningly predatory. Your pulse begins to hammer and you have to remind yourself that you are, in fact, capable of speech. Fuck, you think to yourself, it's happening. You can feel sweat starting to bead at your hairline. Maybe if you get it out there, just say it aloud, it will lose its power. Maybe the spell will be broken. Maybe he will laugh and you will laugh and you'll order lunch and keep irritating him while he's supposed to be working on a track. You're both adults, right? You whoosh out a breath. 

    Hobi is still looking at you, his bottom lip pushing up and the corners of his mouth tugging down in one of his little inverted smirks while his right leg bounces a little up and down. It is just Hobi, after all, you tell yourself. Just Hobi. You are roundly aware that it may be a lie, but it seems to allow you just enough courage to jump.

    "Okay, okay!" you practically shout, and he giggles and stomps his feet, which admittedly makes revealing this particular chestnut a bit easier.

    "I told him...I said..."

    "What?"

    "Oh, Christ! Fine!" And the rest comes out like water from a fire hose. "One time I came to drop off Jimin's charger and you were in dance practice and you were watching the guys and you had this look on your face - like you were pissed or something - and it was so unlike you and I got turned on and ended up having a fucking wet dream that you were stepping on my mother-fucking pussy, okay?! Are you satisfied now?!"

    You heave a sigh and throw yourself back against the cushions, hands over your face. How you just mustered the courage to form those actual words you haven't even the faintest notion - but it was going to be you or Jimin, and it might as well be you. After your heart has begun to return to its resting rate and you've heaved a few deep breaths you steel yourself against the certain impending onslaught of Hobi's laughter and general mockery...which doesn't come. You peek through your fingers to see that your friend has shifted in his chair, facing a bit away from you toward the inside of the room, leaning forward, his hands gripping the ends of the chair's armrests. His face looks a little troubled, or pensive, you can't tell which. You sit up and really look at him, suddenly worried. Did you just fuck things irrevocably up? That was an incredibly bizarre and intimate thing to admit. Shit.

    "Hobi?" you squeak, barely over a whisper, as you regard him.

    He tilts his head suddenly to look at you, quick like a bird, and when those dark eagle-eyes regard you in return, you feel like a small, helpless creature scurrying across the tundra. Nowhere to hide. A bead of sweat escapes its perch and slips down from your temple. As he utters his question of response, the air suddenly becomes as thick as the tropics.

    "Is that something that you'd want, Y/n? To be treated like that? To be...put in your place? Put down?"

    You don't answer him. You can't. Your words, your breath, your coherent thoughts are stuck, inert, useless as your chest begins to rapidly rise and fall in heavy swells. Your eyes are locked on his face as if by magnetic force. He stands, his baggy Louis Vuitton tee falling over his grey sweats. He shoves his hands in the pockets and takes a step toward where you sit. His posture is relaxed. His gaze is anything but.

    "Is it?"

    You want to say you don't know. That you'd never considered it again. Never once recalled the image of it - of him -  standing over you as the sole of his shoe punished your throbbing sex.

    "Fuck..." you breathe, and when he doesn't take his eyes from your squirming form, you relent. "...y-yeah."

    He takes another step toward you, slowly. He's crowding you now, as he looks down, and the proximity is almost more than you can bare.

    "You see," he remarks musingly, "I thought you were gonna say something funny - something ridiculous," he tilts his head to one side, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips, "But that's not funny, Y/n. No, that's not funny at all. Because, as it turns out..."

    He leans down, his breath fanning over your face as he speaks. Mint and espresso. You shiver and close your eyes.

    "...that's something I can do."

...what? He can...h-he can....

    "Hoseok..." you whisper shakily, because it's all you can manage.

    You hear him laugh darkly and you don't look at him.

    "Hoseok?" he mimics, "Not, Hobi, huh? Hoseok when you're like this, is it?" 

    "When I'm like...what?" You practically whimper in complaint, eyes still pressed shut as your last line of defense.

    But any manner of defense is in vain as he answers your query, the words dripping from his lips slowly like honey, sickly like venom - 

    "When you're a filthy pathetic little slut."

    A whine escapes you at the complete and utter shock of his words. Suddenly you clamp your thighs together (to provide friction or obscurity to your quickly dampening cunt you are unsure), and that's when he takes your jaw between his fingers and roughly jerks your chin upwards, your eyes fluttering frantically open. 

    "Is this what you want?" he hisses, "For me to have my way with you like a needy whore?" Fuck, is this happening? This is really happening. Your mind reels, but that's alright - it stopped doing the thinking when he got up out of that chair. Something primal in you had taken over, something that's been starving for so long, something that longs to feed.

    You do your best to nod with your chin in his grip. He swallows thickly, his eyes darting to your lips, and then back up to yours. His pupils are blown, his eyes almost wholly black as they trace over your face. Suddenly his hand slips from your chin to the nape of your neck where his hand tangles in your hair and his head drops to the side, his gaze softening.

    "I need you to say it, Y/n, are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, his voice so, so low but without the edge that sends ice through your veins. His voice. He's asking you as someone who cares about you, cares what you want - your friend. Do you want this? No...you don't want it. You need it.

    "Yes - yes, Hobi - I want this," you find yourself stumbling over the words to get them out.

    So quickly and so assured. Have you ever been this certain of anything in your life? His fingers dance against the nape of your neck and you sigh as his eyes travel all over your body. You want to hide. You want to strip down. You want to run and you want him to chase you. You want him to punish you when he catches you. You are sick with want.  

    "A safe word, baby, we need a safe word," he nudges your racing mind back into the current moment with his words.

    You blink, your mind running up against the sudden saccharine pet name (which he has admittedly called you before) as it scrambles for something obvious and yet not ridiculous.     Something simple maybe...a flower...?

    "Foxglove," you say, and he raises his brows with a grin.

    "Foxglove it is," he acquiesces. "So if you ever want me to stop, ever - okay? You say that. Foxglove." 

    You nod.

    "Say it for me," he whispers, you shiver again. Fuck.

    "Foxglove." It's slow and thick leaving your mouth.

    "Good girl," he purrs. Butterflies erupt in your rib-cage and your eyelids flutter. "How hard do you want it?" He asks, "How rough?"

    You scramble to find your voice.

    "Pretty rough, I think," you posit, a bit unsure of what that means.

    He hums in response, his brows knitting in thought. You were going to have to give him something to go on, you could see that.

    "I..." you stammer, "I want you to...to punish me. I want you to...to hurt me a little."

    He raises a brow - looks at you, just stares as if considering. Then suddenly you know what to say.

    "See...I'm not a good girl," you insist tilting your head back a bit haughtily, a bit defiantly. Being a good girl had gotten you butterflies, but that's not what you wanted right now. That's not what every cell of your body was screaming for.

     He's grinning wickedly again - his other hand is slipping out of his pocket and the one in your hair is gripping at the roots.

    "Hm. You're not are you?" he asks, his voice as dark and cold as the Pacific once again.

    "No, Hobi," you whisper. And suddenly your world is tilted on its axis as he tightens his fingers against your scalp and yanks your head back, sending a searing pain shooting through your skin as he stoops to hiss in your ear.

    "That's Hoseok, you pretty little bitch."

    You let out a whimper so needy it's nearly a sob. Your heartbeat is pounding between your legs. He lets go of your hair as roughly as he grabbed it and goes to lock the door and your stomach flips - you are totally and completely at his mercy. It's a little bit terrifying and completely exhilarating. When he comes to loom over you again, you decide just exactly where you stand in all this. You know exactly what you want. You glare up at him. He narrows his eyes.

    "You gonna listen, hm?"

It's not a question, you know it's not - it's a command. But you have one, just one, of your own...

    "Make me."

[annievrse]

[college] basketball!eren

—ᡣ𐭩 headcanons a/n: guys i’m back in the waiting room (& it’s fkn hot today)……… let’s write some headcanons!!

a few points i've made in my bf!eren headcanons:

in basketball games against certain colleges, bf!eren gets so fired up and aggressive and lippy. he talks so much shit on the court (he's known for it), and isn't afraid to take shit either (which pisses off the other team, and the whole cycle starts again). but, it's a bonus for you when he gets off the court because he's looking extra hot..... and he knows it...... asshole

you wear bf!eren's spare jersey to his basketball games

bf!eren with a chain under his basketball jersey, his hair tied back and a thin headband, tape on his dodgy shoulder......... oh lordy

bf!eren's post-game meal is 3 big macs and 2 mcchickens AND a kids nugget meal (he wants to give you the toy that comes with it because he’s cute) but don’t forget dessert!! he sips his *diet* coke as a palate cleanser and then inhales an apple pie

bf!eren gets a job coaching a kids' basketball team, and that is a canon event

now i will elaborate....

basketball!eren wears nba jerseys in everyday life with sweat shorts & dunks/vans/birkenstocks (with socks) he is an effortlessly stylish college athlete ok he can pull off anything

basketball!eren has a piece of sports tape around his wrist with your name written in marker <3 (points to it whenever he scores if you aren’t there (e.g. games on the other side of the country), otherwise his finger is on you in the crowd)

whenever his favourite team is playing (call him basic, call him a bandwagon, but my man is in love with steph curry, so you know he supports golden state) & he can’t watch at home on the tv, basketball!eren sits and watches it on his phone (warning: he will speak to the phone like the team can hear him so keep an eye on him in public, especially at the library because he will yell)

basketball!eren got mvp in sophomore year (jean was like 2 points behind him) and he holds it over jean’s head because he is cheeky and a dick

basketball!eren wears a suit to and from his games (specifically a navy one with a white shirt, no tie, and its just so rahhhhhh) with his headphones on and a large cup of black coffee

now, i don't want to expose basketball!eren here, but in his headphones, only on game days, he plays taylor swift & rihanna

basketball!eren texts you nonstop when he's on the bus/plane to games (because connie is his seatmate (he loves him to death) but connie knocks the fuck out on these trips so eren gets very bored)

basketball!eren wears his hair in 2 styles when he plays: completely tied back with a thin headband or fully out with a thin headband (frothing over here sorry don't look at me: heavy emphasis on the 2nd style though)

basketball!eren has like a couple hundred thousand followers on instagram because he's a college basketball player and he's good and hot as fuck

basketball!eren posts photo dumps once a fortnight as a wrap-up for that time period because his life is so crazy hectic that he always has content for a new dump (i wish he was real guys)

basketball!eren loves loves showing you off (private but not secret on social media) & buying you gifts (instagram stories of your wrist with the new bracelet he gifted you for your birthday)

basketball!eren gets drafted in his senior year of college :') (chooses to graduate first and then go to the nba - he wasn't studying biomedical science for nothing!!! (not that he needs it anymore.......))

basketball!eren gets rookie of the year in his first season (crying)

[ckret2]

I've been really looking forward to posting this chapter. It's got it all: angst, comedy, meaty plot progression, banter, Bill and Ford screaming at each other, Stan getting an MVP moment, Soos being Soos, and a grappling hook. And this:

It's admittedly harder to take Bill's stuck-in-a-human-body grief seriously when he's wearing a pony toga and goofy bug wing face paint.

Anyway here's chapter 4, and here's the masterpost. 8/5/2024 edited for TBOB compatibility!

####

The car had been on the road for several tense minutes before Bill announced his return to consciousness by startling upright, attempting to shout through his gag, looking around wildly, and then kicking Stan's butt through the back of the front bench.

"Hey. Hey! Easy!" Stan turned around to swat at Bill. Bill responded by headbutting his hand.

Trying to ignore Bill and keep his eyes on the road, Ford said, "Soos?"

"You got it." Soos leaned to the right, gently pinning Bill against the door.

Bill grunted, squirmed mightily against his fate, kicked the front bench a couple more times for good measure, and then started rubbing his face against the car door handle.

"Give it a rest," Stan said. "There's no way you're jumping out of a moving car. You're completely tied up and you've got a seatbelt on."

"Safety first," Soos said.

"Plus, the handle on that door sticks."

Bill gave them both a murderous glare, shot another at Ford just because, and resumed rubbing his face on the door handle.

It took a couple minutes for him to use the handle to peel the duct tape off his mouth. He spat half a wet sock at the back of Stan's head. "Where are we—Hey! Hey! Look at me! Where are we going?!"

Gaze never wavering from the road, Ford said, "You don't need to know."

"All that matters is you're not coming back," Stan said. "You're gonna stay with some old friends of mine until we figure out how to deal with you. Real professionals. Not even you could find a way out of this."

"There's nobody to manipulate when nobody is listening to you," Ford said.

Soos, ever helpful, threw in, "Stan hasn't really told us much about these dudes? But I've been getting some 'prisoner pit in a serial killer's basement' vibes off of how he's talking about it."

The rage quickly drained from Bill's face, leaving behind a stricken look. "It's not that golf cart chop shop, is it?"

"What?! How did you kn—" Stan whipped around to gape at Bill, then stared at Ford. "How did he—?!"

"He has eyes everywhere," Ford said resignedly. "I'm sure once he got his claws into me, he started looking into my family's lives."

Soos considered this, nudged Bill, and said, "Hey. What kinda creepy stuff do you know about me?"

Bill didn't answer. He was staring blankly at the back of the front bench. Voice oddly flat, he said, "So. You leave me with a bunch of professional criminals. What's your plan then, smart guy."

"I don't know yet," Ford said. "And that's exactly why we're leaving you with people who can keep you contained—andkeep your puppet alive, whether you like it or not. All they need to do is buy us time until we find a way to extract you from your puppet and destroy you for good."

"And what if you can't 'extract' me."

The car was silent. Finally, Ford said, "Then whatever poor woman you've taken over has already lost her life. Destroying you and her body would be a mercy killing." Stan nodded sharply.

Bill slumped back in his seat. He looked out the window at the dark trees passing by.

The car's headlights swept over a sign reading "Now leaving Gravity Falls."

Bill choked on his breath. His gaze whipped forward, staring through the windshield, eyes wide. "Whoa-whoa-whoa wait wait stop STOP STOP! WATCH OUT!"

Ford slammed the breaks.

"What'd we hit?" Stan leaned over the dash, squinting into the dark. "After you insisted you're a better driver than me—"

"I didn't hit anything—there's nothing in the road—"

Hysterically, Bill demanded, "Are you trying to kill me?!"

Which was such a fantastically stupid question that the whole car turned to stare at him. He was wheezing on the verge of hyperventilation, pressed as far back into the car seat as he could get, feet raised and braced against the back of the front bench, face contorted in exaggerated fear.

Trying to sound irritated to avoid sounding rattled, Ford said, "What the devil is it?"

"Are you crazy?" Bill snapped. "You almost drove straight through the bubble!"

Soos and the Pines all looked forward. There was nothing but the dark road beyond their car. Ford gave Bill a wary look. "The what?"

"The—the bubble! The weirdness barrier around this stupid town's Attractor Zone! You can't see it, can you." Bill jutted his chin forward, gesturing out the windshield. "Well whether you see it or not, it's right there!"

Stan shrugged. "So?"

"SO?!" Bill's voice cracked. "So whaddaya think happens to me if I hit a weirdness barrier in a moving car?!"

Stan considered that a moment. "I dunno... That sounds more like your problem than our problem."

"Hey, it's your upholstery, buddy! But if YOU wanna see what happens when you hit a deer and it teleports inside the car—"

Stan snuck a foot over to the driver's side footwell and pressed the gas, making the engine rev. Bill flinched and yipped like a threatened chihuahua. Stan laughed.

Ford was staring hard at Bill. "The weirdness barrier only exists on the physical plane—it shouldn't affect you in the mindscape. And if you're possessing a perfectly normal human body, it wouldn't be impacted, either. It would only affect you if... you have physical form?" He scrutinized Bill's face—not his alien pupils, but everything else, taking in his facial features, looking for something familiar. The shape of his eyes, the brilliant gold of his hair that almost seemed to glow in the dark car, the way his narrow shoulders and wide hips gave him a distinctly triangular silhouette. "You're... not possessing someone, are you?"

Bill's breath hitched.

Stan looked between the two of them. "You mean that's just him? He's a human now?" He gestured dismissively at Bill. "Why shouldn't we hit the barrier, then. Take care of him now. I oughta get the ol' Diablo reupholstered, anyway."

"Oh! Oh! So that's how you want to play!" Bill let out a shrill laugh. "Fine, be like that! Do it—if you're sooo sure it won't just set me free! Do you like the sound of that? Wanna find out whether blowing up this flesh prison will kill me or unleash me?" He leaned into Stan's face, baring his teeth, smiling viciously. "Go on, tough guy—think you can get me with another lucky sucker punch?"

Stan scowled—but instead of rising to the bait, he gave Bill a hard, considering look. "What's your game?"

"Ha! I'm playing games an idiot like you couldn't even imagine—"

On Stan's behalf, Ford tapped the gas, nudging the car forward a few inches.

Bill shrieked. "What's wrong with you, you maniac?!" Over Stan's guffaws and Ford's chuckle, Bill snapped, "I've had it!" The rear door swung open. Bill tumbled out onto the road.

"Hey!" Soos scrambled after him, but by the time he was out of his seatbelt, Bill was on his feet and running.

He was running very badly. He'd somehow managed to free his wrists and ankles—his ankles were raw and bloody and his handcuffs, still locked, lay innocently in the back seat—but his elbows were still chained to his sides and his knees were tied together. Stan jumped out of the car, saw Bill trip and sprawl on the asphalt less than twenty feet away, and laughed so hard he needed to lean on the car for balance.

Ford caught up just after Soos tackled Bill. "Well! There. Here you are." Ford's fists were trembling. "You couldn't have thought you'd escape, Bill. What was the point of that—that ridiculous demonstration!"

Bill's cheek was pressed to the ground so hard that he had to squeeze one eye shut; but it didn't stop him from giving Ford a smarmy smirk. "To be annoying," he said. "For you. Personally and individually."

"Fffp— For me?! Why? To what end, Bill?!" Ford knew Bill just wanted to see him angry. And it worked. "Of all the places in the world you could have gone, why are you back here! What could you possibly get out of harassing us again! After all you've done to us already!"

"What." The change on Bill's face was instantaneous. "After... what I... have done to you? WHAT I'VE DONE TO YOU?!"

His body shook with the violence of his screams, threatening to throw Soos off. "I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING TO ANY OF YOU! Look at you all, you hale and hearty little animals, with all your dwindling decades left to you—what about ME?!"

He jammed a fist in Soos's gut to knock him off and lunged for Ford, clawing at his ankle and coat hem like a zombie reaching from the grave. Ford stumbled back, tripped over Bill's hand, and fell hard on the asphalt. Bill wrenched an arm free from the chains around his chest with a sick bony CRACK and crawled on top of Ford.  "I was perfect! I was a god-king! I'm the most sublime thing your universe has ever seen! What am I now?!" Bill's bound knees dug into Ford's abdomen, his clawed fingers reached for his face. "MEAT! I'm MEAT, Stanford! I'm a greasy trash bag of raw leather filled with meat and bile! My body is rotting off its bones as we SPEAK, in a few years I'll be dust! AND YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT WHAT I 'TOOK' FROM YOU?!"

His fingers closed around Ford's throat. "What did you lose! TELL ME what you lost! I gave you EVERYTHING you ever wanted—knowledge, magic, validation, INFINITE worlds to explore! I offered you more! I offered you fame and fortune! Immortality! Divinity! So WHAT! DID! YOU! LOSE!" He punctuated each word with a furious shake. He was frothing with rage, choking on his rage, so furious he was nearly sobbing. "And do you REALLY THINK it comes CLOSE to what I'VE been through?! To the eternity you STOLE FROM ME?! You KILLED me today, Stanford! I DIED TODAY—"

A grappling hook whistled between their faces, nearly hitting Bill's nose, smashing into the bark of a tree. Bill froze, eyes wide, the taut wire inches in front of his mouth, staring down at Ford. And then he let go. He didn't resist when Stan dragged him off, or when Stan and Soos wrapped their arms around him in case he lunged for Ford again. His knees briefly buckled before he got his feet under him again.

Ford stared up at Bill, rubbing his throat.

He'd seen Bill angry enough to kill—yet he'd never seen Bill angry like that before. Bill's anger was always the petty tantrum of an entitled child who had been denied something he thought he deserved. This was different.

This wasn't just anger; it was grief. Bill was grieving himself.

"This... really is you, isn't it?"

Bill's jaw tightened.

"Great Uncle Ford!" Dipper dropped to a knee beside Ford, grabbing his shoulder. "Are you okay?!"

"I'm fine, Dip—Dipper?" Ford stared at him, and turned to look at Mabel and the two bikes further up the road. "What are you two doing out here?"

"Following to make sure Bill doesn't try anything?" Dipper said. "Like he just did?"

Stan said, "Whoa, kids, it's way too dangerous f—aw, forget it. Just how the heck did you find us?" (He'd handed Bill over to Soos, learning nothing from the lessons of the last few minutes; but Bill didn't make another move to escape. He leaned against Soos for physical support, shoulders slumped, his whole face sagging with exhaustion.)

Dipper said, "We figured you wouldn't let us come, so Mabel bugged the car after dinner."

"She what?"

"I poked a hole in a bag of glitter and taped it under your bumper!" Mabel pointed at the sparkly red trail leading along the road to the car. She was trying to pull her grappling hook out of the tree. "Hey, Grunkle Ford! We saved your life twice in one day! I think you owe us a pizza or something."

Dipper nodded seriously. "Definitely."

Ford rubbed his neck. "I don't think he was even trying to kill me. He was just..." Ford trailed off, staring after Bill. Out of that mad monologue of historical revisionism, the part that echoed in Ford's head was the last words. I died today. It still felt that fresh to Bill? Where had he been the past year—how did time move there?

Mabel frowned. "Aw, c'mon, Grunkle Ford. Lemme have this."

He dragged his gaze from Bill and laughed, ruffling her hair. "All right, all right. I owe you two a pizza."

"Yes!"

"No wonder you slipped these off," Soos muttered, holding the handcuffs in one hand and one of Bill's hands in the other. "You have delicate little baby hands. I bet it's really easy for you to get things out of jars."

"Sure." Bill sighed listlessly. "But it makes playing the piano a pain."

Soos more tightly handcuffed Bill's delicate little baby hands in his lap, considered how best to keep him from running off again, and finally wrapped an arm around Bill's shoulders. "There. Buddy system!"

Bill endured this indignity with the vacant-eyed stoicism of a shell shocked soldier.

"So, what's going on?" Dipper asked, looking at the stopped car.

"We're at the edge of the weirdness barrier around Gravity Falls," Ford said. "Bill can't cross it. Obviously, slamming him into it would be like driving into a wall. It would be fatal."

"To just Bill? Or the tourist, too?"

"There is no tourist. That's—him."

"Yeah," Stan said. "So he claims, anyway. I'm not sure I believe that."

Mabel gasped and grabbed Dipper's arm. "I knew it! Grunkle Ford, Grunkle Stan—I think he's telling the truth! When Bill possessed Dipper, he was all cold and gross like a dead body. But this time he's normal! I bet his book wanted blood so he could make a body out of it!"

"Like a homunculus?" The Book of Bill was made of human brain tissue—and Ford had gotten the disconcerting impression that he could feel vertebrae through the book's spine. "I wouldn't put it past him."

Stan screwed up his face, tilting his head. "All right, magic books and humonkeys are beyond me, but—something's still fishy. He's holding something back, I'm sure of it. Sixer, you've had more practice figuring him out than anyone else, what do you think?"

Ford sighed. "Unfortunately, he's also had more experience manipulating me than anyone else. But, all the same, I wouldn't put the possibility that this is really his body past him. I... I've never seen him so..." He meant to say furious. Instead, he said, "hurt." 

Ford wondered if there really was something to Bill's anger that he had never seen before—something awoken by dying?—or if it was just easier for Ford to see the emotions now that they were on a human face. If there were other nuances he'd missed over the years.

Glancing toward the car, Ford didn't see any anger on Bill's face now. It was completely blank—not neutral but empty, like he was too exhausted to feel. "Bill's a good liar, but I've never known him to be a good actor. I think that... outburstwas sincere."

Mabel said, "I've seen him impersonating Soos, Dipper, and Blanchin Blandin, and—he's convincing when he's doing normal stuff, but I've never seen him try to fake having emotions."

Dipper said, "Yeah, he's not really big on emoting. Pretty much the only expression he knows how to make on purpose is the world's creepiest smile."

"Okay," Stan said, "so he's probably telling the truth about being stuck in a human body and being mad about it. But what about that thing he said about setting him loose again if we kill his body."

(Dipper and Mabel exchanged a look. Dipper mouthed Trojan horse, and Mabel nodded.)

"Because here's the thing," Stan said. "Say that's a lie, and killing him will just kill him. If he's half the liar you think he is, he woulda been trying to convince us from the start that his life is the only thing standing between us and the apocalypse! So why'd he only pull this out at the last minute, when it sounds like a stupid excuse?"

"He didn't need to tell us before," Ford said. "We thought he was possessing a tourist, we didn't want to hurt her."

"Ending the world's a lot scarier than killing one tourist! Why bother with the 'tourist puppet' schtick and then escalate? Maybe that's just the kind of half-rate con artist he is, but—just—!" Stan flung his hands up. "Something isn't adding up!"

Ford said, "So you think it's double reverse psychology? He told us killing him would restart Weirdmageddon so we'll think it's a lie, kill him, and actually restart it?"

Stan paused. "No," he said. "No, that's not it, either. If it was, he coulda just let us drive into that invisible barrier without saying anything."

"Then what? What's he actually trying to make us think?"

Stan stared at Bill, still turning over their conversation in the car, trying to put his finger on what had seemed wrong about it.

Wanna find out whether blowing up this flesh prison will kill me or unleash me?

Stan could see Bill's face as it had looked yesterday, on the ground at his feet, barrel of a laser gun aimed at Bill's forehead, looking past it to stare straight into Stan's eyes. Go ahead, Stanley, let's find out what'll happen. He could have claimed then that killing him would end the world—or he could have forced Stan to shoot—but that was all he'd said. Let's find out.

Slowly, Stan said, "He's not trying to make us think anything. He's banking on us being too scared to gamble on what'll happen if he dies. Because he's too scared to gamble." Stan turned to stare at Bill. "You! You don't know if you can come back from this."

Bill blinked and focused on the Pines, glare darting between them.

"Do you?" Stan crossed his arms.

Bill's face twitched, and his defiance collapsed: "No! I don't know! I didn't get to see the terms and conditions on this stupid body—I don't know if I get my angles back when this body croaks, or if I just get shuffled into a human afterlife and that's it!" He forced a furious smile. "But if I don't know what's going to happen, then neither do you! Nobody does! So do you want to find out the hard way?!"

Bill looked from face to face; their silence was answer enough. No. They did not want to find out the hard way. He laughed loudly, reveling in his one tiny triumph.

"All right," Stan barked, "I've had enough of your crap." He cracked his knuckles, marched up to Bill, and socked his jaw.

Bill immediately shut up.

The other humans politely clapped.

####

If they couldn't take Bill out of the weirdness barrier, then for now there was only one place to take him: back to the shack. Stan borrowed a phone to step off the road and have a quick, hushed conversation with his contacts about the change in plans, while Ford helped Dipper and Mabel attach their bikes to the roof of the car.

When Stan returned, Ford said, "We're running out of seats." What he really meant was they were out of seats that would keep the kids away from Bill.

"Just stick me in the trunk!" Bill—leaning against the car boredly while the humans rearranged his incarceration plans—had regained some of his usual pep now that one small thing had gone right for him. He had, somehow, got his hands on the bat Soos had stowed in the back seat, and had been holding it like a cane, unnoticed until he used it to gesture toward the trunk. "I'm a prisoner! Humans put prisoners in the trunk, right?"

Stan snorted. "What, and let you kick out the taillights and escape? I don't think so. And who let you have a weapon!" He snatched the bat from Bill and tossed it in the trunk instead. "Kids, you sit on the front bench." Stan and Soos slid into the back with Bill jammed in the middle.

The drive was very, very quiet.

The only noise was the quiet squeak as Bill took up steadily kicking Ford's side of the front bench. Ford's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He said nothing.

Stan kicked Bill's ankle. Bill kicked Stan. Soos leaned against the window in a futile attempt to escape them and sighed.

And then the car was silent again.

"Say!" Bill said. The other passengers started. "What is it, about three? That's morning! Who wants to go get breakfast?"

"No," Stan and Ford said.

"Aw, come on! I think we're near that truck stop where Sixer had a psychotic episode!" Bill kicked the front bench more enthusiastically. "I thought you guys decided to keep me alive! You'll have a hard time doing that if you let me starve to death."

Ford said, "You're not going to starve to death between now and when we get home."

Soos blinked. "Hey, he slept through dinner, didn't he? Dude. How long has it been since you last ate?"

"Do socks count?"

Dipper and Mabel cast a suspicious glance at the damp half sock lying in the front footwell.

Soos shook his head. "Uh-uh."

"Then depending on which way of measuring nonlinear chronology you want to go by, it's either been a day, a year, or an eternity."

Soos furrowed his brow. Stan sighed irritably and said, "Would it kill you to give a straight answer?"

"It might. I've never tried before." Bill cackled. "It's not my fault I don't know which way you want to count chronology!"

Flatly, Ford said, "How long does your body think it's been since you last fed it."

"I've never fed it."

The humans stared in shock. Even Ford spared a glance in the rearview mirror.

"Ohhh right, that's not optional anymore. That explains the ceaseless abdominal pain! And all Chumbo's griping! And the vertigo when I stand up! And the mood swings!" Bill laughed, "Hey, Fordsy! Turns out I was just hungry!"

"I'll stop for breakfast if you never call me that again."

"Deal!"

Ford took the turn toward the Triple Digit Truck Stop.

####

[ellecdc]

MY LOVE?!?!?!?! is Siri, lowkey about to adopt us?!?!?!?! Im such a sucker for big brother Siri and because.of his household it would be sooo much more protective.

That line about understanding why James is so soft on us, mans never denying us a thing. And the first question being "where are your shoes?" 😫😫 i can see Siri starting to carry extra things of ours around like socks or hair ties or a normal tie or a jacket or gloves 🥹

He's such a lovely lovely lovely boyyyyyyyy ughghefefkkafwyhf I love him so much, but doubly loved him and his shit this chapter he was the real MVP.

You're so right about being so much more protective of his people because of his household - and I'm not even sure he's fully realized that his 'little odd bird' just became one of his people but she totally did. Probably exactly in that moment you mentioned like "fuck I made her sad I hate myself I shouldn't have said anything"

So glad you loved it babes 🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Bill Cipher

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

Gravity Falls is one of the greatest cartoons of the 2010s, a fantastic mystery series filled with weird and mysterious monsters. And among those monsters is a bizarre interdimensional demonic triangle with a top hat who sounds like the dude who made Twin Peaks. How much weirder can you ge than that?

Bill Cipher started off as a one-shot monster of the week summoned up by season 1’s reoccurring antagonist Gideon, but considering how he appears so much in symbols throughout the show and just how fun and striking the guy is, he was upgraded to the overarching villain of the whole show, responsible for many of the mysteries and the conflict of the grand finale. So what made this evil Dorito so much cooler than the psychic incel voiced by the dude who made The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack? Read on and maybe I’ll have an answer.

Yfg kilyzyob mlg. R'n mlg gszg hnzig.

Motivation/Goals: Bill is the archetypical trickster and deal-making devil we’ve seen across the ages in fiction, promising wealth, power, and knowledge to suckers in return for furthering his goals. And what are his goals, you might ask? Fuck if I know. Bill seems to relish in pure and utter chaos with no rhyme or reason, his true motives beyond “Call in my friends and fuck around with reality” being beyond my puny mortal understanding. Frankly, it’s really refreshing to see a Disney villain who simply relishes in bringing about the apocalypse for shits and giggles, especially when the classic Disney villain was dying out around the time this show was airing in favor of twist villains like Hans and that Zootopia sheep.

Performance: After being shot down by David Lynch, Alex Hirsch decided to jumo in and voice Bill in a “bad” David Lynch impression. Bad is in quotations because the impression is quite frankly pretty spot on, and much like Lynch himself it adds a sort of surreal ridiculousness to Bill. Hirsch really is the MVP of the show he created, and Bill is one of his best performances in it, though I hesitate to call him better than Grunkle Stan.

Final Fate: The best Disney villains get the very best deaths, and Bill has one of the best of them all. After falling for a ruse between Stanford and Stanley and slipping into the latter’s mind as its being erased, Bill pitifully begs Grunkle Stan for his life. In a move that would make Captain Falcon proud, Stan responds by fucking punching Bill out of existence. FUCK. YEAH.

Bill ends the series as nothing more than a statue. Probably. His final secret backwards message does imply he may return someday...

Best Episodes: The “Weirdmageddon” finale is definitely Bill’s finest hour, but I’ve gotta say “Sock Opera” is a standout as well, as Bill takes over Dipper’s body for his own goals. It hits even harder if you read the real-life version of the Journal, which has Bill pretty blatantly say he was going to make Dipper commit suicide. Jesus Christ.

Final Thoughts & Score: Bill is easily the most impressive Disney villain in recent memory.

Recent Disney movies have seemed content in either making the antagonizing force of a movie a nebulous force like generational trauma, or otherwise have a really bad twist villain. The last time we had an honest to god Disney villain was Tamatoa, who gets a single scene in Moana before vanishing from the film. We just haven’t been getting the sort of high quality antagonists we had back in the 90s anymore.

Bill, though? Bill is just about everything you could want from a villain. He’s funny when he needs to be, he’s terrifying when he needs to be, he wields insane magical power, and most importantly, he absolutely relishes in how much of an evil lunatic he is. He’s like if Kefka was made by David Lynch, and was also a triangle. It’s just beautiful.

I think what makes Bill so great is just the sheer simplicity of the character, from his design to his motivations. It’s very much what you see is what you get with him; he just loves chaos, and he wants to spread it even if it means blowing up the world. He’ll fuck over anyone to get what he wants, and nothing is too low for him to achieve his goals. Villains like this can be very fun to watch if they’re written well, and Bill is written exceptionally well. Every episode with him in it is easily one of the best episodes of the show; even his debut episode, which some have argued is his weakest appearance, is still one of the single best episode’s of the first season. He’s just that damn good.

Bill Cipher gets a 10/10, which isn’t particularly shocking; he might be the best thing Alex Hirsch created for the show after all. If Disney never makes a good villain again and just sticks to generational trauma or awful twist villains, well, at least they’ll always have Bill. 

Sv nzb lmob hxliv z gvm sviv yfg sv'h zm vovevm rm nb svzig.

[nancydrewwouldnever]

I think Chris needs to pull up his socks with regards to how he's handling his post marvel career, or else he'll become a cautionary tale in few years. Also he needs to remember that his looks and body have been his MVP so long. It won't last, especially coz he doesn't seem to be disciplined enough, which I'm quite surprised TBH. He got real lucky!

I'm just going to be over here in this corner, continuing to bang away on this drum with the words "Gerard Butler's career" written on it.

To quote the Cylons of Battlestar Galactica: this has all happened before, this will all happen again.

[sciencestyled]

Galactic Guesswork: The Bizarre Hunt for Dark Matter and Dark Energy

Welcome, intrepid explorers of the cosmic carnival, to the most mind-bending show on this side of the Milky Way: the enigma of dark matter and dark energy! Imagine, if you will, that our universe is like a ginormous cosmic burrito, and we’re only tasting the spicy salsa without even realizing there’s a whole fiesta of flavors hiding underneath. Yep, that's right – about 85% of the universe is this mysterious stuff called dark matter and dark energy, and we’re still figuring out what on Earth (or in space) it all means!

Now, grab your metaphorical popcorn, because this rollercoaster starts with the mystery of the universe's missing mass. Picture the early astronomers like Galileo and Newton as the original Ghostbusters, looking for all the visible stuff in the cosmos. Fast forward to the 1930s, when Fritz Zwicky, with a name that sounds like a retro comic book hero, noticed that the galaxies in the Coma Cluster were moving around like kids hopped up on sugar. He figured out there must be something invisible giving them a gravitational push. Voilà, dark matter was born – the invisible hand in the cosmic cookie jar!

Enter Vera Rubin in the 1970s, the real MVP who confirmed that galaxies spin way faster than they should if only visible matter was in play. It’s like if you saw a frisbee flying through the air and realized it’s being propelled by an invisible jetpack. Thanks to her, we know dark matter exists, even if it’s as elusive as that one sock you always lose in the laundry.

But wait, the universe had more tricks up its sleeve. Enter stage left: dark energy, the Beyoncé of cosmic phenomena – fabulous, mysterious, and always in the spotlight. In the 1990s, astronomers noticed that the universe isn’t just expanding, it’s doing so at an accelerating rate, like a YouTube video buffering at hyperspeed. This was thanks to observations of distant supernovae, which, much like surprise guest stars on a TV show, gave us unexpected clues about the universe's plot twists. And thus, dark energy was thrust into the limelight, making us question everything we thought we knew about the universe.

Now, let’s get to the juicy part: what exactly is this dark stuff made of? Scientists have thrown around more theories than Marvel has superheroes. Dark matter might be composed of WIMPs (Weakly Interacting Massive Particles) or MACHOs (Massive Astrophysical Compact Halo Objects). And if those acronyms sound like characters from a sci-fi buddy cop movie, you’re not far off. These particles are like the undercover agents of the universe, working behind the scenes to keep galaxies spinning and the cosmos in order.

Dark energy, on the other hand, might be the universe’s version of anti-gravity – a force that’s pushing everything apart. Think of it as the cosmic equivalent of your favorite cartoon character running off a cliff and somehow staying afloat. Scientists have cooked up theories involving quantum fields and vacuum energy, but pinning down dark energy is like trying to nail jelly to a wall.

To hunt down these elusive entities, scientists have rolled out the big guns – and by guns, I mean colossal detectors and telescopes. The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is like the universe’s ultimate science fair project, smashing particles together at ludicrous speeds to see what secrets pop out. Space telescopes like the Hubble and the upcoming James Webb are the cosmic paparazzi, snapping pics of the universe's red carpet events to catch dark matter and dark energy in action.

But even with all this high-tech wizardry, detecting dark matter and dark energy is trickier than convincing your parents that video games are educational. We’re talking about stuff that doesn’t interact with light, making it essentially invisible. It’s like trying to catch a ninja who’s also a ghost. Yet, with every experiment and observation, we get a smidge closer to understanding these cosmic ninjas.

Now, what does all this mean for science education and our understanding of the universe? Buckle up, because this is where it gets wild. Dark matter and dark energy aren’t just footnotes in the cosmic story; they’re the plot twists that change everything. They shape the structure of the universe, influencing galaxy formation, cosmic microwave background radiation, and even the ultimate fate of everything we know. It’s like discovering that the secret ingredient in grandma’s famous pie recipe is something you’ve never even heard of – it changes your whole perspective.

The implications are profound. If we crack the dark matter and dark energy codes, we could revolutionize our understanding of physics, potentially leading to new technologies that make today’s sci-fi look like child’s play. Imagine harnessing dark energy to power spaceships or using dark matter as the ultimate stealth tech. The future could be stranger and more fantastic than any blockbuster movie.

In conclusion, the quest to unravel the mysteries of dark matter and dark energy is the ultimate scientific odyssey – an adventure filled with intrigue, discovery, and mind-boggling revelations. As we continue to probe the cosmic shadows, each piece of evidence brings us closer to the truth, turning science education into a thrilling narrative that rivals the best Hollywood thrillers. So, stay curious, my fellow cosmic detectives, because the universe has many more secrets to spill, and we’re just getting started on this wild ride through the dark!

[therealbrainlessshow]

The “Best” Big Game Prop Bets

As the Big Game frenzy reaches its peak, it's not just about who will win or who will score the most touchdowns.

Actually it's not about that at all. It's about those wonderfully ridiculous prop bets that make even the most casual fan become a high-stakes gambler.

And we have compiled the most ridiculous of all!

1 - Patrick Mahomes Endorsement Deals

How many new endorsement deals Will Patrick Mahomes receive after the Big Game.

The over-under is set at 3.5.

Considering his popularity, marketability and hair, I'd take the over on this one.

2 - Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift

Who cares about whether or not he pops the question let's talk about real commitment.

Will Travis Kelce cross the International Date Line to make it to one of Taylor Swift's concerts if she accomplishes the same thing by making it to the Big Game.

In other words, would a man actually travel that far just to see his girlfriend? Most men consider driving more than 20 miles a real inconvenience no matter what's waiting in the end zone.  

I think the deciding factors are, will there be snacks and an open bar.

3 - The MVP's Post-Game Interview Catchphrase

Will the MVP thank their mom, their coach, their pet iguana, one of the Kardashians or their lucky socks.

4 - The Number of Times the Winning Quarterback is Shown Kissing the Lombardi Trophy (over under set at 2.5)

BONUS BET! - Will they give it a peck, a smooch, or a full-on make-out session.

And my all time favorite!

5 - Will A Team Win Solely by Scoring Safeties.

Each one of these brainless prop bets are guaranteed to add an extra layer of entertainment to Super Bowl Sunday.

Happy Scoring!

[aipidia]

The AI Revolution in Advertising: Unleashing Creativity and Data Power

Introduction

The Rise of Smart Advertisers

Remember "Mad Men"? Those suave advertisers who relied on their gut feelings to make killer campaigns? Well, say hello to their smarter cousins, the AI algorithms. These digital wizards munch on data for breakfast and serve up advertising strategies that make the old-school methods look like, well, child's play.

How AI Makes Waves

AI isn't just about talking robots and futuristic gadgets. It's about using data—too much of it—to figure out what makes people tick. From analyzing consumer behavior to predicting preferences, AI algorithms are your behind-the-scenes heroes, making sure your ads hit the bullseye.

Hyper-Personalization: Your New Secret Weapon

Gone are the days of generic ads that try to please everyone but end up pleasing no one. Enter hyper-personalization, the real MVP of AI-powered advertising. Imagine this: an ad that knows you better than your BFF. AI looks at your past choices and tailors ads that feel like they were made just for you. It's like having a personal shopper for ads!

When AI Gets Flirty with Data

Picture this: AI knows you so well that it can guess what you want even before you do. Creepy? Maybe a smidge. Effective? Absolutely. This data-driven matchmaking is what makes hyper-personalization the new darling of advertisers.

Smarter Campaigns, Smoother Sail

A/B testing? That was so yesterday. AI takes ad optimization to a whole new level. These digital geniuses don't just pick between two options; they test, tweak, and twirl a dozen different elements until they find the perfect formula. Think of them as the ultimate cake bakers, but instead of cakes, they whip up ads that get results.

When Ads Get an Upgrade

Ever wondered why some ads seem to speak directly to you? Thank AI. These smart cookies analyze what works and what doesn't in real-time, making sure the ads you see are the ones that are most likely to make you click that magical "Buy Now" button.

A Symphony of Creativity and Logic

AI and creativity—it's like a match made in tech heaven. While AI does the crunching, humans bring the flair. Think of AI as the DJ, spinning the tracks, and humans as the dancers, adding their unique moves to create a mesmerizing performance.

When AI Writes a Haiku

AI isn't just about numbers and charts. It can compose music, paint pictures, and yes, even write poetry. Imagine an AI writing a haiku about your product—quirky, amusing, and oddly poetic. It's like having a robot Shakespeare on your creative team.

FAQs: Answering Your Burning Questions

Q1: Is AI going to take over human jobs in advertising? A: Not quite. While AI is great at crunching numbers and optimizing campaigns, it can't replace human creativity and emotions. We're still the masters of wit and charm!

Q2: Will AI know my deepest, darkest secrets? A: Nope, AI doesn't have a secret-keeping feature. It uses patterns in your behavior to tailor ads, but it won't spill your secrets to the world. Phew!

Q3: Can AI really understand what I want? A: AI can predict your preferences based on your history, but it's not a mind reader. So, if you suddenly crave neon-colored socks, don't blame AI if you don't see sock ads everywhere.

Conclusion

AI-powered advertising isn't just about fancy algorithms and sci-fi dreams. It's about creating ads that resonate with people on a personal level, while also making the most of data's magic. So, the next time you see an ad that makes you smile, remember – there's a witty AI brain and a bunch of data behind it, working their magic to brighten your day. Cheers to the AI revolution! 🎉🤖

[wendiz]

Okay I actually got to play an entire game in PTCGL! It was.....-’nt all that fun. I hate that even with reduced effects turned on the table animations move real fast and with a lot of colors. Bleh.

Anywho Pachirisu was the MVP which was pretty funny, it completely knocked the socks off of Arcanine ex which seems to be fairly popular with other baby playes like me heheh :^D

I miss TCGO so much but it’s def a common consensus with ptcg fans. Hoping some brave soul will make a community-run ptcg game some day 🤞

[acidcatpiss]

17/31 days of (brian) May

[kiruuuuu]

Thatcher/Lesion in which they go on vacation together and manage to confront a few things. Mostly each other. (Rating E, fluff, kinda explicit, emotional hurt/comfort, ~7.3k words) - dedicated to both @glazkov-smile​ and @magehir​ because the former put this ship into my head and the latter encouraged me 💕 I didn’t mean for it to become this long but here we are and oh look I’m stuck what a surprise

.

It’s telling that Thatcher doesn’t even remember what it’s like back home, finds no memories with which to compare his current situation for there is no space for anything other than the deep and profound calm filling him completely. He watches the tea leaves unfurl gently, soaking up the hot water while simultaneously dyeing it, breathes in the cool, clear morning air and listens. A soft breeze rustles leaves, birds sing – no cars audible or even anywhere in sight, only the pleasant rise and fall of the mountains and valleys surrounding him. Though his mind knows it not to be true, he’s always been here in his heart, far from people and stress and obligations, free from his duties, allowed to just be himself. He’s content.

Something shifts behind him, fabric drags over fabric and a blissful sigh lets him know that his companion is far from ready to begin this new day. Thatcher is almost tempted to let him sleep a bit longer, glance at the peaceful face now and then while he enjoys his tea and just wait until brown eyes blink at him sleepily. But they’re not on vacation to laze around, so instead he reaches out into the tiny tent behind him and scratches where he suspects Lesion’s feet to be inside his sleeping bag. An indignant yelp followed by flailing violent enough to threaten the tent’s stability lets him know he indeed hit exactly the right spot and so he leaves it at that, worried about the cup in his other hand, and goes back to admiring the beautiful scenery before him.

When Lesion emerges, he’s squinting at the brightness of the early summer sun and gratefully accepts the mug Thatcher hands him with a mumbled something. It takes several sips for him to perk up enough so Thatcher can consider initiating a conversation.

“Slept better this night?”, he wants to know curiously though the drawn-out yawn is almost answer enough.

“Not really. At least I’ve gotten used to it being this stupidly quiet”, Lesion replies with a self-deprecating smile. To Thatcher, sleeping while being surrounded by noise was something he had to train himself to do whereas Lesion is largely unfamiliar with total silence. “At this point I can only guess why I can’t sleep.”

“What’s your best guess then? Anything I can do to help?”

For some reason, this earns him a side glance and no more than a dismissive shrug. Maybe it’s nightmares and he’d rather not talk about them when it’s obvious how much Thatcher is enjoying this escape from everyday life. There are pillow creases on Lesion’s cheek and more down his arm, indents telling of his regularly interrupted and yet deep sleep. Together with his wild hair, the peculiarly patterned t-shirt and naked legs, he looks young and almost adorable, though Thatcher would rather saw off his own foot than admit this out loud.

“What’s for breakfast? I swear if it’s anything with fish again, I’m going to chuck it into the nearest gorge.”

This finally drags Lesion out of his morning funk and prompts a soft laugh in between gulps of green tea. “You’ve definitely come to the wrong place then, Norway is quite well-known for its excellent fish and not-so known for its deep gorges.”

“I came here to hike, camp and do both without too much human contact, not to turn into a seagull.”

“What does that make me then?”

“You don’t count as human contact”, Thatcher waves his question aside, well aware of how disparaging his comment could sound but confident Lesion will take it the right way. “You’ve seen me at various high and low points in my life and you’ve still stuck around.”

“I have, haven’t I”, Lesion murmurs more to himself than in response, smiling into his tea.

“Clearly because of my sunny personality.” When his friend chokes on the liquid, Thatcher doesn’t know whether to be offended or pleased.

.

They’ve been travelling for a week by now and are scheduled to return in a few days; a date towards which Thatcher looks with trepidation. He hasn’t felt this peaceful in years, not even during other vacations, and long accepted the low, insistent buzzing at the back of his skull as an inevitable side effect of his work – switching off is something at which he’s never been good and it’s always affected his relationships, even friendships. Maybe he’s getting old or careless, who knows, yet this time around he’s finally thoroughly enjoying himself. It took him three days to realise and funnily enough he’d literally stopped to smell some flowers at Lesion’s indication when it hit him: the need to justify this waste of time to himself was gone. His heartbeat didn’t spike when he thought about some of the things he’d have to do once they return. He didn’t urge them to move on if they lingered.

Lesion’s laid-back attitude seems to be contagious and though it spared Thatcher’s rigid sleep schedule, it allowed him to properly marvel at Norway’s breathtaking natural beauty and not despair over the lack of any reliable transportation, instead trusting Lesion that hitchhiking will get them to their small handful of destinations in their own time. They’ve picked up some Norwegian on the way, communicated with grand gestures when no common language was found and joked around with whoever was friendly enough to give them a ride. Thatcher even begrudgingly admits that his international phone plan comes in handy whenever his old and tattered map proves unreliable – he bought it for a planned holiday twenty years ago but it ended up never happening due to his partner at the time coming down with an acute case of lying, cheating and stealing.

Nostalgia is a powerful yet dangerous thing and so Thatcher mostly focuses on the present. Everything else would’ve been unfair to Lesion anyway.

Contrary to Thatcher’s underlying worries, the day plays out perfectly and couldn’t go any better than it does. They pack up after breakfast, careful not to leave anything behind, and hike for an hour to reconnect with the nearest street where they almost immediately get picked up and taken to a town close to the next sight they’re planning to explore. They stock up on supplies, causing a slight commotion in the store when Lesion repeatedly tries to smuggle herring salad into their basket with Thatcher objecting more and more emphatically. They really must look like tourists, Lesion especially with his cargo shorts and frankly embarrassing sun hat – and Thatcher thanks whichever deity is responsible for common sense for stopping his companion from bringing a selfie-stick.

The hike up the mountain isn’t as bad as some others they’ve mastered previously and doesn’t even begin to compare to some of their training exercises, so Thatcher takes a gleeful pride in passing by resting younger couples or families while hardly out of breath and matching Lesion’s unmerciful tempo effortlessly. The only time they stop is to pick some wild blueberries and argue about what to eat for dinner.

“Okay”, says Lesion once they’ve arrived at the entrance of the first cave, “why are we here again?”

Thatcher wants to both laugh and sigh simultaneously and ends up scoffing instead. “You really don’t remember? I told you this morning.”

“See, there’s your mistake – it was morning.”

“How do you normally go on vacations? Do you just wander around until a random flight accidentally lets you on and you’ve just always been lucky to bring the right clothes so far?”

A wide grin is his reply. “Tell me, Mike. What are we here to see?”

It probably should vex him that Lesion doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm for scenic spots but as he always finds something meaningful to say about them and never complains, Thatcher has to admit he doesn’t mind doing most of the planning. And so he talks about the Trollkirka or troll church which isn’t a church at all but rather a marble cavern with a waterfall, and how they’re about to explore the three limestone grottos around it.

“Sounds better than your idea for improvised fishing the other day. Do we need flashlights?”

Thatcher pauses, recalls the descriptions he’s read for the caves and grimaces. “Are you telling me you haven’t developed the ability to see in the dark over the years?”

“I’ve got a phone. Let’s go.”

.

The lack of daylight turns out to be not the only obstacle they’re facing: there’s a shallow underground stream happily gurgling past their feet and covering the entire width of the floor. It adds a lot to the atmosphere, that much is true – for the short moment during which Lesion experimentally switches off his phone’s light, it really is utterly dark, yet the calming echo of the water turns what might’ve been menacing otherwise into something soothing instead.

Even so. Lesion’s casual shoes aren’t waterproof.

They’re both hunched over right now as the ceiling isn’t high enough to accommodate them and while Thatcher pays next to no attention to where he treads, Lesion carefully steps from stone to stone, choosing more elevated parts in order to save his socks from getting soaked. He looks almost like a very ungraceful and vaguely irritated bird and Thatcher only barely manages not to comment on his stilted walking.

“From what I’ve seen it’s worth the hassle at least”, he tries to cheer his companion up and earns a pained grin visible in the unsteady, cold light of his phone.

“I believe you, trust me, I’m not complaining – look, I like getting wet, just not like this.”

Thatcher snorts and is about to respond when Lesion hits his head on a particularly low part of the ceiling with a yelp, causing him to drop his device right into the clear water. Once again, the light source dies and leaves them in pitch black, only this time it’s accompanied by a lot of cursing from Lesion as well as the sound of frantic splashing while he searches for his phone by his feet.

“Fuck, okay, here it is, shit. Can you use yours so I can take a look at it?”

Even now, Lesion doesn’t sound annoyed, merely exasperated, and Thatcher decides to buy him a few drinks once they’re back in civilisation. A quick pat down his own trousers assures him that yes, while he does have his own smartphone in his front pocket, he’s going to have a hard time getting it out with the way he’s bending over, stretching the fabric and restricting access to his pockets. “I can try but it’s hard to get, I don’t want to do the same thing you just did.”

For a second, all Thatcher hears is the rippling water, his own fingernails scratching over his jeans in their attempt to dive into his pocket and blood rushing in his ears. He can sense Lesion even if he can’t see him.

Eventually, there’s a quiet: “Let me try.”

There are footsteps now and they sound like their owner couldn’t care less about whether or not his socks end up drenched. Thatcher stretches out an arm for guidance, lets his hand meet Lesion’s and wander up his extended limb before resting it on his side once he’s close enough. They stand there, holding on to each other in the dark, and for some reason Thatcher’s lips are burning, itchy all of a sudden, he’s painfully aware of warm fabric under his palm and that’s when fingertips brush over his thigh.

He holds his breath. It’s suddenly imperative that he does even if he’s uncertain why, and then deft hands run over the edges of his phone, ticklish and tingling and he tries so hard to see anything, maybe make out Lesion’s expression by sheer force of will but all he gets in return is fingernails digging into skin and the feel of regular in- and exhales against his hand which refuses to move anywhere else.

Neither of them speak. The air is lovely and cool compared to the increasing summer heat outside but right now it’s both the same to Thatcher. Lesion makes a small noise of effort and moves, prompting Thatcher to finally drop his arm and twist a bit to make it easier for him. When he feels the device being slid out, he slowly breathes out and hopes the sound of the stream drowns it out.

It’s like flicking a switch. As soon as Thatcher turns the torch on, both of them snap back to what feels like reality even if he’s not sure what to call the previous darkness in comparison. The phone is just as soaked as Lesion’s socks and so they jokingly lament the loss of a good friend before moving on.

When they reach the waterfall, illuminated by bright rays falling in through the open ceiling and caught by a basin of light marble, Thatcher has shaken off any residues of the event, his mind is clear again and gone is the pounding in his chest. And even now, Lesion – shoes squelching and phone longing for a bag of rice – isn’t complaining.

The marvellous sight before him is oddly moving and so Thatcher hears himself say: “I’m glad we came here.” But he doesn’t only mean the waterfall, doesn’t only mean the cave.

“Me too”, Lesion replies and it sounds as if he’s referring to the same thing Thatcher is.

.

They play Xiangqi and drink brennevin.

Lesion almost immediately dives head first into tipsy territory as he hates the taste of it so much he downs half his glass in one go and then giggles at length over how international their set-up is: he’s in Norway with a Brit, playing Chinese chess and drinking Icelandic aquavit which he finds hilarious for no reason. Thatcher watches him fondly and utterly destroys him at the game several times in a row, not even hiding the fact he enjoys his wins seeing as Lesion usually outplays him effortlessly. They’re using a small magnetic set Lesion gifted him after their first meeting, intent on playing against him one day. Thatcher learned the rules and practised with whoever proved good enough, then they started playing via messages, informing each other of their day so far as well as the move they chose to make – a fact which somehow amused Mute to no end when he heard of it.

Setting up camp has gotten easier and easier as the week progressed, now they’re a well-oiled machine, the brennevin at the end the only deviation from their usual routine tonight. Stretched out on their sleeping bags in front of the tent, they make up more and more ridiculous toasts in between moving their pieces on the board and watching as the sun slowly sets, painting the clouds in beautiful pink and purple. Alcohol loosens their tongues and makes them forget they’re so high up that they could have a snowball fight within walking distance of their small tent.

“You keep saying drinking makes me sentimental and I keep denying it, but you know what? I think you’re right”, Lesion declares out of the blue and rolls around a bit to stretch and yawn. The hem of his shirt rides up, briefly flashes unnatural colours and dark ink on his lower back.

Thatcher’s gaze lingers until he realises he can’t set up the board without looking, and so he diverts his attention again. “Why, what are you thinking of?”

“Just that I’m glad to be here. I like it.” A warm smile is directed at him which does more than all the aquavit he’s had so far. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming along.” Both of them remember how easy it had been: Thatcher mentioning Norway, Lesion showing interest, Thatcher suggesting they go together, Lesion accepting. Less than a minute, really, and he almost expected nothing to come out of it with which he’d been fine as he thought the knowledge that Lesion would accompany him is enough. Now he knows he would’ve been wrong, all of this is so much better.

“You usually go on vacations alone, don’t you?”, Lesion wants to know, curious, and makes no move to start yet another game, so Thatcher doesn’t remind him for now.

“I do, yes. I’ve travelled with a few people in the past but it often didn’t go well.”

“How come?”

He shrugs, unconcerned, but his friend is interested now, has propped his head up and is watching him intently. The twilight blurs a few details, softens his image and sharpens it only when Thatcher doesn’t return his gaze directly. So he doesn’t. “Didn’t work out. Many reasons, really. Conflict of interests more often than not. Lost sight of a lot of them afterwards, to be honest.” At this point, he’s confusing their current topic with something entirely unrelated – Lesion did ask about his travels, not about his ex-partners, right? How can he even mix these up?

“You’re not talking to any of them anymore?”

Huh, maybe they are talking of his past relationships after all because that’s what it sounds like. His mouth has developed a mind of its own, readily answering where his brain goes wait a second. “Not really, no. With most of them, it’s over after a year. I’m terrible at keeping in touch with people.”

Lesion looks at him. His expression is unreadable but Thatcher feels like he’s missing something important, misinterpreting something, skidding on ice where he thought he’d be fine but how can he avoid obstacles when he keep failing to identify them?

“I keep wondering what they’re up to these days, some of them were lovely. Maybe I could’ve ended up with one of them if I’d put a little more effort in.” He’s babbling and paying very little attention to his own words which seems to uphold a balance – because it turns out Lesion is indeed taking note very attentively.

“Probably not”, he states calmly. “Not with your horrible commitment issues.”

At first, Thatcher thinks he misheard. And when it finally sinks in that no, not his slightly foggy brain came up with that remark but rather the person before him, the man who so casually opens another match of Xiangqi as if he didn’t just say … well, that – when he realises, Thatcher is furious. “What?”, he barks, incredulous and reeling.

Lesion pretends nothing is wrong and simply produces a small, questioning hm? while even going so far as to meet his eyes in pretend innocence.

“I don’t fucking have – are you serious?” Lesion nods silently as if Thatcher had just asked him whether he was hungry. “That’s bloody ridiculous and you know it is. I’ve been in the regiment for almost my entire life, Tze Long, don’t you think that counts for something? What, you think I didn’t have a choice? I chose to make it my life and if that isn’t commitment then I don’t know what is. Maybe I just have different priorities than most people, but the fact that I can fucking exist without needing another person to tie my shoes does not imply -”

The longer he rants, the more stoic Lesion’s expression becomes. With every sentence he spits at him, dismantles the offensive and unkind comment, Lesion distances himself, avoids eye contact, looks around, takes a sip of clear liquor, inspects the long-forgotten chess board between them. His behaviour only fuels Thatcher’s indignation and though he can’t shake the feeling of somehow being out of line, overreacting maybe, he’s genuinely hurt.

Even so, his heart races and his adrenalin is spiking – his fight or flight response is kicking in and he has to wade through the mud of subconscious urging to just get up and run to arrive at every next sentence he spews out. Eventually, he realises he’s been going off for entirely too long and snaps his mouth shut. He abruptly understands that he’s afraid, but of what?

Lesion stops fiddling with the zip on his sleeping bag and looks up. Strangely, there’s disappointment lining his features along with steely resolve. “Are you done?” When Thatcher confirms with a nod, he adds, softer: “Kiss me.”

Thatcher’s head is swimming. He feels unnaturally warm. “No”, he replies.

“Coward.” It’s said in the same gentle, unfitting tone. Almost as if he expected it. Neither of them are moving.

“I don’t want to kiss you”, Thatcher explains very rationally, as he thinks, “I don’t – why would I want to kiss you?”

“A coward and a liar.”

He carefully avoids thinking about it too much. They’re both drunk so it’s not even worth any deliberations, not worth his time, maybe it’s a joke or Lesion really is feeling unnaturally sentimental – whatever it is, he’d best stop their weird conversation right here. Lesion’s presence is suffocating so switching topics is not a viable option, however, and thus Thatcher physically distances himself from him, grabs the bottle, gets up, turns away. “I’m going for a walk”, he grits out and doesn’t look back as he leaves, swaying a little.

Hopefully the odd mood will have dissipated once they’ve slept over it but spending the night next to his friend somehow feels impossible right then.

.

Walking around on hard snow, hearing and feeling it crunch under his hiking boots while knowing it’s summer and he’ll have to face over 30°C again the next day is vaguely surreal. The snow field a few hundred metres away from their tent glows in a dark blue, the crystals reflecting the dying light of the sun and creating a strangely bright canvas. In most places, it has melted and re-frozen into a solid mass but there are some where it’s still malleable and allows for Thatcher to sink in one or two centimetres. He considers pissing his name into it but discards the idea as too juvenile, though the thought of leaving behind something possibly for other hikers to find is tempting.

Besides, he’s desperate for anything which will take his mind off… everything, really.

It’s starting to get hard to see, he should return soon instead of stumbling about and taking swigs directly out of the bright green bottle, the colour vibrant even now against the white backdrop. Caraway lingers on his tongue, a taste he doesn’t even enjoy that much yet Lesion convinced him to purchase and try the Scandinavian distillate regardless. Maybe he could just write something, his footsteps are crassly visible and disturb the landscape anyway, but what? His own name would seem self-centric but he squats down still, intent on leaving a mark somehow.

The snow is biting against the skin of his fingertips, the cold radiating and surrounding his body uncomfortable but he continues scratching letters into the half-frozen surface, at some point putting the brennevin away so he can use both hands. It’s almost therapeutic, switches off his brain and reduces him to nothing but his simple task. Once he’s finished, he steps away to inspect it in full view.

Who dares wins, the snow tells him.

He’s shivering.

When was the last time he took a leap of faith? When did he last dare, really dare? Instead of risking nothing because he already knew the stakes, had done something similar a handful of times before, pretended it was a hard decision but his mind had been made up all along?

His fingers are still numb when he zips open the tent to crawl inside. Over here, it’s much warmer, even warmer encased in yellow canvas. Lesion has dragged both their sleeping bags inside already, wrapped himself in his and has his back turned to him, pretending to sleep or possibly asleep already, maybe just dozing or woken up by Thatcher’s return. It doesn’t matter.

Though his eyes have adapted to the increasing darkness, here he can’t make out more than rough shapes and fumbles a bit until he finds what he’s looking for. When he unzips the sleeping bag, Lesion stirs, rolls over in response to an insistent hand pulling him towards Thatcher and sighs groggily – he really might’ve been sleeping already, has Thatcher been gone that long?

He startles awake when icy cold fingers seek out his jaw and struggles against the gentle hold for a moment, about to protest or maybe ask something or merely make a noise of objection, but this too doesn’t matter. Because Thatcher seals his lips with his own.

It’s awkward, their noses bump together and one of Thatcher’s arms isn’t happy with his position, he has to crane his neck and keep body tension so he doesn’t fall on top of the other man yet when he feels Lesion melt against him, it’s all forgotten, easily trumped by soft lips moving and a hand clawing at him for purchase, a leg sliding over his own and he’s so warm, Lesion is stupidly warm and how was he able to overlook this fact the entire time.

One of them gasps for air, one of them groans and suddenly they’re intertwined, making out with no stopping in sight and grabbing at everything in reach. Lesion tastes of caraway, too, his tongue scalding hot in Thatcher’s mouth, courting his own, and for the first time Thatcher admits to himself what it does to him, what Lesion does to him, has done a few times in the past, when colourful swirls and a tiger filled his vision, when fingers worked away at his thigh, and now even more so with their mouths pressed together. It’s insistent, hurried and hopeful somehow, Thatcher feels it as well, contributes to the urgency.

He slips one of his hands under Lesion’s shirt, causing him to mewl and shy away from the coldness, in his attempt to escape scooting impossibly closer to Thatcher, and he decides he likes this, enjoys making him squirm. He strokes his fingers over Lesion’s back, half expecting to be able to feel his tattoo somehow and earning another surprised yelp and angry wiggling, a tight grip around his forearm convincing him to relent and not leech more warmth than he’s offered.

The tent barely offers enough room for them to lie next to each other without touching but more than enough for Thatcher to lie down on top of Lesion, cover him with his body while licking into his mouth and drinking in his quiet panting. Arms wrap around him readily, holding him tight and preventing escape should he be foolish enough to consider it. He isn’t, however. Not this time.

They’re pushing against each other now, aimless and uncoordinated, him bearing down on Lesion and he moving against Thatcher, enough to create a spark between them which catches on and kindles fire; a fire fuelled by feeling Lesion’s naked legs rubbing over his, the small noises he’s making without being aware, the way he follows Thatcher’s lead and tilts his head to deepen their kissing, equally loath to interrupt it as the Brit is.

The silence between them should be unnerving yet Thatcher doesn’t care, communicates without words and pulls on Lesion’s underwear to convey what he wants. To take them off, Lesion breaks the kiss and Thatcher immediately moves his lips to another spot as if he’d lose years of his life for every second they’re not connected to any part of Lesion. He sucks his way down his neck and earns gasps in return which he decides he likes a lot also. Even so, the way Lesion jumps when Thatcher’s hand brushes over his naked hip makes it clear he’s not going to do much touching any time soon.

Mutely, Lesion makes him understand to flip them over and perches on top of him once he has reversed their positions. He’s in a much better spot to take care of them now, yet instead of opening Thatcher’s trousers, he spits into hand and reaches behind him and suddenly Thatcher can feel his own heartbeat in his teeth. Very nearly he lets out a curse but miraculously catches himself in the last second, listening intently to Lesion’s heavy breaths, every hitch, soft exhale, sharp inhale. Fierce need is pulsing through him, clouding his mind and occupying his thoughts. Distractedly, he unbuttons his jeans, careful not to touch any part of Lesion in the process, and frees stiff flesh looking for contact.

When Lesion leans down as if to avoid eye contact – which is impossible to establish in the blackness of the night anyway –, Thatcher claims his mouth once again, swallows all the quiet noises and allows his palms to run over Lesion’s torso, above the fabric to avoid more wincing. Even now when it’s clear what they’re about to do, they don’t slow down, don’t stop to indulge themselves or each other. Lesion deems himself ready much too soon and only briefly wraps slick fingers around Thatcher before moving his hips up, hovering for no more than a second before sinking down. His groan is tinted with pain but he doesn’t let that stop him and so Thatcher doesn’t interfere; partly also because he’s suddenly encased in tight heat which feels so incredibly good that he’s got trouble not thrusting deeper straightaway.

His hands are restlessly roaming, eager to explore all now that they’re allowed to and end up on Lesion’s thighs, massaging the burning skin and guiding his first tentative movements which quickly turn more fluid and come faster. It’s almost desperate but Thatcher refrains from slowing him down, too caught up in the moment to try and make it last. He wants this so badly he soon starts thrusting up, meeting Lesion’s hips with his own and wrenching sounds from his throat in the process. It turns out he’s surprisingly loud which is a whole other turn-on because it’s not for Thatcher’s benefit, not even for his own – it sounds involuntary and broken and cut-off, almost distressed, and Thatcher can’t get enough.

Even though Lesion is on top, Thatcher seizes all control and takes over, decides how to move and endeavours to coax more moans out of him by overwhelming him with stimulation: he nibbles at the nape of his neck, licks over his ear’s outer shell and sucks on his jaw. He feels out his back muscles and ribs and nipples and hipbones and caresses them all, catching him in an embrace repeatedly and making them move in unison. Every whine and whimper he harvests, uttered directly into his ear, makes it harder to breathe.

When he deems his hands warm enough, he reaches between their bodies, between Lesion’s legs, and grabs the hard, hot member to skilfully massage more moans out of Lesion: despairing, pitiful noises only rising in volume when he experiments a bit and increases the speed, adapting to Lesion’s more and more frantic motions as if he was scared of Thatcher stopping any second. He doesn’t, though, doesn’t let up, merely tightens his hold, increases the intensity and brings both of them closer and closer to the edge.

They come simultaneously by pure coincidence, Thatcher arching up and burying his face against Lesion’s shoulder while he pants in disbelief over how fucking good it feels, Lesion trembling above him and wrapping his own hand around Thatcher’s to show him how he likes it. They shudder while they gently ride it out, fingers digging into skin, teeth clenched, lower half throbbing in vicious relief, and only stop moving once the tension holding their bodies taut has subsided. Lesion pulls him out but doesn’t climb down which is fine with Thatcher, prompting him to disregard all concerns for cleanliness and embrace him, turn them on their sides and leave them pressed together.

Their breathing normalises over time and Lesion crawls into his open sleeping bag, dragging Thatcher with him, and yawns once they’ve interlaced their limbs. The alcohol probably plays a part in it but Thatcher is also thoroughly exhausted, muscles sore from all the walking and now this as well, adrenaline worn off, panic not yet setting in. The proximity of the smaller body encased in his arms shouldn’t be this soothing, and yet it is.

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, never having said a word after Thatcher came back. They just hold on like they’re each other’s lifeline.

.

It’s going to be a gloomy day. Thatcher can tell even before he opens his eyes.

Where he’s been waking up to bright sunshine for an entire week, blinding even through the tent’s fabric and his closed eyelids, now it’s subdued and inhibited, hardly strong enough to help him shake off the remnants of deep yet unrestful sleep. This is the second issue: he’s had too much to drink the night before and long passed the days when he could booze much and suffer little. His head is pounding… and so is his heart. Because there’s something else too. A mistake, his brain provides a little too eagerly and convinces him once more that he’s being chased, hunted, threatened, tortured – that he needs to flee or strike back or lash out preemptively.

Refusing to give in to these urges is remarkably difficult. Much more difficult than giving in to his urges the way he did the previous night, oddly enough, and isn’t that an interesting topic to bring up with his therapist.

He’s alone, which is a small comfort but a comfort nonetheless, he’d have recoiled violently had he woken up next to a warm body. His hungover, sleep-drunk mind is not a kind place. As he’s still clothed, he simply closes his trousers and ventures out into the world of eating or being eaten. And feels his composure crack when he catches sight of Lesion.

He looks terrible.

Not even after most missions in the past did he look this fatalistic, this crushed; he can’t have gotten a lick of sleep and is piteously wrapped in some of his spare clothes. The air is unusually cool today, the sun hidden behind thick layers of clouds and the night not showing any mercy for lost, regretting men. He’s not looking over but the hand with which he holds his mug starts shaking, so he rests it on the ground and blinks at it a little too often.

Thatcher’s chest seizes with guilt and confusion – there’s no doubt he did this, he’s the reason, but he doesn’t understand. How can Lesion know what Thatcher’s brain is telling him to do? How can he know just how big of a coward Thatcher really is? How did he know he was lying?

Unsure of what to say, he looks around and spots the bottle he left behind somewhere else yesterday, turns to the snow field and finds a large Chinese character next to where he assumes he carved his own message. Unlike his, it’s dark and perfectly visible, probably laid out with gravel and thus likely to remain considerably longer as well as garner more attention.

“What does the symbol stand for?”, he asks. It looks familiar but he can’t recall where he’s seen it before.

Lesion doesn’t raise his gaze. “Good fortune”, he answers quietly and his voice breaks on the second word. He’s a wreck and Thatcher doesn’t know how to remedy it.

No. That’s a lie. He just doesn’t want to.

But is that really the truth? Or is he -

They seem to fare better when they’re not looking at each other, so he sits down behind Lesion, pulls him against his chest and when he’s met with resistance, he only pulls harder. Once he can cradle him, he notices the slight shivering and whispers a reassuring shhh, repeats it while kissing his temple, while wrapping himself around him as much as he can, while gently wiping moisture away. It’s not much, Lesion isn’t allowing himself to give in completely, but it unambiguously shows Thatcher how worryingly blind he was, how wilfully ignorant. He knew, must’ve known about Lesion, but thought that staying by his side would be enough for the both of them. But it’s not. It never was. In quiet nights alone, it wasn’t, and it wasn’t when he knew Lesion was crashing on his sofa, and it wasn’t throughout the entire last week. He never – never did anything, doesn’t know whether Lesion has. For him it was no more than a restless scratching at the back of his skull.

It’s a long while until Lesion stops trembling, noticeably uncomfortable with this fact but Thatcher doesn’t comment on it, merely holds him close and peppers his hair with kisses. He smells good, despite all, he smells familiar and safe and it calms Thatcher’s racing heart a little.

“I don’t know what to do”, Lesion murmurs and finally rests his head against Thatcher’s shoulder, eyes closed. Thatcher wants to kiss him, hug him tighter, do something but isn’t certain what.

“I don’t either”, he replies, at a loss. “But I don’t think I’m going to say or do what you think I will.”

“Are you sure?”

No, he’s not sure. He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing and this time he can’t blame any alcohol for the almost aggressive emptiness in his mind. “I’ll try”, he offers because while he can’t provide certainty, he can provide this much. Their eyes meet and all his confidence vanishes in an instant, leaves him speechless and frantically searching for more to say because surely, it’s not enough, won’t be enough -

“Okay”, Lesion interrupts his thoughts. “Let’s eat and pack up then.”

And as he pulls away, rises to his feet to squat down a distance away, rummaging in their large backpacks, Thatcher recognises the tone of his voice as defeat. He doesn’t believe Thatcher’s words, doesn’t trust the half-hearted promise one bit and he’s right not to; his repressed grief shows on his face and his movements are aimless, sluggish, at some point he even halts and stares blankly at nothing. It’s not even that he isn’t expecting anything. He’s expecting to receive nothing.

His sun-kissed skin looks warm even from a distance and it’s an impossible task for Thatcher’s mind to link the person before him with the one he kissed the previous evening – he’d embraced him, touched him everywhere he could reach, heard him moan. Made him moan. It’s the same man. The same man with whom he stayed in regular contact for years no matter what, whose necessary silence from time to time felt punishing and whose jubilant messages always brightened his day.

Maybe this will be easier than he feared. He’s in Thatcher’s heart already, he doesn’t even need to let him in deliberately.

“Tze Long”, he says and has no clue how to continue, only knows he needs to get rid of that expression on his face. Fortunately for him, his friend doesn’t turn to him, merely pauses. “Look, I know I’m a shithead and you know it too, and sometimes I don’t think things through or overthink them, and you know me well enough to call me on my bullshite. And I respect that. So do it now.”

Lesion shakes his head, confused, meeting his gaze with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Call me on it. Tell me no, you’re not convinced I’ll make any sort of effort. Tell me that you think I’ll keep you at arm’s length still, just like I have all this time. Tell me that you don’t expect anything to change, for me to conveniently forget about it all. You’re thinking it, so say it.”

His lips part. He struggles to come up with an answer, eventually wants to know: “Why?”

This is the scary part. Thatcher isn’t proud to admit it but he’s terrified of this, of their entire conversation, of having to deal with any of it. Their friendship was safe and familiar, they’d established a routine and beyond that routine lies chaos, uncertainty, uncharted land. But he dares to step into it. “How else do I get the chance to get upset, deny everything, run away, mull over what you said in private and without telling anyone, then begrudgingly and in a subclause mention that you’re right and set about changing it while pretending it was my idea all along?”

And that does it. Lesion’s stony expression softens, a small smile stealing onto his lips. He’s ready to listen. “You’d change it, would you?”, he asks just to be sure and Thatcher really can’t blame him.

“I would, yes. Because I’d know it’s worth it.” You’re worth it, a voice in his head supplies but isn’t strong enough to make it out of his mouth.

“How about we skip the whole beginning then? Seems a little redundant now.”

“You’re right, yes, let’s. The whole… self-awareness thing probably lessens the effect.”

“It does. So – you don’t actually need any of my input?”

“Well, it’ll definitely be helpful on some issues, I suppose.”

Lesion laughs and though it’s awkward, the sound lifts a weight off Thatcher’s chest. “Good Lord, you’re terrible at this.”

“Listen”, he starts to defend himself sheepishly, “I normally make a point of keeping friends and partners separate.”

“That actually explains a lot.” The backpack, previously half on Lesion’s lap, now lies forgotten next to him and it’s as if their surroundings don’t matter anymore – the bleak sky doesn’t, the cold blinding snow field doesn’t, the mountains don’t. Thatcher erroneously believed that it was Norway itself which provided peace of mind, a place he’d been meaning to visit for decades now but never got around to it, thought that this finally fulfilled wish granted him one of the happiest weeks of his life. Yet he could’ve gone to the Antarctic and possibly felt the same calm – provided he had Lesion by his side.

“Can I ask for a show of good faith?”, his friend requests quietly and adds, when he’s sure he has Thatcher’s attention: “Kiss me.”

He’d lie if he claimed he showed no hesitation, but he overcomes it. Crawling towards the other man, he doesn’t stop once he’s reached him, uses his leverage to push him down into the grass, follows suit and takes the time to mirror his smile. Last night they were in a similar position, Thatcher hovering above him, yet now it’s intentional, eyes locked, in full daylight, thoughts sober. He still wants to run, the urge hasn’t disappeared and neither has his discomfort over leaving himself figuratively naked. But it’s easier to resist now.

They kiss for a long time and it gets less strange with every passing second, morphs from awkward to nice and though it hasn’t yet reached lovely, it’s almost there. Thatcher will have to get used to it, used to all this, re-learn a few things, dust some of it off in his mind and unearth old rituals, bury certain habits. It’ll take time. And fortunately, Lesion is nothing if not patient.

When they break apart, they’re not out of breath, their hearts aren’t racing, there’s no insistent need for more and ever more. Instead, they’ve replaced the sun which so tragically abandoned them this morning by beaming at each other.

“Looks like I have to take back the ‘coward’ ”, Lesion states ambiguously.

“No, the coward was warranted. The liar, too.” Another quick peck. Something tells Thatcher that he’s going to get used to this much quicker than he might expect. “Hopefully you’ll sleep better from now on.”

Lesion doesn’t even seem surprised that Thatcher was aware of the real reason for his restless tossing and turning and merely nods. “Yes. I think we both will.”

[fighting-naturalist]

Still can’t believe that “Fascination” was a real episode that actually happened

[pandatookmycookies]

Goldi is the smushiest princess ever. He's always had excess skin, so whenever he looks down the stairs it all just falls onto his face and creates a majestic image. LOOK AT HIM. My lil mash potato pile.