#using those words sometimes would suppress your post for no goddamn reason

[gomzdrawfr]

sorry what does cm means? centimetres???

well you're not wrong- but when I use it I meant commission :)

[twiceminded-archived]

(Awhile back I wrote a cognitive assessment for Alfend, but today I’ve decided to expand on it! So here goes!)

(Long-ass fuckin post under the cut, lots of negative psychological stuff, and child abuse mentions.)

Amnesia - Certain memories have been surpressed by conditioning. Only Fendi suffers this, and his memories of his stay in the hospital are especially shaky because of it.

Anxiety - A given, considering what he’s been through. Many things make Alfendi nervous, due to events that have happened in their life. Al typically responds with agitation, while Fendi simply compartmentalizes the feeling and sets it aside.

C-PTSD - One would expect PTSD only due to a singular event, but Alfendi’s very early life involved emotional and verbal abuse. Due to these repeated reactions towards his behaviour, Alfendi now has a myriad of problems that persist later on in life. Al inherited the majority of those behavioural issues. Some of these will be expanded on further down the post.

Cynicism - Not exactly something either of them can help, but it’s hard to keep faith in humanity and in people when you constantly see the worst of them... and when the system fails you, where else do you turn?

Defensiveness - Absolutely. Press either of them on something they’re sensitive about, and they get defensive. Al angrily goes on the attack or stands his ground, but even Fendi can lose his temper and go off if he’s cornered, if he doesn’t just lapse into silence first.

Denial - Yep! Deny, deny, deny. They’re getting a little better about it, but there’s been no real significant progress in making either half admit truth in the face of pressure.

Depersonalization - Comes with the dissociation! And with the personality death. If this body belonged to someone before you, is it really yours? How real are you if you’re just a construct, or a fragment? Too many of these questions, and they start to lose touch with the physical world and perceive things as happening to just the ‘body’, not ‘them’.

Depression - Yeah, there’s not much to elaborate on with this. The depression is real.

Displacement - Is it really a surprise that Al has this? He can’t be aggressive towards the general public, his family, his friends, or his co-workers, so the next best thing are troublemakers who do something to deserve his ire. Who’s going to care if he dumps all of that simmering rage onto someone he’s sure is a murderer? (Well...)

Dissociation - Yes. I mean, it’s very much one of the most obvious things about them. The two of them dissociate semi-regularly, detaching from their surroundings to calm down -- and also ‘switch’ to suit the situation, as people with dissociative identity disorder often do. The blueprints for this were laid by Alfendi’s terrible childhood, before Hershel took him in.

Dysphoria - Is it really his body? Fendi isn’t sure. Al’s more certain, yet at times Fendi feels like he doesn’t belong in it. But he’s there to stay, and he has to look after this body and the alter in it anyway. At times, however, he just doesn’t feel right...

Emotional detachment - Not exactly a bad thing. Fendi makes use of his while in the workplace, where keeping a cool head is pretty important when you’re trying to get the truth out of someone. However, he takes it out of work and... stifles his emotions because he’s been led to believe that too much is too dangerous. And given the horrible feelings he has after losing his temper, maybe he can’t help it.

Flashbacks - Al has these, since Al carries the majority of childhood memories. While Fendi may freeze up when yelled at, Al will freeze up and recall being back in his first house. These flashbacks often throw him into a defensive mode due to their distressing nature and ability to evoke powerful emotions. Don’t scream at them, they hate it.

Flat affect - 100% Fendi. Another word for this is called ‘emotional blunting’ and if that isn’t Fendi I dunno what is. Typically this turns into straight-up apathy, but sometimes the flat affect is done to hide whatever emotion has just struck him.

Guilt - Fendi locked a sentient part of himself away for four years. When he realized the true reason why he had done this, he was struck with guilt that has never really gone away. But he hates guilt, so he refuses to even acknowledge it.

Hallucinations - Part of that psychosis! Fendi hallucinates voices and occasional movement out of the corners of his vision. The voices are almost always persecutory in nature, and the phrases they pick might come from the things he represses. The words don’t always make sense, however.

Hypervigilance - To a point where it can become exhaustion for them. Not always a problem but when it is, it’s usually because one of their traumas have been triggered or a phobia has been recognized. When combined with paranoia (hypervigilance isn’t the same thing), they become an absolute wreck.

Intellectualization - Done all the time by Fendi. ‘Thinking to avoid feeling’ is one of the cornerstones of his personality. Engaging emotion logically helps take the edge off of it, and makes it easier to fold up and put away.

Isolation - They’re getting better at this, but paranoia threatens to sabotage their hard work. Isolation is safer, isn’t it? But God is it lonely, and they’re sick of being lonely. As Alfendi makes more friends, he’s relying on this less and less.

Panic attacks - Perhaps ‘inevitable’ isn’t the right word; maybe ‘expected’ is. They can work themselves up into a fear-induced frenzy that then results in a panic attack. Unfortunately, agoraphobia (one of Alfendi’s most pronounced phobias) contributes heavily to panic attacks, so this man just cannot catch a break... Thankfully, they’re quite verbal about panicking and know how to deal with it at this point.

Passive-aggression - Fendi’s societal weapon of choice. Al is typically aggressive and only that, but Fendi much prefers to simply ‘accept’ before quietly undermining the person who has raised his ire. Some of his snark is quite passive-aggressive and indirect.

Paranoia - This is the big one. This paranoia is the source of so many of his problems. It has thoroughly invaded his life and so profoundly affected his behaviour that if somehow his paranoia were to be cured, he would undergo quite a personality change. (It, however, cannot be ‘cured’.) Though Alfendi is right to be on edge due to his job, mild celebrity status, prior incidents, and those who oppose him, he takes things a bit too far. He HAS to be safe, HAS to be as unreachable as possible, and his tragic dream is that one day nobody will be able to hurt him ever again. What has happened to Alfendi has thoroughly broken his ability to trust, and no matter how much work is put into helping him take down his paranoid tendencies, it only takes one betrayal (perceived or otherwise) to make him shut down...

Phobias - Yes! The most pronounced one is agoraphobia. Though most people assume it’s a fear of open spaces, that’s just a literal translation. Fendi fears that if he’s put in danger again, he won’t be able to escape -- thus, being inside will keep him safer. Obviously both of them are terribly phobic of anything that can extensively alter the mind, and despise the thought of losing control. The mere suggestion of having someone else in command of them is enough to terrify them both. There’s more! See if you can find them all!

Projection - Occasionally an issue for Al, he’ll misplace his aggression or own vaguely murderous tendencies in someone else. Not like the murderers can exactly argue...

Psychosis - Actually, they both have this! Psychosis comes along with paranoia for the ride. Being able to tell real threats from threats spun out of imagination is not a skill they have anymore -- hence, the paranoid tendencies.

PTSD - Getting shot in the fucking chest and almost dying is pretty goddamn traumatizing. So is being manipulated and taken adantage of to be used as a scapegoat, but it’s a tossup if that can be classified as a PTSD event or C-PTSD event.

Rationalization - You ever see all of those excuses Fendi makes for keeping Al down? That’s literally this. He’s rationalizing it.

Repression - Gestures at Fendi again. This is different from suppression in that feelings are being pushed into the unconscious to never be dealt with!

Self-harm - Oops! This is never done to a life-threatening extent, but Alfendi tends to scratch at his arms when he’s losing his grip on his own thought processes or is overwhelmed. Sometimes he draws blood, sometimes he just gets his skin under his fingernails and that’s all...

Somatization - The amount of stress Alfendi has occasionally manifests into pain with no definitive origin.

Splitting - While Fendi can see shades of gray in people, occasionally Al will split on someone, seeing them as all good or all bad. This is not especially healthy and has led to several friendship collapses in the past. The splitting mechanism was inherited from the original Alfendi.

Sublimation - While Al does project his aggressive emotions onto people from time to time, he’ll also transform his urges and dedicate his aggression to other things, such as his knife-throwing hobby and cooking. 

Suicidal ideation - Fendi once had this problem. It was fixed. Now he does not want to go away, ever.

Suppression - Sometimes it’s better to just stop thinking about certain things, you know? This can be perfectly healthy, just... there’s a point where you have to stop! While Al does have a better idea of where to stop suppressing, Fendi has decided the line is way the fuck elsewhere and suppresses much more often.

Thousand-yard stare - Ever seen Al in the middle of a flashback episode? He isn’t looking at you. He isn’t looking at anything. All he can see is what he went through, and he’s not here right now. Alternatively, when either of them are having a period of extreme dissociation, you’ll see it -- that dead gaze, that soulless expression...

Triggers - Plenty of them! Screaming is one of them. Don’t scream. Thunder and gunshots, too, put them off significantly and throw them into the beginnings of a shutdown or the start of a panic. There are others...

Trust issues - OH I WONDER WHY

Violence - Al is occasionally consumed with the thought of it, and itches for the times he can commit it in the name of self-defense which is kind of terrifying! He thrives off the threats he can make and the reputation it gives him. Is it any wonder Fendi worries about the choices he might make?

Whiplash temper - Alfendi was on the receiving end of this as a child, and unfortunately there is a legacy of abuse. He used to be doing better about his temper, until his personality shattered and Al not only reverted but became slightly worse than his predecessor in that regard.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 216: You’re a Good Man, Shinsou Hitoshi

Previously on BnHA: Deku calmed his emotions and activated Blackwhip a second time, this time On Purpose, and for a moment it looked like he was going to completely curb stomp poor Shinsou. But then he crumpled in pain and the quirk vanished, and he realized he wasn’t physically strong enough to use that quirk just yet. So instead he chased after Shinsou using good ol’ full cowl. Meanwhile Ochako captured Monoma, who taunted her about having one last ace up his sleeve. This turned out to be a Twin Impact shot he’d been saving to hit Deku with, and it worked pretty nicely, but unfortunately our boy Shinsou didn’t have enough experience yet to take full advantage of the resulting opening. Meanwhile Ochako went to bail out Mina and Mineta and took out not one but two more opponents singlehandedly like the fucking ninja she is. Mina took out the third with a raging uppercut, leaving Deku to wrangle Shinsou, thus securing 1-A’s total victory. Now all that remains to be seen is what kind of excuse Deku will come up with for his sudden new quirk, and whether or not Shinsou will be accepted into the hero course. We’re all rooting for you, kid.

Today on BnHA: The 5th set wraps up with a 4-0 victory for Team A, which also gives class A the overall victory over class B, having won 3 of the 5 matches. As 1-A celebrates, Shinsou broods. He was able to piece together that the exercise was a test for his potential transfer, but he feels like he didn’t accomplish enough. The teachers gather the two teams for the post-game analysis and are all “what the fuck, Midoriya.” Deku is all “I don’t know either,” and for some reason everyone just buys that and moves on with their lives. Deku credits Ochako and Shinsou with helping to save him, but Shinsou says he just did it to stop his team from losing. Aizawa chokes some sense into him and says that just because he’s not a perfect 100% self-sacrificing martyr all the time doesn’t mean he’s not worthy of being a hero. Everyone else chimes in and says that Shinsou did really good, and Vlad says that although they still need to make it official, it’s more than likely that Shinsou will be joining the hero course next year. Having settled all that, Aizawa asks Monoma if he can do him a favor and come with him to see Eri the next day.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my mostly-unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’m caught up with the manga now at chapter 225, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

so we’re opening with Shinsou’s perspective on those last few moments against Deku

wow

you’re telling me Izuku was spinning around over and over again in mid-air? he wasn’t just twisting the binding cloth around?? he himself was literally twirling at high speed? that’s what this panel was depicting?? the author of this series is drunk

ahhhhhh my poor exhausted lavender son

welcome to shounen manga, friend. we only go forwards not back

ahhhhh fff dammit Shinsou

YOU BETTER NOT START CRYING OR I’M GONNA LOSE IT

and now we’re belatedly getting the hero names of the four class B kids waaaaaay after the fact

Emily??

(ETA: Exorcism of Emily Rose?? that’s what Viz’s translator speculated, anyway. idk I don’t watch horror movies so I don’t know what else it could be.)

I like the name “Mines” for Shouda though! his quirk kinda is like a landmine I guess. also this poor kid has seen better days Mina what did you do to him

anyways so poor Vlad is being forced to announce class 1-A’s perfect 4-0 victory for the second time in a row

haha check out Mina’s kung fu pose

and Ochako’s peace sign. MVPs. I stan some motherfucking legends here I tell you what

oh lol it was Midnight that was doing the commentary since Vlad went with Aizawa and All Might

I’m glad the kids’ petitioning paid off

so in the end class 1-A once again proved themselves against the unfortunate class 1-B who had all of the cool quirks but none of the luck

Midnight’s making the official announcement and everyone is cheering!

poor class B

it’s not your fault, Manga. at least your team actually won, mainly thanks to you

ahhhh we’re cutting back to Shinsou and his face is hidden and he’s tugging at his scarf and hesitantly addressing Vlad and Aizawa

SHINSOU STOP IT

SOMEONE GIVE HIM A HUG!! AND STOP LEAVING HIM IN SUSPENSE!!!

he says this was also supposed to be his transfer exam. so he knew??

lol Vlad is asking Aizawa if he told him, but Shinsou says he basically just put two and two together even though he wasn’t 100% sure

“not to mention, I was the only one who participated in two matches” yeah that was certainly a big clue

lmao Vlad looks so impressed

just how low are your standards dude

and now Aizawa is changing the topic and says it’s time for the teachers’ critiques! OH BOY THIS OUGHTA BE GOOD

Deku’s critique basically should just consist of “what the actual fuck Midoriya”

and like I said in the previous recap, Shinsou should get credit for his performance in the first battle as well as his save in this battle which showed he has the true spirit of a hero!

LOOOOOOOOOOOL

I WANT TO SHAKE HORIKOSHI’S GODDAMN HAND

so Aizawa’s asking what the principle is behind Deku’s new move since it’s so radically different from his established “super strength” quirk

and Deku’s just standing there nervously

Tokoyami and Kuroiro are bonding over their mutual admiration of how goth the new quirk is

hmmmm how you wanna play this Deku

so basically just be all “fuck if I know, this quirk only manifested for the first time eight months ago and it keeps surprising me with weird new shit. petition to rename it ‘mystery quirk’”

sidestepping the question like a pro there Deku

so he says his power suddenly started overflowing and he couldn’t suppress it and it scared him, but that thanks to Shinsou and Ochako’s help it turned out all right

he says that if Shinsou hadn’t knocked him out he’s not sure what would have happened

and he’s turning to Shinsou now and explaining that he wasn’t bluffing earlier, and he’s thanking him

what the fuck Shinsou

were you?? fooled me then

YESSSSSSSS GIVE OCHAKO HER PROPS

SHE WAS A FUCKING BADASS. NOW TALK ABOUT THE PART WHERE SHE’S RESPONSIBLE FOR CAPTURING 3 OF THE 5 ENEMY TEAM MEMBERS

noooo goddammit Mina not now!!

MINA ARE YOU JEALOUS NO ONE HAS GIVEN YOU CREDIT YET. WE WERE GETTING TO THAT, BE PATIENT

oh sheesh lmao

and now she’s nervously twiddling her fingers and smiling hesitantly and saying she’d rather do that than not do anything and regret it later

oh my gosh

SO PROUD OF MY LITTLE BABY GIRL. YES!!

and holy shit but I want to take that picture of him smiling almost imperceptibly and fucking frame it

look at Ochako managing to completely deflect the attention away from Deku somehow. not only was she the MVP of the battle, but she just keeps saving his ass even afterward

holy shit

DEKU’S FACE ALSO BEING BEET RED THOUGH. HE MUST LOOK LIKE A GODDAMN RADISH

anyway, so Shinsou says he just did what Ochako asked him to do

yeah, but you did it despite them being on the opposing team though!

exactly. you knew it was the right course of action and you didn’t hesitate

SHINSOU STOP MAKING THESE SAD FACES!!!

FOR FUCK’S SAKE I CAN’T TAKE THIS??

AIZAWA OH MY GOD YES

PLEASE REASSURE YOUR DEPRESSED PURPLE SON AND TELL HIM THAT HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG AND HE’S A GOOD HERO

sdlfhaslkdfj

holy --

lmao at Kaminari immediately breaking into a chant. methinks the mangaka is too self-aware

and well then, since Best Dad Aizawa Shouta has officially entered the ranks of parents who occasionally discipline their children via shocking comedic violence (consider also: All Might decking Deku at the beach a mere chapter before Mitsuki’s infamous introduction), maybe we can finally put that debate to rest. I think it’s pretty clear when Horikoshi is intentionally portraying abuse and when he’s just being over the top because this is a fictional story in a fictional world where not three pages ago there was a character with a literal comic book for a head

oh snap Aizawa

in other words, it’s okay to be a little selfish. sometimes selfish is even needed. because he’s absolutely right, if you don’t take care of yourself as well you’ll fuck yourself over before long and then you won’t be able to save anyone

and also, at the end of the day, if you save everyone successfully and complete the mission, does it really make sense to stand around and argue whether or not your intentions were pure enough?

anyways needless to say I’m really digging this “nobody’s perfect” speech right here you guys

(ETA: oh hey it’s Aizawa’s Mysterious Cloudy Friend, Shirakumo! probably. hey Shirakumo. what’s your fucking deal goddammit)

this is basically Aizawa’s version of All Might’s speech from chapter 120. I always love when the series metas about what it means to be a hero and what separates the great ones from everyone else. and we saw firsthand in Bakugou’s match just a few chapters ago the difference it makes when a hero is focused on both winning and rescuing

now Deku is complimenting Shinsou on all of his strategic moves like dropping those pipes down on him and trying to lead him back to where everyone else was to regain his advantage

oh my god you guys Deku is so passionate and generous with his praise, this is exactly the kind of thing Shinsou needed to hear though

kinda getting that “a true hero doesn’t just save people, they save people’s hearts” vibe thing here on top of everything else

oh my god Deku

what the fuck are you talking about, if anything you lean into this too much and you need to relax a little and take some of Aizawa’s advice to heart

ahhhhhhhhHHHHHH

YESSSSSSSSSSS THIS IS WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR. YOU DID IT SHINSOU I’M SO PROUD OF YOU

oh my god. the one hand clutching his scarf and the other one in a clenched fist. and that face. oh shit here come the feels

and I desperately need to know if this means next year as in January/next term, or next year as in when they move on to year 2

(ETA: Viz’s translation indicates it’ll happen in their second year of school.)

OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE

GODDAMMIT HORIKOSHI I WAS SO LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS CHAPTER TO FIND OUT, AND THEN YOU GO AND PULL THIS SHIT. UNBELIEVABLE

(ETA: I love that both classes so clearly want him though. again, they’ve all collectively adopted him and I love it

also, class 1-A still has a traitor in their midst, so depending on when and how that all goes down, they may just end up having a vacancy, just saying...)

oh my god

Mina this is why I want you to run for President. and Aizawa, she absolutely is right and he should be punished

loooool Monoma is trying!

hang in there buddy

so getting back to that, I’m guessing what happened there was that he did take One for All the quirk, but not any of the stockpiled power within Izuku? because to get that it has to be willed to you by the previous owner. so basically he was trying to activate it, and it probably was working, but his version of the quirk was at OFA Prime levels. basically starting from scratch with no additional power stored up other than his own. and we all agree this is actually very fortunate for him and he’d be getting carted off to Recovery Girl right now if things had gone differently

does that not bother him, by the way? like, Ochako just figured he was “bluffing”, but Monoma knows he was actually trying to activate the quirk and nothing was happening. I wonder what he made of that. it seems like maybe he’s too caught up in the loss to class A to really think much on it just yet

(ETA: so apparently he knows enough about how his quirk works to have already figured this out, lol.)

whoa oh shit and I just read the last three panels and a ton of interesting stuff happened so quickly lol

okay let’s break this down and then we’ll end the recap

(1) Deku is so fucking pure. middle of a battle and being attacked, and his only concern is that the quirk is gonna be too much for Monoma and badly injure him

(ETA: and can I just say, the other students could have used a little more of that concern though. the teachers too for that matter.)

(2) so I take this to mean Horikoshi is going to explain what happened, but for now I’m assuming my speculation is more or less near the mark. he definitely did take OFA because you could see the telltale red flashing pulsing shit happening with his skin. so it has nothing to do with Deku originally being quirkless; it’s the way that OFA as a quirk works

(3) Deku is super fucking lucky that no one started questioning what happened with his quirk again, what with Monoma bringing the subject back up

and lastly, (4) OH SHIT. is he gonna have Monoma copy Eri’s quirk to see if he can control it? lol we only just established how lucky he is to be alive after taking Deku’s quirk. what are you trying to do to this poor kid

though I am glad to see Aizawa being a logical dad who cares about his baby girl and is constantly thinking of ways in which to possibly help her out. ah well, hope nothing goes wrong there

and that’s it! on to the next chapter to hopefully see Bakugou and All Might grill Deku about WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED lol

[welllpthisishappening]

The Period of the Long Change (14/15)

It’s quick. One second she’s standing there and everything is fine and then Emma looks up and it’s not. It’s awful. And the lights are too bright and there are too many rooms and too many opinions and her phone won’t stop ringing because everything seems to be changing all at once. She’s never been great at coping with change. But, maybe, if she can just figure it out and stay right where she is, with Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, at her side, it’ll be alright.

It’s slow. One second he’s standing there and everything is fine and then Killian’s breath catches and it’s not. It’s terrifying. And the noises are too loud and there are too many questions and he can’t find the right answers to any of them, not sure how to cope with everything changing all at once. That’s never really been his forte. But, maybe, if he can just figure it out and stay right where he is, with Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations, at his side, it’ll be alright.

It’s another season and another challenge and Emma and Killian are both struggling to get over the boards.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 8K and change AN: If you’ve been reading and sticking along and clicking on this, I really appreciate it a lot. We’re almost done. 

Also on Ao3 and FF.net and Tumblr if that’s your jam.

The ice didn’t feel any different.

He wasn’t sure what he expected it to feel like. Ice was ice. There wasn’t much give to it and it was cold and solid and it was ice. Nothing was different, but it kind of felt like everything was different and Killian’s skates felt far too tight.

That might have been his lungs, actually.

It kind of felt like his lungs were shrinking.

And expanding.

And just generically not working.

He hadn’t even skated away from the boards yet.

He wasn’t sure his legs would work either.

“Cap,” Robin called, standing at the far end of the rink with a stick in one hand and several blurs that were actually several different kids moving around him. “It’s not going to melt as soon as you touch it.”

“He’s touching it now,” Will reasoned. Killian turned to see him walking down the tunnel, a smile on his face and a bag of pucks in his hands and his skates probably didn’t feel as if they were doing permanent damage to several different toes.

Killian should have asked Kristoff about his skates. But that would probably require him to admit to several things he wasn’t sure he was ever willing to admit to and being nervous about skating was, easily, the most absurd thing that had ever happened to him.

“You going to move Cap or, like, what’s your deal?” Will continued, bumping shoulders with Killian when he tried to move over the boards.

“Can you control any part of your body? Or are you just trying to be a complete and utter asshole?” “The fact that you’re using all of those words gives me pause.” “And not your inability to get over the boards two weeks after the season ended?” Will shrugged and rolled his eyes and did something with his legs that could not have been good for his hips, but his skates didn’t skid when they landed on the ice and he stared at Killian like he’d just scored a hat trick and won another Stanley Cup.

They hadn’t.

Again.

And, really, that was the last thing Killian was worried about, but it had been a kind of strange last few months and not even making the playoffs was a strange change of pace for the New York Rangers.

That was kind of the subheadline for the entire season.

The actual headline was far less respectful.

There’d been questions and less-than-ideal Photoshops on the back page of The Post and Killian wasn’t ever searching out subReddit posts, but they was difficult to avoid when he spent so much time around recently-named Sergeant David Nolan and it seemed like every single cab driver he’d hailed in the last two and a half months had several, very vocal opinions to share on the state of the Rangers front office.

And its decision to send Husinger back to the AHL after the trade deadline.

They’d brought in a new guy and he wasn’t great, but Killian didn’t feel the innate urge to punch him every time he thought about him.

“I think you’re deflecting on things here, Cap,” Will muttered. He dropped the pucks at his feet, a sound that seemed to echo off the walls of the otherwise empty Garden and, possibly, in between Killian’s ears and this whole thing was actually pretty ridiculous.

He’d been on the ice before.

He’d stood at center ice, advised a power play that, despite the lack of a playoff berth, was actually pretty goddamn good by the end of the season, and followed a PT schedule with only a minimal amount of complaining. He and his kids had watched more film in the last two months than they had in the last four years, a jumble of limbs and thoughts on the couch and, more often than not, Emma came home to find all three of them tangled and asleep, with the tablet dead on the coffee table.

Killian could never remember to charge the tablet.

It was fine and good and as great as it could be when he wasn’t actually playing, but they’d agreed not to rush this and Ariel had done so much research about everything that sometimes Killian swore his head was spinning at even the mere thought of it.

And, naturally, Ariel had told Emma who made a schedule and made him promise not to push it and Killian had agreed to that willingly.

He knew he was coming back.

It didn’t matter when.

But when was now and now the ice didn’t feel different, but it didn’t feel quite like the home it had always been and that was an even more ridiculous thought than the rest of the absolutely insane thoughts he’d been thinking all day.

His skates were way too tight.

God, Will was totally right.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Will muttered, moving the blade of his stick under the closest puck so he could bounce it in the air. Killian arched an eyebrow. “It’s a nervous habit,” he explained. “Because you’re making me nervous. What are you thinking?” “That’s a very loaded question, actually.” “Yeah?” Killian nodded, cursing softly when Robin appeared in front of him and doused the front of his too-small skates with a fresh coat of ice. “What the hell, Locksley?” “You going to move or what are we doing?” Robin asked, but his eyes darted towards Will and Killian didn’t try to suppress his sigh.

“We’re moving. We’re just--” “--Thinking about it, apparently,” Will mumbled.

Robin made a noise, not quite an agreement and possibly a little mocking and Killian forgot he was holding a stick until he realized he was resting most of his weight against it. Kristoff would kill him if he broke a stick and complained about his skates.

And then Anna would kill him and that was just going to get messy.

He didn’t have time for that.

He had to move.

“And were we going to address those thoughts?” Robin pressed. He leaned forward to grab another puck, handling like he was moving between sixty-seven defenders and this all felt a little full-circle. Matt and Roland were yelling at Henry about getting in goal on the other side of the ice and Dylan kept shooting at the boards and they didn’t have a ton of time.

This wasn’t, technically, a practice or anything more than an optional skate that Killian knew Arthur had only scheduled so he could get on the ice. Arthur was probably lurking somewhere in one of the suites upstairs.

With Victor.

And Ariel.

And maybe Emma.

No, Emma had some season ticket thing to worry about – end of the season wrap ups and future outlooks and offseason events to prep for because they were all going to be a little busy for the next few days and Matthew Jones was graduating preschool.

That was way more exciting than events or not-quite legitimate practices.

“I guess not,” Will shrugged when Killian didn’t answer Robin’s question, and he sighed again.

“You’re the two most impatient people on the planet, you know that?” Killian asked, but his voice lacked the edge he wanted it to and Matthew Jones probably wished he could skip preschool graduation so he could stay on the ice for the foreseeable future.

They’d gotten Henry into the net.

“What are the thoughts, Cap?” Robin demanded. He flicked his wrists, a quick twist and turn and the puck didn’t quite slam into Killian’s skate, but it was awfully close.

“Are you kidding me?” “An answer to the question or I’m going to keep pelting you with pucks.” “That sounds ridiculous.” “And kind of immature too,” Will added, still bouncing his own puck and he must have taken an entire box out of equipment. They were never going to use that many pucks. There were three of them.

Robin shook his head. “You do not get to say those words, Scarlet. You were the one trying to get Matt and Rol to race before so you could win--” “--Ah, c’mon, we agreed we weren’t going to talk about that in front of Cap. He’s going to slam us into the boards.” “I made no such agreement and that’s just incredibly untrue.”

“Which part, exactly?” Killian asked, pleasantly surprised to find that he wasn’t quite as annoyed as he was intrigued and it sounded like his kid had just scored. That was probably the reason for whatever he was feeling.

“You’re not going to slam anyone into the boards because you can’t even get on the ice. Also because you know A is lurking somewhere, watching this and you don’t want to deal with that.” “Ok, that’s just rude, Locksley,” Ariel yelled, a disembodied voice that probably would have been impressive if it weren’t also kind of terrifying.

“Oh my God,” Killian mumbled. He ran his hand through his hair, standing up straighter and glancing around like that would summon Ariel and it kind of worked. He heard her shoes before he saw her, a squeak and a bit of a stomp and the boards got in her way when she tried to launch herself at Robin.

Will caught her around the waist.

“Where were you hiding?” Killian asked. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“I wasn’t hiding. I was...” “Lurking?” Will laughed, an arm still around her and she’d somehow managed to perch on the edge of the boards, feet dangling over the ice and one shoe threatening to fall off.

“Screw you, Scarlet. I was not lurking either. I was watching and doing my job, which, incidentally Cap, it doesn’t seem like you’re doing much of.” “It’s the offseason,” Killian pointed out. “Technically speaking I don’t have a job. I am on vacation. This is voluntary skate.” “Have you ever not skated at a voluntary skate? Or an involuntary one?” “That sounds like torture skate.” “God, you’re annoying, you know that?” Killian grinned, turning a bit and the ice really didn’t feel different when he moved. His lungs were starting to feel a bit normal again. “And,” Ariel added. “Just because you’re cool to skate now does not mean you get to ignore me, you know that right?”

“I would never ignore you, Red.” “Do not lie straight to my face. Don't insult me like that.” “Is he totally cured if he can’t even skate to the circle?” Will asked, and they’d apparently moved out of the understanding portion of the conversation.

Ariel made a face. “He’s not ever totally cured. That’s not how concussions work.” “Don’t act like Scarlet should know that,” Robin muttered. Will flipped him off. And both Killian and Ariel mumbled there are kids here under their breath. He skated backwards, one hand held up in surrender and a knowing smile on his face. “Aye, aye Mom and Dad.” “Oh, shut up,” Ariel grumbled, another insult that lacked any sort of actual insult and they were all far too comfortable with each other. “I’m serious though, Cap. Walking and we’re going to do some of those balance things.” “It really does take away from the seriousness of it when you call it things, you know,” Killian said. Ariel tried to kick at him, but it only ended with her right shoe sailing across the entire goddamn rink and it was a miracle any of them stayed standing.

Killian was very thankful for the stick in his hand.

Ariel yelled a string of insults at them again, cursing them to several different hells and underworlds and none of them made a move to go get her shoe. “You guys are the worst,” Ariel shouted, trying to keep her bare foot away from the ice and Killian’s sides were starting to ache.

He was fairly certain Will had tears in his eyes.

Robin couldn’t even stand up.

“Will one of you seriously go get my shoe?” Ariel asked. “I”m not walking back to my office with one shoe.” “No one is kicking you off the ice, A,” Robin muttered, laughter clinging to the words he could barely get out.

“I’m going to tell Gina to lock you out of your apartment later.” “Nah, the kids are with me. She won’t do that. I win.” “Screw you, Locksley.” “Ariel,” Will gasped, a hand to his practice jersey and a scandalized look on his face. “The children! Your child! Think of the children!” It looked like she was trying to shoot lasers out of her eyes at them.

“Get my goddamn shoe!”

“This is why you shouldn’t resort to violence like that,” Robin grinned. He was still trying to stick handle against no one. Killian was going to tell Gina that later.

“We’re trying to better the game,” Will added. “Also, as an aside, where were you lurking?”

Ariel growled. “Stop using that word!” “Not an answer.” “I was walking here. There was no hiding. There was no lurking. I was late because, unlike you guys, I still have stuff to do in the offseason and things to get ready for later.” Killian blinked at the tone of her voice, Ariel’s eyes widening and her lips pulled back behind her teeth as soon as she realized what she’d said. Will whistled. “What does that mean, exactly?” Killian asked.

Her shoe was probably going to stick to the ice.

“Nothing.” “I thought you didn’t want to hear the lies.” “Only when it came to you and skating, which, you know, you’re still not doing.” “You’re a worse liar than Emma is.” “I’m going to tell her that,” Ariel warned, but Killian shrugged. Will whistled again. “It’s very frustrating when you won’t take my insults or threats seriously.” “It’s probably got something to do with us knowing each other for so long,” Will said. The puck on his blade fell back to the ice, another crash that sounded far too loud and this conversation was confusing. They needed to pick a lane – serious or teasing or something that didn’t affect Killian’s lungs quite so much.

He hoped Emma ate lunch. He hadn’t had to bribe Merida in weeks, had spent most of March actually eating lunch with his wife and hot chocolate dates turned into walks up Broadway and actually going to that Shake Shack a few blocks away and coming back to kiss her in her office and deserted hallways and they’d only been caught by Mary Margaret that one time, which was only kind of awkward, but Emma was right and she really should have called.

And Mary Margaret was right, Emma would have ignored her text messages anyway.

“Yeah, probably,” Ariel agreed. It sounded like the words physically pained her. “Seriously can I have my shoe back? It’s freezing in here.”

“Why aren’t you tying your shoes better, Red?” Killian asked, and he still hadn’t moved, which, honestly was only slightly troubling, but he was still kind of laughing and he hoped Arthur was in one of the suites if only he could witness all of this in person.

“Because I was trying to get down here. Obviously.” He stopped laughing almost immediately, lungs not entirely appreciating the distinct lack of oxygen he was providing them and if Dylan didn’t stop shooting at the boards, Killian was fairly certain he was going to go insane.

Matt was singing the goal song again.

He must have scored. Again.

“Yeah, got you know, don’t I?” Ariel asked, working a quiet scoff out of Killian. “You feel appropriately bad now?”

“Were you trying to make me feel bad?” “Nah, you’ve had enough of that this season, honestly.” “That was actually kind of nice.”

“We’ve circled right back around to cognitive balance. Assume that was my plan along. It makes me sound way smarter than I was planning on.” Killian grinned, digging the toe of his skate into the ice and the air was cold when he inhaled. That felt normal. That felt right. That felt the way it always had.

Because the ice hadn’t changed at all.

It was goddamn ice.

It was what it always was.

He moved.

And he’d never really been one for riding bikes – probably would have scandalized Mrs. Vankald if he’d ever suggested any of them rode a bike anywhere – but Killian assumed this whole thing was kind of similar, muscle memory and second nature and never being able to forget something that was so incredibly important.

The first time he skated on Garden ice he was fourteen and playing in some showcase and he didn’t score a single goal. Liam scored twice.

And he’d been so incredibly pissed off, he was still a little surprised he hadn’t tried to drop gloves with Liam in the middle of the visitor’s locker room.

They’d gotten dressed in the visitor’s locker room.

It was the only time he’d been in that part of the Garden.

He didn’t though. He walked out of the locker room with his skates tied together and hanging over his shoulder and his stick in his left hand, a scowl on his face that probably would have stayed there for, at least, several months if Mr. Vankald hadn’t been waiting for him at the end of the hallway.

Killian had swallowed, glancing up at the man in front of him and not arguing when he held his hand out, an unspoken command to give over the stick. “Let’s take a walk,” Mr. Vankald had said, and they probably weren’t supposed to be there, but no one was going to question them.

They’d ended up in section two hundred and eight.

They stood there for what felt like hours or days or another fourteen years of trying, desperately, to be enough and score enough and Mr. Vankald didn’t say anything at first.

He didn’t give Killian back his stick.

“You didn’t fall,” Mr. Vankald said eventually, not taking his eyes away from the ice.

Killian nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“There’s no guessing. You didn’t.” “I didn’t score, either.” “That doesn’t matter.” Killian glanced at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open and his lips went dry from breathing so heavily. “What?” he balked. “But, that’s...scoring is…” “Not the only part of the game. And not the only part of your game.”

He wanted to argue. He had every reason to argue. Killian scored goals. He skated fast and put the puck in the back of the net and Mr. Vankald still didn’t really understand what icing was at that point.

He didn’t say any of that.

“You think?” Killian asked instead, and Mr. Vankald nodded once. “Because Liam is--” “--Not you, Killian. And that’s not a bad thing. It’s a very good thing. It means you get to play your own game and decide if you even want to play.” “Of course I want to play!”

Mr. Vankald laughed, finally turning his head and Killian didn’t remember much about his dad, just knew he existed somewhere, but, in that moment, none of that really mattered because he was fairly sure the man in front of him was everything a father was supposed to be or could be and he’d figure out what icing was eventually.

“Then you will,” Mr. Vankald said easily. “And you’ll be as good as you can be. You’ll get back on this ice and you’ll skate as fast as I know you can and you’ll probably set some kind of scoring record for whatever team you play for.” “You think?” Killian asked again, voice a little softer and a little more cautious. Mr. Vankald didn’t blink – in the years after that was always the one thing that stood out the most, the easy sense of confidence that seemed to exist around him, as if he was just constantly certain everything would work simply because he deemed it so.

And because Matias Vankald may have been the single most stubborn person on the planet.

That was probably where Killian learned it from.

“I know,” Mr. Vankald promised.

He held the stick back out, lips quirking up when Killian had to shift the skates still hanging off his shoulder to wrap his left hand around it. “I think,” Killian muttered, staring at his feet, and Mr. Vanklad didn’t interrupt him. He waited. And believed. “I think I might want to play here.” “Here?” “Yeah. I mean...the Rangers haven’t won a Cup in awhile. It’d be kind of cool to do that and I know that’s not how the draft works or if I could even get there, but--” “--Hey,” Mr. Vankald cut in sharply, and Killian’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he met the man’s gaze. Certain. Confident. And absurdly proud of his kid. His kid. “That might not be how the draft normally works, but if anyone’s going to take center ice at the Garden, it’s going to be you. I know it.”

“Not quite center. I play on the wing.” Mr Vankald laughed loudly, head thrown back and eyes closed and Killian stumbled over his own feet when he felt an arm around his shoulders. “That’s a very good point, my boy. Of course. Killian Jones, just right of center ice.”

It wasn’t the last time he’d hug Mr. Vankald – far from it, honestly – but it always felt like something changed then and there were some who said Killian was too confident, too sure of his own talent and his own scoring ability, but he never fell on Garden ice.

And this was no different, skating on ice that was the same as it always was because the game was the same as it always was and Killian wanted as much as he had when he was fourteen.

For his kid this time.

And his family.

And the gaze he could feel on the back of his head as soon as his fingers landed on the top of Ariel’s goddamn shoe.

She cheered when he picked it up, eyes bright and distractingly green and she wasn’t sitting in the seats, but Emma clapped as soon as Killian stood back up.

“Nice move,” she yelled.

“You impressed, Swan?” “If I tell you consistently is that going to do dangerous things to your ego?” “Undoubtedly,” Killian admitted, his lungs finally functioning like normal parts of a human body and Ariel was still shouting about her footwear and how cold the ice was.

“Ah, then better not risk it, huh?” “Probably not.”

Emma’s smile widened, shaking her hair back over her shoulders and it was a testament to everything that Killian hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t alone. Anna rolled her eyes from her seat, feet propped up on the row in front of her and a Rangers t-shirt on that she’d absolutely stolen from Kristoff.

No one except team members got those developmental camp t-shirts.

She was holding Peggy again.

“You didn’t fall over, KJ,” Anna said, not quite yelling, but not quite loud either and she had her phone out as well. He had some very strong suspicions about what Ariel absolutely, positively did not know.

“Yeah, that hasn’t happened in awhile.” “Seems like a good sign.” “Doesn’t it?”

Anna laughed softly, shaking her head like she couldn’t quite believe the scene in front of her and that was fair because she probably knew about that walk several decades before and he’d been blatantly flirting with Emma.

“You might want to give Ariel back her shoe though,” Emma said, nodding back towards the boards and Ariel groaned when Killian shrugged again.

“She can wait two seconds. How come you’re up there?” “I don’t think we’re supposed to be, if I’m being honest.” “Nah, that’s not what I meant. How come you’re not here?” “Where?” “Here,” Killian repeated, and he really should have been ready for it, but the very solid body colliding with his right thigh still managed to take him by surprise. He dropped Ariel’s shoe again. “You’re going to hurt your throat if you keep sighing that dramatically, Red,” he yelled, not bothering to turn around and Will chuckled when she inevitably stuck her tongue out at him again. Matt was already talking into his leg.

And trying to get him to move.

“Dad, can we race?”

“What?” “This is a very unorganized conversation,” Emma muttered, and he wasn’t sure how he heard her over the sound of pucks and Roland and Henry arguing about goalie interference, but no one knew what that was anyway and it probably had something to do with the flirting.

“That’s why we’ve got El,” Anna reasoned. Ariel sighed again. “Ah, damn. KJ, you better act surprised or I’m never going to talk to you again.”

“I mean…” “Do not do that, KJ. I’ll come down on the ice and challenge you to a fight, I swear.” “Please don’t do that,” Emma said. She pulled Peggy away from Anna, letting her feet rest on the ground and Killian resisted the very real urge to tell Ariel his seventeen-month-old daughter managed to keep both her shoes on at all times.

It didn’t matter anyway – Will was doing it.

“She’s not nearly as much of a threat as she thinks she is, Swan,” Killian reasoned, twisting Matt in front of him so he could rest both his forearms on his kid’s shoulders. “I’m serious, though, how come you’re up there? Is there anyone else lurking up there with you?” “Lurking?” “He’s got a very limited vocabulary, Em,” Will yelled. “But if you come down here, you think you can steal some more pucks? Little Vankald, go tell your boyfriend to steal more pucks.” “He’s in charge of the pucks, Scarlet. I don’t think he can steal them.” “Ah, yeah, that’s true.” “Are you telling me you stole pucks this afternoon?” Anna asked pointedly, an eyebrow trick that the entire Vankald family should probably have gotten patented at some point. They were all missing out on a very large residual income.

Will flushed, Roland laughing under his breath when he skated by to grab another puck. “I think she’s got you, Uncle Will.” “You are not the lawyer in this family, Little Vankald,” Will said, and the clack of heels coming down the tunnel was almost too obvious. “I don’t have to answer to you.” “Is that supposed to make a difference?” Ruby asked archly. “And should you be up there, A? That doesn’t look safe at all.” “I wouldn’t be if Cap would bring me my goddamn shoe,” Ariel hissed.

“Did you say shoe?” “It’s a very long story, Lucas,” Killian explained, and Matt was starting to get frustrated they weren’t skating anymore. “I know, kid, I know. We’ll move again in a second, once Mom gets down here.” He glanced up at Emma, her mouth open slightly and he was absolutely a selfish ass because he was absolutely trying to impress her still and always and indefinitely, but she knew that and knew everything and he had some suspicions about who planned Liam and Elsa’s flight.

Again.

Or always.

Something less dramatic than that.

“I really don’t think we’re supposed to be down there,” Emma said. “Technically.” “Technically.” “You’re an incredible rule breaker.” “Yes.” “Wow,” she laughed. “Not even like a little bit of an argument, huh?”

Killian shook his head, hair moving in the process and Matt was trying to stage a passing drill with Roland while also keeping himself plastered to his side. “Seemed kind of pointless, you know? Something, something open book.” “Does that work both ways?” “This is gross,” Will announced, Robin humming in agreement as he tried to get Regina on the ice. Her heels kept slipping. “See, I’ve got the majority, that’s how it works, right, little Vankald?” “You were very quick to point out my lack of law degree, Scarlett,” Anna said. “You don’t get to backtrack on that.” “Ah, worth the effort. I was serious about those pucks though.” “Do you own dirty work.”

Will groaned, but he didn’t argue anymore, skating back towards the far blue line so he could snap his stick against Roland’s ankles. That got him to stop arguing about goalie interference.

At least for now.

“It absolutely works both ways,” Killian guaranteed, suddenly remembering he hadn’t answered Emma’s questions and her smile was drifting away from amused and a bit closer to charmed and that felt like another hat trick and another return to the ice and he hoped he didn’t ever have to do the second one again.

“Good to know. Arthur’s going to be pissed if we take over his practice.” “It’s not much of a practice to begin with. No contact. Voluntary.” “And,” Ruby added, perched next to Ariel on the boards and she’d already taken her own shoes off to avoid a repeat performance. “He’s sitting in the team box with just a questionable amount of paperwork and plans and I think several dozen whiteboards. So it’s not like he’s not aware of what’s going on.” Killian’s laugh seemed to fly out of him, body sagging forward and the kid still standing there did not appreciate it much at all. He didn’t fall over either.

Trends or history or whatever.

It absolutely did not matter.

As long as it kept happening.

Indefinite sounded a lot better in that context.

“See, Swan,” he said, moving an arm around Matt’s middle and resting his chin on top of his head. Anna took a picture. “No reason to object now.” “C’mon Mom,” Matt yelled. “You can race too!”

Killian widened his eyes, skating backwards and he didn’t let go of Matt, pulling him across the ice with laughter ringing in the air around him. Emma bit her lip. “If we all get fined for this, I’m going to make Scarlet pay for it,” she said.

“That’s totally fair.” “That’s not fair at all,” Will argued, but Emma was already moving and Anna might have been cackling, thumb hitting against her phone screen so quickly it was almost a blur in whatever section they were actually standing in.

“I think you’ve just gotten lawyer’ed, Scarlet.” “And that doesn’t make sense!” “Too late, don’t care!”

It took less than ten minutes for Emma and Anna to get to ice-level, but it felt like several lifetimes and Killian was absolutely impatient and he couldn’t stop moving. Neither could Matt, a fact both Robin and Will made sure to point out several times.

“Is this what he was like when he was a kid?��� Robin asked when Anna swung her legs over the boards. “Wow, that was actually a pretty impressive move.” “Do not go all prehistoric on me, Locksley,” Anna warned. “I know how to get on the ice. And yes, to answer your question. Although Matt’s way more adorable than KJ ever was.” “That’s rude, Banana,” Killian muttered, Emma swatting his hand away when she moved onto the boards. He grinned.

“Also your kid is a way better skater at four--”

“--Four and a half,” Matt shouted. He nearly lost his balance when he tried to jump on his skates, an indignant look on his face that would have made all of them laugh if they weren’t too busy trying to make sure he didn’t fall over.

Roland’s hand landed on his back, just under the name between his shoulder blades and it could not have been healthy for all of them to be this emotional. Or supportive. It was definitely supportive.

That sounded better in this context too.

“Easy, Mattie,” Roland muttered, Henry a few feet away with his gloves already off like that would make it easier to catch one or both of them.

Killian glanced at Emma, her lips pressed together tightly like she was trying to avoid biting them. He skated half an inch to his right, hand back out and she took it that time, fingers lacing through his at the same time both Will and Robin groaned.

“Aw, shut up,” Emma mumbled, squeezing Killian’s hand and Ariel hadn’t ever tried to put her shoe back on.

Killian was going to bring that up later too.

“Four and a half,” Anna repeated. She had to hold onto Will when she reached forward to brush the hair out of Matt’s eyes, a move neither one of them entirely appreciated. “And still a better skater than KJ was when he was ten.” “I’d been playing for two years at that point,” Killian argued.

“Your kid is four and a half.” “You are just a fountain of support today, aren’t you, Banana?” She flashed him a grin, pushing off Will to glide across the ice and she didn’t fall over either. “Someone better have recorded that, I want to make sure I can brag to Liam and El when they get here.” “You know, you are absolutely terrible at keeping secrets,” Ruby muttered. She had her phone out. Or what Killian thought was her phone. “And Scarlet’s going to get a ton of new followers for these painfully adorable Instagram videos.” “Wait, what?” Will asked sharply.

Robin answered before Ruby could. “Your password is the easiest thing to break into in the world. Rol figured it out in two seconds.”

“Aw, Dad, c’mon,” Roland groaned, backing away from Will before he could check his ankles again. “But seriously Uncle Will, back to back and your number is just…” “Really, really easy to hack,” Henry finished.

“Yeah, exactly.” Ruby was cackling, Ariel wiping away tears and Emma hadn’t ever let go of Killian’s hand, slumping against his side a bit until he was supporting both her and Matt and he couldn't come up with a single reason to argue.

“This is a good thing, Scarlet,” Ruby continued. “I’ve got the ability to fix your sometimes questionable Instagram choices, plus record things for you when your phone is--” “--In my locker,” Will growled. “This is practice.” “Ok, but voluntary. And now we can record for posterity and you can keep bragging to Cap about your social media influence. Plus it’s great for the fans, right Em?”

Emma shrugged. “She’s kind of got a point.” “I hate both of you,” Will mumbled. “You better not delete any of my photos, Lucas.”

“How come Belle hasn’t ever told you to fix your passwords?” Henry asked. “She’s in charge of all that research and everything uptown. She knows how the internet works.” “Because my Instagram password is not the most important thing she’s got to deal with,” Will countered. “And how come your Instagram is just pictures of you and that girl from Casino Night? Who, let the record show, I know you were spotted with in several dark corners after the season ender.”

The whole lot of them exploded into laughter and shouts and both Regina and Robin were already asking questions – any worry about her heels and their ability to stay on the ice forgotten as soon as Henry blushed.

“Ok, that sentence isn’t even grammatically correct,” Henry mumbled, but the words got a bit lost when he was clearly trying to stare through the ice under his skates.

Will clicked his tongue. “You picking up corner tips from Cap and Emma?” “Jesus, Scarlet,” Killian yelled. Henry’s face, somehow, got redder.

“Yeah, yeah, you guys don’t even have to worry about corners anymore. You’re just like...stupid into each other in public at all times.” “Sneaking out of Casino Night,” Ariel coughed, bringing her hand to her mouth for emphasis and smiling when Killian glared at her. “If you even think about telling me you’re going to blow off PT once this offseason, Cap, I’ll get on this ice and kick you the shins.”

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing, Emma’s body shaking against his and Peggy was trying to get on the ice. Or at least on the ground. The wobbling and weebling were almost consistently confident steps now and the baby locks on the lower cabinets in the kitchen didn’t know what hit them in the last few weeks.

She kept yanking on them like she was offended they wouldn’t immediately do her bidding.

“We didn’t really sneak,” Emma admitted, Ruby’s eyes widening and Robin’s knees bending when he laughed. “It wasn’t really a secret.” Ariel hummed. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true. At least your kids are super cute and social media ready.” “And your threat is empty because you won’t put your shoes back on,” Robin pointed out.

“Eh, yeah, true, I guess. But only one shoe.” “You all know this is incredibly strange, yes?” Regina asked, earning a general hum of agreement and acceptance and she rolled her eyes towards the scoreboard that was inexplicably on for voluntary skate. Killian was fairly certain Arthur had just told someone to turn it on.

“Can we skate now?” Matt asked again, standing at the red line with a stick that was actually made for him. “I want to skate.”

“Ah, well, who are we to argue that, huh?” Killian laughed. He tapped his thumb against Emma’s wrist, landing just above her laces, before pushing forward, another easy movement that felt a bit like breathing, but that metaphor lost some of its weight when his lungs had been refusing to work earlier.

“Who you going to race against, mini-Jones?” Ruby asked. She was already looking at Roland, an expression on her face that had him rolling his eyes and mumbling I know, Rubes, I know, don’t go that fast under his breath.

“Can’t I skate with you, Dad?” Matt asked, and Killian was not ready for that. At all.

He should have been, should have expected it as much as he knew his four and a half year old kid still couldn’t really stop and they’d get to that part eventually, but his heart didn’t care and his lungs didn’t care and his eyes darted back towards Emma’s as soon as the question was out of Matt’s mouth.

She smiled. Again. Or still was. And either or were both pretty goddamn fantastic options.

“Sure, Mattie,” Killian said. “Blue lines?” Matt scrunched his nose – a perfect imitation of Emma that had several members of the New York Rangers peanut gallery practically guffawing from the bench. Killian crouched down, steady on skates and breathing evenly and he knew exactly what was going to happen next.

“You want to go fast, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Matt said, rushing over the words until they were one enormous syllable of excitement and a complete inability to stop. “Can we?” “Absolutely.”

“Killian,” Emma muttered, at the same time both Will and Robin groaned “Cap” and he shook his head deftly.

“It’s fine, love. I’m fine.” “Cap, you couldn't get away from the bench ten minutes ago,” Will said, but Robin narrowed his eyes slightly and Killian got the distinct impression he was trying to read his mind. He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, slinging an arm around Regina’s shoulders and nodding.

“Nah, he’ll be fine,” Robin promised. Emma gaped at him. “You can check me very hard if you’re wrong. No questions asked.” “Yeah, I will not just check you,” Emma said.

“I’ll probably help,” Regina admitted.

“It’s going to be fine, Swan,” Killian said again, standing back up and pulling the stick out of Matt’s hand. “Alright, kid listen. You’ve got to hold onto the blade, ok?” Emma’s eyes widened, mouth opening to protest, but Killian shook his head again and she’d let Anna help Peggy stand on the ice at some point. “If this ends badly, I’m going to let David arrest you later on tonight,” she muttered. “In front of your whole family.” “That’s reasonable.”

She groaned, but kissed him back when he ducked his head.

“Ok, Mattie,” Killian continued, pulling the stick against his side and he wasn’t entirely sure this would work, but he was somewhere in the realm of hopeful and skating and Emma had gotten Elsa and Liam to fly to New York again. And he wanted to go fast too. “You hold onto the blade and don’t let go. Got it? We’ll go around the rink and then I will hopefully still be in shape.” “Oh my God, Cap, you are not helping your cause,” Ariel groaned, pulling Dylan closer to her.

He ignored her. “Got it, Mattie?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, let’s skate.” Killian nodded, gaze darting back towards Emma and she rolled her eyes when he winked, but he knew he didn’t imagine the hint of color in her cheeks or the way her fingers drifted towards her left wrist. He pushed off, a flush of adrenaline and experience and his lungs didn’t explode as soon as his skates moved over the ice, so he figured that was several steps in the right direction.

And it didn’t really take long to pick up speed – it never did at the Garden, moving over the emblem at center ice with practiced ease and years of doing just that and it kind of felt like his heart was beating in his ears, but he’d felt that way several decades before too.

Because it was the Garden and the taglines were there for a reason and the scoreboard was still kind of intimidating even after back to back Stanley Cups.

But it was also his and Killian had always been absurdly possessive of this team and this city and this ice and how easy it had been to find a rhythm on it. It didn’t take long to get back to that, legs moving and the stick was digging into his side, but pain was some kind of abstract concept at this point and they both kept their edge through the first turn.

It was the second one that did them in.

Killian turned, the back of his blade digging into the ice and that was not how that was supposed to work. His kid wasn’t supposed to slam into his back either and, really, they needed to pay more attention to stopping because the whole thing ended with the goddamn hockey stick digging into what might have been one of his kidneys and both he and Matt ended up in a heap next to an Enterprise car rental ad on the boards.

Killian groaned, head dropping back onto the ice and it was fucking freezing because it ice and there was a kid draped over his chest.

A laughing kid.

A very clearly happy kid.

“Killian,” Emma yelled, a note of terror in her voice that left several pounds of guilt sitting in his stomach. He couldn’t sit up, though, Matt still laughing in his ear with both arms wrapped around his middle and the stick was somewhere.

He hoped it was broken.

Emma couldn't really stop either when she slid towards them, hands flying up against the glass and body twisted above both Killian and Matt. Her shoulders heaved when she tried to take a deep breath.

“Mom, did you see that?” Matt asked, a knee in Killian’s hip when he moved. He was sitting on the ice. “We went so fast!”

Emma’s mouth dropped, more shouts coming and skates moving and Roland got there before anyone else did. “Are you ok, Hook?” he asked quickly.

Killian nodded, not able to stop the smile on his face and his eyes flickered towards Emma when she scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled, crouching down to try and make sure Matt’s limbs didn’t inflict anymore damage.

“Did we impress you, Swan?” “I hate you.” “I find that very difficult to believe.”

“You are the most stupid man I’ve ever met.” “Ask Henry about that sentence structure.”

“I’m serious about getting David to arrest you.” “Nah,” Killian argued, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and she huffed when one of her legs slipped underneath her. “I’m fine, Swan. We went very fast. Come here.”

Emma shook her head, lips a straight line and she was trying very hard to stay frustrated. Killian smiled and moved his eyebrows and Roland might have made some kind of noise of disgust. “I’m not sitting on this ice with you,” she said. “That’s not happening.” “Eh…”

She yelped when his free hand moved around her waist, pulling her onto his thighs and she wasn’t actually sitting on the ice, a fact he was more than willing to point out several dozen times if it got her to kiss him in the middle of the ice. “Lost my edge,” Killian muttered, pressing the words against the side of Emma’s jaw and she didn’t argue about the seating arrangements once. Her fingers moved into his hair instead.

Which, really, felt a little like cheating, but Killian wasn’t going to argue that and Ruby still had a phone in her hand.

“Eighty gazillion hits,” she said. “At least.”

“Is that the technical term for it, Lucas?” “You don’t get to try and charm me, Cap. I’m not married to you. You alright mini-Jones?” Matt nodded enthusiastically, already trying to get back up. “Did you see how fast Dad and I went, Ru?” “I did. And so did those eighty gazillion hits.” “Technical term,” Robin muttered. “Please don’t check me later, Emma.” She saluted, still on Killian's legs with an arm around her waist. Matt couldn’t find his balance again, feet slipping and sliding underneath him and the knees of his pants were probably beyond repair at this point.

He didn’t stop.

And that did something absolutely absurd to every single inch of Killian and every part of his soul and he felt Emma take a deep breath against him.

“One foot at a time, Mattie,” Killian said, holding his hand out and letting him use his shoulder as leverage. Roland kept hovering a few inches away. “You get back up and we’ll try skating again.” “Just maybe not that fast,” Emma mumbled.

“Mom,” Matt whined, but if Killian had some kind of pre-grounding face, then she had her own expression fine tuned and every single person in the Garden knew it.

“We’ve got to work on that one-timer anyway,” Roland said. That was enough to distract from racing for the moment. “Then you can brag to all those other kids at graduation tomorrow.” “Yes, that’s exactly what we’re trying to do,” Killian said.

“Are we not?”

“We absolutely are,” Emma answered, pushing against his chest to stand back up and he didn’t really need help getting back to his feet, but her hand felt incredibly good in his and he was definitely the most selfish person in New York.

Matt scored twice on Henry and three times on Will and only some of those were gimme goals and he absolutely bragged to the entire graduating class of Columbus Pre-School the next morning.

Or Killian assumed he did – it was difficult to hear over the cheering from the questionably loud and questionably large family in the back corner of the auditorium, all of them with phones out and Henry and Roland had made a sign and Emma might have cried, but she’d never admit to it and her hand didn’t leave Killian’s once.

“You know,” Liam said later, sitting on the kitchen counter in the brownstone with a drink in one hand and eyes that kept darting towards the door like he was waiting to be grounded. “I heard you couldn’t quite keep your edge on the ice yesterday, little brother.” Killian threw a pillow at Anna. He had no idea why there was a pillow in the kitchen. He was fairly certain it had something to do with the makeshift hockey game that was currently going on in the hallways and Mrs. Vankald might have actually been keeping score.

“It was on the internet, KJ,” Anna yelled. “You do not get to be mad about this.” “That is true,” Elsa added. She threw her legs over Anna’s outstretched ones, ignoring the cry of indignation it earned her and smiled like several metaphorical cats.

“She told you anyway, didn’t she?” Killian asked. Elsa nodded.

“Aw, c’mon, that’s not fair at all,” Anna cried.

Liam groaned. “You think you can bring it down, like, several decibels? Or is that just not part of your biological makeup?” “You’re just worried what Mom is going to say when she sees you sitting on the counter.” “That’s not true at all.” “Eh,” Elsa and Killian said at the same time. “Move over,” Killian added, kicking the refrigerator closed behind him and there wasn’t really that much room on the counter, but most of the chairs had been sacrificed to the hockey game.

They were probably all broken by now.

“You guys are all the worst,” Liam muttered. “And Killian was just trying to impress Emma yesterday, let’s not kid ourselves.” “It absolutely did not work,” Emma said, appearing in the doorway suddenly and Killian knew the tips of his ears had gone red. Elsa laughed.

“It’s wrong to just lie like that, Swan. It totally worked.” “You are way too confident for your own good.” “Nah, that’s historic KJ,” Elsa muttered as Emma moved across the room, tapping her finger on his knee so she could step between his legs.

“Ah, I don’t know about that,” Emma said. She didn’t turn around, didn’t say the rest of the words that loud, but they seemed to find their way into his very center and he needed to stop thinking about his soul so often. It was kind of morbid.

Or maybe a little romantic and that was probably more accurate where Emma was concerned.

He kissed her hair.

“Getting there though,” Emma added, and Killian refused to meet the gaze of anyone who grew up in that brownstone, far too certain of their expressions and their feelings and Anna sniffled.

“That’s absurdly emotional, Banana.” “Whatever,” she snapped. “Don’t act like you weren’t getting teary-eyed when Matt actually flipped his tassel.” “We practiced that.” “And that doesn't surprise me at all. You going to do the same thing for Pegs and all your inevitably cute kids?” “Are you aware of more?” Please,” Elsa said, waving a hand in Anna’s direction when her heel dug into her sister’s shin. “You guys are like....super parents.” “El, you’re, like, in charge of the entire state of Colorado,” Emma pointed out. Her voice shook a little though and one of her hands had moved back towards Killian’s leg, fingers gripping a bit tighter than usual. He rested his own hand on her shoulder.

“Only if she decides to actually run,” Liam mumbled. Elsa groaned.

“We were going to wait until later this week. We didn’t want to steal Matt’s thunder! This was not part of the plan, KJ.” “And what, exactly, was the plan, El?” She flushed, clicking her tongue, but she didn’t move her legs either and the footsteps in the hallway appeared to be waiting. Or eavesdropping. “To maybe run for the state house,” Elsa said quickly, and Emma didn’t screech, but Anna did and they both clapped their hands over their mouth.

“She’s definitely going to,” Liam said, a picture of certainty and support and they were all a bunch of stubborn idiots.

Elsa shrugged. “I mean, yeah, I am, but we weren’t trying to do this today. Anna and I had a whole announcement plan and...ah, damn.” “Remember this when you tell me I’m the worst secret keeper in this family, KJ,” Anna grinned.

“And that’s totally Reese’s,” Emma added.

Killian looked at her – both Anna and Elsa flushing red and tapping their fingers on the kitchen table and the floor creaked in the hallway. One of the kids shouted about offsides around the corner. “You’re staying aren’t you?” he asked, and she slumped in her chair.

“It’s no fun if you just know.” “Don’t ever play poker.” “Whatever.” “Honestly, Banana. Are you? For real?” “I mean, kind of,” Anna said. “I’m still going to be traveling, but Condé Nast is apparently defying the expectation of all magazines and actually hiring a staffer and you guys could probably use a babysitter and, so...yeah, I’m staying.”

He couldn’t move with Emma still standing in between his legs, but it didn’t really feel like that kind of moment and they all seemed to be blinking quite a bit.

Until Emma mumbled “I won the bet.”

Liam almost fell off the counter.

“How much?” Elsa asked. “And with who?” “Most of the first line. Rook got a little technical because he thought she’d stay, but wouldn’t say it until after the playoffs ended, and I thought that was stupid. Also I’d really like to take you up on those babysitting offers.” Anna beamed. “Deal.”

The floorboards creaked again, sure footsteps turning the corner and Mr. Vankald didn’t blink when he saw all of them sitting in the kitchen. “You two better get off of there before you do damage to the marble or your mother sees you.” And it wasn’t the first time that had happened – probably wouldn’t be the last, honestly, – but Emma’s hand moved back to Killian’s knee and he kissed her hair again and Liam nodded quickly, like that kind of thing happened every day.

Mr. Vankald was not the kind of guy who made mistakes.

He knew what he’d said.

And he’d meant it.

“Totally going to get grounded,” Anna mumbled, wiping under her eye.

“Also,” Mr. Vankald added, “your presence is all being demanded upstairs. The hallways a little wider up there, so we figured it was safer to start playing there.” “We weren’t worried about the stairs?” Liam asked, but his feet were already back on the ground and he was probably plotting plays and defensive schemes.

“Not if you lot make sure nothing happens.” “Sure, Mr. V.” Mr. Vankald nodded, the smile on his face feeling as natural as the pickup hockey game happening on the second floor and Emma smiled when she turned on Killian. “You want to go play?” she asked.

“Only if I can score on Liam.” Liam scoffed. “Yeah, I’d like to see you try.” He did. Twice. And Matt talked about nothing else for the rest of the summer.

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

I Got You (Tony/Rhodey secret service AU) Chapter 2

Wow... so I was definitely not expecting such a warm response to this story. Yay :D I guess we’ll keep going then.  In this chapter President Rhodes gets to meet the (in)famous Tony Stark.  And the first impression he makes may not be the best.  Or perhaps it’s quite the opposite... ;-)

Link to chapter 1 is here.  I will keep that chapter as the master post, all subsequent chapters will be linked on it and to it.  

I got requests for tags, so I’m starting a tag list with this chapter.  Please note that tumblr sometimes acts up and randomly refuses to acknowledge some blogs, so if your tag doesn’t work, I will try my best to send you a message to give you a heads up about the update (and also, please, do watch this space ‘cause I may forget).

Tagging @jamesrhodey @supernaturalyloki @chanderefk @aimeeroot21 @markedplaces @mostly-marvel-stuffs

Chapter 2

 James isn’t sure what he was expecting Tony Stark to be like just from reading the reports prepared for him by his secretary, but the guy that saunters into the Oval Office 15 minutes after his scheduled appointment time, looking equal parts disdainfully reluctant and bafflingly self-assured, like he goddamn owns the place, is definitely not it.

 He sweeps a quick and decidedly bored gaze around the room, seeming patently unconcerned about the two secret service agents that stand guard at the door behind him, their eyes boring holes into his back.  Directs a genuine smile at Happy, giving him a conspiratorial wink as he comes to stand beside him and seeming to take an almost childlike delight in the way the other man seems to shrink in on himself, visibly discombobulated by such an open show of familiarity and disregard of protocol.  And only then does he deign to direct his gaze to where James is sitting, acknowledging his presence with a cool nod.

 “Mr. President.”

 James leans back in his chair, narrows his gaze at the dark-haired suit-and-tied insolence before him. “You’re late,” he points out, dry and just this shy of caustic.

 The corner of Stark’s mouth upticks minutely.  “My apologies, Mr. President,” he says, sounding anything but contrite.  “I overslept.”

 “You overslept,” he repeats, unimpressed, flicking a questioning glance at Happy, who looks like he’s ready to have the ground open up below him and swallow him up.  “Are you frequently in the habit of napping in the afternoon, Mr. Stark?”  

 “Only on my days off, Sir,” the other deadpans, nonplussed, but there’s a hint of mirth in the honey brown eyes that stare calmly back at him.  “I have a stressful job, I try to relax when I can.”

 James stares at him a moment longer, lips pinched with annoyance.  Wonders not for the first time if Obadiah was right, if this guy is nothing more than a washed-up asshole who has no business guarding anything more valuable than a bottle of cheap booze at a liquor store.  Has half a mind to call this joke of a meeting to a close and send this guy back to whatever hole he crawled out of.

 An awkward cough brings his attention back to Happy, to the earnest, desperate plea in his faithful bodyguard’s eyes, and he relents.  Letting out a heavy sigh to forcefully release some of the tension, he shifts forward a bit, reaches for the folder on his desk.  Flips it open, making a show of scanning the contents.

 “I have your file here, Mr. Stark.  There seems to be an inordinary number of complaints against your person at your current work.”  He looks back up at the man over the rim of his glasses.  “Care to explain?”

 Stark shrugs, nonchalant. “The only ones who complain are those that get caught breaking the law.  I’m fairly certain you won’t find any complaints there from shoppers that don’t indulge in illegal activities or otherwise threaten the safety of others.”

 And that is just the opening James needs.  He relaxes back into his chair, steeples his hands underneath his chin, pinning the man before him with a steady, attentive stare, determined not to miss a single tell.  “Is that what Senator Hammer did?” he asks with feigned insouciance.  “Was he indulging in illegal activities or threatening the safety of others?”

 The change that comes over Stark is immediate: his posture stiffens, brown eyes growing instantly, uncomfortably cold.  “I’m sure you already have all the information pertaining to that particular incident in front of you, Mr. President,” he responds, his voice carefully, carefully neutral.

 There’s a warning there, James can hear it – a barely polite request to let it go.  He isn’t quite ready to do so, however.

 He hums pensively, allows himself the tiniest of smiles.  “I’ve been doing this job long enough, Mr. Stark, to know that there is usually more to the story than what is allowed to leak onto the pages of any given report.  And this particular report, while it describes in great detail the injuries sustained by the senator, is suspiciously lacking in motive behind your assault.”  

 Stark blinks and pulls his gaze away, choosing to stare at the oversized windows behind James’s back.  And James can see the telltale hardening of the man’s jaw, can virtually feel the tension in his body.

 He pushes on.

 “I also know that sometimes seemingly unrelated events have a much deeper underlying connection than may be readily apparent.  For instance….” He reaches for the folder again, pulls it toward him.  “There’s a resignation letter here from a Ms. May Parker, Senator Hammer’s secretary, filed on the same day that you had your altercation with her boss…”  He trails off, brows knitting in curiosity as he sees Stark flinch at his words.  Notes the way the man’s right hand clenches momentarily into a fist at his side before relaxing once again.  Notes the uncharacteristically worried, sympathetic expression on Happy’s face as he glances Stark’s way.

 “Did you call me here to help you read some 10-year-old report, Mr. President?” Stark asks finally, his gaze still firmly fixed on some indeterminate point beyond. “Because I can find much better use of my time.”  He shifts his gaze finally, directs it back at James, and the latter has to fight an uncomfortable urge to squirm away from the undisguised cold fury he sees there. “All due respect.”

 James didn’t get to where he was in life by squirming away from uncomfortable situations, however.  And he isn’t about to start now.  Besides, he has to admit, the man intrigues him despite all of his reservations.  There’s a darkness to him, an undeniable edge of danger that should be enough of a reason to stay the hell away, and yet he finds himself being drawn closer instead.

 “I can read just fine, Mr. Stark,” he waves him off, putting just enough hardness into his tone to remind the man who he’s talking to.  “What I would like from you is a certain clarification.  Perhaps you could enlighten me as to the reason behind Ms. Parker’s abrupt departure.”  

 He watches Stark intently as he speaks.  Doesn’t miss the subtle tightening of the skin around the man’s eyes, the stubborn jut of his chin.

 “It’s not my story to tell,” Stark denies coldly, ignoring Happy’s hissed out warning of “Tony!”. Raises an eyebrow in silent challenge – to James, to Happy, to the whole world.  “If that will be all, Sir…”

 James shakes his head slightly, not sure whether to be offended by this man’s impudence or impressed by it.  He surprises himself by deciding on the latter.  

 “Do you know why I called you here today, Mr. Stark?” he asks, dropping the obviously touchy subject for the time being.  

 Stark shrugs again. Shoves his hands in his pockets with feigned ease.  “I came as a favor to a friend.” He tilts his head in Happy’s direction, his eyes never leaving James’s face.

 “Right.” James glances at his bodyguard, suppressing a smile at the man’s flustered expression.  “Would you mind telling me why you refused to do so when it was my Chief of Staff that called you to arrange this meeting?”

 Stark doesn’t bat an eye. “Mr. Coulson asked if it would be convenient for me to meet.  I didn’t find it convenient.  Frankly, I don’t understand why you felt the need to call on me in the first place.  …Respectfully.”

 The audacity momentarily leaves James speechless.  He blinks, huffing out an incredulous breath.  He can absolutely see why a man like that wouldn’t last long on Justin Hammer’s security detail.  And he honestly doubts he’d be able to work with this guy without resorting to fisticuffs. And how would that look – a president and his bodyguard going at it like a couple of schoolyard punks.

 Still…

 “Happy tells me you’re the best there is.”

 Stark holds his questioning gaze, calm and unblinking.  “I am,” responds, and that’s not a boast, James realizes, the man simply states it like it is – a fact.

 “Care to demonstrate?” he challenges, feeling a glee of anticipation deep in his belly.

 Stark tilts his head slightly to the side, looking bored.  “I can neutralize Happy here and your two dress-up dolls there by the door in under three minutes with my hands cuffed behind my back,” he offers with a careless twitch of his shoulder.  “But I can’t be held responsible for potential damage to your fancy furniture here.”

 “That’s alright,” James allows, motioning for one of his agents to come forward.  “I’d like to see what you can do.”

 Stark doesn’t resist as the agent pulls his arms back, clasping the handcuffs around his wrists with perhaps a bit more force than necessary judging by the way Stark flinches minutely.  

 “Touched a nerve there with the dress-up comment, Doll?” Stark quips, eyes glistening with dangerous amusement.

 The agent snarls, tugging sharply at the chain around the cuffed wrists, and James winces in sympathy, because that had to hurt.  And in the next moment all he can do is gape in mute wonder as Stark moves with quick, catlike grace, dodging, weaving, striking – his movements beautiful, sharp and precise like notes in a perfect symphony, a deadly rhythm that crescendos with the crash of a broken lamp and the sound of three bodies thumping heavily onto the floor, and then stills, punctuated by the diminuendo of heavy breaths.  

 Stark straightens out, casually fixing the tie that got twisted during his brief scuffle.  Walks up to the desk, demonstratively placing the apparently useless cuffs on the smooth surface.  “Good enough?” he asks, a smirk twisting his lips.

 James can’t help but return it.  “Come work for me,” he offers.  And is only slightly surprised (and quite a bit disappointed) when Stark shakes his head in the negative.

 “Sorry, Mr. President, but I like it where I am now just fine.”  

 Stark turns, walks back over to where Happy is slowly collecting himself off the floor.  Helps the man up, steadying him with gentle hands and an apologetic look that Happy brushes off with a genuine if exasperated smile.  Claps the bodyguard lightly on the shoulder and walks out without so much as a backward glance.

[thelifetimechannel]

The Dave and Dirk log, for obvious reasons, was something I wanted to try very hard to get right. That meant although we drafted it together via msparp, as was our custom, I ended up overhauling it way more than any of our other combo walkaround logs. A few chunks did survive the transfer, though.

In other news, we’ve made a solemn pact to finish TLC over winter break, which is good because I’m running out of bonus content. Hopefully we’ll have some assets to show off soon. I’ve already seen a few; they’re very nice.  

DIRK: Hey, dude. You did pretty well out there. DIRK: Didn't even die once. DAVE: twice in a day is my max im satisfied with keeping that record DAVE: even if getting machinegunned is rapidly becoming my "thing" DIRK: Seems we each have our respective "signature deaths". DIRK: Or at least it ain't a party until I get decapitated. That sure was something we needed to do again. DIRK: Just once, for old time's sake. DAVE: well that puts the nail in the meme coffin DAVE: any time you panic someones gonna tell you to keep your head on DAVE: like keeping your hair on except you know that shit aint going anywhere its probably shellaced DIRK: That shit is bolted to the floor. Did you know I walked around with a girly-ass pink tiara on my head this whole day and had no idea? DIRK: I had no idea. Couldn't feel a thing. DIRK: And people let me do that. DIRK: Can't fuckin' believe it. DAVE: oh DAVE: i figured you knew DIRK: I am less than pleased with my Skaia-ordained divine color scheme. DIRK: But I guess I have to live with it. It's part of the team aesthetic. DAVE: you could always change DIRK: Nah, with the tiara and tights ditched I have at least mitigated the enforced flamboyance. It's bearable. DIRK: I can't be the one dude out of uniform. Couldn't bear the shame. DAVE: my outfit is pretty sick ngl DAVE: sburb knows everyones secret desire is to have a cape DIRK: Unfortunately, mine isn't long enough to also make for a good tactical maneuver. DIRK: Not gonna lie, that was pretty funny. DAVE: if nothing else my attempts at combat can provide a source of humor in our lives DAVE: but honestly id be fine if my fighting days were over DAVE: i was never into it DAVE: rose on the other hand was obviously itching to beat people up DAVE: one of those 12 year olds who wants to get jumped in an alley to work out her suppressed anger DIRK: Maybe Skaia did make a few miscalculations in dumping your asses with your respective guardians. I think you'd get along well with Roxy and her cats, make her budget her time away from the alcohol. DIRK: ...in theory. DIRK: Rose can go a few rounds with me if she wants, we still need to sort out who has the rights to document our legendary journies. DAVE: ill plan your funeral DAVE: what kind of flowers do you want DIRK: ...there's different kinds? DAVE: damn thats right you grew up in waterworld DAVE: these choices matter DAVE: allegedly theres a thing called "flower language" DAVE: whether you can actually send someone a boquet telling them to meet you in the pit i dont know DIRK: Like, I get that, in theory, different kinds of flowers exist. But I fully anticipate any attempt on my part to conjugate in the language of said plants would end in my coffin declaring my hovercraft was indeed full of eels. DIRK: Maybe it'll have thorns on it. Or it'll be like the sixteen millions tons of green bullshit covering my land and making my nose itch. DAVE: probably DIRK: Worst case scenario, I'll pick out something orange and present to a prospective love interest and it'll mean something like "my brotherly passion for you knows no boundaries, and also no homo". DAVE: my bro wouldnt go for flower arranging DAVE: or pink tiaras DAVE: he was pretty uptight about the whole rah rah macho act DAVE: probably subscribed to alpha males weekly DAVE: which is weird considering DAVE: well DAVE: youre gay right DIRK: Uh. DIRK: Well. DIRK: My symbolic quest land is not covered in green bullshit, but I. DIRK: Happen to like watching birds, if you know what I mean. DIRK: Fuck, you probably don't know what that means. Jake and his goddamn thousand euphemisms. DAVE: cant say i do no DIRK: Nobody knows what it means but Jake. It's an old time epithet for being into dudes. DIRK: He knows all the old epithets, including some I suspect he made up. DAVE: so DAVE: thats a yes DAVE: in a roundabout way that includes birds DIRK: I've never denied it. DIRK: I'm just. DIRK: Not a huge fan of the word. Why, in this world post-society, do we need to confine ourselves to labels like "gay"? Such constraints were washed away from my world with the rest of the human race. DAVE: holy shit that was such a pretentious dodge DAVE: dont let rose hear you say that DIRK: Rose can hear all she likes. DAVE: but anyway DAVE: i wasnt asking to get up all in your business like SOME PEOPLE DAVE: who are so into getting into other peoples businesses theyre basically the fucking mafia or the irs DAVE: but DAVE: it explains some stuff DAVE: but on the other hand it doesnt DAVE: the way you raised me was kinda aggressively mainstream masculine enough that it wasnt something that ever seemed to come up as an option DAVE: [describe that type of culture and mindset better later, I KNOW what i mean but im tired rn lmao] DAVE: and anything outside of that id just brush off because it couldnt apply to me DAVE: and that went for pretty much everything that went against what you wanted for me DAVE: including that DIRK: And yet, here the man was, subconsciously shrieking his desire for floppy felt dong through, DIRK: What I guess you could call his art, for want of any other applicable word at all. God, the mental images are crawling up the insides of my skull like the Exorcist child, do I want to know? DAVE: probably not DAVE: guess trying to act peak male has its drawbacks DAVE: weirdly enough troll culture is obsessively hyperviolent but doesnt give a shit about sexuality DAVE: they dont see the difference most of the time i guess DAVE: and so like DAVE: maybe it rubs off on you because in some ways that kind of makes sense DAVE: but after so long its hard to know what i feel and what it means because i spent so long ignoring it DAVE: so i guess i was wondering DAVE: if you had anything that might help with that DAVE: or if youre also trapped in this whirling screaming maelstrom of bullshit DAVE: while kinsey sits in the eye of the storm laughing DIRK: Wait, wait, wait. DIRK: You're coming to me. DIRK: For advice. DIRK: Do you know what a laughable hurricane of disaster my interpersonal life has been? DIRK: Like, in a weird way, I'm kind of honored, especially since about five hours ago you were scared shitless to be around me, but. DIRK: I'm standing here and waving my credentials in the air just to display how I don't fucking have any. My degree is a sham and my hands are empty except for a crudely scribbled on piece of construction paper. DAVE: are you suggesting theres a gay university DAVE: where you study bird watching DIRK: Do I look like a man who's been to college? DAVE: fair DAVE: but like DAVE: your friends know DAVE: how did you broach the subject there DIRK: I might as well have been dating a Yoko Ono for the devastation it wreaked on our friend group, so yeah, it was a little hard to ignore. DIRK: Compounded by the fact some smartass from Gay University was using my social circle for romance geometry homework. DIRK: It wasn't even a love triangle so much as a love roundabout. DAVE: ok but thats just because you were a dipshit not a gay dipshit DAVE: they were chill about the first part right DIRK: Thanks. DIRK: I mean... Roxy always seemed disappointed. DAVE: luckily i dont think anyones waiting in line for me DAVE: i guess im blowing it out of proportion DAVE: i dont think anyone will MIND DAVE: no one did about rose and kanaya DAVE: didnt even question the vampire bit which goes to show what our lives are like these days DAVE: like ok our outfit has vampires now DAVE: thats a thing that we have DAVE: if i say oh hey i might be bisexual theyll just say sure pull up a chair at the acronym table DAVE: the only one who might be weird about it is john DAVE: but hed be just as weird if i told him id changed my favorite color hes just like that DAVE: the only person its really a big deal for is me DIRK: Jane was a little bit like that. I'm pretty sure the only reason she had to object was because she found out the day I made a move on her crush. DIRK: It might just be growing up in a household where you're not regularly fighting for your life, and thus what genders are kissing whom has the space to be higher on your priority list. DAVE: that aint anyones priority these days DAVE: im prepared to acknowledge the concept that hey maybe everyone elses lives dont revolve around me and my personal drama or self revelations might have some merit at least as a hypothesis DAVE: when i met kid english he kept going on about how i was the most important person and everyone else was side characters DAVE: and maybe ive acted like that sometimes DIRK: Yeah, like you alone are the one responsible for everyone around you. DAVE: and maybe ive acted like i think that way too sometimes DAVE: ive been wrong about people DAVE: people i care about people i shouldve known better DAVE: i was wrong because i wanted to believe things that matched how i wanted the world to be DAVE: things that made it easier for the story i was telling myself DAVE: i dont think kid english meant to call me on it but damn DIRK: Reality is, after all, something we construct for ourselves. DIRK: I think maybe I knew that all along when I surfaced for air inbetween shoving my head as far up my ass as it would go. DIRK: Or maybe that's just what I try to tell myself in hindsight. DAVE: well if it takes a hyperactive 12 year old version of the final bosss creepy hero worship of me to make a point i guess thats not the least subtle way the universe has sent me a message lately DIRK: You want unsubtle? Let me tell you about my damn planet quest. DAVE: haha DAVE: i didnt have to do much of my quest because im invisible DAVE: thanks mom DIRK: My denizen practically sat me down like it was my life coach and growled in my ear about improving my communication skills with a guy I told to go fuck himself not eighteen hours prior. DIRK: So while I'm glad SBURB has a vested interest in me repairing my friendships, playing electroshock death DDR with him was a little on the nose. DAVE: maybe getting shot again wasnt that bad DAVE: so weve all learned our life lessons good job team DIRK: Exactly. Can we wrap this up now? Can we please go rest? DIRK: I'm so exhausted I haven't even noticed I'm still hungover. DAVE: sure thing DAVE: but if i need tips on leaping out of a closet to intimidate passerby i might text you DIRK: I mean, I can try. As long as you don't ask me for dating tips. That, I definitely shouldn't be helping you with. DIRK: Go talk to your sister for that. DIRK: ...wouldn't she, by the transitive property of siblings, also be my sister? DAVE: yeah i guess DAVE: but theres no way in hell im asking rose for dating advice DAVE: on her first date which she refused to admit was romantically oriented she got wasted in anticipation forgot to show up and then fell down the stairs DIRK: Oh my god. DAVE: she tries to look like shes got her shit together but its a lie DAVE: if you find my corpse floating on lolar in the next few hours dont let the truth die with me DIRK: Why are we like this? DIRK: Is there actually something hardwired into our DNA that predisposes us to being disasters? DIRK: But, that aside. DIRK: I won't object if it's me you come to talk to. DAVE: ill hold you to it DAVE: and if you ever want to publicly you admit you DAVE: "enjoy birdwatching" DAVE: in less vague and evasive terms DAVE: ill have your back DIRK: Thanks.

[yallreddieforthis]

I’ll Stop By Your Room

Fandom: It (2017)

Pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

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

Words: 7.1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

“SO, WHAT DO YOU THI—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does he really think Eddie is that hot?

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

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

Ew, what the fuck?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” Richie says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[nitewrighter]

Could you do a prompt during the overwatch crisis

ugggh okay so I’ve had this prompt like 50% complete in my drafts for months but every time I attempt to finish/post it, I always lose chunks of it. It’s like it’s cursed or something. BUT TODAY I BREAK THAT CURSE AND BRING YOU R76!!!

—-

Battery Davis wasn’t meant to be a fort–well it had been, well over a century ago, but not these days. But for now it was all that was keeping the rain off of them, and all that was hiding them from the encroaching horde of OR14s and Bastions. They had managed to divert a significant force of the Omnics away from the city Jack and Gabe crouched in the cement tunnel and waited for the groan of metal and the binary roar of OR14s. The air was damp, heavy and cold and the sky was starless from the fog.

“Reasons to live—go,” said Jack.

“Pork banh mi,” said Gabe.

“Just… jumping to food right off the bat? No, ‘I’ve got kin back home,’ or…?”

“Jack, I’m fucking hungry,” said Gabe, “Also I should clarify: this is no ordinary pork banh mi–this would be a pork banh mi from the ‘Banh Mi Me’ food truck on La Brea.”

“Ah of course,” said Jack, “I guess… that’s still technically home.”

“What–you gonna start waxing poetic about your cornfields?” said Gabe.

Jack half-snorted half-scoffed. “You know I could never let myself stay there,” said Jack.

“Well… congratulations, you get to see the world. Welcome to fabulous San Francisco–you know if you get to the hill above the battery you can see the bridge… what’s left of it, at least.”

Jack huffed and smiled. “We’ll fix it later,” he said, smiling.

“You said that back in St. Louis. Jack, I really want to know, how the fuck are we going to get that arch back up?”

“I don’t know. My job is to keep shooting until we have time to figure that part out,” said Jack.

Gabe snorted. “Why couldn’t they shoot up Rushmore? Giant stone heads always freaked me out…” he trailed off and glanced over at Jack, “You still haven’t named yours yet.”

“Well if I say ‘my folks’ that’s going to sound guilt-trippy and corny now,” said Jack, “And if I say a food you’ll start going on about the horrors of Indiana cuisine.”

“Oh my god you have a food in mind.”

“I never said I—” Jack scoffed, “Sauerkraut Balls.”

“Sauerkraut what,” Gabe repeated.

“Well like–Fried pickles—they’re good, right?” said Jack.

“Yes,” Gabe said hesitantly.

“Well it’s… pickled cabbage, and you…roll it up in a ball with ham and cream cheese–”

“Oh my god—”

“…and you fry it.”

“Jack, we have been the lab rats of a government experiment that killed off two thirds of the participants, we have been fighting murderous robots for four months, we could literally die here, and yet that, that right there is the most horrifying thing I can think of.”

“There we go—Horrors of Indiana cuisine,” said Jack with an eye roll.

“Battery Team, scouts are finally getting movement from the OR14s. Need you moving to flank. Let’s keep these reinforcements from reaching the city.”

SEP operations were still black ops in those days. The military thought it was better to have them working behind the scenes, softening the blows on the main forces rather than making the subjects of a controversial super-soldier program front and center in the fight against the Omnics. Gabe brought down his night vision goggles and was able to make out some lights moving among the eucalyptus and cypress trees.

“Out of audio range,” said Jack, loading his rifle as they crouched low in the battery tunnel, “Think ours are still motion-based, or do you think they got the same update as the Detroit Omnium with the thermal vision?”

“Half the shit coming out of the Michigan front is unverified, Jack, you know that,” said Gabe, tweaking his goggles slightly.

An OR14′s head swiveled toward him.

“Shit. Thermal. They got thermal,” said Gabe as the OR14 let out a binary screech to its compatriots. Both Jack and Gabe leapt out of the way of the blaze of bastion turret fire that now filled the battery tunnel. “Any ideas?!” Jack had to shout over the roar of fire. There was a brief pause as one of the turrets had to cool down when Jack laid down some cover fire to keep them from heading through the tunnel.

“Keep ‘em busy, I’ll flank,” said Gabe, scrambling up the ice plant-covered hillside the battery had been dug into. Jack could feel the rain on the back of his neck mingle with a clammy sweat. Just stay calm. Trust that Gabe knew what he was doing and it would all work out. They’d done this before. Jack sometimes wondered if the SEP program had done something to their heads—maybe opened up some neural paths that only he and Gabe had access to, knowing each others’ moves like a well-rehearsed dance with only a few words and a knowing look. The SEP should have been lonely, considering how many people died during those first few trials. But not with Gabe. It should have been horrifying and it was, objectively, horrifying, but Gabe was there, so at the same time, it wasn’t. This should be horrifying, objectively it was horrifying, but all the same, Gabe was there, so it wasn’t. He leaned through the tunnel and laid down more suppressing fire. He gave a glance down to the ammunition indicator on the barrel of his pulse rifle, gradually dropping toward the red. Keep looking at me, he though, Keep your eyes on me.

Then Gabe dropped in. One blast from his BLK001 shotguns to the right spot and the rudimentary processors used for bastion units were shut down. One bastion down. The OR14 turned toward him, giving jack an opening to helix rocket it in the side of the head.

“Gabe!” Jack rushed down the tunnel to back him up as Gabe kicked out the coupling for the bastion’s main gun and puzzled over the mess of wires. Jack looked through the grove of cypress trees to see more lights from various omnic units. “We really need to get moving—” he started and ducked down as several shots from an OR14 whizzed past his head.

“Hey–wanna see me do something stupid?” said Gabe, gunfire just barely missing him as he bent over the bastion. 

“Stupider than staying here when we’ve got more Bastions on our ass?” said Jack, taking out an incoming bastion mid-reconfigure.

“Yeah–” Gabe pried open a panel on his half-collapsed bastion and tore out some wires.

“What are you–?” Jack started but the broken bastion’s turret suddenly burst to life sending out hails of bullets.

“Christ, Gabe” said Jack, flinching away hard as the gun went off. The omnics suddenly reared back at fire from one of their own, previously thought dead.

“Help me with this!” said Gabe, holding the turret gun in place.

“Shit—” Jack shouldered his rifle and took hold of the rotary barrel next to Gabe. He could feel the gunmetal going red hot through his gloves as they both shoved their weight against the rapidly firing gun and threw its line of fire to the incoming omnic horde. They couldn’t even hear each other over the roar of the gun. Jack was screaming. Gabe was laughing. Then Jack was also laughing. Finally the rotary came to a spinning, smoking stop and Gabe and Jack were left standing on the collapsed remains of their commandeered bastion and the shelled out wreckage of numerous omnics strewn about the bullet-riddled eucalyptus and cypress trees. 

“That was crazy,” said Jack.

“That,” said Gabe, elbowing him, “Was fun.”

“Remind me to try and give you a normal idea of ‘fun’ when this is all over,” said Jack.

“Tch. Like you want a normal idea of fun,” said Gabe. 

“Morrison! Reyes!” Their CO’s voice crackled over the comms, “Where are those OR14′s?”

“Battery Davis is secured,” said Jack, touching his finger to his ear, “We’ll fill you in on the details l—”

“Incoming!” Gabe suddenly shouted.

Jack didn’t have time to think. He heard only the whir and clank of a bastion reconfiguring into a tank when Gabe tackled him hard from the waist and suddenly the ground right next to where they had been standing erupted in a spray of earth and fire and hunks of metal. The force of the blast threw them both several yards and they landed with a few painful bounces among the wreckage of the omnics they had just taken out. Jack covered his head as the ground exploded again several yards away from them and glanced over at Gabe, who was draped pietà style across the remains of an OR14, his face heavily bloodied. 

“Gabe–!” Jack started. Gabe didn’t respond. Jack gritted his teeth and picked up his gun. He sprinted head on against the bastion, the ground exploding on either side of him as he barely dodged the shells of the cannon. With two jumps he launched himself airborne off of the broken frame of another bastion, just in time to see the bastion attempt to reconfigure itself back into recon mode. It was obliterated in a blast of helix rockets and Jack rolled across the ground, panting. He looked at the collapsed steel frame of the bastion, He shot the bastion unit right in its flickering optic receptor for good measure before giving a sharp glance over his shoulder back at Gabe.

“Shit–” he sprinted back to Gabe, “Shit-shit-shit–” he cupped Gabe’s bloodied face in his hands and did his best to wipe some of the blood away, revealing several large gashes on Gabe’s face, “…Shit…” he said again, setting down a biotic field,  “Come on–” he shook Gabe, “Get up! Hey! Gabe you are not dying from this, you hear me? Reasons to live, remember? You’re getting that stupid Pork bun thing from that food truck!”

Gabe suddenly coughed. “Banh Mi,” he said.

“What?” said Jack.

“Pork Banh Mi. Not Pork bun. it’s a sandwich—”

“Dammit, Gabe you scared the shit out of me,” said Jack, gripping Gabe’s shoulders.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Gabe coughed, he suddenly squinted his eyes, “Ah shit—” he wiped his own blood out of his eyes and looked at the blood smeared on his glove, “Jack–please tell me I’m still pretty,” said Gabe, his fingers tracing among the new gashes on his face.

Jack just huffed out a sigh, bent and touched his forehead to Gabe’s. “You’re goddamn beautiful, Reyes,” said Jack.

[letitrainathousandflames-archive]

So my dear friend @lectricies is feeling sad lately so I offered to write him a Rainbow Six: Siege fanfic featuring the game characters and the Doc/Rook ship. I really liked how this is going as a draft and I may write an actual fic on ao3 later on. I know I don’t usually post fics here so I’ll hide it under the cut. And now, back to our regularly scheduled nonsense! Thanks!

Castle and Mute were at it again. Those two could not spend literally ten seconds together without starting some kind of shit, which was especially annoying when everyone was locked into an armored car headed to the assigned location many miles from the base.

“What I’m saying is that I absolutely cannot protect you if you stay out of cover!”, said Castle for what seemed to be the tenth time.

“Do you want me to bypass security or do you want them to have eyes and ears on us?” pointed Mute, who, most unfortunately for everyone in the car, was actually very hard to ever shut up. “I need to be at a smaller distance to be able to jam their equipment, and it’s not my fault you’re too much of a fucking coward to set your covers a bit further up.”

“Who the fuck are you calling a coward…”

Everyone else rolled their eyes, already expecting someone to finally deal the first physical blow.

“Shut up” cut Rook sharply; Castle and Mute turned to face Rook at the exact same time, and it would’ve been funny if they both weren’t pissed as hell. “Can’t you guys just chill and like, not hate each other’s guts just until we get there? I’m trying to focus here.”

Mute’s frown was replaced by a wide provoking grin.

“Oh, yeah, you do need focus, huh, Rook. God forbid you hand us the wrong grenade again like you did in Chile.”

Castle clicked his tongue before Rook could answer.

“Leave the kid alone. He’s doing he’s best.”

“My point exactly”, agreed Mute “Like I’m trying my best when I try to get closer to their servers, and the enemy soldiers try their best to blow my head off in the meantime, and I pray that you guys fucking do your part and cover me.”

Castle rolled his eyes.

“Right, boy. I’mma take you by the goddamn hand all the way through this time, like a walk in the park. That good enough for ya?”

Rook exchanged a glance with Doc and could see he was trying to suppress his laughter, and such task became ten times worse when he tried to do it while looking at Rook’s face as he shrugged:

“Can’t do a thing for this old married couple.”

“I swear to god, dipshit”, grumbled Mute to Rook, “Just my luck, getting to go on yet another mission with you morons.”

“Funny, I was gonna say the same thing.”

The armored car slowed down, unable to keep going because of the debris blocking the road. Smoke started to put on his gas mask, and the last thing Rook could see before the filter covered his mouth was a wide grin.

“Get ready, you morons, it’s showtime.”

Doc got up sighing and opened the heavy door. Rook went right after him and Doc tuned to Smoke.

“Just make sure not to poison anyone of us with your gas bombs this time, okay?” Doc looked over his shoulder to Rook and smiled back shyly. “Hey. Bonne chance.”

Rook nodded. It was a funny thing, hearing Doc’s French in the middle of all the angry shouting in the English of their fellow soldiers. Sometimes Rook caught himself thinking of how much he wished to hear more French on Doc’s raspy voice, the smile in every cadence of it. This was usually when Rook would also realize how much he wanted more of Doc’s, much more than his French words, or how much he wished the gentle grasp he’d occasionally lay on his own shoulder would last a bit longer.

The mission was not exactly simple: their target was the daughter of a Russian diplomat, recently kidnapped by – and can you even imagine how complicated that was – an American group of rogue agents working on their own terms in Russian territory. Long story, a whole big mess, but the big guys wouldn’t say shit about it: how did they let it happen, who were the rogue agents, how did it all come to this.

They were team who would actually get the recue job done and they knew nothing about their mission purpose. Rook was fucking pissed at that, but there was nothing he and his teammates could do, they weren’t the bosses of anything, they were just goddamn pawns there to take orders and get shit done. Rook hated that. He hated not trusting his own bosses.

The rogue group had bunkered themselves in an abandoned church in Murmansk, or, as Caveira had muttered to herself while analyzing the maps, “the cold ass-end of nowhere”, and Mute had already placed a loop video in every single security camera on the way, which allowed them to take cover in the snow-covered woods close to the church.

Smoke, Caveira and Mute were the first ones to get closer to the blocked windows. The abandoned church was in the middle of a wooded area and Rook would appreciate the beauty of the large wooden construction and the whole fairy tale landscape if they weren’t on a mission and it wasn’t 12 goddamn degrees. Caveira slid down the snow-covered roofs landing on the floor as silently as a cat would. She touched her ear shaking her head with a frown.

“No way to enter through the roofs.” said her in their common line “The only gap between the boards is too narrow.”

“Could I fit a gas bomb or a grenade there?”, asked Smoke’s eager voice

It was Doc who shook his head now, hiding behind a large oak tree and touching his own ear:

“Friendly reminder that this is a rescue mission and poisoning or exploding the hostage would be a bad idea.”

Mute climbed on the roof not even as silently as Caveira had, and everyone grits their teeth, worried about any alarms he might’ve triggered. The guy’s voice was giddy as a little girl’s in the line before Castle could even tell him to get the fuck down:

“Got me an optic wire through it! We got, uhh… Ten big bad guys, all armed and dangerous, and a person lying on the floor, hands and feet tied up and a hood over their head, now I’m only guessing, but that’s probably our victim. See? We don’t need to have Pulse in every mission, guy’s a pain in the ass if you ask me.”

Castle patted Rook on the shoulder.

“I’ll get in and cover for Rook. Rook, you take down as many of them as you can, make the best out of your bulletproof armor and my cover. Caveira, you get in there as fast as you can and take the hostage out to safety. Smoke, stand by until the hostage is cleared out. Then you can throw as many grenades as needed. Doc, you stand by for any emergencies and take a look at the hostage’s condition as soon as she’s cleared out.”

Caveira rose her brown eyes to Castle’s direction in the woods.

“Sir, my specialty is not rescuing people, I could eliminate the targets instead…”

“No.” cut off Castle “There’s only one entrance and I’m going to drag all attention to it, so your stealth would be rendered useless. What I want is you to be as quick as you can and take the hostage out. ”

Caveira still tried to argue as Castle and Rook approached the church:

“That’s not my…”

“We don’t have time to chat. Now get in position.”

Rook looked at Castle while Caveira stood behind them with a grim expression on her skull-painted features. Castle nodded. Rook lift up his leg and kicked the door in with a single blow. In a quick motion, Castle set his armored panel in front of the door, barricading it completely. They were lucky that the front door was so small – literally thank god for Russia’s small wooden churches; the enemy soldiers were trapped in, and Rook’s team was covered by the bulletproof material.

Rook aimed carefully. Ten targets. Easy. That was when a door to the left of the pulpit opened, and twelve armed soldiers poured out of it. Rook managed to land three headshots before they started shooting towards him and he ducked behind Castle’s cover, breathing heavily as the bullets clanged against the armored material.

“Holy shit, Mute, thought you said ten.”

“My bad” said Mute sounding genuinely sorry “The camera only got the main room in the church.”

“Great.” said Castle, getting up quickly to shoot a few rounds of his shotgun and then get back into cover “You and your useless tech-shit, it sounds like we’ll fuckin’ need Pulse next time if we get out of here alive.”

The silence in the line meant exactly how upset Mute was; dude never ever shut up about anything. Smoke insisted, his voice barely audible under the heavy gunfire:

“Castle, let me toss a small one in there.”

“No. We need the hostage alive”, Castle grit his teeth to then turn to Rook “You get up with me now, eliminate as many of them as you can. Caveira, you use our distraction and get in there. Doc, shoot her with a boost on my go.”

“Roger that.” said Doc in his raspy voice and for some reason Rook felt 150% safer knowing he was under his watch, under Doc’s watch. He was safe. Everything would be all right.

“Target’s exactly under the cross, on the far back” said Mute “Watch out Caveira, they’re all heavily armored, you won’t be ably to tackle any of them down easily.”

There was that weird, silent moment that precedes the getting in the middle of a messy shotout. Then the moment was over, and this was it, do or die. Just like every mission. Castle screamed “now”, getting up again and Rook got up simultaneously. Doc pulled the trigger and a hypodermical shot hit Caveira right in the neck. She grunted as the adrenaline rushed through her veins, vaulting over their cover.

“This shit always hurts.”

Rook shot each target with his usual impeccable focus. Right on their heads until their helmets collapsed and then into the shattered glass straight to their skulls, one after the other. Caveira rushed to the nearest cover, behind a thick wooden column, then to the next one, getting closer to the target. A bigger soldier was standing right in front of the tied up girl, almost as guarding her, and Caveira cursed under her breath. She’d have to kill the big guy then. No problem.

Despite wearing the ear mufflers, the gunfire was deafening. Castle knelt behind the cover to reload while Rook covered for him, seeing the dents the bullets were leaving in the cover. Shit.

“It’s gonna collapse soon. Caveira! Get it done with!”

“Easy for you to say”, muttered Caveira, getting slowly closer and closer

There were few targets now. Caveira got to the side of the big soldier, eyeing his bulletproof equipment, searching for a weak spot…there. Thigh. Big artery, bleeds nicely and has a bonus of making the target drop like a heavy bag. Nice.

Caveira crept behind the enemy, stabbing him and pulling the blade up towards the armored spot on his crotch. The soldier grunted, dropping down to his knees, and Caveira pulled her knife back, sabbing him on the now exposed spot between his neck and the vest. The man dropped dead and the blood pooled under his body. All the while, other soldiers turned to face her, but Rook and Castle shot them dead before they could do anything. Caveira looked around attentively.

“Clear?”

“Clear.” answered Rook with a sigh “Now get…”

Mute’s voice interrupted him:

“Shouldn’t we double-check if…”

“Get the hostage out”, said Castle cutting him off “hurry up.”

Caveira ripped the hood off the woman’s face. She looked absolutely terrified, her face wet with tears as she wailed, and seeing Caveira’s skull-painted face did not seem to improve the situation very much.

“We’re here to rescue you.” Said Caveira in a monotone voice; the girl kept crying and screaming “We’re here to rescue you! I said WE ARE HERE TO RESCUE YOU!”

Caveira picked her up with an effort – the girl kept kicking and screaming.

“Shit, I don’t know if she can’t speak English or the gunfire got her deaf but… stop moving! Fucking hell, Doc, can you shoot this bitch with some anesthesia or something? Goddamn…”

Rook was the first one to see the hidden soldier appearing from behind a column. They thought it was clear and failed to listen to Mute’s advice. Their fault—My fault, thought Rook, vaulting over the cover before he could even understand what he was doing. He ran to Caveira, pulling her down by her vest.

“Get to the ground!”

The enemy soldier did not have a gun in her hand, but a small device. She pressed a button on it before Rook could take a full turn and shoot her, and a drone came flying towards him. Rook opened his arms to cover Caveira and the hostage from harm and Castle shoot the soldier; She dropped instantly, but the drone kept coming to land on Rook’s chest like a magnet attracted to a metal surface.

And the thing shocked Rook so hard it made him drop to his goddamn knees. One of his teammates shouted his name, but he couldn’t recognize which one while he tried to pry the drone off his armored chest. The next jolt of electricity it sent on him was hard enough to make him want to heave, and he simply dropped sideways on the wooden floor, shaking heavily.

“Mute?!” screamed Castle, knocking over the armored cover “Mute, there’s some electronic device on Rook, I think it’s frying him!”

Mute and Doc were rushing into the church before he could even finish the sentence. Mute picked a small device off his belt pocket, pointing it to Rook’s chest. Rook’s face was red and veins throbbed on his forehead. His eyes were wide and pain-stricken and the damn thing was sending another blow on him. His breathing was ragged and shaken due to the electroshock.

“Chill, chill I gotcha!” said Mute tensely, pressing a few buttons on his device “Killin’ it right now… done!”

Rook managed to finally rip the drone off his chest and it was the last effort he managed to make before feeling like his whole body had become a puddle of jelly on the floor. Doc knelt by him, his mask-covered face hovering over Rook’s, concern in his eyes.

“Rook, can you speak? Can you say your name and rank for me, please?”

“Ju- Julien… Nizan.” said Rook, his still-shaking voice coming out through gritted teeth “Def-fen-d-der… F-Fuck, I wanna throw up.”

Doc let out a tense laugh, holding Rook’s arm down and pressing his hypo gun against it.

“Here, this will make you feel a little better.”, he shot a hypodermic syringe in Rook’s arm “There. Better?”

He touched Rook’s face with his gloved fingers and Rook shivered, but he was pretty damn sure that wasn’t the electricity anymore.

“Yeah.” he managed “Better.”

Doc was still caressing Rook’s face absently, looking straight into Rook’s eyes as if he were looking for something into them.

“I’ll check the hostage, okay? You stay down.”

Rook nodded weakly as Doc got up, walking towards Caveira and the hostage, and he almost thought he was still feeling the aftershocks when he understood what the hell was that weird feeling in his guts.

Goddamn butterflies.

[blindrapture]

After the break, the remainder of this post will be Andrew Hussie’s newspost from 11/08/14. In it, he goes pretty in-depth about the symbolism and intent of Homestuck’s GAME OVER flash. I wanted to share this because it’s one of the most concise examples I can think of that stresses why I still think he’s goddamn lovely. It also contains his own rather clear declaration that he prefers Death Of The Author over Word Of God (”Now, since they can no longer depend on answers which I supply between horse jokes and snappy retorts, they are lost in the woods to fend for themselves against the wolves of dubious fanalysis.“), a sentiment which echoes darkly through the fandom these days. You could argue he pretty much spends most of the newspost trying to explain how to read the ending to come. And plus I can say this is a #ThrowbackFrihorse thing, even though it’s nowhere near Friday.

Spoilers ahead, those of you who have not yet finished reading Homestuck.

Andrew: There comes a time in every young Homestuck's life when they must face the fact that a notable comic author has swindled them into getting on a bus labeled "cool updates", only to swerve said bus off the highway and into a precipitous gulch of unmitigated sadstuck. But the old wives tale says that sadstuck was just a thing that happened in our fanfics, the bus children wailed. That's what they said about the tricksters too, a veteran child in the back replied. They said the tricksters would never see the light of canon, but where are the doubters now? Where are they now. Propping up six feet of dirt is where. The veteran child is weirding everybody out, so they stop looking at him, and turn to the driver. But the driver is now a spooky skeleton and the kids lose their shit. The skeleton head does a creepy 180, and speaks his scary curse. Heed me bus youths, for I am the ghost of future sadstuck. I have traveled back in time and am on a bus for some reason I guess, to punish you for your maudlin fics. For every time you murmured sadstuck while having a feeling, for every fic you pastebinned by candlelight, my curse has grown stronger, and my legend, dumber. Then the skeleton ran out of stuff to say, and looking a little embarrassed, turned around again to keep driving. Then he screamed once he remembered the bus was falling. Thanks for listening to my short story. We like to have a good time here at MS Paint Adventures, The Website. The gigaplay is off to a rocky start of unhewn feels. If your kerchief has become too soggy with tears from emotion, skeleton terror, or just plain admiration for my skill as a short story writer (can't blame you there), and you wish to lighten the mood, I recommend moseying over to Paradox Space, which is currently running a 24 page comic I have written about Crowbar. I am alert to the desires of readers every single day, and the one thing I hear them clamor for above all else, is more stories about CROWBAR. We want more content about Crowbar, RIGHT NOW, they say, and make that content consist of 24 beautifully illustrated comic pages, MINIMUM. I just give the people what they want. Fortunately, Homestuck's Premier Felt Fan #1 Jones was available to do a spectacular job of illustrating this comic. My rambling noir-style monologues have never before overlapped such lovely artwork. GOD TIER TALK! I don't answer Q's about Homestuck much anymore. It was a practice which I think used to be some people's lifeline for decoding the enigmatic runes of this story. Now, since they can no longer depend on answers which I supply between horse jokes and snappy retorts, they are lost in the woods to fend for themselves against the wolves of dubious fanalysis. Pulling the ripcord on the Homestuck machine again, combined with recent story events, makes me think something FAQQY may be in order. The thing is, when you make a big story, and allude to rules for a complicated system dictating mortality, people tend to REALLY, REALLY want to understand how it works. Speculation naturally fills the vacuum in lieu of concrete data. Theories are crafted. Headcanons, congealed. Then, when additional data is presented (DEAD KIDS), which happen to chafe with fanon constructs, feelings run ragged, and Bullshit is called. Then Bullshit shows up, and says, you rang? And the fanonistas say, yes Bullshit. Look at this mess. LOOK at it. This in NO WAY jives with my views on what constitutes heroism and justice. Bullshit nods sagely while lighting its pipe. Earlier in HS when god tier folk were more scarce, the story was more cagey about these verdicts. The Vriska ruling was presented as a close call, which maybe could have gone either way. Then Slick smacked the clock to Just before it could settle, leaving the true verdict ambiguous, and the 'moral debate' intact, so to speak. But now that there are a lot of god tiers running around, with the stakes raised and the body count piling up, the game (or, story) is starting to be more liberal with its rulings. As in, more likely to come down hard on Just, Heroic, or Neither verdicts without intervention or obfuscation, helping us better understand the boundaries of heroic and just action through example. Not necessarily by moral definitions, but as dictated by the rules of a game. So that turns the story guy (sometimes known as an "author") into something like a ref at a basketball game. He blows the whistle when he sees the basketball guy (the "baller") take a half step without bouncing the ball. The home team crowd does not detect the subtle violation and goes boooooo! Those homers can boo all they want, but you know, the guy is really just some bozo with a whistle. The rules are the rules! There's reason to think there is a nuanced scale ranging from Heroic to Just inside the clock. There may be many shades of justice and heroism, some forms just barely qualifying to seal one's fate. But there's nothing nuanced about Alive vs. Dead. The result of a coin flip is absolute, even though there may be many subtle factors contributing to which side it lands on. Such as whether the coin is pure of heart, and whether the table it lands on has ever killed a man. You get a sense for the nuance of the judgment when it comes to these "close calls", like with Vriska, or more recently, with Jade. In her case, she was subject to mind control when she racked up her misdeeds, which ordinarily would probably exempt her. But it wasn't ordinary mind control. More like flipping an "evil switch", removing her ethical filter, thereby letting he personality come through, and giving her license to act on impulses which she'd ordinarily suppress. So this gives the clock something to work with. Still, her behavior is compromised, so it's by no means a slam dunk. (BASKET BALL! that is still the metaphor.) So it's very close, and perhaps the clock even spares her... except for Aranea, whose luck lets close calls break in her favor, and nudges that needle one hair to the Just side. Very unlikely that happens if it's not close already though. Jane's situation is basically the same, and so is her verdict. How about Jake? He's the only player who's had two rulings. The first time, he was blustering Ronald Reagan quotes at the top of his lungs when Jane forked him, which I think we may agree safely disqualifies him from heroism (though the Republican party may disagree). The second time was ruled Heroic, when he took a realmaginary ninja sword through the chest for a friend. This corresponds pretty closely with most people's definition of heroic, so I doubt anyone would consider this one controversial either. Dave? Probably not much to debate here either. Fighting while attempting to save a dead friend, to bring her back to Jane for resurrection. There's a moral element here, tied to common ideas of heroism, so there's not much in dispute. When factors stray somewhat from moral notions of heroism, that's when there is more fuel for debate. So what about Rose? Wasn't John killed by Jack under similar circumstances to how Rose died? So why did he survive, and Rose didn't? The circumstances were very similar, on the surface. But I would suggest that the similarity of the two situations, both leading to different outcomes, helps clarify the rules in play, not confuse them. The reason for this? SCIENCE. If you were a scientist in this fictional world, trying to test this fictional construct, these are the exact kinds of situations you would seek out to prove or disprove whatever hypothesis you had. Situations that are very similar, with most factors isolated, and varying only in minor and controlled ways. That's how you would start to understand where the line is between heroic and non-heroic conduct. So what varies between the situations? What line does Rose cross which John doesn't? It becomes pretty obvious if you break the two scenes down. John was standing there, poised for battle with Jack, for all of two seconds before Jack auto-stabbed him from behind. Not even to speak of the underhanded tactic by the villain, I think what's more important is John didn't even get a chance to move. Or specifically, to prove through action that he was prepared to do battle with a foe. In fact, hindsight may tell us he wasn't. He hadn't been through much then. But years later, when he reenacted that scene with Jack through a dream bubble, he was ready that time. He had years to think about that moment, to reflect on the damage caused by Jack, and what he might have done differently if he'd been more prepared, and if the battle wasn't cut short. But during the first encounter, there was no time for heroic intent to translate into action. Compare with Rose's situation. Her feelings are unambiguous. Her mind is made up, and committed to action in the form of forward motion. Sorry Rose, you took a few too many steps through the paint on your drive to the hoop. Gotta blow the whistle! The two similar situations illustrate where one of the lines are for heroism (as a game rule, not moralistically), and in this case, that line is action. It would seem it's not good enough just to have heroic intentions or bold feelings. It doesn't cut it to strike a pose and look cool for two seconds. The intent should be expressed through commitment to an action. The action is what proves the intent. For all we know, John wasn't ready to back up his posture. For all we know, he was terrified! Rose wasn't though. Her action proved it. Why does Rose lashing out in vengeance count as heroic? If you wanted my personal opinion on heroism, I would say a vengeful act is not heroic by itself. We all have our ideas on what heroism means. But I think this is the wrong question to ask. The concern here is less about the moral definition of a heroic act, and more about how heroism is defined in terms of a series of rules which a game system can enforce. Based on some evidence we have, and some things Doc once said about god tier immortality, it's pretty safe to make at least one generalization about heroism as a game construct. The game/story regards your behavior as Heroic if you make some effort to defeat or kill someone who is villainous (or in other words, someone worthy of a Just death). The state of the hero's mind is just an additional consideration, such as whether they happen to be motivated by anger or vengeance. But let's imagine for a moment that a vengeful act is automatically unworthy of heroism, even if directed against a great evil. Wouldn't this be a MAJOR loophole for god tiers to avoid dying heroic deaths? It would mean to qualify as a hero, you couldn't feel anger toward a villain who has almost certainly done something to provoke anger. If a hero ever experienced loss at the hands of a villain, their natural emotional state would exempt them from the heroic consequence of the actions resulting from that anger. They would be completely invulnerable to a villain, so long as they maintained a grudge! The thing with villains is, they tend to have a way of inflicting loss on others. If being wronged precluded heroic behavior, villains would suddenly discover heroes to be incredibly rare commodities. There's a lot to think about here. It's a combination of how you want to morally define heroism and justice, and how to pragmatically construct enforceable rules to that effect. The latter is something that can get very technical, and boil down to hairline actions such as whether one exhibits clear enough forward motion or such, roughly the way sports are officiated. There's no way I'll ever come up with a full list of rules, or even get much deeper into the rules than I have here. But I believe this is a rational outline for the way the subject may be examined, if you wish to do so!!!

[caepaecaesurae]

Caefora’s Internal Dialogue #7

> ... A response, from Pal.

Today at 5:57 PM deterministpalindrome liike ii appreciiate knowiing yeah? 2ooner2 way better than later iit'2 ju2t. yeah. ii appreciiate the dii2tance and tryiing not two do anythiing 2tupiid and ii can try two be ciiviil and 2hiit but ii'm not 2ure ii can do tact. mo2tly becau2e ii'm ju2t bad at iit u2ually. 2o. yeah. 2orry.

sugary-empress >Man, if that was him appreciative, you'd hate to see him mad! You're less mad than before. He's grovelling, so it's better. caepaecaesurae > It's about as hard for captors to apologize as it is for peixes and amporas...  It's a lot easier if you imagine having to say those words to another person. sugary-empress >Hmm... True... Yeah, you'll allow it. Apologies blow, which is why you never do anything you'd need to apologise for. caepaecaesurae > ... Yeah you do, you just suppress the idea that they might need an apology. sugary-empress >Name ONE time you did that!!! caepaecaesurae > Every time. sugary-empress >Okay, true. But still! sugary-empress >You try your best. 38( caepaecaesurae > And that's important -- but so is honesty, in all of the cases where it's more effective than lying. sugary-empress >Honesty is historically way worse for you than lying. Remember that time it made Sal be terrifying at you??? Honesty isn't a good call, ever. caepaecaesurae > Figuring out which goes where is hard. sugary-empress >It literally Can't Be Done, your only choice is constant lies. >Well, your only GOOD choice. caepaecaesurae "Really, anything but deat)( threats I can shrug off -- maybe next time you feel the need, rephrase it into a demand instead?  The t)(reat is implied, and that wvay wve don't havwe to wvorry about it and can skip directly to being reassuring!" sugary-empress >Yeah. He probably won't agree to that, though. caepaecaesurae > ...He might!  ..maybe.  Maybe?  Never know if you don't try! > Optimistm time! sugary-empress >Oh, you can provide the optimism! caepaecaesurae > So can Cae!  Together, they can believe! caepaecaesurae > ..subconsciously check bracers.

deterministpalindrome alriight 2o thii2 ii2 me beiing ciiviil 2o. no? iit wa2 a threat. ii wa2 beiing threateniing two a threat. ii'm not goiing two be /niice/ two 2omeone ii'm threateniing???? and ii'm 2ure a2 fuck not rea22uriing you about me threateniing you or anyone el2e threateniing you iif they felt the need two. that completely undermiine2 the whole /threat/ thiing yeah? ii don't tru2t you. at all. and ii'm not goiing two pretend otherwii2e. and ii'm wiilliing two be ciiviil and keep 2hiit on the back burner but ju2t becau2e ii'm giiviing you a chance doe2n't mean ii'm not gonna do 2omethiing iif you fuck up. and ii'm 2ure a2 hell not goiing two be 2neaky and hu2h hu2h about con2equence2 2o ii can fuckiing 2priing them on you je2u2. deterministpalindrome ii know half of you know2 me goddamn u2e that

caepaecaesurae > ...Still feeling pretty threatened and not okay.  Maybe pal isn't the best target for optimism, here.  He responds well to not being interacted with at least ... ? "I meant that wve could skip directly to me reassuring you I wvasn't going to do wvhatevwer it is each time, but my bad.  Nevwermind.  Thanks for civwil, I'll just...not talk to you until this is ovwer probably." sugary-empress >Sure, that reply was good, but a fun alternative: "I meant t)(at maybe if you could muster up a s)(red of compassion for t)(e )(alf of my being you consider a wort)(w)(ile person, you wouldn't send t)(at )(alf into paralyzing bouts of fear, but it obviously isn't important to you, or at least, not as important as assuring t)(at someone w)(o )(asn't been a t)(reat in a w)(ile doesn't suddenly START being a t)(reat BECOD Cae is in )(er pan now. Bye, )(ave a nice nig)(t!" >Both equally valid options, but HOW can you CHOOSE caepaecaesurae > ... you sort of want to send the second one but you also don't want to die. > ...but, you know, they would bring Cae back, and he would definitely bring Tyfora back if she died over this. sugary-empress >Well, there you go! It's consequence free! Go for it. caepaecaesurae > Fun times in impulse control central. sugary-empress >Honestly, you'll probably feel differently as you're dying, but as a concept: this is going to definitely be worth it. caepaecaesurae > That's always how it goes, but oh, the satisfaction of hitting enter.

http://geminidoomed.tumblr.com/post/158175247146

caepaecaesurae > ...You do sort of like thinking of yourself as a god of vice or desire.  Or chaos.  Or protection.  Or the eponymous "pauses" and "cutting short". > You just Never Admit It near clowns who don't like that. sugary-empress >That seems Entirely reasonable!

deterministpalindrome oh no ii don't thiink 2ugarhag ii2 a threat /becau2e/ cn'2 iin her head. 2he'2 /alway2/ a threat. ii don't care who 2he'2 fooled iintwo thiinkiing 2he'2 changed but ii'm not one of them and ii've never been 2hy about that. telliing her that 2hiit ha2n't changed ju2t becau2e 2he ha2 a conviieniiant meat2hiield now ii2 ju2t layiing down new rule2 a2 ciircum2tance2 change.

iif you don't do anythiing ii'm not goiing two kiill you. ii promii2e on my tiitle on my 2iign on the name ii haven't even earned yet.

and me talkiing two you ciiviily? that ii2 my attempt at compa22iion. ii'm wiilliing two actiively giive you a chance two not fuck up. two giive her the chance two lii2ten two cn about not beiing awful. two not brii2tle every tiime you talk two me. two keep my face 2hut and offer you friiend2hiip whiile 2hiit'2 awful.

and let me tell you. gettiing guiilted over tryiing two be a2 2upportiive a2 ii can? two do 2omethiing ii don't liike becau2e 2omeone ii care about ii2n't left out iin the black? yeah not a good 2tart two po22iible friiend2hiip there. kiind of makiing me regret doiing thii2 at all.

caepaecaesurae > ..and Cae is at a loss for words again, getting the vaguely nauseous feeling. caepaecaesurae > There's no control over whether or not people think they're /doing things/, and it just ... sugary-empress >Fuck that guy for doing the bare minimum and then trying to make you feel like an asshole! Fuck every bristly threatening Captor, right in. Uh. Well, fuck them, anyways. >This sucks and you don't deserve it. Well. You maybe kind of do. But Cae's here too! 38( caepaecaesurae "Good talk." sugary-empress >Yeah, he doesn't deserve to be talked at by you. You guys are done with him. caepaecaesurae > ...talking won't help, all it does is give more chances to make things Worse, except when /not talking/ makes it worse ... sugary-empress >Ughhh. caepaecaesurae > ...you try to gently put that train of thought to an end.  It's not productive, and there are better things to do with your time. > ... How do they feel about having a .. .. drink is considered, then discarded.  A smoke?  There's a vaporizer in cae's sylladex, it has nicotine but it doesn't leave any nasty buildup in gills..

caepaecaesurae Good talk. deterministpalindrome yeah fiine good luck doiing whatever caepaecaesurae 👉

sugary-empress >You've never smoked before! No time like the present. Ooh, maybe things like nicotine and caffeine and alcohol will actually affect you like this. caepaecaesurae > Hey, may as well.  Worst case, Cae has a taste for them and knows the good stuff. > Time to smoke on a device that looks vaguely like a metal cigar with LEDs and toggles and a clear glass tank of liquid in it.  It smells...like Caesurae.  Vanilla, anise, tobacco. sugary-empress >You've got whipped cream vodka, that's the good stuff, right? Smoking, though. Nice. Media indicates you're at least fifteen percent cooler now. caepaecaesurae > ..the sense of 'the good stuff' will take some retooling, but... there's probably some girly liquers that might suit both sides of them fairly well.  Time to teleport to a counter space, and start crafting a mixed drink, layer by layer.  Something fruity, with enough spices to make the flavor complex. sugary-empress > 38D !!! This fusion is fun! Nobody wants you guys to have fun, but by gods, you will if you have to pry the fun from their cold, dead, hands. caepaecaesurae > If they could just stop freaking out... sugary-empress >They never will. Well, they'll stop freaking out at Cae when he isn't stuck in here with you, but this is your life forever. No going back. Mixed drinks are fine, but you also take a sip from a bottle you were using to make your drink, because that sounds faster. caepaecaesurae > Your hand tries to hesitate ...  Alcohol is lovely, but you'll get there when you get there.  May as well enjoy the ride -- and the attempt.  Right? > You can waste hours this way, and there are so very many hours. sugary-empress >Fiiine. >... That last part is definitely true. caepaecaesurae > They'll be strong mixed drinks, and each will be Perfect.  ..and worth savoring, an inch at a time. sugary-empress >Why do you complement each other so well??? Sure, sometimes you turn into a positive feedback loop of impulsive terrible, but you're managing this pretty well, you think. caepaecaesurae > Is it really a surprise that the man who lives and breathes denial so hard that reality listens, and the woman from a dream-like reality where things work because they Must have coherent worldviews? > ..particularly since Caesurae's parts seem willing to bend and be accomodating about most things as long as they aren't moral issues or emotional highs. > ..and something not dissimilar on Tyfora's side.