#I don’t need the ac fandom rolling in here wondering what the fuck is going on XD

[fossegrimmen]

The Medic & The Big Pissy Cat

Pairing: Olivier "Lion" Flament x Håvard "Ace" Haugland

Fandom: Rainbow Six

Description: Ace finally gets to show of his medical skills off.

Note: This is my first fanfic, so constructive criticism is wanted. Enjoy

--

If Olivier’s life could get any worse, first he gets punched in the face by Thatcher. Now he has to wait in the sick-bay waiting for a medic to give him the all clear. Olivier, really wasn’t looking forward to having Kateb give him a lecture on how his words to their British counterpart were brash and arrogant. 

“You know what Flament, if you wanted my attention all you had to do was ask.” The Norwegian accent pierced the almost silent room.

“Haugland, I am not in the mood to deal with your theatrics, so how about you get Kateb and get me out of this fucking sick-bay.” Olivier demanded. 

“Fine. Have it your way. Oh and by the way the Doc ain’t examining your injuries, I am.” Håvard grinned as he spoke. 

As Håvard rolled his chair over the laminated floor, to become face-to-face with Olivier. 

“Olivier, can you tell what month it is?”

“Really?” Olivier began questioning the Norwegian’s practices. Håvard just stared back at him, egging him to respond to his question. 

“The month is September, are you happy now?” 

“Yes and can you tell me what the date is today?” Håvard once again asking with a softer expression

“It is the 21st” 

“What year is it?” 

“2020”

“Look straight ahead and keep your head still, please.” Then a light flashed into Oliver’s eyes. “Merde, you didn’t need to flash me you know.” However, Håvard didn’t reply and just kept inspecting Olivier’s face. 

As Håvard was inspecting the injuries on Olivier's face, Olivier noticed the change of expression from one of fun to one of concentration in a matter of seconds. This got Olivier thinking, how does Håvard just change with a flip of a switch. Like yes, every operator has a professional side to them, yet there is something different in Håvard, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.  Olivier’s thought process was interrupted with Håvard breaking the silence once again. 

“Well, good news, you don’t have a concussion. The cuts aren’t that bad either, well not bad enough to warrant the use of regular stitches, so I am gonna clean the wounds, put a steri-strip on and then you are free to go. Okay.” 

“Whatever you say Haugland, the quicker the better.” Olivier quipped back with impatience. Håvard rolled his eyes, as he moved to retrieve equipment needed for the quick procedure.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what made Thatcher, you know, hit you in the face?” Håvard asked while motioning the punch. Olivier gave Håvard a questioning look, but decided it would be better to answer the Norwegian, than to leave it in the air. 

“All you need to know is that I said something and the old man didn’t like it and the rest lead to me being stuck here with you.” As Olivier was talking about the incident, Håvard began cleaning and patching up the wound. 

Olivier once again began studying Håvard’s face, as the plaster was being placed on the cut. Olivier started to notice, little things, like pale freckles littered across his face. Or how when he concentrates, Håvard tilts his head to an angle. Once again Olivier was ripped out of his thoughts with the sharp movement of Håvard snapping his head back into position. 

“No wonder why Gustave didn't want to assess your injuries, you can’t seem to stop moving your head.” Håvard stated as he rolled away from Olivier’s proximity to the desk. The clipping of keys filled the crisp sterile air. 

“Anyways, Flament. You are all patched up now and cleared for duty. So you are free to leave, unless you have any other questions for me?” Håvard questioned. 

“My Hero”, Olivier stated sarcastically, further adding on “who knows i might even give you a five stars on your yelp page.” As Olivier moved towards the door as he was chuckling to himself, Håvard once again interrupted. 

“Yelp page? I don’t have yelp? Should I make a yelp?, Flament, what is yelp?” Håvard going into overdrive into branching out onto a new media page. 

“Relax, Haugland, it is just a joke. Please take my advice, DON’T MAKE A YELP PAGE.” 

“Okay I will take your advice, if you take some advice from me.” Olivier nodded in agreement. 

“Just be careful with our teammates, especially those who can knock you out. I rather not carry your ass back to base.” The worried look hidden behind the joyful gleam in Håvard’s eyes said it all. 

“Who knows, Hero, I might take you up on that advice.” 

And with that Olivier left the medical sector of Rainbow, with a smile and small plaster on his face.

--

Sidenote: Yes I do know that the Thatcher incident technically happened before Ace join Team Rainbow. But lets just pretend it happened in the same year as Ace joining.

[jacepens]

Hi I see that you're taking requests so if you're not too busy, I got something for you: do you remember the Assassin's Creed thing that Tyranny of King Washington game? Yeah, so a tyrant King George Washington AU but also involving Lafayette as like a French prince or something who is placed in an arranged marriage with George?? And like Lafayette is slowly goes corrupt like his husband and they're soon like this completely sexy evil power couple kinda deal?? Thank you!

Anon how dare you know my heart so well!! I recently played Assassins Creed III and the Tyranny of King Washington. I don’t know if you know the story behind it, because this is definitely based off the game but hooo boy this is incredible. Thank you so so much for giving me an excuse to rant about this. Because oh my god I adored playing Tyranny. (And making fun of King Washington.) 

Real quick: for those who don’t know the game (which might also be you anon, I don't know) the reason that in the Tyranny of King Washington, Washington goes absolutely insane with power, is because he’s got an Apple of Eden which is an Assassin’s Creed thing that’s basically an old godly relic that is extremely manipulative and powerful. But anyway, here is your little story that I had way too much fun with :)

EDIT: I just added a few morbid details to some of the things Lafayette asked for because I felt they were quite important to see. So you know, if you read this before you saw those details, I’d recommend you at least glance at it again;). EDIT 2: ok ok sorry to be so indecisive but there is now just a dash more sexy at the very end.

Spoiled Rotten to the Core

A burst of golden light was all it took to bring men to their knees. Was all it took to conjure visions, control minds, bring entire countries to their knees.

King Washington. The name alone made anger rise hot in his chest, made him remember and grieve all the things that name stole from him. 

Being Prince of France in a war-shaken world made everything he’d ever dealt with before feel like nothing. 

No one was powerful enough to stop him. Hundreds, thousands, tried and they all ended up in the same place. Six feet underground—if they were lucky, that is. He’d read it was quite common for decaying bodies to be left strewn about the American countryside with no respect for life or death. It was despicable.

But then, King Washington made Lafayette an offer he would be a fool to refuse.

Famine, war, destruction, plague—it all weighed heavy on Lafayette’s mind. He had done everything he could to secure his country alongside his father, the King. They were one of the few countries still standing that had not fallen to the plague of America, and they were one of the world’s last beacons of hope.

King Washington, who seemed to live on another plane of existence entirely, descended upon their country with fury and destruction in his eye. 

Lafayette hunkered down, sobbing and waiting for the worst to be over knowing that they were done—they were finished! 

Miraculously, they were still standing at days end. 

And then King Washington promised his country could continue to thrive and be sovereign and independent from America—all he had to do was marry him. 

Before Lafayette was able to make the choice for himself, his father was already throwing him on a boat and carting him off to the capital of Washington’s new world. New York City.

Washington’s palace was a grand threat looming over the shore. And Lafayette’s heart was caught in his throat. 

When the boat docked, the area became flooded with eager people, so tightly packed together nothing could break through.

Lafayette was paraded through the city like a prize. Their new King! They cried, weeping tears of joy, but Lafayette wondered if those tears were not of joy but of sorrow. 

Lafayette was granted permission inside that grand structure they called the palace with a blindfold over his eyes. It was yanked off once he was inside and he was allowed to gawp at the sheer opulence and magnificence of the interior. The exterior may have looked like a threatening symbol, but inside? Why it made Lafayette’s heart soar in a very particular way. A way that his heart craved to feel again.

Meeting King Washington was a strange experience. Just like the feeling he got in the palace, he felt the same way about Washington. Cool, stoic, and wearing decadent clothes only worthy of a King.

He gripped his scepter that brimmed with power, and Lafayette was drawn towards it. He craved that gentle golden light that King Washington possessed, craved the power he gained. Worst of all, he craved Washington. 

When he gripped his chin and stared into his eyes, as if he was inspecting a piece of fine china, Lafayette felt an unfamiliar sensation shudder through him. Would he disappoint? Washington left without a single word being said, and Lafayette felt traitorously like he wanted to scream and demand he come back that instant. 

He was laid to rest in the comfiest of beds and surrounded by the hundreds of beautiful things that had caught King Washington’s interest over his years as ruler. 

Was that all Lafayette was to him? He wondered with growing sickness. A beautiful Prince that happened to gain his interest? Interest already so quickly moved on. 

Their wedding was lavish and a display of pure opulence. Lafayette was gifted a grand new ensemble to get married in, and dozens of new outfits to show his station as King. King Lafayette. 

A crown was placed upon his head and the crowd chanted his name, thousands of people from below. Lafayette was overcome with adoration for the people below, and the way he understood he could now control them.

He laid in bed with Washington that night, unused to seeing him in such an informal air. The only thing exchanged was a few kisses before Washington suddenly screamed and shouted that he needed to leave at once. He saw that possessive glimmer in his eye, all for that damn scepter, and Lafayette left him to go back to his own room.

He was disappointed to say the least.

As months with Washington wore on, Lafayette understood more and more that he really was there to serve as some sort of pretty pet. But one that Washington readily spoiled.

All it took was Lafayette pressing a few kisses to his lips, and whatever he wished for was his.

He wished for many things as the boredom grew. He wished for paintings and artifacts from across the world, new animals to be displayed in the zoo, and even a little poodle to try and take the loneliness away. As his boredom and curiosity grew, he began demanding more unique experiences. What possessed him to do so, he wasn’t sure. When he asked George for a traitor to slaughter, so he could revel in the sight of their sickly blood slowly draining out them by Lafayette’s almighty sword. When he asked, begged, pleaded if he might throw them in the tigers den just to see what might happen. The angry thought burned in his heart—it was what traitors to King Washington deserved.

Until it dawned on him heavily one day that there was only one thing in the entire world that could make him happy. Two things, perhaps. 

The power, and the one who wielded it.

He smiled as he entered the throne room to see King Washington, quickly turned to look at him, a little smirk dazzling his face. Lafayette quickly set himself down in Washington's lap, as he knew he so enjoyed, and quietly pressed kisses to his cheek and down his neck.

It was strange, the way he enjoyed him. They hardly ever exchanged a word together and yet here Lafayette was, working to earn his affections. His arm encircled around his waist and Lafayette sighed and shifted closer. 

“You want something else, don’t you?” Washington purred, suddenly bringing his lips to Lafayette’s neck.

He let out a gasp, “Only your affections, my highness.”

“Ah, but you earned that long ago.”

“Did I really?” Lafayette giggled, pressing his nose to Washington’s, “Because it’s my understanding that husbands who love each other are supposed to share.”

Washington roared, suddenly shoving Lafayette back, but Lafayette held firm to his throne. “You dare.” He hissed, unmistakable anger coursing through him.

“Don’t you see it, my highness?” Lafayette dropped to his knees before him, “you chose me for a reason. Two is better than one, don’t you agree?” He hummed, dragging his palms and digging his fingernails up Washington’s thighs. He continued to fume above him, but Lafayette could practically hear that resolve chipping away, could hear a faint humming his ears. “Ah, do you hear it? Bring it out, show me that golden apple and it will show you just how much you need me.” He whined.

He watched with anticipation, could see it like a shivering line around Washington as he reached and pulled the apple from it’s scepter. Lafayette sat up, trying to press forward, his heart hammering loudly, seconds away from everything he could ever dream of—. 

He began weeping as Washington pressed it into his palm, tears rolling down his cheeks as his eyes were opened to the knowledge of the universe. He saw strange men with godly powers crushed by this apple, he witnessed entire galaxies being birthed just with the tap of a finger, he saw the way into every person’s heart, he felt every weakness suddenly overwhelm and consume him before he could begin to breath fresh air again. 

King Washington took the apple from his hand, and brought him up into his lap again. Lafayette grinned, a sickly dark and previously unknown grin to his face. His fingertips brimmed with power that he could feel rushing through his veins. He saw the way to destruction, a clear path ahead of him with Washington at his side. 

“You are beautiful, you know.” He heard Washington growl in his ear, breath hot.

Lafayette hummed and then leered, mind overflowing with new ideas. “Then allow your beautiful King to show you his gratitude for granting him such a gift.” He purred, sliding back down to his knees.

This world was not yet the last they would conquer. 

[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part i

AO3    part ii

Fandom: Call Of Duty 

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 4.009

Summary: Russell Adler should have known better that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees.

Warnings: just swearings, sexual tension, blood, mentions of past abuse and brainwashing. adler being that manipulative asswipe like usual. 

Author’s note: i don't know what i'm doing. one moment, i was watching the walkthrough of the new call of duty game, found myself curious, acutely curious by that guy with the scars and shades on- a younger, shadier (no pun intended) Robert Redford in Spy Game and oh my... fast forward to 2 weeks later, here we are.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A house somewhere on foreign soil,

Where ageless lovers call,

Is this your goal, your final needs,

Where dogs and vultures eat,

Committed still I turn to go.

I put my trust in you.

A Means To An End - Joy Division (1980)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It's mystifying how little she talks. Or when she does, it's always in fragments. Like a crossword puzzle in your local newspaper, but several letters are missing. He initially thought maybe MK-Ultra fucked her head or worse, if it hasn't worked at all, but the more he watches her, the more he realizes it's just the way she is. And it's ironic because he named her Bell. He expected her to chime like a goddamn goldfinch yet here they are. 

But he won't be fazed. Russell Adler is a man who's stopped at nothing in getting what he wanted before, he sure as hell won't stop now for a close-mouthed science project.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We've got a job to do, Bell."

It intrigues him, every time, the way the words trigger something deep within her psyche, the way her eyes change, her body stands a little straighter, like a machine ready to function at his disposal. It reminds Adler of one of those cartoons he watched when he was a kid about wizards and magic words, except there are no musical dance numbers playing in the background or a talking cricket perching on his shoulder. This is his power over her, over the USSR, over Perseus. That monstrous filth. It really does take a beast to tame another. 

Although he surmises calling Bell one would be superfluous. 

She barely looks like one, but Adler knows too well than to underestimate her. Just because Bell hasn’t shown her set of claws, that doesn’t mean she’s harmless, delicate, like a miniature China Doll in his breast pocket.

Bell never offered him her reply before, but now, now, she nods, head almost bows, obedient pretty thing, and says:

“Yes, Adler.”

So it goes.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It takes West Berlin for Adler to realize she’s left-handed. 

She wears her watch on her right hand, smokes with that same said hand only when she’s writing or moving her pieces for an impromptu late-night game of chess against Lazar. And she always wears her gloves all the time- leather, black, lined with silk and pretty, small buttons on the cuffs, covering those striking red nails underneath. Whether it is for the theatrics or an old habit of hers, he can't really tell.

He doesn’t know why he begins to take notice of these mundane details about Bell, but rationalizes because he’s never been in the same room with this version of her, post-brainwash Bell, for more than 10 minutes. And for all intents and purposes, there’s still a lot of question marks surrounding her character; who is she? Where did she come from? What is her connection to Perseus? 

Are they in a possession of a walking, breathing bomb about to destroy them all or the West’s only salvation?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler hears Bell from his table, typing busy on the computer- barely blinking- all soaked up in that caffeine-infused energy at 1 am. She's always like that, he learns, when it comes to working, always with that steel determination, pulling out all the stops as long as it gets the job done- that Soviet discipline at it's finest.

Reminds him a little of himself when he's young.

Adler walks up to her. 

“You done for the night?” A shake of her head is her only response. He sighs. “You should go home, Bell.” 

“You go. I’ll lock up behind you,” Bell replies, low and monotone; that youthful stubborn.

If she was any other person, he would probably commend her for such fierce willpower, but she is Bell, the walking conundrum, his ace in the hole. Call him paranoid, but the idea of her having the safehouse for herself does nothing but raises every alarm in his head.

“No, we’re going home,” he says instead, tone brooking no argument and she frowns at the screen, her fingers stop moving then looks up at him with those goddamn empty eyes. "Come on, it's late anyway."

She doesn't say anything. Adler wishes he could read her mind- or crack that lovely skull on the back of her head, dissect her brain, learn its secrets and answers. 

Adler has his gun with him. It wouldn’t take long. A quick, true shot to the heart to keep the brain intact. He’d have Hudson contact one of his people inside BND and he'd deliver the brain himself if he has to. They could do it. He heard they’ve been studying inmates' brains for decades now, anyway. 

Before he has a chance to entertain the idea further, though, Bell nods once and rises up from her seat. 

Bell walks past him. Her scent, like honeysuckle on ice, hits him like an uppercut in the face. Adler inhales, as if against his will. 

He thinks he could get drunk on it.

“Hop in. I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” he says once they’re outside, regretting the decision the moment the words left his lips, but he knows he can’t just leave her on her own at this late hour.

The irony isn’t lost on him, though, considering he just thought about unspooling her brain a few minutes ago.

Bell complies without a protest. Getting inside the passenger seat, wordless still, fingers toying with the radio. An angry, krautrock music comes blaring all over his car. Adler winces, but at least the riot is loud enough to muffle the one's brewing in his head. 

"How's your memory these days?" 

Bell shrugs. "Nihil novi sub sole." There's nothing new under the sun.

Good, he muses. The least she knows about herself the better.

Though that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet.

"Listen, from now on, I want you to keep me informed if there's any new progress about your memory or if you've developed any new symptoms. I want to know everything." He steals a sidelong glance at her, making sure she is listening (she always does, but Adler needs an excuse)

(An excuse for what?)

"Alright, Bell?"

"Of course," replies the woman in question.

"Good." Adler shifts his attention back to the road. "Good." Taking a long drag, he considers trying to appeal to her sentimental side. It's not something you'd improvise last minute- at least not with someone you brainwashed to believe you are her mentor/confidant for the past decade, but he's itching to know where he stands with her.

"You know, I'm just tryin' to look out for you, kid."

Her lips twitch but the rest of her visage remains impassive and faraway, more like a flick knife than a woman. The correlation is uncanny.

That's when she inches closer. The space between them bridged. He freezes. Hyper-aware of just how dangerous this is, but can’t bring himself to pull back, to look the other way. Not when her hand reaches out to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, eyes still glued to his, and curls her lips around the filter. One heavy pull, and then she rolls down the window and tosses it out on the side of the road.

"Thought I'd reciprocate the sentiment."

And with that, she leans back in her seat before Adler could even process what has just transpired.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Adler greeted her, about a month ago. 

Park had insisted that he had to be there for her when she woke up (naturally, Adler had balked at the idea, but at the English woman’s fact-of-the-matter explanation, also because it had somewhat dawned on him last minute the logic behind her machinations- “both of you are supposed to have known each other for years now. If she doesn't see you by her side, she’s going to wonder why”- thus, here he was)

“How are you feeling?” 

Bell blinked owlishly and stared at the older man with those bottomless, cat-like eyes that had haunted him since January.

Her gaze eventually softened as recognition flickered across her face.

“Like someone just hit me in the chest with a bulldozer,” she said hoarsely. “Where are we?”

“St. Dismas’ hospital, Pittsburgh.” Adler got up and fetched her a glass of water from the table. “Although not a bulldozer, but bullets did. That, and you hit your head really hard on your way down. Thought we’d lost you there, Bell.”

Bell drank in silence. She’s still watching him, thinking. This was the first time he realized that he couldn’t exactly read her expression and somehow that threw him off.

“What happened?” she asked, one hand mid-air, like she was deciding which to touch first, hesitating and abandoned the idea. 

“You don’t remember?” She shook her head. Adler pretended to look remotely distressed about it. “The doctors warned me about this. It must have been because of the fall- heck, I could even still hear that sickening crunch from here.” He dragged his chair closer towards her bed.

“We were in Amsterdam. Remember Fohler?” she shook her head again. “Well, we’d been tracking this son of a bitch for months, but we were chasing him in Amsterdam. He was running away and climbed up some scaffolding. You were about to go up after him,” he recited the fabricated story he, Park and Hudson had crafted. “He shot you and you fell and hit your head against the pavement.”

Bell looked away first, silent. Her hand gingerly touched the back of her head and winced, albeit only slightly. 

Adler was almost impressed, if not, disarmed by how calm and composed her reaction was to all of this. But then again, after having had witnessed first-hand how the woman barely flinched under any kind of interrogation technique they threw at her- a personality built for wrestling tigers- he really shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Bell, what is the last thing you remember?”

Bell frowned. “Not much. I remember ‘Nam, but-”

“Vietnam? Kid, that was thirteen years ago.” Adler watched the way her throat bopped, like she was swallowing her own blood and the color drained from her face, just like the first time he’d seen her, and proceeded to drop the bomb:

“Bell, the year is 1981.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Bell dear, would you mind taking a look at this?" 

Park's voice sails from across the room. She says it like it's a compound word: Bell-dear. Like the two words belong together. Bell-dear. 2 syllables, 1 word, 9 characters and that just might be the weirdest thing he hears this year and he heard many things.

"Bell dear?" Adler asks much later, his gravel-and-smoke voice reduced to a whisper, when she delivers a document to his table.

Park shrugs as if that explains everything. "What? I like her." 

He's tempted to say you really can't put a term of endearment and someone you brainwashed into submission in the same sentence, but what else is new?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They wind up in a bar. It’s called Die Stube and the place’s brimmed with artists and all sorts of leather-clad, Bowie-esque dramatic, chromatic blue eyelids young people chattering over a dirty cloud of smoke.

The two of them colonize a lone booth in the back. It’s dark and the quietest. She orders a beer and he, a scotch and they drink in silence. There are moments where her head would twist to the side, as subtle as a needle and survey the phantasmagorical scene before them, like studying something from a petri dish. 

While he’s watching her.

Only to tear his gaze away to the nearest object he can find.

It lands on his watch.

"It’s almost ten. Hudson's contact should be here soon," he announces, if anything to distract himself. She nods mutely in reply, as always, and runs a finger around the rim of her glass.

"The place ain't much of your scene?" 

She shrugs, like it's self-evident. "I didn't know this was a scene, though."

"Well, that’s West Berlin for you. A worry-free playground for the hedonists, hipsters and proto-electro NDW enthusiasts with drugs on tap," Adler says, sipping his drink in practiced nonchalance. "Always makes my head spin."

"I guess I remember it differently," Bell replies, tinged with something akin to begrudging. 

That warrants his full attention. "What do you remember?”

Bell shrugs again and lights a cigarette instead, menthol, one of those long, skinny cigarettes they only market for women; biding her time, making him wait. She lets the smoke flares from her nostrils so her eyes are veiled.

"It’s hard to explain, but I suppose it’s grittier?” she gesticulates, searching for the right word like she’s skim reading the entire Oxford dictionary in her head. “Bizarrely, infinitely grittier and dimmer? Like being in an underground tunnel and there's not much to see."

Interesting. Maybe she’s recalling one of her ops for Perseus or her mind is confusing her with the world on the other side of the wall.

“Maybe you’re remembering one of our clandestine ops here. It was a few years after Vietnam,” Adler supplies, passing over the tale like bait.

She falls for it, hook, line and sinker.

“Ah, I guess that also explains my fluency in German.”

“I taught you that.” It’s only logical, he decides, that she learned from him. She’s supposed to be his protégé after all. 

An elegant brow quirk. "You did?"

"Yeah, though you were already fluent in Latin, Russian, Vietnamese and Portuguese when we first met anyway. You have quite a natural ear, kid.”

She gives him a look. He really can’t categorize it, but it makes it a whole lot harder to fight against her stare.

 “What else did you teach me?” 

If they were anyone else, the lines could have a potential to entice, to seduce, that winsome, catty-eyelashes coquette, but they aren't anyone else and Bell does not voice it like that. Yet the implication behind the question stirs something in the pit of Adler’s stomach anyway, that tight knot of confusion as it is buried with something else and he finds himself, once again, uncharacteristically speechless.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That particular question of her stays, even hours later, unbidden. Interspersed with her scent and face. 

His emotions are a minefield whenever she’s near now. It evokes that newfound rush of terror within him, like walking on a tightrope or being thrown into the pit to face hundreds of hungry lions, bare hands. It makes Adler questions his every decision, and he can’t have that in his line of work. 

Adler lights his sixth cigarette, contemplating everything, nothing. Anything to distract him from her. It's 4 am and he’s exhausted, but his mind won’t stop whirring. This isn’t like him at all- like he's lost somewhere in a Dali-style labyrinth that is his head and he wonders if this is a byproduct of his fear or fascination or confusion for the young woman.

He fears it is all of them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(They're only 10 minutes away from East Berlin when he senses it, something akin to burning on his peripheral vision, pulling him like weight.

Bell is staring at him from across the seat.

He cocks his head slightly to the side.

Adler catches the quick, telling quirk of her lips, like she's about to smile but lights a cigarette instead.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Did you hear that?”

Krauss has just crossed the wall and their soles are slippery from the rain. She's panting. Her breath is white like a fog. Adler muses it must be from the running, until his iris trails down to where her hand is clutching his jacket sleeve, the leather creasing like a modulation signal.

“What is it?” Adler asks, hushed. There are no Stasis here, but even one can't be too careful.

“The TV.” She’s gaping at the broken TV next to them. Adler looks at the said object, frowning, then back to her. “Y-you didn’t hear it?”

"Heard what? Bell, the thing's dead."

Bell withdraws from him. Stepping back until her back meets the walls, her eyes seeing and unseeing, like a lens finding focus in the dark, then she closes them, as if trying to regulate her breathing. Adler has never seen her scared shitless of anything before. The sight confuses as it intrigues him. 

"Bell, what's going on?" Adler steps closer, but he dares not to touch her. 

She shakes her head, dismissive. In just a span of seconds, Bell dons that mask she likes to wear again; deadpan and frustratingly distant. A spike of annoyance drives through him. Just when he thinks he can get through her, there she goes again, retreating behind her palisades.

"Nothing." Bell turns away abruptly and she’s walking again."Let's just go. The others are waiting for us."

He doesn't pry about whatever she heard on the TV- Adler knows better than to beat a dead horse, thank you very much- not even after they save her from Volkov's clutches, after she bashes his head against the steel door and reeks his blood all the way home, it seems superficial at the time.

Until two days later.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The day starts, as it mostly does for the team, with a briefing. 

Fifteen minutes in and something like a gasp pulls his attention to her. 

That’s when he notices it; her hands are shaking, coffee spilling out of the mug over her hand. A shatter follows. Her mug smashes to smithereens at her feet. She’s swaying, near collapse, like a house of cards about to fall, a hand on her nose.

Adler catches her before she tumbles to the floor.

“Bell!” His arm around her waist tightens, trying to keep her steady. Lazar rushes to their side in a flash and helps him move her to a nearby chair. 

"Jesus Christ," he curses, more to himself than to her as he watches blood, a bead of angry red, trickling down her nose. "Sims, get me a washcloth from the bathroom."

He kneels before her once Sims returns with a damp cloth. Nicotine-stained gloved fingers tentatively grasp her chin, holding her still. 

“Kid, you alright?” Adler asks, worry bleeds into his voice without him realizing it. He firmly presses the cloth under her nose, his other thumb touches the pulse at her throat- it's almost sickly affectionate. “Bell, talk to me."

Bell looks at him, discombobulated, like he's a figment of her imagination, then blinks. Again and again until she heaves a deep breath.

"I-" she hisses. One hand flies up to her head. "Fuck. My head.”

Adler’s eyes immediately search for Park’s. A knowing look passes over her face and he knows without saying that she's thinking the same thing, like they're attached to the same brain-wire:

MK-Ultra.

There’s a fraction of pause, then Lazar asks, "Should we give her something?” 

Before Park can voice her answer, Bell beats her to it. "I already took an anticonvulsant this morning. It should have helped.”

“Wait, this has happened before?” Adler asks.

Bell looks away, a hesitating look shadowing her face. He fears the worst.

“Bell…” he tries again, a slight warning to his tone.

She sighs loudly, as if mentally preparing herself before walking into a storm. 

“Yes. Two days ago."

His mind instantly refers to East Berlin, the TV. Trying to connect the dots in his head. It seems far fetched, but now he wonders if she saw something that triggers this. Although he's never read about this on other subjects before, the correlation is just impossible to ignore.

Fuck. He heaves a breath, willing himself to calm down, to think. They can't afford complications at times like these. Not when there's so much at stake right now.

Adler snaps his attention back to Bell when she tries to scramble awkwardly to her feet, swatting his hand away. The hand on her neck immediately reaches for her waist again and pushes her back down onto the chair. His grip's tight enough to leave marks on her skin, but he doesn't care.

"Bell, for fuck's sake, stay still or so help me," he says, exasperated, not letting go of her waist. 

"I feel better now." Stubborn little shit.

He is tempted to scream at her face and grab both of her shoulders and shake. “The hell you’re not. Stop fighting it. You’ll only make things worse.”

Her face sours, if only for a millisecond before it morphs into guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Adler watches her for a long moment. It’s only now that he realizes that he’s still holding her waist and the cloth on her face. 

He backs away from her like he’s been burnt. 

“You should have told me. I thought I made it clear the other night to keep me informed regarding this,” he scolds. 

“I’m sorry,” she utters again and she looks so pliable like this, a blank canvas perfumed with obedience and lethal mind. It makes him almost feel sorry for what he has in plan for her once the shit show is over.

“Look, just go back to the hotel and take a day off.” Her mouth cracks open. He raises a silencing hand. “That’s an order, Bell.” But she merely scowls, looking more like jagged ice than a person. Hudson may have just met his match, after all.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“That’s not how it looks to me.”

“It is. It’s my body and I know what I’m feeling, and I’m telling you, I. Feel. Fine.”

His jaw clenches. “Are you disobeying a direct order, agent?”

Bell doesn’t answer, but her whole face remains challenging and hard. Undeterred.

Adler holds his breath. He feels the whole room collectively does the same. It’s like staring down the barrel of a gun and there’s an awful sort of danger to be found in that. 

Just when he thinks an imaginary bullet would dig itself into his skin, however, Bell utters, “Of course not.”

And so the woman resumes to her normal, docile self at a drop of a hat. Even when Park steps in and whisks her out of her seat, drives her back to her hotel with Lazar on shotgun. 

It doesn’t assuage his worry, though. He’s still restless throughout the day, like a roaring ocean inside a bell jar. She’s never done this before, openly rebels against him. Now, the situation is just bad. Not casually bad or almost-got-shot bad, this is the-entire-Europe-could-turn-into-a-nuclear-wasteland bad, an-armageddon-waiting-to-happen bad. 

What if this is the beginning of her old self trying to scratch her way out of the surface? Adler’s blood goes cold at the thought. He is going to have to keep a close eye on this development.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

West Berlin - 1 am, local time.

“How is she?”

“Stable. I’ve administered another dose of Propranolol before I left the hotel. She should be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

“Tell me, what do you think happened to her?”

“My theory? Traumatic brain injury. A cumulative product of torture, trauma-based mind control and chronic stress. I've read reports about cases like these before in MI6. None of them is still alive to recount the tale, unfortunately."

Adler grips the phone. 

“How long do you think we have?”

“Theoretically, 2-3 weeks tops.”

“But?”

He hears Park sighs on the other line. “But then again, none of the subjects I’ve encountered before were like her. So, I suppose it’s still a little too premature to determine at this point."

Adler kneads his temple, feeling the start of that familiar Bell-induced headache forms in his head. Can things just be fucking simple for once? 

“We don’t have that much time anyway, Park. And if Hudson gets a wind of this, he’ll want her gone by morning. I can’t let that happen. Not…” he pauses. “Not when we are this close.”

"What are we going to do about her, then?" 

Adler sighs.

"Raise the dosages of her drugs,” he says. “And keep an extra eye on her. I think we may be heading into uncharted waters now.”

Tagging: @mvalentine cause you said to tag you with everything i write so  👁👄👁

[heyybrittannia]

Reminiscence - First Tempo

A/N: Hey, ya’ll! Been a while since my last posting. Proud to say this is my first foray into the rabid Haikyuu fandom, and it’s an Ukai angsty-fluff fest. So glad to announce that this fic has been brought to you by the Haikyuu HQ SFW Collab! Do check them out. This month’s theme was Amnesia~! Look out for Second Tempo on my secondary blog or DM me for the link.

========================

“Miss? Miss, are you okay?” 

“Shit! I didn’t mean to--!” You woke to a sea of faces swimming into view and a cacophony of voices and rubber squeaking toward your downed direction. Head throbbing and body aching, you groaned as you tried to sit up, only to find you couldn’t. A wince tore through you as your back hit the smooth, polished gym floor. Sneakers squeaked as more people rushed over to peek in on the aftermath of what you assumed was a wayward serve. “Oi, nothing to see here. Get back in formation and run that second drill. Ingrates,” a gruff, older voice drew closer. Blinking up into the rafters of the gym, another face came into your line of sight. Older, weathered with age and tanned with decades in the sun, the coach knelt beside your head, blocking your view of the ceiling. “Give her some air. That was some hit you took.” “Y-yeah...didn’t see it coming.” He rested a firm hand on your back as you sat up, head spinning. The old man grinned and clapped you on the back, almost knocking the wind out of your smaller frame. 

“Hopefully the other team agrees. Can you stand?” Nodding, you took his arm and rose to your feet. Unsteadily, you gave the old coach a small grin and took a moment to gather your thoughts. He returned it in kind and then glared at the bench. “Keishin!” he barked. A boy with sharp eyes and a shaved head jolted up from his conversation with who you assumed was the team advisor and looked over in your direction. You couldn’t place why, but for some reason your heart rate picked up when he locked eyes with yours. The old man gestured for Keishin to come over and you hung your head to hide the flush creeping over your cheeks.

“‘Sup, gramps?” 

“It’s not like you’re doing anything. Make sure she gets home okay.” The player knelt down to gather your things and let out a small huff of irritation. The old man gave you a knowing smile and returned to barking orders and veiled encouragement to his team. Keishin ushered you from the practice gym with a roll of his eyes. “How fucking stupid can you be?” His gruff words confused you, left you caught between your own irritation and something akin to heartache. “I don’t know what you mean…” you replied softly, gathering your books to your chest. It wasn’t your first experience with Keishin Ukai, or his terse persona. You shared some classes together after your transfer to Karasano, but his mind always seemed to be stuck on volleyball. Part of you admired that one-track focus, but he always left you wondering if there was more to him. 

“Dumbass, the court isn’t for little girls.” You scowled and scoffed at his words, your own volleyball gear tucked discreetly away into the bag the younger Ukai had slung over his shoulder.

“I...I was dropping off a book for Shimada.” He scoffed at your reply and continued to lead you down the block. It wasn’t like Miyagi was a big prefecture, but your head throbbed and the streetlamps were starting to flicker on with the impending sundown. You two cleared another two blocks before he stopped and ground his teeth with a low growl. “What’s the matter?” “...Where do you live?” You had been content to let him lead you through the streets, oblivious to the idea that he didn’t actually know you or your life. A soft giggle left your lips and for a moment, Keishin looked like he was either going to throttle you or run away. “Another block, Ukai...you’re young Ukai, yeah?” He grunted and continued to lead you down the street, your bags slung over his shoulder. “If you’re asking if the old man is a relation, he’s my grandfather.” “It must be hard to live up to that,” you murmured thoughtfully, holding your books close to your chest. “It’s like a legacy thing, right? I mean, even outside of Miyagi the Old Crow is a legend, brutal as his methods are…" “Legacy...sure.” It was your turn to lead as you rounded the corner to your apartment building. You tucked your hair behind your ear and offered a small smile. You held out your hand to take your bag from him and he scowled at you, almost as if he was still contemplating your words. You turned away from him and fumbled for your keys. His hand lingered over your shoulder as you turned the key in the lock, mouth slightly open as if the words were waiting to come out…But they never did. You mumbled your thanks, cheeks a gentle pink as you waved goodbye, a wave he returned with a hesitant hand. The door shut between you and the audible click of the deadbolt sliding into place removed you from his presence, leaving him to simmer in his thoughts on his way back to his grandfather’s. He was a setter, strategic, constantly thinking, but with two sentences you had him reeling. Sure, he’d see you at school in some bullshit class he couldn’t care less about. Sure, you’d probably show up at the family store with your friends. Would it even matter? Would you be willing to pick up the one-sided conversation again? Would you grace him with the casual lilt of your voice or those tiny smiles you seemed more than willing to part with when he was around? Under the orange glow of the streetlights he trudged home, scowl growing darker the longer he thought about how you’d be just another face to forget. He had the game, his team to pour himself into, and you would be just another distraction. When he finally made it home, he crept up the stairs to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed with a groan. He didn’t want to admit that your dazed expression was the last thing on his mind before he eventually drifted to sleep. 

+++++

The shrill chirping of the game whistle broke him from his trance. Fatigue leached into his limbs and left Keishin feeling like he belonged on the bench instead of navigating his team to victory. Those early morning drills the old man had him running before the match as penance for missing practices were brutal. It was the end of the first set, and despite it being a scrimmage match against Nekoma the pressure was on to stay sharp. Old Ukai stood on the sidelines, those same sharp eyes constantly analyzing and adjusting the strategy as the match unfolded despite the near constant jeers from the opposing coach. The turnout for the match was modest considering the rivalry between the schools had been going on for well over a decade. You sidled into the stands with a member from the Karasuno girl’s volleyball team, eyes alight with the energy of the match. This was what you missed, what you thought you’d lose when you transferred schools to the all girl’s academy- the undercurrent of animosity between teams, the excitement of competition. As you scanned the court, your friend giggled at the sight of the tall, muscular wing spiker from Nekoma wiping the sweat from his eyes with his shirt, allowing them a peek of the defined muscles rippling just beneath his red cotton t-shirt. “He’s pretty cute, don’t you think, Y/n?” 

You made a noncommittal noise and continued to scan the court. The whistle blew again, signaling a time-out for Karasuno. The sudden halt in the game drew your attention to the gruff old coach and the shaved head of the younger Ukai. You couldn't quite make out what was said, but your eyes were glued to the bright white number two emblazoned on his back as he made his way onto the court holding his card. “Strange they’re calling him in. Think it’ll change things?” You tore away from his back and pouted at your friend. “I mean...he’s a setter, but he’s not the setter, you know? They must be hurting if they’re calling the benchwarmer in.” You shook your head and returned your attention to the game, eyes resting intently on Keishin’s back as he waited for the play. Brow furrowed, you strained to capture the fleeting recognition as your eyes followed him for the start of the play. The serve from Nekoma was brutal, but dug out and received well by Karasuno. Ukai waited patiently for his moment, giving a short shout as the ball came into his zone. Your eyes remained fixed on him as he set the ball for his own team’s ace, securing another point with a quick attack spike that had you cheering. Hearing your voice echo through the gymnasium, Keishin looked up into the stands and watched with a blushing scowl at your cheering. His teammates congratulated him on a return to rhythm and began another play quickly, all the while he became acutely aware of your eyes on him as he played. Your friend seemed more amused at your reactions to the match than eating the eye candy on the court below. By the end of the match, she was convinced you already carried a torch for a certain bench warming setter. “Y’know...I hear the boys’ team is looking for a new team manager. You should ask Coach about it, Y/n.” “I don’t know, Keimi...Pretty sure the manager needs to go to the same school as the team. Besides, I was hoping I could get back into the game.” “And this would be perfect!” “As a player, Keimi! I don’t know the first thing about managing a boys’ team!” The other girl grinned and nudged you closer to the two Ukai men, waving as she left the gym. “Aah, um, hello, Coach?” “Eh? Oh, it’s you! Come to see the scrimmage?” His gruff voice lilted with the same spark of recognition, but he quietly kept it to himself. You lit up, excitedly recounting your favorite moments while the younger Ukai silently took down the net and moved the match equipment into the equipment storage room. The coach nodded, his sharp eyes resting on you as you settled down. He chuckled, a rare sound from the reaction Keishin gave when he returned to carry another box of match balls off the court. “I take it you know a fair bit about volleyball with that kind of commentary, miss.” His comment made you diminish, sinking back onto your heels as you nervously played with the hem of your jacket. “Ah, you could say that...I just wanted to tell the other setter that he played a really good game!” Your shyness seemed to endear you to Old Ukai that he offered you an even rarer smile. Another pang tore at your chest; was this something else you lost in your abrupt transfer? Did you know him from somewhere through the fog of your spotty memory. The brewing distress bubbling in your thoughts must have read through your wilting expression, but he didn’t draw attention to it. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. In your fretting you failed to notice the older man tracing the pink puckering of your skin along your hairline curving harshly in front of your ear. The shiny scar told him all he needed to know about your predicament. Your mother had become a client of his daughter-in-law’s and a sort of lifeline for Keishin during your sudden absence from your shared classes; it was a tragedy that the old man found hard to swallow.  “I’ll pass it on. Is there something else you wanted to say?” Your words caught in your throat as Ukai the younger crossed his arms over his chest and stood next to his grandfather. Under the harsh gaze of two generations of Ukai you floundered, fidgeting as you struggled to get the words out. It was almost too much to bear, having the nostalgia resonate without any true justification. Finally you shook your head and gave a small smile. “I’ll see you around!” And with that, you jogged out of the gym. “What the hell was that about?” “Himewari’s girl was here. She caught the game. Said you played well. Don’t get a big head about it, kid.” Keishin blinked. A compliment? He couldn’t let himself hope that she’d remember everything, but your presence had to mean something. Shaking his head, he mumbled under his breath and hoisted his bag over his shoulder. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a slight twinge of pride-- you came back to watch his team, to watch him. More importantly, you got to watch him do more than warm the bench. His thoughts went back to the throwaway conversation you had about legacy almost a year ago and for a second he almost fooled himself into thinking you knew what you were talking about in passing. “I’ll see you at home, old man.” ++++ Years flew by, and with their passing you felt the weight of the changes that pulled you away from your youth. Your parents’ sudden split after your accident had you transfer to another school in another city with your father. Your mother stayed behind in Miyagi, the offer to come back and enjoy the stability you grew comfortable with before their eventual divorce always open. You thought it strange in your university days how Miyagi and your memories of it seemed distant, vague. Like they were just barely out of reach so you knew something was missed but you couldn’t quite place what. It wasn’t as if you didn’t completely lose those formative years; sometimes it was a feeling, a general sense of nostalgia when you stepped foot on the court, or when you caught the faint squeaking of shoe rubber on a laminated wood floor. It wasn’t until your mother got sick that you decided it was time to pick up your life and move back in with her. Finding a teaching job wouldn’t be too difficult. You viewed the transition as a chance to start off fresh. When you arrived in Miyagi, your cousins met you at the train station. The drive to your mother’s was awkward at best. Conversation attempts were met with half-hearted replies and years of apathy. It was a relief when your oldest cousin Miyuki pulled into the driveway. Your mother sat in the sunroom, patiently awaiting your arrival. “Mama,” you called, setting your bags down in the foyer. She let you wander the modest home until you found her calmly tending to her houseplants. She smiled warmly and in that moment you felt like maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad change. You rushed over to embrace her; she felt so much smaller in your arms than you remembered. She pushed you away to look up into your face, turning it left, then right. “You haven’t been eating enough, Y/n.” “Mama,” you sighed, pulling your head back. “I’m eating just fine. It’s hard when the kids have exams and training camps.” She leveled a deadpan glare at your diversion and wheeled herself out of the sun room and into the kitchen. “What? You know those kids are--” “They’re your life’s work. I know, Y/n. How can you expect to keep up with them when you’re lagging behind? Take care of yourself!” You blanched under your mother’s chiding. You knew she was right, and as much as it hurt for you to admit you were going to miss your students it wasn’t the time to dwell. As you chopped vegetables for dinner prep, your mother wheeled herself around in her wheelchair gathering spices and the rice cooker. “I...I think I have orientation tomorrow,” you murmured, tossing in your chopped spring onion and moving on to a large daikon radish. “I hope it goes well. I’d hate to get lost.” Your mother nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. Her expression was wistful, almost sad as you fretted over your new job. It had been almost a decade since the accident left you both in the hospital and changed everything. While you were lucky to be alive, the rest of the family had to wonder which one was luckier-- your mother lost the use of her legs, but you lost whole years. The silver scar along your hairline was the only reminder you had from that rainy evening when your world turned upside-down. “I don’t think you’ll get lost, Y/n. If you do, maybe you’ll find a handsome teacher to show you around!” Your cheeks flushed a deep red at the thought, withdrawing into yourself. “You aren’t getting any younger, you know...and I’d like to see my grandchildren before I’m too old to enjoy them!” “Mother!” you shrieked, cheeks ablaze with embarrassment. You barely had a handle on your life as a single adult, let alone adding a potential husband and child to the mix. The older woman hummed, carefully measuring out rice and stock for the meal, giving you a moment to collect yourself. Tomorrow would come sooner than you thought. 

++

“Here’s the faculty lounge. And this here is hallway B. Any questions so far?” You shook your head and followed the friendly face through the halls. “I’m Takeda, by the way. I teach Japanese literature.” His hand hovered between you, his smile disarming you for a moment before you reached to take it. “Y/n. I’m the new biology teacher. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He nodded and continued to lead you out of the building to the gym complexes. Takeda opened the door to Gym 3 and invited you in; suddenly that familiar wave of nostalgia washed over you as the Karasuno Boys’ Volleyball Team ran their drills under the watchful eye of their coach and team manager but you couldn’t place why. It was a familiar rhythm, though the cadence of their team was still off somehow. Takeda ran over to the sidelines with the coach and you lingered by the bleachers, slowly making your way over. Distracted, your eyes fell on the impressive black banner hanging off the balcony but your legs continued to move. It was the last thing you remembered seeing before everything went black. “Nice going, your majesty.” “Shut up!” “Miss, are you okay?!” “Back it up. I said back off! Give her some air for fuck’s sake.” It was an all too familiar sight when you opened your eyes. Sharp eyes and bleach-blond hair swam into view with the worried faces of who you guessed were the players running their drills. Recognition flickered across the blond thug’s face and he chuckled darkly, helping you to your feet. “Funny seeing you here again.” His voice was a low, rasping growl, a sound you couldn’t place but hovered at the edge of memory.

“What do you mean again?” The question bubbled up without a second thought. Disappointment stung worse than outright rejection. “Have we met before..?”

Takeda rushed over and panicked as you rubbed your forehead with a soft moan. “Y/n, are you okay?!” You waved him off and nodded, searching the thug’s face for some kind of answer. “I see you’ve met Coach Ukai.” The blond’s hand lingered on your back a moment longer than you felt comfortable with, but his name sparked something- recognition maybe. “I thought Ukai was retired...and older,” you replied, earning a scowl from the blond coach. “Unless...no.” The coach scowled, arms crossed over his broad chest. “So you remember the old man but you forgot me?” “I know him by reputation. His coaching method was efficient if a little unorthodox.” Takeda stepped in, glancing nervously between the two of you like he was about to mediate a battle between a lion and a wolf. “But you...I don’t think we’ve ever met before.” “Kageyama, drop and give me twenty. The rest of you, run that new play again. Third tempo.” He brushed past you and Takeda, but you weren’t about to let it go. You followed him to the outside of the gym and watched him pull out an abused pack of cigarettes. There was an odd kind of practiced grace that he exuded as he lit the paper and inhaled fire into his lungs. “What?” “I’m...I’m sorry,” you murmured, shyly looking away. Your words only barely registered, a brow raise and low hum the only reply you received. “There’s these...lapses in my memory.” “Can’t say I’m surprised. You make it a habit of taking serves to the head?” That touched a nerve. Flustered, you jabbed a finger into his chest and glared. “I’ll have you know I was a great player!” He grinned, inhaling another drag and blowing the smoke from his nose like some kind of dragon.

“Doubtful. The court isn’t a place for little girls, Y/n.” “How...I never gave you my name, jerk.” “Didn’t need to. It’s hard to forget a face like yours.” “Ugh, your poor wife,” you groaned, turning back into the gym. Keishin scoffed and flicked the ash from his cigarette with mild amusement. Though it stung to see your doe eyes alight with excitement in his gym again, there was something that warmed him to the thought of you being closer again. He might have been a pig, but that wasn’t going to keep you from finishing your tour. Keishin watched as you retreated, your gray slacks hugging your hips perfectly as they swayed with every step. He chuckled with a shake of his head and finished his cigarette with another long drag. Curiously, he returned to find you giggling with Takeda and Shimizu. While he only caught part of the conversation, he had a feeling it wasn’t anything good. Daichi picked up and had the team running the same play, this time in second tempo to perfect the new quick attack. “...So like I was saying, it’d be great to have you help us out!” Takeda finished. You nodded thoughtfully, eyes wandering to the team as they ran their play. Shimizu nodded in agreement, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I mean, you seem to have a strong sense of play,” he added sheepishly. “Definitely more of an idea than I did when I was asked to be a club advisor.” “Nope. We don’t need a little girl telling us how we need to be playing,” Ukai interjected. “Their formations are wrong. You can’t expect your upperclassmen to carry the team when you’re in a rebuild season. It’s irresponsible to think that you can attain victory while being so sloppy. It’s a disgrace to Ukai’s legacy.” He flinched at your words and unzipped his track jacket, throwing it onto the bench. “Big talk from such a little girl. You’ll eat those words.” The boys stopped their drill to watch the exchange. Nishinoya nudged Tanaka in the ribs and whispered loudly, “He’s not thinking what I think he’s thinking, is he?” Tanaka shrugged, unable to pull his attention away from the exchange as you kicked your heels off and pulled your hair back into a low pony-tail. Takeda stammered out something about a challenge being unnecessary, about how it was just an idea bringing you in as an assistant coach and that it shouldn’t be taken seriously but his pleading was ignored. The boys cleared the court, barring the three upperclassmen and the libero, grateful for the break and the show. You stretched, leaving your gray blazer on the bench with your heels. The feeling of polished wood under your bare feet had your fingers and toes tingling in anticipation. Daichi threw you the ball and you looked up quizzically. “House rules- visitor’s got first serve.” Sugawara nodded from his spot at the net while Asahi and Nishinoya waited on the opposite side with their coach. He grinned sadistically from his spot behind the net. “Good luck, little girl.” You bounced the ball once, twice, three times before falling into form behind the boundary line. Keishin waited for the inevitable serve, unaware of what he possibly was getting himself into...that is, until you threw the ball up in an unmistakable running jump serve. His eyes followed as your frame flew gracefully to meet the ball mid-air in a vicious driving serve. With the game in motion, you bounded back into formation, tracking the ball as the libero failed to dig your serve back to Keishin for a set. Stunned, Keishin let out a low growl and tossed the ball back over the net into Sugawara’s capable hands. “Lucky shot.” Daichi raised a brow with a grin. “Yeah! Betcha can’t do it again!” Noya chimed in. You caught the ball and bounced it again, taking your spot behind the service line. Once again, you flew to meet the ball in another near-flawless jump serve. Even Kageyama stood by, impressed by your form, the hangtime your body had before connecting with the ball. “It’s almost like she has wings,” Shimizu mused. Tanaka stood by, jaw slack, still stuck on the fact you were playing three-on-three in business casual dress. Noya dove to save your serve and Keishin adjusted to set up Asahi for a straight spike. Daichi dove to save, giving you a chance to dart into position when Suga readied his set. “Don’t hesitate!” you huffed, smiling brightly. This sensation, this indelible feeling of joy that came with playing the game had you feeling like it was the only thing that mattered. Your lost memories didn’t matter. The faces left forgotten didn’t matter. Nothing but the moment and the movement that came with perfecting the game, that was what truly mattered. Taking your direction, Sugawara tossed the ball daintily, allowing just enough air-time for you to meet it with another impressive jump. Your cross spike echoed as it connected with the floor, drowning out the grumbling of the head coach eating his words. Hinata whistled and jumped excitedly on the sidelines. “Looks like someone’s eating crow. That’s 2 and 0. Still think it’s just luck?”

With a huff, he glanced over at his three-man team and shook his head. “Fine, you’ve got some skill, but that doesn’t mean shit.” He threw the ball back over the net at you, scowl deepening. The match went on for another four sets before Ukai conceded. His sharp eyes watched your frame loosen up as you readied for another serve. The underclassmen on the sidelines watched with interest, especially Kageyama. The King of the Court analyzed your posture before you approached the line. He almost recognized the way your muscles coiled before the toss, how you crouched before throwing yourself into the jump to complete the serve. “Save it!” Asahi yelled, diving for the serve before it hit the floor. You wiped your brow and grinned at the coach sweetly, chest heaving slightly under your white collared blouse. You glowed as Daichi and Sugawara exchanged high-fives with you. With the color back in your cheeks and the smile you graced him with, Keishin Ukai stood stunned on three levels. How could you waltz back into his gym and not remember him? How could you come back and royally serve him on his home turf with his own team? How could you do it and look so breathtakingly stunning doing it? The boys gathered around and began drilling you with questions, each one more invasive than the last. “Where did you learn to do that?” “Yeah, you serve way better than Kageyama for sure!” “I take it you’ve played before?” “I take it you’re single?” Overwhelmed, you waved your hand and laughed, riding out the endorphin high. Takeda stepped in and handed you a towel and your shoes, dazed by your display of skill. Finally Keishin spoke up after shooing the boys away to the locker room. “C’mon. We’re leaving. Practice is over.” He pulled you by the arm and out of the gym with your shoes still in hand. “And you’re telling me more about where you learned to serve like that.” “Ah, I kind of need to get home…” you began, only to be silenced by his intense glare. “Or not. I guess I’ll tell them to not wait up?” He grunted with a nod and continued to lead you down the sunlit streets. The two of you must have looked odd, mismatched for a dinner date. Could you even call it a dinner date? He brought you to his own small flat, tilting his head inside the door for you to follow his lead. He rummaged through the fridge for something while you settled yourself at the table, legs tucked neatly under you. Greeted with the tinkling of glass bottles, he popped the top off his bottle and handed you the bottle opener, his eyes appraising you all the while. “So, where does a little girl learn to serve like that?” “I played through uni, but spent my second and third years of high school at Niiyama.” He chuckled. “Maybe I should call you little queen instead?” You sipped your beer and relaxed into your seat a little. He settled beside you and continued to watch as you made small little fidgeting movements, fussing with the pleats in your slacks, or how that one stubborn lock of hair wouldn’t stay tucked behind your ear. “So...what brought you back to Karasuno?” “My mother. She’s not well, and...I can’t just let her live by herself. It was easier for me to move out here than for her to come to me.” “And where were you before?” He took another sip, constantly appraising you. Did he dare tell you how he had been delivering your mother’s groceries and driving her to her appointments in your absence? Would it be worth seeing your reaction at this stage in the game? “I was a teacher at Shiratorizawa.” His eyes widened at that as he fumbled for his lighter. “I take it you did more than just teach there.” Your cheeks flushed and you looked down at your knees, holding the cold bottle against your legs. “I also coached the girl’s team until they found a full-time head coach for their rebuild season. The girls begged me to stay on as assistant coach. I couldn’t refuse.” You smiled fondly at the memory of your girls cheering and laughing during your last training camp with them. Your sudden shyness didn’t go unnoticed. “You know...your boys have a great foundation, but they lack refinement.” He shook his head and took a long drag from his cigarette, the tip burning bright red in the enclosed space. “You sound like the old man.” “You can’t bank everything on raw power alone. You need direction, finesse. Strategy. As a setter, as a coach you know this!” You sat in silence for a few moments after your outburst before he broke it with another sigh. “We don’t need another coach, little girl. But maybe...you could come help us with refining our younger players.” You grinned and nodded your head. “And maybe we’ll have a little rematch.” “Sure thing, Coach.” His heart skipped a beat, then two at your gentle teasing. This was comfortable, far more cozy than he would have expected your reintroduction would be. You eased back into his life as if you had never left or forgotten him or your almost-firsts from your years at Karasuno. Part of him wondered if you felt it, too. “Keishin. Call me Keishin.” Maybe forgetting your first meeting wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe a fresh start wouldn’t hurt, so long as he could keep it professional. One beer turned into two and you found yourself giggling into the table. Never one to handle your liquor, you hummed tunelessly while the blond watched. He slid in beside you and pulled your beer from your spot at the table, essentially cutting you off for the evening. You pouted sweetly at him and pushed your hair behind your ear again, his eyes following the motion of your fingers running through the dark hair. He caught the silver thread running the length of your hairline behind your left ear and stopped himself from asking the obvious question. “You want to ask about my scar. Figures a setter wouldn’t miss a detail like that,” you slurred with a giggle. “I don’t remember, but I’m told there was a car crash. Drunk driver, roll-over. My mom made it out worse than I did in the long run...but…” Your face grew somber, mind reaching for something just out of reach. “I have problems remembering anything that came before that accident, Keishin.” There it was-- the ghost of pain raking its cold fingers between you. Keishin took another swig from his beer and let the silence between you grow heavy until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Must have been pretty traumatic for you to forget.” You nodded numbly, smiling grimly. “They call it dissociative amnesia. I still get flickers, but...It’s like being trapped in a thick mist. And everything that came before being cut out of my mom’s car is on the other side, but...but I can’t…” Your eyes filled with frustrated tears as you struggled to get the words out. “Sorry,” you sniffled. Keishin rested his hand on your back, slowly rubbing small circles into the thin fabric of your collared shirt as you fought to collect your emotions. You leaned into his touch and rested your head into his shoulder letting the stray tears fall. Sensing his window was opening, he seized opportunity with both hands and pulled you closer, still rubbing those small circles into the small of your back. “I remember you used to come to every game when you were a Karasuno student.” A hiccup bubbled up from your chest and had you relaxing into his hand. “I remember thinking you were just there for the show, to stare at us guys on the court, but you kept proving me wrong.” He pulled you into the warmth of his arms, carefully gauging your reaction, and rested his chin on the top of your head as he continued. “You might not remember, but I definitely do.” “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

You felt his grin against your hair. “Like a steel trap, Y/n.” Keishin’s grin wavered as you settled into his warmth. He wanted to tell you how flustered he could make you with a look, or how you could get his heart racing when you screamed his name during his matches; you were always loudest when he came onto the court. In the back of his mind he wondered if maybe seeing the old man would help jog your memory. Would it even matter this late in the game? His fingertips danced gently against the seams of your blouse, his nose burying into the dark, silken waves of your hair. The slow, steady rhythm of your breaths tipped him off on your dozing. Your phone lit up with a text notification; it was Takeda. Jealousy was a hunger pang he hadn’t felt since he was a student. I.Takeda- Hey, Y/N! I wanted you to have the practice schedule just in case you changed your mind. :D See you soon!

It was stupid for him to be jealous. He was just a coworker, and one kind enough to show you around. It was harmless. Four-eyes was harmless. As you rested against his chest, a singular thought replayed on a loop in the back of his mind. “Maybe I’m taking this too fast for her.” You nuzzled into his warmth with a small, dopey grin and for a moment he swore he heard you sigh his name. For now it would be enough for him. He’d tuck your forgotten schoolgirl crush away carefully between sheets of rice paper. He’d remain cautiously optimistic that maybe you’d look at him with those same doe-eyes, that you’d give him the chance he didn’t give you before your world went black. You were weightless in his arms, unsurprising considering your size. Keishin carried you to his bedroom, carefully pulled your slacks off one leg at a time, and tucked you into his bed. He stood in the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest before pulling out his own cell phone. The glow of the screen was a soft blue as he searched his contacts for a familiar surname. He let out a long sigh when the woman on the other end picked up, voice terse, frantic even. “Himewari, you can call off the search party. She’s here.” “Keishin, thank goodness! I was so afraid when she didn’t come home.” He winced, groaning in shame. “Yeah, that’s my fault. I...kinda twisted her arm into coming home with me. But she’s safe. Asleep, but safe.” “She just couldn’t stay away, could she?” The amusement playing in the older woman’s voice was painfully apparent. Fingers fumbled with the lighter as he clenched a cigarette between his lips. “Could have told me she was an ace, Himewari.” “And ruin the surprise? It broke her heart to leave her girls, Keishin.” “I can only imagine. Get some rest, Himewari. I’ll bring her back in the morning.” “Be careful with her, Keishin. And don’t forget my groceries Thursday.” 

~ 

Morning came too soon for the former setter. Sprawled out on the couch, still dressed in his tracksuit, he groaned out into the pale yellow light. His headband sat forgotten on the coffee table with another two empty bottles and a dingy ashtray. He cracked a tired, tawny eye open to find you humming and bouncing on the balls of your feet as you scoured the kitchen for mugs. He sat motionless on the couch for a few moments more until he heard your footfalls draw closer. He could smell it- the hot, welcoming bitterness of the dark roast swilling in the mugs you brought over. A small smile crept over his features before he could stop it. It felt right, you sashaying through the room, legs bare with coffee to share was something he could grow used to. It was the most recent sleepover you shared with him since you began working at Karasuno. Your workshops with the volleyball club ran later and later until Takeda was forced to shut the lights down and you would begrudgingly leave the game on the court. Dressed in one of Keishin’s oversized t-shirts, you pulled your hair to one shoulder and gently nudged him with a warm hand. “Keishin,” you whispered, smiling softly when he inhaled deeply. “C’mon, Keishin.” He woke and wrinkled his nose. “‘S’early, little girl.” “It’s nearly eleven. We’re going to be late for practice.” “I’m going to be late, little girl,” he sighed, gratefully taking a hot mug from your hand and scowling after he took a sip. “Shit, too fucking sweet,” he growled out. You stifled a giggle and shook your head, gesturing at the mug you had placed next to his cigarettes. “Coffee isn't supposed to be sweet, Y/n.” “It’s not for you, genius.” You stood up, rising to your full height and cocked one hip to the side, leveling him with a bemused smirk all your own. In a way, it all felt comfortable, like this was how life was supposed to be. Even with sleep weighing his features down he was handsome. His hair was spun gold glinting in a pale yellow-gray morning. The spark of his lighter and the plume of blue-gray smoke that followed only drew your gaze back to him, the casual curve of his spine as he huddled over his first of what you learned would be many cups and travel mugs worth of coffee to offset the hangover he no doubt was still feeling. “Why do you always take the couch, Keishin? Don’t trust yourself?” You leaned into him, the flash of collarbones and soft skin enticing, teasing him to reach out and brush those long fingers along the line of your chest under his t-shirt. “I...uh, we’re colleagues. Coaches, it wouldn’t be--” “I’m just teasing you, Keishin,” you giggled, brushing his cheek with your lips in an innocent peck. His cheeks betrayed him, flushing deep scarlet as you withdrew to the bedroom. He took a drag and shook his bedhead. “Besides!” you called out as you hurriedly dressed for your own day. “I’ve got a meeting with the vice principal about the girls’ team. Guess their coach left them in the lurch and someone let slip a few things from my resume.” You bounded out with your messenger bag and your heels in hand, dressed in a dark blue pencil skirt and pale gray quarter-sleeve blouse that set his blood on fire. “Want me to walk you?” You shook your head and flashed him an impish grin, one he had grown to love over the past months. “We’re both going to the same place, after all.” “I think I can manage, Keishin.” He furrowed his brow, reaching out to grab your hand to stop you as you pulled away from him. “Y/n, let me.” It was your turn to raise an eyebrow. “Let me walk you just to make sure you get there safely.” There it was again, that pang of unease ripping through him like a razor through wet paper, like if he let you walk out that door he’d never see you again. “Please,” he murmured, dropping his hand. His cigarette smoldered in his free hand to the filter, forgotten in lieu of your departure. You hesitated, eyes furiously searching his face for answers as he pouted back. “Fine. But hurry up. I can’t be late again, Keishin!” 

~

You bounced anxiously in your seat in the vice principal's office. The club advisor, a stern looking woman with her graying hair cut short sat beside you. "So, I hear you coached at Shiratorizawa."

"Um, yes. Assistant coach." You sunk a little under her imperious gaze and she cracked a smile. "You're in the math department."

"I am. It goes without saying that we need a coach. Be a shame for you to squander your skills." Nodding thoughtfully, you chewed on the inside of your cheek and let her finish. So they didn't know about your impromptu workshops with the boys' team. Silently you thanked Takeda for his discretion. 

"So, how about it? I think we could really give our third years a worthy send off with you at the helm."

You couldn't fight the smile if you tried. Taking her hand, you shook it firmly and breathlessly murmured, "When do we start?"

~

"RUN IT AGAIN!" Daichi roared from the back line, Suga serving the ball over the net, only to be received by Noya on the other side. Asahi watched on as Yamaguchi fumbled a block and Tsukishima scoffed at the loss. Ukai scratched the back of his neck as Shimizu made notes on her clipboard for you to review. She and Yachi appreciated having another female presence in the club, even if it was a clandestine partnership at best. "Come on, guys, where's the hustle?" 

"Himewara's not here," Takeda murmured thoughtfully. Ukai nodded absently and said nothing. "Sometimes I think the team plays better when she's around."

"Asahi, get in there and show Tsuki how it's done. Hinata, where's the focus?" Keishin snarled. Takeda shrank under his roar and sighed as Ennoshita missed another block. "Just because Himewari isn't here doesn't mean you can just dick around!" 

The attention in the gym was pulled to the opening of a door and suddenly all eyes were on you. Your chest was heaving, a smile lighting your features and making you seem years younger. It was the same look you had when you had a chance to play. 

"Hime-chan!" Noya hooted, bounding over only to be held back by Asahi by the tail of his shirt. "Lemme go, Asahi!" Your laugh carried through the gym like music on the wind as you jogged over, heels in hand to the coach and managers. 

"I got the job," you huffed breathlessly. Keishin's eyes widened. All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, the edges of his vision growing hazy. A sickening knot in the pit of his stomach twisted in on itself and it was hard to breathe around the nagging pang of angst. It was what you wanted, to be involved in the game again. Why couldn't you be involved in his? 

Takeda spoke first, hand resting supportively on the coach's shoulder. "That's great! Congratulations! I'm sure you'll be leading our Lady Crows to victory in no time!" 

"Guess that makes you the Queen Crow, right, Himewari?" Tanaka grinned. Hinata jumped for reciprocal joy, squealing about how he couldn't wait to watch you kick their counterpart team into shape to take the W. 

"What about our workshops, coach? We were just beginning to perfect that sneak attack with Hime-"

"Stop, stop, guys," you began, pushing the boys away as they closed in. "I'll still be around to help, but my team will have to come first." That one hurt- a wince flitted across Keishin's usually stoic face, an expression he had hoped you'd miss but he knew he wasn't slick or lucky enough for that. 

Did it mean that you'd stop coming around? No more impromptu sleepovers? No more dinner dates with Shimoda and the other alums? No more whispering sweet nothings into your hair as you snuggled into his pillows? The longer he thought on what your new position meant, the sicker he felt. Without another word, he brushed past the team and beelined for the door. 

"Michimiya's going to be excited to get started, Himewari," Daichi commented off handedly as you rose on your toes to see past the sea of bodies blocking Ukai's departure from view. 

"Excuse me," you sighed, following the same track set before you by the setter-turned coach. You found him in his usual spot, leaned against the brick and mortar on the far side of the gym, puffing away at another cigarette to calm his fraying nerves. "Keishin. Keishin, what's the matter?" 

Silence. 

Undeterred, you pushed on, grabbing him by the muscular forearm. "Keishin," you said firmly, eyes burning up at him with concern. "You can't tell me you didn't see this coming…

"This is huge, Keishin. We can both lead our teams to victory without being rivals. Keishin, say something!"

He continued to blow smoke into the midday sky wordlessly. His mind raced, fitfully searching for a rationale behind the sudden surge of emotion he felt. He should be proud, but he only felt threatened. What was he going to be to you after today? Would he just be another face? Would you forget him again? 

"I won't be just another forgotten memory again," he murmured, more to himself than his audience. You pulled on his black sleeves and frowned up at him, repeating his name as if it would pull him back to you. 

His lips tasted like smoke and salt, the flash of hair and skin that followed, the tangle of fingers through raven hair and the sensation of all the air forcing from your lungs made you dizzy. Keishin gave a gentle tug of your lower lip with his teeth and pulled your head back by the hair, baring that delicate throat to his wandering mouth. 

"I won't be forgotten, little girl," he growled, the rumbling of his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Be mine and earn your wings, little girl." The drag of his teeth along your neck sent you into a frenzy. "Or just be mine." 

Whimpering, you wrapped your arms around his neck and fell into his advances. It was always him; his face was always the one just out of reach when you'd struggle to remember your life before the accident. There was never another after and there never would be. 

[queenlua]

Ace Attorney case tier list

so, in the past year, i finished replaying games 1 through 5 for the first time in forever, and also played game 6 for the first time ever

so here’s where i ruthlessly rank each of the cases based on that most scientific metric of all, My Opinions:

OPENING CASES

S-tier: Turnabout Trump (4-1).  I already knew this case, and I still gasped with surprise when Phoenix showed up, and when Kristoph showed his true colors, and when Apollo realized OH SHIT OH FUCK I REALLY AM ACCUSING MY BOSS OF MURDER HUH... what a wonderful, splashy, shockingly concise case to open up the post-O.G. trilogy world.  Marvelous.

A-tier: Turnabout Memories (3-1).  Seeing Mia Fey (finally!) in action is a long-awaited delight; seeing Phoenix being a total dumbass was an unexpected-yet-perfect and fitting delight.

B-tier: The First Turnabout (1-1).  Solid lil’ case with some conventional-but-well-executed humor.  I’ve got a soft spot for Larry Butz.

C-tier: The Lost Turnabout (2-1), The Foreign Turnabout (6-1).  The former’s fine but a little forgettable; the latter has some fun gags (Payne’s ridiculous new outfit, dude absolutely shredding on the mandolin, etc) but is marred by how uh... kinda silly the game’s core conceit is, lol

E-tier: Turnabout Countdown (5-1).  The context surrounding this introduction is just sloppy (badly handled in media res + let’s lowkey retcon game 4 isn’t a great setup), and also the case itself is just. irksome. ted tonate is just fundamentally irritating to look at

FINALE CASES

S-tier: Bridge to the Turnabout (3-5), Turnabout Goodbyes (1-4).  No explanation needed.  God they fuck so hard

A-tier: The Cosmic Turnabout + Turnabout for Tomorrow (5-4 + 5-5), Turnabout Succession (4-4).

The former two cases are what makes AA5 worth it, and they make for a tremendously fun ride.  It fumbles the execution in some notable ways (Apollo’s sudden j’accuse moment feels a little forced/awkward/inadequately foreshadowed, and damn it sure would’ve been nice to know Clay Terran at all before he died, and also The Phantom’s final meltdown could’ve used a bit more emotional heft)... but okay let’s be real, I’m here for Simon Blackquill, and this case gives me so much of him so who gives a shit.  (And Aura!  Condescending obnoxious engineering queen!  I love her!)  

As for Turnabout Succession... while I earnestly wish the game had explored more of Klavier’s feelings about this whole setup, and some more emotional beats for Apollo, the case still makes for such a satisfyingly twisty and fun investigation overall (the poison stamp! what a ridiculous murder method! I love it!) that it’s a more-than-worthy finale.

B-tier: Turnabout Revolution (6-5), Farewell, My Turnabout (2-4).

The former does some cool stuff—I particularly like the opening half, where Apollo’s being real snippy and coping with Frankly Bizarre Dad Feelings, and giving Apollo a chance to finally throw down against Phoenix is a blast.  The latter half of the case starts feeling a little... ridiculous? cramped? idk? like, they didn’t do nearly enough foreshadowing about Nahyuta’s whole deal for me to care about his drama, this justice system is so obviously silly and the manner in which the revolution is playing out strains my already-suspended-sky-high disbelief... fun, and flashy, but more noise than signal in the last part, I guess.

As for Farewell, My Turnabout: of course I love Edgeworth rolling back into court goin’ through SOME kind of bizarre emotional arc of Hey I’m Totally Healed Now and obnoxiously preaching about Truth TM.  And it’s cool that the game set up a case where you want to lose.  But the net result is a bit strange tonally—it’s trying set up some kind of message about It’s Not Just About Winning, It’s About Pursuing The Truth, but it feels really muddled when that’s combined with Okay But Maya’s Literally Being Held Hostage Like Right Now, Surely A Reasonable Justice System Has A Process For Dealing With This Obviously Complicated Situation, Right?

but also Franziska takes a fucking bullet (how did I forget about that) and then gets to roll in like Ms. Save The Day so, really, lots of good shit here

FILLER CASES

S-tier: Reunion, and Turnabout (2-2), Turnabout Beginnings (3-4).  Look, the first one gives me all the Fey family drama a girl could ask for, and the latter gives me young Edgeworth being a total shit in an obnoxiously shimmery outfit.  The whole enchilada is here

A+ tier: The Magical Turnabout (6-2).  DELIGHTFUL!  MAGICIAN!  SHENANIGANS!  Like you get to guess the trick behind a magic act as part of the case, how fucking fun is that, and also the Apollo & Athena duo’s chemistry is perfect, the villain is a FANTASTIC bastard, and even the bit characters you meet during the investigation are total delights... Probably the best “standalone” case in the series, in that it doesn’t rely on any emotional connections to previous cases (unlike 2-2 and 3-4) to still totally and completely rule.

A tier: Turnabout Samurai (1-3), Turnabout Reclaimed (5-DLC).

For Turnabout Samurai, I remembered before this replay how delightful the TV SHOW STUDIO investigation and actor-fandom stuff was; I had TOTALLY forgotten Vasquez calling in her mob connections to try and wreck you.  What a fantastic villain; what a fun case.

Turnabout Reclaimed is just good solid goofy nonsense.  Probably receives a boost for me in particular because, yeah, Simon Blackquill.  But then again who isn’t giving cases a boost on that account; they are MISSING OUT

B tier: The Stolen Turnabout (3-2).  Ron and Desirée are so great sighs into hands

C tier: Listing roughly in order of preference: Turnabout Academy (5-3), Turnabout Serenade (4-3), Turnabout Sisters (1-2), Recipe for a Turnabout (3-3), Rite of the Turnabout (6-3), Rise from the Ashes (1-5).

Four of these (5-3, 4-3, 1-2, 3-3) are perfectly solid cases; I just don’t love them quite as much as “thievery hijinks” or “Hollywood hijinks” or other such particularly delightful flavors.  Everyone has a favorite flavor of Jolly Rancher and all that.

Rite of the Turnabout is interesting and connected with the larger themes of the game in a cool way, and makes good use of the divination mechanic.  However, the last bit gets twisty enough to actually be kind of confusing, and said larger themes of the game are... kinda hard for me to take seriously... which, yeah, leads to it feeling a little stilted when it really should be singing.

Rise from the Ashes landed awkwardly for me.  I know it was added well after the first game’s release, and it does a good job of continuing some of the cool stuff from that game—it’s neat, in isolation, to see Phoenix and Edgeworth working together (while still sniping at each other!), and some of the DS-specific mechanics are neat.  However, I just didn’t feel like I learned quite enough about Ema and Lana to care about them like I should, and retconning “(almost certainly true) rumors that Edgeworth was involved in Shady Shit TM” into “actually Edgeworth was totally ignorant of Shady Shit TM, like at worst his crime was willful ignorance / incuriosity, he was just been manipulated by the Police Chief”... makes Edgeworth less interesting to me!  Like, it’s cool to see Edgeworth caught off-guard and under pressure, but I wish the circumstances had been different?  Also Gant’s theme song is annoying as shit, which is petty but hey this is my blog post so

D tier: Turnabout Storyteller (6-4), Turnabout Corner (4-2), Turnabout Big Top (2-3), The Monstrous Turnabout (5-2).

Turnabout Storyteller has some fun gags with My Dude Simon and also Taka, but was heavily marred by Everyone Talking Down To Athena The Entire Fucking Case Oh My God Can You All Just Shut Up.

Turnabout Corner has... lots of fun elements but... look the fucking stolen-panties setup just grates ok

I don’t think I hate Turnabout Big Top the way most people seem to, but I did find the final murder setup more annoying that I remembered this playthrough—bro you were really sure the dude was going to conveniently stand right there and the heavy statue was definitely going to strike a killing blow and not just give the guy a concussion?  ok lol

The Monstrous Turnabout suffers mostly from poor puzzle/investigation design, being too hand-hold-y, and also having a core gimmick/setting that just wasn’t really my thing.  Alas!

[happylittledrabbles]

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Pairing: Koutarou Bokuto x Keiji Akaashi

Rating: M (non-graphic smut, cursing)

Warning(s): Major character death

Genre: Angst

AO3

—

"When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me."

He first noticed it when they were on vacation. And there's no changing the diagnosis.

He first noticed it while they were on vacation.

Bokuto’s hands are cold as they slide up his husband’s torso; spending all day out in the frigid, Icelandic air clearly left its footprint on their skin. That is how they ended up in this position in the first place: Bokuto had not-so-subtly suggested they should do this to “warm up,” and Akaashi didn’t have the courage to deny him. Losing his calm demeanor, Akaashi gave into the neediness in his body and the puppy-dog look his husband had mastered whenever he wanted something.

“They’re still cold,” Akaashi mumbles, tilting his neck to the side to give Bokuto’s lips more room to roam. He flinches as they go further and further down into more sensitive territory until the cold is too much to bear. “Ugh—stop, I’ll do it. I’m warmer.”

He pushes the bigger man off him, his eyebrows furrowing as he uses more force than usual. Has Bokuto been putting on weight? He looks the same…

He rolls on top of his husband, seating himself comfortably in his lap. Akaashi’s thighs frame Bokuto’s hips in a way that makes Bokuto shiver, and it brings a satisfied smile onto the dark-haired man’s face.

“Whatever will get those pants off,” Bokuto comments with a smirk, lifting an arm and bringing Akaashi in for a kiss by the back of the neck. Their lips pull away with a smack as Akaashi busies himself with removing both their shirts. Bokuto’s eyelids are heavy, his breath coming out as puffs as he gazes at the beautiful Greek god of a man on top of him. “You’re right, you are warmer.”

They are just beginning to move together when Akaashi’s arms, holding him up as his hands fisted the bedsheets, suddenly give out, his muscles feeling like Jell-O.

“Feels that good?” Bokuto asks with that dastardly grin of his, but Akaashi isn’t having it. He tries to push himself back up, his arms trembling with the immense effort he is putting in until they give out once again, leaving him frustrated. He would roll his eyes affectionately at Bokuto’s insinuations, but he is genuinely perplexed. He isn’t even close to finishing—they had only started two minutes ago, for Pete’s sake. He has yet to start feeling good, so…?

“I’ll take over from here,” Bokuto eventually says after watching Akaashi struggle for a few moments. He finds the sight of his husband huffing and blowing the locks of hair out of his face exasperatingly as he adjusts himself incredibly amusing, but it’s hindering their time together. He rolls Akaashi gently onto his back effortlessly; meanwhile, Akaashi’s arms are still trembling mysteriously. What the hell? Thoughts of frustration overtake the thoughts of lust in Akaashi’s mind, wondering when his husband got so much stronger than him. Had it been because he hasn’t gone to the gym in a while? It must be that.

Bokuto gladly continues their lovemaking session despite Akaashi’s difficulties, and Akaashi finally gets to that ‘eyes rolling from pleasure and not annoyance at his imprudent husband’ point. But that moment of sudden weakness stays in the back of his mind, only resurfacing in that post-sex clarity.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, scratching his lower back as he ambles over to the bathroom to clean himself up and pee. He’s washing his hands when he smells smoke.

“I thought I told you to stop smoking,” Akaashi admonishes as he stomps back into the room. He swipes his boxers from the floor and slips them back on to protect some of his modesty. He’s at Bokuto’s bedside before the other can even open his mouth to retort, grabbing the cigarette and putting it out on the decorative ashtray on the nightstand, tossing the cigarette and tipping the ashes from the tray into the trash. While Akaashi’s constantly worrying about his cholesterol and blood pressure levels, taking vitamins and supplements galore, Bokuto freely does whatever he wants. As long as he’s performing at his best for volleyball, that’s all that matters in his eyes. And it’s working out for him: he’s completely and utterly healthy. Akaashi’s thankful if not envious of such healthy genes.

“Blame it on Coach Ukai,” Bokuto replies, grinning widely at his fussy partner. “It’s his fault for putting me onto cancer sticks.”

“At least try not to do it in an Airbnb, please. We could get fined.” He flicks Bokuto on the forehead as he climbs back into bed and cuddles up to his side. Iceland is gorgeous but damn, is it freezing.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to fuck in an Airbnb, but we did that anyway,” Bokuto teases, causing Akaashi to immediately turn over and give him the cold shoulder—no pun intended. He barks out a laugh and rolls over, rubbing Akaashi’s arm and placing butterfly kisses on the soft skin of his back. He feels that it’s stopped trembling, but he notices how limp it is by his side. He’s never seen this reaction in Akaashi before. Did he do something different this time…? “Aw, c’mon, babe, don’t be like that. You very clearly liked it.”

He pauses, stroking Akaashi’s arm absentmindedly as his mind hops on the train of thought.

“What was that about, anyway? Does fucking in an Airbnb excite you that much? I’ve never seen you like that.” He grins and pulls Akaashi closer to his chest, his breath leaving the shell of Akaashi’s ear pink. “It was sexy as hell.”

However, Bokuto’s horniness is not reciprocated. All Akaashi can think about is the heavy pit that buried itself in his stomach in that moment, and he reaches forward to grab a pillow. He doesn’t exactly need it—he could just turn over and use Bokuto as his body pillow. But it’s almost as if he wants to test his muscles, see if they had come out of their Jell-O state. He hates Jell-O.

Perhaps it really did feel that good. But…his stomach hadn’t been flipping or filled with butterflies then as it usually did when they had sex—it had sunk.

…

Bright and early, the two men are back to their worldly adventures. They tour local villages, eat local food, and chat with the local people until the sky is an ombre of purple and navy blue.

“There’s supposed to be an aurora tonight, according to the locals,” Akaashi says as he figures out a map he got from a gift shop, trying to find their next stop.

“Oh, it was the bakery guy who said that, right?” Bokuto asks, peering over Akaashi’s shoulder to try and help with the navigation. However, he knows he would only make Akaashi more frustrated since Akaashi likes figuring everything out by himself. “He said we have to go to this point.”

He takes a chance at helping and saddles up next to Akaashi, pointing to a particularly tall lookout point. “Think you can climb that?”

“Just because you work out every day doesn’t make me a weakling in comparison,” Akaashi counters. He bites the cap off the marker and circles the lookout point’s name, the paper crinkling underneath his hand. As if to prove how strong and capable he is, his bicep bulges as he marks the lookout point, and Bokuto very obviously stares. He’s always loved Akaashi’s body, how muscular yet lean it is. He has curves in all the right places and strong where it matters. His body is nothing short of beautiful, a marble sculpture made by Michelangelo.

Akaashi places the cap back on and tosses a smug look over his shoulder, saying, “Remember how I constantly had to pick you up whenever you’d get depressed over a missed hit? Carrying a hundred-kilo man isn’t an easy feat.”

“Seventy-eight kilos, thank you very much!” Bokuto corrects instantly, grabbing Akaashi by the wrist and dragging him to their rental car. “Fine, then let’s see your skills. We have to be there in two hours.”

The drive is full of punk and hard rock songs, all at Akaashi’s request. Bokuto tries to compromise with just one pop song in the queue of AC/DC and Green Day, but because of his sly comments throughout the trip, this is his punishment.

“Turn here,” Akaashi says over the blaring of “Readymade” by Ado, pointing to the upcoming sign. The tires squeal as they try to compensate for the horrible Fast and Furious move Bokuto does as he turns, righting as they reach the fairly full parking lot for the lookout point. Akaashi would have cussed Bokuto out if not for a steady mix of yellow and green lights highlighting both their faces and all the cars in the parking lot, the metal reflecting the light and causing everywhere to be flooded in a mock bokeh.

He cannot get out of the car fast enough, slamming the door closed and getting a head start on the hike. He trips a few times since his eyes are transfixed on the lights, his hand reaching out for Bokuto, who had since caught up to him and helps him steady himself. He’s panting by the time they reach the tallest point, revealing a crowd of people and, most beautiful of all, a lake that looked as if it was made out of glass. The sky and the water join into one, doubling the number of lights and showcasing a waterfall of colors.

He jogs over to where everybody is seated, their chins craned up in unison as they watch with awe the lights dancing in the sky. It’s like watching a ballet, each part of the sky following its own storyline and choreography. Akaashi stumbles from the vertigo of looking up too fast, Bokuto hot on his heels and ready to catch him until he rights himself.

“Be careful,” he warns as he unfolds their blanket and sets it on the knee-high grass, wading into it and sitting down. He pats the fabric, trying to get Akaashi’s attention. “Come here.”

Akaashi blinks as if he has snapped out of a trance, stumbling forward and into Bokuto’s arms. His head is foggy, the lights flashing in his vision every time he closes his eyes.

“They’re so beautiful,” he whispers, craning his neck up again now that he is on solid ground.

“Yeah,” Bokuto replies as he leans his head on his husband’s shoulder. “Beautiful.”

But Bokuto isn’t looking at the lights.

Their rings glimmer underneath the aurora, the gold morphing into all different shades thanks to the rippling of the colors above them. It really is like looking at the ocean, the sound of the waves being replaced with soft murmurs in Icelandic and the ambient breeze twisting through the tree branches. Akaashi almost stops breathing since his breaths come out an opaque white, obscuring the lights from his vision.

…

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

…

Bokuto is nearly asleep once the lights finally fade out. They had gotten lucky—this aurora lasted nearly an hour. And Akaashi didn’t break eye contact for that entire hour. He was in love, his lips upturned into the faintest smile.

When the lights melt into the black night, he pats Bokuto on the cheek to wake him up and stands up, beginning to fold the blanket with the other still on it.

“Hey, hey, what’s the rush?” Bokuto exclaims, followed by a deep yawn as he rolls off the blanket and into the grass.

“I want to leave before both of us fall asleep.” One hour of keeping his eyes wide open with barely any blinking leaves Akaashi’s eyelids fatigued, and they are hanging low as he neatly folds the blanket in his lap and starts toward the car.

“Babe, I’m fine,” Bokuto replies, followed yet again by a yawn. They share a look, and he gives in. “Okay, okay, I’m getting in the car.”

They’re driving down the slope, both their eyelids heavy, drunk on sleep.

“Turn here?” Bokuto asks, beginning to slow down as he turns to his husband, who is fast asleep. “Hey, wake up, navigator.” He shakes Akaashi’s thigh before moving up to his shoulder. “Akaashi, hey—”

He’s paralyzed by the red lights that flood his vision, and his foot flies to the brake too slowly.

…

“We see accidents like that all the time on that slope,” the doctor says disapprovingly, shaking her head as she flips through the paperwork on the clipboard. “They should start putting streetlights there.”

“But then the lights wouldn’t be as pretty,” Bokuto protests, his arm shaking in its sling.

The doctor gives him a stern once-over before going back to her paperwork. “Tell that to the claim you’ll have to settle with the rental car agency. I’ll release you both in a couple of hours. For now, please rest.” She turns to Akaashi, who is sitting in the chair next to Bokuto’s bed with a pack of ice to the bump on his forehead. “Can you start filling these out, please?”

Akaashi nods and takes the offered pen, but as he puts it to the paper, his hand begins trembling uncontrollably. It isn’t violent, but it’s noticeable enough to make him stop trying to write and stare at his hand for a second. He looks up at the doctor, who is also staring at his hand.

“Hm.” She meets Akaashi’s puzzled gaze with a sympathetic smile. “Must be an after-effect of the accident. Don’t worry too much.”

She begins to walk out of the room but stops in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at Akaashi. “If that persists, I would check with your physician back home.”

She nods a goodbye before leaving the room, escaping just in time for Bokuto to wail about having to contact the rental car company and pay for the damages. But Akaashi isn’t listening. He usually ignores Bokuto when he gets like this, but now it’s for a different reason. He’s back to staring at his hand, willing the trembling to go away. It eventually does, and he proceeds to sign the papers, but that pit in his stomach never leaves. It only expands.

…

It’s Akaashi’s 36th birthday three days after the accident, and he’s celebrating it by helping Bokuto wrap his arm in plastic wrap in order to go to The Blue Lagoon. It has been thirty minutes, and Bokuto is yet to be satisfied by the amount of wrapping.

“What if it gets wet?” he whines. “I don’t want to interrupt the healing process. I have a game to play in two weeks!”

“Have you told your coach yet?” Akaashi asks pointedly, to which Bokuto grumbles something in response. “That’s what I thought. You’re not going to play for a while. Probably eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks?!” Bokuto shouts, causing everybody within a twenty-foot radius to turn their heads to the Japanese man so clearly in despair.

“You should’ve just stopped the car on the side of the road,” Akaashi replies, immediately regretting his words. This would only start a fight. And it does.

“If you could’ve just woken up,” Bokuto retorts heatedly, snatching his wrist back to do the wrapping job himself. “There wasn’t anywhere to pull over, anyway. We would’ve been the ones rear-ended if I stopped.”

“Okay, well—” Akaashi stops himself, his hands dropping to his lap as he turns his head to gaze out into the picturesque lagoon. He knew this argument would happen eventually. He swings his eyes back to Bokuto, who has put his finishing touches on the wrapping. “Can we not fight on my birthday?”

Bokuto huffs. “We aren’t fighting,” he explains but pauses, realizing he’s only furthering the argument. He purses his lips and nods, standing up from the beach chair and adjusting his swim trunks. They can’t go naked like in the bathhouses at home, so the rough fabric feels strange on his skin, especially when he submerges himself in the warm, milky blue water. He sighs, keeping his wrist elevated as he uses his other hands to splash the water in his face, running his fingers through his hair. He looks over his shoulder, watching as Akaashi busies himself with taking off his shirt, revealing his toned body that still had healing hickeys from a few nights ago. His muscles flex as he spreads sunscreen on his skin, causing Bokuto to roll his eyes and grin affectionately. Akaashi, forever concerned about skin cancer.

“Come on, babe. I’m waiting for you.”

Akaashi’s heart hurt a little from the fight, but it warms at the expectant look on his partner’s face. He nods and puts the sunscreen down, dipping his toes in the water before stepping into the pool and involuntarily letting out a long sigh of relief. All his muscles relax, and not in the strange way they did before, as if they were Jell-O. No, now they relax as if they’re softened butter, melting into his body. He rests his arms up on the edge, letting his head hang back like a ragdoll.

“Better?” Bokuto asks.

“Better.”

…

They stay nearly the entire day at the lagoon, switching between being inside the lagoon and the various spas and restaurants around the pool. Bokuto treats Akaashi to a couple’s massage until he gets kicked out of the room by his husband for groaning too loud and for making too many weird comments. He stays in the bar until Akaashi sits next to him, looking completely refreshed, his skin practically glowing in the soft haze of the sunset provided by the large bay windows.

“You look relaxed,” he comments. He hesitates to touch Akaashi, feeling as if he needs to wash his hands beforehand, but finally rests his hand on his bare shoulder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were pregnant.”

“Yet again, mood ruined,” Akaashi replies, except it comes out as a joke rather than an admonishment. He leans on the bar and asks for a beer. “I don’t want to go back home.”

“Why not?” Bokuto asks, cocking his head. “We have to get back to Emiko. She’s waiting for us.”

It’s hard to believe that Bokuto isn’t related to their dog, Emiko, because he looks exactly like a dog at that moment, his still-drying hair flopping over like ears and his bushy eyebrows raising up his forehead quizzically.

Akaashi chuckles and sips at the foam, licking it off his top lip. “This place brings me some kind of…peace. I want to live here one day. Or at least come back.”

“We’re definitely coming back,” Bokuto replies with an emphatic nod. “I couldn’t get enough of looking at your face as you watched the aurora. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The aurora?”

Bokuto turns his head to see Akaashi staring back at him with a thin white foam mustache on his top lip after taking another sip, clearly unaware of how endearing he looks.

He smiles softly. “Yeah. The aurora.”

…

“So, you say you’re having tremors?”

Akaashi never thought he would muster up the courage to go to the doctor. But he finally does after about a month, and as he’s sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms, he regrets he ever came.

“Y…es,” he replies haltingly. “It’s probably nothing, but the doctor in Iceland said I should get it checked out, and it’s just been so strange. I have probably just been overworking myself at the gym. I’m not twenty anymore, ha. Actually, I think I should just go—”

“Keiji, please sit down.” Akaashi does as he is told and watches his doctor pull out a forearm exerciser and sets it on the table. “If you can.”

Akaashi raises a brow but shrugs and reaches forward. He grabs the forearm exerciser and uses it as usual before putting it back on the table.

The doctor watches on silently, a finger on his top lip as his eyebrows furrow together. He puts the forearm exerciser back in his desk drawer and clasps his hands together. “You seem fine. I’ll just take some urine and blood samples from you to rule some things out. If you notice anything else, please give me a call.”

After peeing in a cup and giving up some of his blood, he practically glides out of the office. It seems as if there’s nothing wrong with him, which is exactly the diagnosis he was expecting. He had been over-exaggerating, and the doctor back in Iceland was definitely correct: his trembling hand had been a result of the near concussion he received. He drives back home and greets Bokuto with a grand smooch on the lips and musses up Emiko’s floppy ears before going into the kitchen and cooking them a beautiful three-course meal. He’s happily eating, but Bokuto finds it harder to eat. Not because of the cast on his wrist, but because of something else.

Akaashi is being a lot messier than usual. Dropping food back into the bowl, getting sauce on his face. He’s probably still excited, Bokuto thinks, but the ramen going down his esophagus turns into a pit that buries itself in his stomach, and he can’t shake the feeling. No matter how much Akaashi kisses him or hugs him or cuddles up by his side as they watch a movie, he still can’t smile to his full potential.

…

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

…

It’s a few days later when Akaashi’s joyous mood crumbles. Doctors only call after tests when something is wrong. And sure enough, while in the middle of working on his computer, Akaashi’s phone rumbles on the desk with his doctor’s name lit up on the screen.

He’s once again sitting in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms much tighter than before. He’s doing the breathing technique his therapist taught him for his anxiety, but it only makes him want to pass out.

“Your blood tests came back alright. No HIV, hepatitis, your vitamin B12 levels are good, and no cancer from what I can—.”

“Oh, my God.” Akaashi exhales out all the anxiety in his chest, nearly doubling over from the weight taken off his chest. He looks back up at his doctor and grins. “That means I can go, right? I’ll get going—"

The doctor holds up a hand to get Akaashi to be quiet. “These blood and urine tests are only to rule out diseases. But I wouldn’t have called you into the office if I hadn’t found something.” His doctor takes a sharp breath as he shuffles his papers around as if he got a paper cut. “Your CK levels are abnormally high.”

Something in Akaashi drops. His stomach? His heart? All he knows is that he’s heavy like a bag of rocks, and he feels strapped to the chair.

“What…is that?” he asks, his chest so tight, he’s afraid he’s going to have a heart attack. No better place to have it than in front of a doctor, though.

“Creatine kinase. It’s an enzyme that’s released into the blood when there’s some muscle damage. It’s released when you’re either having or had a heart attack—”

“Dr. Hirose, I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“No, you’re not, Keiji,” his doctor says with a look of pity on his face. It makes Akaashi’s panic heighten. Pity? “Or when you do a lot of strenuous exercises—”

“That’s what I said! It’s because I’ve been exercising—”

“Keiji,” his doctor breathes forcefully, giving the dark-haired man a stern look. “Or it’s a sign of a degenerative muscle disease. I’m going to schedule you for an MRI in two weeks. If it really is because of strenuous exercise, then nothing will show up. I just want to make sure there aren’t any tumors or pressure on your spinal cord.” His doctor scribbles something down on the notepad in front of him and crosses something out on his clipboard. “In the meantime, lay off the weights and rest at home.”

“O…kay.” Akaashi leaves, hope still bright in his chest. He goes through all the workouts he’s been doing over the past few months, and he nods his head to himself as he confirms that he has overexerted himself a few times. Now he has permission to just laze around at home instead of pushing himself to go to the gym. Doctor’s orders.

A week passes with nothing of note. Bokuto finally gets his cast taken off, brandishing his newly healed wrist like a trophy. Akaashi claps, unamused, but can’t help the smile that forms when Bokuto kisses him until his breath is taken away, using that wrist to grip the small of his back and press their fronts together.

“You still need to do physical therapy,” Akaashi reminds him, but Bokuto rolls his eyes and thanks the doctor before pulling his husband out of the clinic and into the car.

“That can wait,” Bokuto says, pulling Akaashi in by his tie and almost knocking his glasses off by the sheer force of his kiss. “Now let’s celebrate.”

Ever since that vacation, Akaashi hadn’t tried to go on top. He’s been scared that the same thing would happen, and it’d be on his mind the entire week. He had just gotten cleared by his doctor—the last thing he needs is for his arms to go weak.

After scolding Bokuto for smoking and after cleaning himself up, he walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He flinches at a pain in his ass, evidence left behind of Bokuto taking ‘celebrating’ to a whole new level. It isn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed it, but damn, the aftermath was painful.

He grabs the filter pitcher and lifts it up, and the second he does, his right arm gives out. He watches helplessly as the pitcher cracks on the edge of the fridge and freefalls onto the floor, the top coming off and spilling four liters’ worth of water all over the kitchen. Not to mention the giant crack in the plastic. If they tried to fill the pitcher to full capacity next time, it’d surely split open.

Akaashi doesn’t even notice when Bokuto skids into the kitchen or when he yells at Emiko to stop drinking the water. He doesn’t notice when Bokuto grabs the roll of paper towels and begins to mop up the water or his husband’s arms around him, whispering explanations or jokes or whatever nonsense he says to cheer him up. He only snaps out of it when he feels Bokuto’s finger on his cheek, lifting a tear from his skin.

He turns around in Bokuto’s arms, looking up at him, his bottom lip quivering. ���I’m not okay, Koutarou.”

Bokuto wishes he could deny it. He so desperately wishes he could say ‘no, babe, you’re overreacting.’ To see that relieved smile on his face like he had on when he came home from the clinic. But he can’t. Because he knows that Akaashi isn’t okay.

“Let’s go back to bed, babe. I’ll get you some water. Go rest,” he says softly, ushering Akaashi away from the distressing scene and bending back over to dry the rest of the floorboards. But he can’t help it when he wets the hardwood further with his own tears.

…

Bokuto skips physical therapy to go with Akaashi to the hospital despite the latter’s many attempts to go alone. Akaashi had managed to convince Bokuto the previous times that he was just going in for a routine checkup, but now Bokuto’s not falling for it.

“The MRI is painless,” the doctor explains, beginning to help Akaashi sit down, but he waves away any help.

“I can walk, thank you.” Ever since the incident in the kitchen, Akaashi has grown more defensive of everything he does. If Bokuto asks if he needs any help, Akaashi fires back with ‘do I look like I need help?’ or ‘I’m not helpless.’ He has always been snarky, but his current demeanor is callous, uncaring. There’s no love in his sarcastic remarks, just hurt.

He lays down on the bed, shifting around until the doctor tells him to stop. It’s quick, and, like his doctor said, painless, and he’s out in less than five minutes.

“The results will be out in two days,” his doctor warns after coming out of the small glass room adjacent to the machine. “If you get a call from me, that doesn’t automatically mean bad news.”

“Okay.” Akaashi hasn’t mentioned the pitcher incident to his doctor. He knows it’s the stupidest thing he can do. But if he doesn’t mention it, treats it as yet another injury sustained from overworking himself, then maybe it doesn’t exist. And it doesn’t, not on paper.

The next few days pass by like molasses. Akaashi doesn’t get any work done, and each time his phone rings, he nearly passes out. When he finally does get the call, he actually does pass out, and Bokuto has to pick up the phone for him while trying to wake him up.

“Doc? Hey, it’s Koutarou.”

“Oh, Koutarou. If you could pass along to Akaashi that the MRI is all clear, that would be great.”

As if on cue, Akaashi wakes up and snatches the phone out of Bokuto’s hand, holding it up to his ear. “What, Dr. Hirose?”

“I said that your MRI is all clear. No tumor, nothing messing up your discs. There’s nothing wrong with your brain or spinal cord.”

Akaashi is out again like a light.

When he comes to, he’s in bed, the covers up to his chin. He sits up groggily and wipes his eyes, turning to see a bowl of mochi on the nightstand, nearly melted.

“Bokuto?” he calls, his voice hoarse. He reaches over and brings the bowl into his lap, nibbling on a mochi. Despite the mochi being cold, he’s warm. He can only picture Bokuto picking him up and tucking him in before making his famous mochi. It’s one of the only things he knows how to make, and he knows exactly when to make it.

Bokuto pads into the room, followed closely behind by Emiko. The two are twins, Akaashi swears. Emiko hops up onto the bed and nuzzles Akaashi’s arm before collapsing onto his thighs, laying her head down with a grunt.

"Hey, you feeling better?” Bokuto asks, walking over and sitting down cautiously at the foot of the bed as if Akaashi’s made out of glass. “I made you mochi to celebrate the clean bill of health.”

Akaashi smiles and nods, scarfing down another piece of mochi. “Thank you,” he says, his voice muffled by the sticky rice dough. The sight is enough to make Bokuto laugh and scoot closer, wiping a bit of ice cream from the corner of Akaashi’s lips and lick it off his finger.

“I’m going back to practice tomorrow,” he continues. “My physical therapist says I’m good to go. So we’re both doing awesome.”

Akaashi grins and leans forward, pulling Bokuto in for a kiss, burying his fingers in the white-gray hair. They continue to eat mochi together, making small talk and eventually watching a movie together, but Akaashi still isn’t fully happy. When Bokuto falls asleep, he gets up to put the bowl in the sink. Before he can finish the trip, he drops the bowl onto the carpet. The thud is muffled, Bokuto too deep in sleep to wake up. But Akaashi, who was drowsy before, is now fully awake. He looks to his right arm, his hand trembling and his forearm cramping up. He simply bends down and picks up the bowl with his left arm, puts it in the sink, and silently slips underneath the covers. He snuggles up next to Bokuto, much closer than usual, resting his head on his chest.

“Mm, Keiji,” Bokuto mumbles, more asleep than awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replies a little too quickly. He grips Bokuto’s tank top in a fist, savoring the warmth of his husband’s skin against his cheek. “Just want to be close to you.”

“Mm,” is all that Bokuto replies before draping an arm lazily over Akaashi’s waist, burying his nose in the other’s dark hair.

Akaashi closes his eyes, but he doesn’t think he sleeps at all.

…

It’s a pretty normal month, but Akaashi’s knees are roughed up with all the tripping and tumbles he’s taken. He doesn’t tell Bokuto or his doctor, and he thanks God it’s nearing autumn so that he has an excuse to wear long pants. They bought a new pitcher, but Bokuto can’t help but notice Akaashi never gets near it. It’s particularly difficult to keep a straight face and not notice when Akaashi’s spoon trembles as he spoons sugar into his coffee or when food has made its home on his face whenever they eat. He needs to receive an Oscar for his acting abilities because every time he’s left alone, he can’t help but bury his face in his hands and pray.

It’s another month before Bokuto sits Akaashi down and stares hardheartedly at him.

“You need to go to the doctor.”

Akaashi, who already knew what the conversation would be about due to Bokuto’s seriousness when he sat him down, crosses his arms and shakes his head. “No. Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Really, Keiji?” Bokuto using his actual name means serious business. “You think I don’t realize you dropping everything? All the stains on your shirt? How you can’t even fucking talk sometimes?”

“Hey. Don’t…curse,” Akaashi says, and, as if his body wants to prove a point, his words slur together.

Bokuto slams the table, sending both Akaashi and Emiko’s heads snapping upwards at the loud bang.

“It hurts me, too. You think you’re the only one suffering, but you’re being so goddamn selfish. Because it hurts seeing you like this and not do anything about it. Listen, I’ve been trying to ignore it, too, hoping it’ll just go away. But it’s getting worse, Keiji, whatever this is. And I’m not going to stand by while you kill yourself.”

Bokuto’s eyes well with tears, and it only takes his husband getting emotional—which only happens in a sports-related context—to get Akaashi to pick up the phone and call his doctor.

“Muscle weakness and slurring speech?” his doctor asks, pausing to ponder something. “Come in tomorrow. I’ll get an EMG appointment set up for you.”

The two men look at each other, and Akaashi stands up and walks to the bedroom with Emiko, slamming the door closed. Bokuto takes that as a sign that he’s sleeping on the couch.

…

“This will cause a bit of discomfort,” the neurologist says gently before conducting the test. Akaashi shifts in his chair each time the instrument sends small electrical shocks in his wrist and frowns when the needle is inserted in his arm.

“Move this way…and that way…perfect.” The neurologist is studying the screen, and Akaashi is studying the neurologist. He’s studying her facial expressions, the way she moves, anything that will give him an indication of the meaning behind the squiggles onscreen. Bokuto squeezes his shoulder even though the neurologist told him not to touch him, planting a butterfly kiss on the shell of his ear. Finally, after over half of an hour of uncomfortable tests, Akaashi is instructed to go to his doctor’s office.

“I’ll send the results over to your doctor now,” the neurologist says. Yet again, there’s that look of pity. The pit in Akaashi’s stomach expands until he feels bloated and barely able to walk to his doctor’s office. He uses Bokuto’s hand for balance, but he finds that his right arm can barely sustain his weight anymore.

“Your EMG test is abnormal,” his doctor says lightly, but just the word ‘abnormal’ is a shot to the face.

“What does that mean, doc?” Bokuto asks, seeing that all of Akaashi’s mental strength was zapped out from the tests.

“It means that the EMG showed electrical activity even when your muscles were in a resting position,” the doctor replies, setting down the paperwork on the desk and resting his chin on his clasped hands, his eyes flicking between the two men. “You have a degenerative muscle disease. This is consistent with your CK levels, which show muscle damage. I want to do a few more tests, but from what I can see, you might have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

“What the fuck is that?” Bokuto shouts, practically jumping out of the chair and snapping his fingers in front of the doctor’s face. “Japanese, please!”

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, tugging on Bokuto’s sleeve, and even if he didn’t have degenerating muscles, he wouldn’t have been able to stop Bokuto in the state he’s in now.

“ALS,” the doctor clarifies, and both men freeze into place like statues. “Motor neuron disease, Lou Gehrig’s disease—there are many names. I’m not saying you have it for certain, but all the evidence points to it. Your accident back in Iceland certainly didn’t help. Now, I want to discuss treatment—”

Akaashi grabs the nearest trashcan and vomits into it, and no matter how much he throws up, the pit in his stomach stays, growing ever bigger.

…

I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

…

It seems coincidental, but the second Akaashi receives the diagnosis from both his primary doctor and a second opinion from a neurologist, his symptoms worsen tenfold. He can’t drink coffee anymore, having burned himself too many times from spilling hot coffee all over himself. He’s going to physical therapy every day, taking a handful of pills every day, going to an ALS clinic every day. He works whenever he can. He tries to go to every one of Bokuto’s games. Climbing up the bleachers is rough, and he tries to arrive before the teams come out of the locker rooms so Bokuto doesn’t see him like this. He attempts to write posters—keyword: attempts. His handwriting comes out more like a scrawl, his fingers failing him and letting the pen slip through multiple times. They said this would happen back at the clinic. Loss of fine motor control. It’s one thing to hear it, it’s another thing to experience it.

If somebody didn’t know better, they’d think a child wrote the poster board. But instead of a child holding the poster and cheering on their father, it’s Akaashi, pointing at Bokuto when he jogs onto the court with as much of a fist as he can hold. Bokuto grins when he sees his husband, but his face visibly falls when his eyes drop to the poster. He misses the first shot, saved just in time by their outside hitter. He turns back to the game, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is on his husband, who had just been given a death sentence, and he’s watching it all unfold.

Because that’s what it is: a death sentence. Stephen Hawking gave hope to everybody with ALS, as they say every day at the clinic and physical therapy, but he knows the statistics. He studied them until he fell asleep at the kitchen table: only about 20% of people live five or ten years after diagnosis, a far cry from Hawking’s 55 years. Hawking’s survival rate is as much of an enigma as the black holes he studied.

Akaashi knows all the statistics by heart. Memorization and Stephen Hawking won’t change the fact that he will die far too young.

He cries and laughs all the time. It’s not even because he’s sad or seeing something particularly funny; it just happens. In the rare moments where he’s particularly entrenched in his work or watching a titillating movie with Bokuto and can forget about his life, he’s interrupted by a bout of laughter or gobs of tears, and he has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom, dragging his now-limp foot along with him.

Bokuto accused Akaashi of being selfish for not seeking out a diagnosis, but now the guilt has fallen onto him. He’s more selfish than Akaashi is, pitying himself for having a sick spouse. He feels guilt every single time he cries because he needs to be strong for Akaashi. He needs to be the one supporting his husband. He needs to try and get his mind off the stress. He needs put on a brave smile when he’s faced with Akaashi’s worsening symptoms. But he can’t help but suffer for Akaashi, absorb all the pain he’s feeling every time he can’t speak or struggles to lift a fork. Sure, it doesn’t hurt physically, but it tortures the mind. It must be torture to count down the days until your muscles lose all functionality and you’re left limp in a wheelchair, on oxygen until your diaphragm or heart give out because they, too, are muscles. Bokuto has a list of all of Akaashi’s symptoms, and his Internet history is full of experimental treatments, made up of both Western and Eastern medicine. They try acupuncture, chiropractic, essential oils, anything.

“Hey, I found this tea that might boost your CK levels—”

“Koutarou,” Akaashi breathes. His chest must be acting up again. “Enough. No more of that.”

When Akaashi doesn’t feel the symptoms as intensely, he tries to initiate sex with Bokuto every chance he gets. If I don’t do it now, when’s the next time I’ll have the strength to? he reasons to himself every time. Bokuto accepts, of course—not necessarily because he’s constantly horny (he used to be, not so much now), but because he has the same reasoning as Akaashi. He doesn’t mind being ravished at nearly every moment of the day if it means he’ll still have the hickeys to remind him of their intimacy together on the days Akaashi is too weak.

“I want to try being on top again,” Akaashi purrs in Bokuto ear one day, feeling particularly invigorated after a good physical therapy session. Perhaps all those pills he’s been taking are kicking in. Perhaps he’s getting better.

“Are you sure?” Bokuto asks, breathless. He’s never had to work this hard during sex before, and even though missing practice may have something to do with his lost endurance, he doubts it.

Akaashi nods, watching Bokuto flop onto his back before sitting up and tossing a leg over and beside Bokuto’s hip. Even though he had just been laying there and having Bokuto do all the work, he’s already breathless from that one move, his arms cramping up as he leans them on Bokuto’s chest. Flashbacks of their time in Iceland spot his vision. If only he had known back then that he had this disgusting disease…

He shakes that out of his head. He needs to focus on the now. And now, Bokuto was staring up at him with worry, his hands lifting up to Akaashi’s hips to provide him stability. He needs to wipe that worry off his face, and the only way to do that—

“Shit.” And he’s crying uncontrollably again. His arms give out, and he face-plants onto Bokuto’s chest, his left leg useless by Bokuto’s side while the other cramps up. “I can’t—”

He tries to push himself up, shifting his hips backward to try and continue, but the mood was gone. “Just give me a second—”

“Keiji.”

“Hold on, let me just—”

“Keiji.”

“One second! God, y-you act like I can’t do—ugh, did you go soft?”

“KEIJI.”

Akaashi’s head snaps up, his hand stopping its stroking to see Bokuto sitting upright, staring him down. “…What?”

“Stop.” Bokuto’s crying. “Just stop.”

“What, why? If you had just given me a second—”

“It’s not exactly sexy watching you struggle to hold yourself up because your muscles are degenerating.” Bokuto gasps at what he just said, his hand flying up to his mouth much too late. Akaashi just stares at him, his mouth in a small ‘o’. All Akaashi does is slowly sit up straight—as straight as he can—and stare directly into Bokuto’s eyes.

“If you hadn’t gotten into that fucking accident,” Akaashi grumbles, wrestling one of the sheets and wrapping it around himself as he uses all the spite in his body to get off Bokuto without falling over. Luckily, his muscles participate, and he’s off the bed, stumbling to the bathroom.

“Oh, you’re bringing that shit up again?” Bokuto exclaims, lifting his hand up in a show of exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re blaming your stupid disease on me because I couldn’t wake you up.”

Akaashi whips around and stares daggers into his husband, his lips pulled into a scowl. “You heard Dr. Hirose. It certainly didn’t help.”

“I didn’t help? You know what isn’t helpful? Seeing my husband slowly die in front of me, knowing that the person I love more than anything in this goddamned unfair world is leaving me alone, and there’s nothing I can do about it except watch. To think that I contributed—to have you tell me I made this worse as if I’m the one who’s killing you—to know that no matter what fucking home remedy we try or expert we see, we can’t change anything!” He sniffs. “So it doesn’t matter how it fucking happened, it happened.”

SLAM!

The sound of the bathroom door echoes throughout the apartment, and Emiko scuttles out of the room in fear. Bokuto follows not long after because he knows he’s not welcome there, but also because he can’t stand the sound of Akaashi crying anymore. His sobs are quiet and muffled, no doubt trying to hide them, but he’s doing a terrible job. Bokuto doesn’t do that good of a job either.

He’s sleeping on the couch again. This time, Emiko sleeps with him, snoring away on the loveseat next to the couch.

He tries to sleep, but it’s as if something is blocking his ability to. He sits up with a prophetic realization.

This is so fucking stupid. We don’t have time for this.

They don’t have time for arguments. They don’t have time for pettiness. They don’t have time for anything, really, least of all this.

He tosses the thin blanket off his body, standing up and striding over to the door. His hand is almost on the knob before it turns and the door opens, revealing a disheveled Akaashi with a bright red nose and bloodshot eyes.

“I’m—”

“I’m—”

“Sorry.”

Akaashi moves first, diving into Bokuto’s arms and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Bokuto moves cautiously before giving in and wrapping his arms tightly around Akaashi’s frail form. He really does feel like porcelain compared to the built and fit man he was before. He loved Akaashi’s muscles. He’d have to learn to love his bones eventually as well.

…

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

…

Akaashi’s parents come to stay with their dying son, and it’s morbidly silent. Usually, it’d be a joyous time, full of large meals, traveling, and laughing. But Akaashi’s mother can’t stop fussing over her son’s crutches, telling him he should get a walker, and Akaashi says he’d rather die earlier than he already is than use a walker that’s made for old people.

Finally, Akaashi’s father suggests they all take a walk in the park to brighten their spirits. Bokuto, who has taken the season off to stay with Akaashi—against his wishes, but a dead man’s wishes don’t mean much—agrees wholeheartedly. He puts on a wide smile, and even though it’s mostly false, it gets the rest of the family smiling and hopeful as well.

The cobblestones are a little rough to walk with crutches, but Akaashi manages. His forearms are still relatively strong compared to his legs, which degenerated far faster than his arms, even though the latter started to go first. The forearm holders in the crutches are uncomfortable, but Bokuto ordered padding, which should be coming in a few days.

Something to look forward to.

He doesn’t notice Bokuto giving the evil eye to anybody whose eyes linger on the strange man with crutches for too long, puffing up his chest intimidatingly until nobody has the courage to look in Akaashi’s direction.

“It’s a nice day,” Akaashi remarks as he stops in front of the pond. He smiles and giggles softly at the ducks waddling along the bank, hopping into the green water and fluffing up their feathers. A duck followed by an orderly line of yellow ducklings waddles past, stopping by to pick at the grass. “Hey, look, Mom, a mama duck.”

He lifts his arm to point, but the crutch goes along with his arm, leaving him destabilized. Luckily, his father is on his other side, and he holds him up without making too much of a big deal, keeping his face front.

“Oh, will you look at that,” Akaashi’s mother coos, getting out a bag of seeds from her purse along with her phone. “Koutarou, be a dear and take a picture of us with the mama duck, please.”

Akaashi’s smile fades. He knows his mother only used the mother duck as an excuse to take as many pictures as she can with her dying son before he’s six feet under or ashes. He’s yet to figure out which route to take. She had been taking pictures the entire trip. He has to remember to go through her phone and delete all the ugly pictures of himself before she prints them out to use at his funeral.

“For sure, Mama Akaashi,” Bokuto says, taking the offered phone and holding up the phone, waiting for Akaashi to turn around. “C’mon, Keiji, lemme see that pretty smile.”

Akaashi smiles, tries to think of the mama duck to get his smile to look halfway real, but when Bokuto shows them the photo, it looks horribly forced. He looks awful, anyway. A smile can’t save the way his body’s contorted with the crutches, how skinny he’s gotten, how sunken his face has grown. Eating has become more and more difficult. The movement of eating used to be the only problem, but now it’s swallowing. He’s mainly eating soups now, and he didn’t even have to tell Bokuto because Bokuto always knows before he does what he’s feeling. The perks of being together for nineteen years.

He turns back to the pond in search of the mama duck, but she had disappeared in the time they took the photo. Akaashi’s face falls, his hand clutching the plastic bag of seeds. A bit of pollen tickles his nose, and he sneezes into his elbow.

“Oh, Keiji!”

His head snaps to his mother, whose hand had flown up to her mouth to suppress her gasp. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

He follows her line of sight down to the crotch of his pants, which had darkened and become wet.

He had peed himself. Slightly, but enough to make him never want to step outside ever again.

The warmth on his legs hadn’t been the sun after all—it had been his bladder leaking from the force of the sneeze, with its host none the wiser.

He had read about the loss of bladder control as a symptom since the bladder is surrounded by muscles, and the bitch of the disease targets those. But he never expected that to happen to him. Bladder incontinence only happens to older victims. Urge incontinence, however, doesn’t have as small of an age range when it comes to ALS.

Only now, standing in wet underwear, does he realize how these diseases are sanitized. The movies he watched of HIV, ALS, cancer…none of them show how disgusting they actually are.

“Get me home,” Akaashi whispers, his eyes welling with hot tears of humiliation. Sweat prickles on his hairline and the back of his neck, a panic attack in the works. Every single pair of eyes is on him. Everybody’s staring, laughing, pointing. Everybody’s full of pity. Oh, poor thing, he can’t help it. He’s never been more embarrassed.

Humiliated, humiliated, humiliated…

“Come, Keiji,” his mother murmurs, leading him to the public bathroom. “Let’s go to the bathroom while your father and Koutarou pull up the car.”

Nobody questions the old woman as she enters the men’s bathroom, mostly because of the man in crutches who reeks of urine next to her. She takes him into the biggest stall and sits him on the toilet, beginning to undo his belt until he stops her weakly.

“Please,” he says, his breathing heavy. “Let me have a little dignity left.”

He has a few months left until he needs a 24/7 nurse to transfer him to the toilet and wipe his ass. He will postpone that until the last minute.

She waits outside while Akaashi cleans himself up. She listens for any sign of struggle and nearly jumps with surprise when the door opens, revealing her son, who smells a little better. The pee is already beginning to dry down.

“Let’s get you in the shower,” she says when they get home. Bokuto places a hand on her forearm, signaling for him to take over, and attempts to wrap an arm around Akaashi’s waist, only to be rejected when Akaashi dodges and nearly trips over his crutches.

Bokuto frowns but proposes, “Come on, let’s take a shower together.”

“Don’t get near me,” Akaashi says as he ambles over to the bathroom. “I’m disgusting.”

Bokuto laughs and shakes his head. “Akaashi, babe, I’ve had to clean up your vomit three days in a row before, both from food poisoning and booze. You literally brush your teeth while I’m shitting in the same bathroom. A little pee doesn’t hurt. Don’t act like a princess—”

“Please, leave me alone,” Akaashi begs, throwing his crutches on the floor of their bedroom and using the doorknob as support as he steps inside and closes the door. Bokuto knocks on the door and tries the doorknob, but it’s locked.

“Keiji,” he mumbles, hoping his quiet voice carries through the door. “Open the door.”

“No.”

“Keiji,” he repeats.

“I’m not letting you bathe me or wipe my ass. I’d rather slip and crack my head open in the shower before letting you do that.”

“Keiji,” he repeats for the third and last time. “You remember what Kuroo said? He was a terrible officiant, but he said some good things.”

The other side is silent.

“In sickness and in health. ‘Til death do us part. I’m here for the long game. I’m not leaving you.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Remember what I said in my vows?”

Again, silence.

He clears his throat. “Keiji Akaashi, I will love you until we’re two wrinkly old and ugly grandpas. I will love you, even if we both lose our hair and all our teeth. I will love you, even if we forget each other. Because I will remember you the next day, and I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

Bokuto feels the light spring breeze on his face, almost as if he’s back at their wedding venue. He feels the ancient cobblestones underneath his feet, smells the cherry blossoms surrounding them, tastes the red velvet cake on his tongue when Akaashi smashed it in his face. Nothing has changed. Except they’re not going to be wrinkly old men.

“Really puts everything into perspective, huh? A little piss and shit won’t ever change my vows,” he ends, rapping the door yet again with the back of his knuckles. “Come on, Keiji. Open up and lemme see you naked. That always makes me feel better, at least.”

The lock tumbles and the door slowly creaks open to reveal Akaashi in his boxers. He clearly wasted no time taking off the soiled clothing.

“I needed to take a shower anyway,” Bokuto says with a shrug, stepping inside and closing the door. He strips down to his boxers before walking over and turning on the shower, but as he���s walking back, he feels just how healthy his muscles are. He used to never think about his muscles, except maybe when they were sore from the gym or how to make them bigger to impress Akaashi. Now he feels horrible every time he exists next to Akaashi, almost as if he was mocking his disease or bragging about how healthy he is.

“You know what will cheer you up?” Bokuto asks, ignoring the guilt blooming in his chest. He drops his hand to pinch Akaashi’s rear, causing the man to explode into a red blush.

“Koutarou! My parents are here!” Akaashi whispers harshly, swatting Bokuto’s hand away. “Besides…I won’t be able to…s-support myself.”

“I’ll do all that, baby,” Bokuto drawls flirtatiously, wrapping his arm around Akaashi’s lower back for support and using his other hand to push down both their boxers.

“Koutarou, stop,” Akaashi pleads, the corners of his eyes leaking tears. “I’m…I feel so ugly. I smell.”

“That’s what the shower is for.” Bokuto grins before leading his husband over to the shower, carefully helping him in, shielding Akaashi from the water with his back as he checks to see if the temperature’s good. Once he approves, he moves to let the water drizzle over Akaashi’s pale frame. Akaashi uses the support bar Bokuto installed a couple of days ago for balance as he steps forward into the water, closing his eyes as he feels the stickiness between his legs wash away. He lets out a sigh at Bokuto’s hands on his skin, the smell of fresh cucumber drifting from the lather on his shoulders.

“Turn around,” Bokuto commands, and Akaashi obeys, his eyes still closed. However, they fly open when he feels his body lifting up and the cold wall of the shower pressed against his back. His hand shoots out to grip the support bar, glaring at Bokuto.

“Could’ve warned me,” he grumbles, letting out a gasp when Bokuto ignores his complaint and dives straight into his neck to leave marks. “Not there! My parents will see them!”

“It’s turtleneck weather,” Bokuto replies easily.

Akaashi nearly succumbs to Bokuto’s seducing until he remembers something. “What if I shit on your dick?”

Bokuto tosses his head back and laughs, causing Akaashi to laugh along nervously.

“That’s what the shower is for,” he repeats without a second thought, going back to his seducing. His hand overlaps Akaashi’s on the support bar, squeezing it as both of them forget the trauma of today and melt into each other’s bodies. The sex is a form of amnesia because as Bokuto sets down a thoroughly fatigued Akaashi on the counter to get them both towels, Akaashi can’t for the life of him place why he was sad earlier that day.

He, thankfully, didn’t shit on Bokuto’s dick. And—Bokuto’s right—it’s chilly that night. It gives Akaashi the perfect excuse to cuddle up on the couch in a turtleneck, concealing the evidence of their spontaneous lust in the shower. The night is full of hot chocolate with marshmallows and caramel drizzle, just like Akaashi likes it, cheesy rom-coms he and his mother adore, and playing around with Emiko that he forgets that he’ll die in a few months or years. He talks and talks and talks until his vocal cords are sore the next day. Tonight, he isn’t Keiji Akaashi with ALS. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who can barely form a sentence anymore. He isn’t Keiji Akaashi who will die before he reaches middle age. He’s just Keiji Akaashi.

…

The sense of normalcy continues for the rest of the year. His symptoms seem to have plateaued, and thankfully, he doesn’t have any more run-ins with urge incontinence. Bokuto attributes the slowing progression to his daily physical therapy sessions, and he finally feels comfortable enough to go to practices again and leave Akaashi to his work. Typing is difficult, and it takes him three times as long to edit a page of a manga, but it feels nice to be of use. To not be completely inept and earn his own keep. He always hated being doted on, but he’d have to get used to the idea soon enough.

Akaashi’s parents go home a month after their arrival once they see their son’s condition stabilizing, making him promise to call them every day and tell them updates. He struggles to muster up the courage to call their closest friends to break the news because he knows that the second he says the words ‘I have ALS,’ they’d be knocking down the door. And that’s exactly what happens.

“Why the actual hell didn’t you tell us the second you got the diagnosis?!” Kuroo shouts, causing Kenma to smack the back of his head and apologize for his partner.

“The man’s sick, Tetsurou. Don’t scream.”

Akaashi appreciates the gesture since Kuroo’s voice is much too loud for their little apartment, but he also doesn’t want to be labeled as ‘sick.’ He’s already had enough of being treated like porcelain from Bokuto; he doesn’t want his friends to do the same.

“Kuroo, calm down,” Bokuto warns, but he was in the same position Kuroo not too long ago. When Akaashi refused to go to the doctor and admit he had a problem. He can’t blame the frustration. “He’s doing fine. The crutches are working out well, and his motor skills are good enough to type and write. He’s improving.”

The initial shock of the diagnosis undoubtedly made every single symptom seem worse and did nothing to slow the progression. It racked Akaashi’s body like cancer, and he wishes he did have cancer because then he might have a shot of surviving and living a normal life. Cancer seems like a blessing compared to the curse his body harbors.

“Well,” Kenma starts with a sympathetic smile. He picks up a controller from the coffee table and sits down next to Akaashi, handing it to him and picking up a controller for himself. “Ready for me to kick your ass in Mario Kart?”

Akaashi laughs. Genuinely. Not caused by those random bursts of laughter or crying he gets. He was so worried about getting treated as if he’s breakable that the comment caught him off-guard—of course Kenma would beat him. Not only because he’s a savant at anything video game-related, but because Akaashi literally has almost zero motor skills left. And Kenma knows this very well. They ate together. Kenma watched Bokuto help wipe Akaashi’s mouth and cut up a bit of the tougher side of the steak. He winced every time Akaashi dropped his fork, the clatter causing the conversation to come to an abrupt stop. And yet, he still proposes to beat him in a game that is all about motor control. Because Keiji is still Keiji. And he deserves to play a game of Mario Kart.

Kenma, of course, wins. Bokuto promises to avenge Akaashi’s honor, but he, too, loses his honor when he’s defeated horribly by the video game developer. Kuroo is the only one who puts up a good fight before ultimately losing as well from all the practice the two do on a daily basis. Kuroo and Bokuto busy themselves playing another round while Kenma helps Akaashi stand up, and the two walk over to the small patio in the kitchen.

“Have you been smoking?” Kenma asks, motioning to the ashtray populated by a few cigarettes as he sits down. Akaashi sits down across from him, his hand absentmindedly stroking Emiko.

“No, that’s Bokuto’s,” he replies with a disappointed shake of the head. “I’m trying to get him to stop. But even if they…were mine, it wouldn’t matter. I’m going to die anyway.”

Kenma stiffens. He can sense the distaste dripping from Akaashi’s tone like acid. He knows Akaashi would never wish sickness on Bokuto, least of all lung cancer. But Kenma can tell how frustratingly ironic it is that Bokuto, whose diet consisted of the most sugary and fatty foods before Akaashi stepped in, who smokes nearly every day, is the perfectly healthy one. He’s healthy, not the one who meditates and does yoga and cooks homemade, healthy meals every day. Even Kenma has a frown of consternation, irritated at how unfair the world can be.

He needs to ask. He needs to be able to brace himself for when the time comes. “How long do you think you have?”

Something Akaashi always appreciated from Kenma is that he never beats around the bush.

“The way I’m going, Dr. Hirose says three years. I’ll hopefully make it to my 40th birthday,” he explains, staring down at his hands. “I’ll probably n-need…a wheelchair in a year. And a 24/7 nurse a few months after that.”

He’s planned out the whole timeline in his head. He finds that expecting changes in his body is a lot less shock-inducing than just waiting for them to happen.

“I won’t be able to talk soon. Sometimes I d…on’t want to talk anymore. My vo…voice is starting to sound so ugly.” He thought he didn’t have any more tears to shed, but he finds himself choking back tears, his eyes red-rimmed.

He was trying to speak as much as possible before his voice eventually gives out, but he was never talkative to begin with, so it all comes off as fake. As a desperate attempt to redeem himself, say all the things he never got to say his entire life. He compliments Bokuto every day. Tells him how amazing of a job he’s doing. Bokuto is, of course, pleased to receive the compliments, but they’re soured when he realizes why he’s receiving them in the first place.

He baby talks Emiko, even though he only ever spoke to her like an adult human. Baby talking allows him to showcase more of his vocal range, which is getting smaller and smaller each month. But after a while, he goes days without uttering more than ten sentences. What’s the point if he’s going to lose his voice anyway?

Kenma reaches forward and grips Akaashi’s hand in his before letting go, gazing into the sunset splashing rays across the horizon. “You should make a bucket list.”

Akaashi lets out a sigh. Finally, somebody who doesn’t bring up Stephen fucking Hawking. Somebody who’s realistic, who offers solutions instead of false hope. He’s going to die whether he likes it or not—he needs to stop pitying himself.

“A bucket list isn’t a half-bad idea,” Akaashi says, stroking his chin pensively. He needs to shave, but last time he tried, he nicked himself so many times that he looked like he had a beard of toilet paper. “I don’t even know where I’d go. It’d be so expensive, too.”

“Are you going to use that money when you’re dead?” Kenma asks. “You have a savings account, right?”

Akaashi nods.

“Problem solved.” Kenma smiles and gets out a small leather-bound notebook, handing it to his friend. “I brought this for you. For your bucket list.”

Akaashi’s looking down at the notebook, but when he looks back up, Kenma’s crying. He’s never seen Kenma cry before.

“Go live life, Akaashi. Live the life people who live eighty years will never have.”

…

First, it’s the Alps in Switzerland for New Year’s. Akaashi’s strapped to Bokuto’s chest as they ski down a hill made for children, but Akaashi can’t wipe the smile off his face even if he tries. He’s laughing, begging Bokuto to go again. Bokuto agrees, but he’s wary of anything and everything now with Akaashi’s declining health. His bones have started to rise underneath his skin, and the dark circles under his eyes are growing ever darker. The common flu could have him bedridden for a week.

Bokuto still has hope that Akaashi will live for years and years. His stabilizing condition only further cements that hope, and if he doesn’t pay too much close attention, he completely forgets about Akaashi’s condition. They say that people who get it early in life live longer…

Akaashi can’t drink with his medications—and even though his motto is now “I’ll die anyway,” he’d much rather complete his Switzerland trip before offing himself. So he’s left to take care of Bokuto, who gets much too drunk off eggnog, and Akaashi loves it. He loves being the one fussing over somebody else. He loves being the stronger one, the caretaker. And now, he finally has a reason to take care of Bokuto and drag him to the bed.

“Keiiijii!” Bokuto sings at the top of his lungs, reaching his arms up as the bedroom spins around him. “Keiji Akaashi, I loooove youuu!”

“I love you, too,” Akaashi murmurs with a chuckle, balancing his crutches against the wall and flopping onto the bed.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Well, that’s quite a change in mood. Akaashi laughs and quirks a brow at Bokuto, whose arms had since dropped to his chest and his eyes closed.

“I’m not leaving—”

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Bokuto slurs. His hands fly up to cover his eyes. “Why…why couldn’t it have been me? God, it’s all my fault. If we hadn’t gotten into…that crash. Of all people…why you? Live forever and forever for me. Please don’t leave me, Keiji, please…”

He continues blabbering until snores overtake his sobs, but Akaashi stays silent. Bokuto says it hurts him to see his husband’s decline, but it also hurts him to see Bokuto suffering so much. Perhaps if he died earlier rather than later, Bokuto wouldn’t be hurting as much. He’d have more time to get over him and fall in love again, preferably with somebody without a terminal disease.

He crosses off “go skiing” and “go to Switzerland” in his notebook and smiles as he goes to sleep.

…

Second, it’s Brazil. They coincidentally run into Hinata playing volleyball with his Brazilian friends on Copacabana Beach, but his expression doesn’t change when his eyes drop to Akaashi’s crutches. He just grins even wider and holds up the volleyball in his arms for Akaashi.

“Wanna play a set?”

He gets on Bokuto’s shoulders and misses nearly all the blocks and hits. It’s less about his condition and more so the fact that he was a setter and hadn’t played professionally in nearly fifteen years, but that doesn’t discourage him. He accepts Hinata’s ‘another game?’ proposition until Bokuto puts a stop to it, afraid he’s overworking himself.

Bokuto gets drunk, yet again, off too many caipirinhas, and Akaashi, yet again, has to take care of him. But he doesn’t complain once. As Bokuto sleeps, he gets out his leather-bound notebook as crosses both “meet up with Hinata one more time” and “go to Brazil” off his list. Slowly and surely, his list is being whittled down. It’s bittersweet: he feels accomplished whenever he crosses something off the list, but that just means he’s growing ever closer to his expiration date.

…

Third, it’s Italy. It’s been nearly a year since he was first diagnosed and add on two months for when he first started noticing symptoms. They’re celebrating Akaashi’s 37th birthday in a fancy seaside restaurant, the salty breeze making both their faces glow. They’re in their own little world, ignoring the other customers who either stare at them or ask to be moved to another table.

Bokuto now has to feed him nearly everything, spooning minestrone soup and twirling pasta onto a fork before putting it into his husband’s mouth. He fixes Akaashi’s bib, which has “what’s cookin,’ good lookin’” embellished across it, per Bokuto’s suggestion.

“This…is goo…d-d,” Akaashi says with a giggle, accidentally spitting out a bit of soup that dribbles down his chin.

“I know, right?” Bokuto’s heart aches at the sight, but he forces his acting skills to their maximum as he lifts a napkin up to clean Akaashi up. “We’re coming to Italy every…er, we should come back.”

He keeps catching himself saying presumptuous things that only make Akaashi draw back inside himself. Things like “I can’t wait to do this every day with you,” or “we need to come back here in three years” because, frankly, three years is a stretch.

“I wan…t the c-calamari,” Akaashi continues, seemingly not noticing Bokuto’s slip-up.

“Okay, we’ll have the calamari next. But save me some, okay? Your eye is bigger than your stomach,” Bokuto recites in a motherly voice, making Akaashi laugh again.

“Okay,” Akaashi replies, his eyes sparkling.

Bokuto hesitates to leave to go to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, but Akaashi practically pushes him out the door with the little strength he still had. They’d have to switch to a wheelchair soon.

“I’ll be fine,” Akaashi promises in his now-unnaturally low voice. “I’ll be…on the couch.”

Bokuto bites the inside of his cheek before relenting, bidding goodbye and practically sprinting to the grocery store. When he comes back, his arms carrying a bag full of fruit and pasta, he shouts Akaashi’s name. No response.

“Akaashi?”

He hears a groan, and he can’t drop the groceries fast enough before running in the direction of the sound, coming across Akaashi on the floor in the bathroom, his pants halfway hiked up his legs.

“I h-had to p…ee,” Akaashi sobs into the terracotta tile, and Bokuto bunches him up in his arms, and he finds that his husband’s body feels much too similar to the bag of groceries. Dead weight. He weeps in Bokuto’s arms for a few more moments, and Bokuto’s about to get up before Akaashi lets out a choked wail.

“I don’t want to die!” he shrieks, almost intelligibly with how fast he gets it out in order to not slur his words together. He hits Bokuto’s forearms as hard as he can, which Bokuto barely notices with how light the taps are. He shakes his head, gobs of ugly fat tears and snot trailing down his face. He’s unraveling; all the fear and dread in his body bubbling to the surface like boiling water. The water runs down the sides of the pot, stoking the fire even more until everything eventually burns down into embers. That’s what’s left of Akaashi now. Embers.

“I d…on’t want to die. I’m s-sca…red. I don’t wan…t-t to die…I don’t…”

Akaashi thought dying was what he wanted. But the second he was alone in the dark bathroom, hopelessly and utterly alone and lying on the cold floor, he realizes that death is the furthest thing he wants. He’s scared. He’s been putting off his true emotions for too long. He’s always been terrified.

He dissolves back into quiet tears, hanging his head low over Bokuto’s forearm. For a while, all Bokuto can do is stare, biting his bottom lip until it bleeds in order to keep a stoic face for his husband. But he’s crumbling, too.

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto coaxes into Akaashi’s hair, stroking the locks and cradling him like a newborn baby. For every smile Akaashi gives, he weeps five times. The ratio used to be backwards. He wonders how much bigger the disparity in the ratio will grow.

Bokuto doesn’t leave him alone for longer than five minutes after that.

…

They can only do one more trip before Akaashi needs to be transferred to a wheelchair, according to Dr. Hirose.

“There are many comfortable and intelligent varieties,” he says, but nothing makes Akaashi want to die more than the thought of no longer being able to move on his own.

They end up in England, where they meet up with Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

“Yikes, you look horrible, Akaashi,” Oikawa says with a grimace, motioning to Akaashi’s outfit and bib. “Just because Bokuto has to dress you now doesn’t mean he should get to pick out your outfits. Cargo shorts, really?”

Akaashi laughs and turns to Bokuto, shaking his head. “You h-hear…d the man. I…ge-t-t to choose.”

Bokuto rolls his eyes and glares daggers into Oikawa’s soul as he takes out a tissue to clean up the drool in the corner of Akaashi’s mouth. “I picked out this outfit with a lot of love. I think it shows off his model legs. Doesn’t it, Iwa?”

But Iwaizumi isn’t taking the news as easily as Oikawa. He’s still visibly processing how quickly his friend’s health went downhill, and his hands are fisting the sides of his jeans.

“Um, yeah,” Iwaizumi replies after nearly choking on the lump in his throat. “Maybe a vest would be tasteful.”

Akaashi taps Bokuto on the chest, which would have been a slap back in the old days. He raises his eyebrows in a ‘you hear that?’ motion, finding body language is a lot easier and less awkward for the other person in the conversation than attempting to speak. He ignores Iwaizumi’s reaction—he understands it. He’s gotten enough of those reactions to just laugh it off. But the lingering stares and pitiful glances still hurt.

When they get back to their hotel, Akaashi crosses off “go to England” and “see Oikawa and Iwa one last time” in his journal. Bokuto helps him brush his teeth, holding up a cup of water for him to rinse and spit into and wipes the toothpaste foam off his face.

“Look at those pearly whites,” Bokuto says, grinning in a way that bares all his teeth, and Akaashi copies as much as he can with his limited range of facial muscles. They dissolve into laughter, and Bokuto sits his husband on the foot of the bed and places a pajama set on the bed. “Alright, now because of stupid Oikawa, I have to get your approval on everything you wear because I have ‘horrible fashion taste’ or whatever. So, what do you think?”

Akaashi is silent, and Bokuto meets his gaze and sees his cheeks are dusted with pink.

“Koutarou…” Even with his slurred and irregular voice, his name still sounds like pure gold on his tongue. Akaashi blinks slowly, tipping his chin back and lifting his arms up haltingly until his hands find support by clinging to Bokuto’s face. “Ma…ke love to…to me.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen, and he fights the urge to step back in surprise and tear Akaashi’s hands off his face. He closes his eyes and covers Akaashi’s hands with his own, detaching them from his cheeks and bringing them back down to his lap.

“I can’t do that, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers.

“Why not?” Akaashi asks, his lips pulling into a frown. “Am I…too ugly?”

His face is so skinny. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, his eyelashes even longer than they were before. His lips are chapped, and there’s a growing sore in the corner of his mouth. Bokuto can see the blue-green veins running underneath his skin, feel the spots he missed when he helped him shave this morning.

But he couldn’t be more beautiful.

“Never,” Bokuto breathes, squatting down to be eye-level with his Greek god. “I’m just scared I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Akaashi continues. “I can take it.” When he still sees hesitation in Bokuto’s eyes, he practically begs, “One last time…pl…ease. Hawking still…fu-ucked while in…h-his wheel…wheelchair.”

Bokuto laughs, and Akaashi can see the last glint of reluctance turn into amusement.

“You’re not even in a wheelchair yet,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi nods eagerly. He sighs, the phrase ‘one last time’ echoing in his head. It really will be the last time they make love. Because even though Stephen Hawking was still a womanizer in his wheelchair, Bokuto doesn’t think he’ll have it in him.

He undresses Akaashi slowly, unbuttoning his Hawaiian shirt, letting Akaashi fumble with the last few buttons. He tries to take back as much of his autonomy whenever he can, and Bokuto gladly allows him.

Akaashi watches as Bokuto stands back up and pulls his shirt over his head, letting it drop onto the floor, and leans over to press kisses onto his abs. He runs his fingertips over the muscles, both in admiration and in jealousy. He remembers when he used to have ab muscles like these, how much Bokuto loved touching them. He looks down at his own torso, wincing at the sight of his ribs slicing his skin.

He smiles as Bokuto carries him up the bed, laying him down delicately like a baby. He whimpers at the warmth on the crook of his neck, his shoulders hiking up and his body racking with pleasure. He hasn’t felt so beautiful, so worthy of love, in so long, and it’s all thanks to Bokuto’s soft caresses.

“Are you okay?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi has a feeling that question will be recurring throughout this session.

He gazes down at his husband, who has reached his happy trail, and nods. He gathers up all his energy to say, “I’ve never felt…better.”

It’s slow and tender, both because Bokuto is afraid he’ll break Akaashi and because it’s their last time together. He wants it to last forever. He wants to imprint every touch, every sound, every taste into his brain. He wants Akaashi tattooed on his body, wants any evidence that he was here, that he was loved, that he was strong until the very end.

He guides Akaashi’s arms to cling onto his back, holding up his bony legs as he locks lips with a particularly noisy Akaashi.

“The whole hotel can probably hear you,” he jokes, and Akaashi needs to catch his breath before responding.

“Good,” he finally replies, using the last of his strength to push Bokuto down into a deep kiss.

Akaashi’s tattooed on his body alright. After Akaashi falls sound asleep directly after finishing, Bokuto cleans him up and dresses him in the pajamas in case it gets chilly during the night. He pulls the covers up to his chin and kisses his forehead, brushing a few locks of sweaty hair out of his face. He smiles and heads to the bathroom, immediately spotting the hickeys Akaashi must have left on him while he was fumbling around with the pillows to make sure he was completely comfortable. He turns around to see scratch marks all over his upper back. He needs to stifle his laughter in fear of waking Akaashi, but it’s more than endearing to see how his husband marked him up. He needs to stop himself from going to the nearest tattoo artist and getting the scratches tattooed immediately.

He slips back into bed, and Akaashi responds by turning over and flopping his limbs over Bokuto’s torso. He smiles and wraps his arms around the love of his life and dreams of him with gray hair, wrinkles, and sunspots. All of which are considered to be the worst things to happen while aging, but what he wouldn’t give to see all three on Akaashi. That would mean he lived long enough to gain them.

…

Akaashi hates the wheelchair. It gets him places faster, yeah, and it’s very high-tech, but at what cost? He can barely move around the apartment without bumping into something and knocking it onto the floor. Bokuto rarely ever leaves the apartment anymore, so he’s always there to help, but Akaashi is still stubborn about doing everything himself. He asks Bokuto to buy him a grabber tool, but when his forearm strength eventually dies out, he has to swallow his pride and call Bokuto into the room to pick up the fallen bowl of cereal.

He celebrates his 38th birthday in their apartment, Emiko on his lap and in the process of trying to steal a slice of cake. She, unlike her owner, loves the wheelchair. It means a seat plus access to human food when he’s in a good mood.

“Mom, Mom, you’re…miss…ssing it,” Akaashi drawls, waving sloppily at the phone Bokuto’s holding up to FaceTime his parents. “I’m gon…na blow it-t out.”

“Go and blow it out, honey!” his mother encourages over the speaker. “Koutarou, did you use sparklers? You better not have, or so help me I’m flying over there—”

“You wound me, mother-in-law,” Bokuto exclaims dramatically, his hand flying up to his chest as if he has just been shot. “Hath you no trust in me?”

“Not after you did that on my birthday,” Akaashi’s mother retorts, giving him the evil eye. “Now flip the camera back to my baby boy!”

“He’s always had a pair of lungs on him, haven’t you, my boy?” his father shouts, and Akaashi laughs weakly.

Almost as if to disprove his father’s words, his lungs fail him in the middle of blowing out the candles. The flames pop right back up mockingly, stronger than ever. Akaashi attempts again but only manages to blow out a few.

“I bought the strong kind, I think,” Bokuto mumbles, trying desperately to make the situation better and to cover up the sound of Akaashi’s painful wheezing. He leans over to prepare to blow the rest out. “Let me just—”

“I want to do it!” It’s rare when Akaashi gets out a full sentence nowadays, which makes his faint shout even more potent. “I want…to do-o it.”

Bokuto steps back slowly, nodding encouragingly and lifting his hand up. “Okay. Go ahead, Keiji.”

Akaashi straightens himself as much as he can in his chair, leaning close to the cake and inhaling for a good few seconds before exhaling it all, leaving himself lightheaded, and with one candle still dancing tauntingly in his face. He slumps back in his chair, thoroughly exhausted, and feebly lifts a hand up to signal Bokuto to go ahead and blow the last one out. Bokuto obeys, and they both say quick goodbyes to his parents before cutting the cake silently.

“I’m…sorry,” Akaashi speaks up after a while, his mouth full of red velvet cake.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bokuto instructs, wiping up the creamy mess around Akaashi’s mouth. He pauses, letting out a sigh. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re frustrated.”

Akaashi stays silent, slowly and methodically chewing his food ever since he had a choking scare a week ago. He swallows, but he doesn’t open his mouth for more. Bokuto raises a forkful of cake, but when he sees Akaashi’s mouth closed, he sets it down and slips his hands into his husband’s, his thumb running over the bony joints.

“Have you thought about joining a support group?” he asks. Akaashi scoffs, and he can see that he’s thinking all sorts of nasty things that he’d yell at Bokuto, but he doesn’t have the energy to bicker anymore. Fighting with each other is now a privilege since by the time Akaashi gets out a comeback, they’ve both had enough time to cool down and think about their actions.

“I know you don’t like the idea,” Bokuto says, speaking Akaashi’s thoughts to life. “I know you think it’s stupid, that it’s only for pussies.”

“I…would…n’t put it-t li…ke that.”

Bokuto chuckles and shrugs. “Something like that, then. But maybe if you vent to them, you’ll feel better. You won’t have to bottle everything up inside.”

Akaashi ponders it for a moment before opening his mouth again for more cake, and he thinks about it for the better part of the night while he watches Bokuto perform magic card tricks that he learned on YouTube in lieu of going to volleyball. In the morning, he gives Bokuto the go-ahead to find a group. He doesn’t really have any other reason to get out of the house. He can’t travel, and their small neighborhood barely has any wheelchair accessibility. When Bokuto finds one and signs him up for the following afternoon, he can’t deny that he’s excited to go.

“Hello, Mr. Akaashi, I’m Fumi Sugita,” the woman greets, and he lets out a sigh of relief that she doesn’t put her hands on her knees to talk to him like a child. But he supposes it’s because she’s literally the leader of an ALS group—she most likely knows how to talk to people in wheelchairs.

“Call him Keiji,” Bokuto says for him, and Akaashi confirms with a nod. He’d have to switch to communicating with the computer installed on his wheelchair, and even though the voice isn’t as robotic as the older models have it, it still isn’t his voice. Who is he kidding, his own voice isn’t even his own voice anymore. But he still hasn’t set it up yet.

“Alright, Keiji, let’s get started. Mr. Bokuto—”

“Koutarou.”

“Koutarou, please wait in the living room or come back by 3:15.”

Bokuto nods and places a kiss on the corner of Akaashi’s lips. Kisses are rare now since Bokuto’s so busy keeping house and taking care of Akaashi’s needs. Plus, there’s always something smeared across his lips or a painful sore from too much accumulating drool that it’s flat-out unpleasant to kiss him. But Bokuto got him pristine for the group session, and he didn’t even nick him while shaving. He’s getting better at it.

“Be nice,” Bokuto whispers, and Akaashi rolls his eyes and waves him off.

“Everybody, this is Keiji,” Fumi introduces to a room filled with people in varying stages of ALS. A chorus of slurred and robotic greetings follow her introduction, and Akaashi awkwardly waves as he maneuvers his chair with the joystick into the circle.

“We were just talking about fun things you can do in a wheelchair,” Fumi continues, motioning to a woman in a similar model wheelchair to him. “Do you want to show your trick off, Haruko?”

The woman nods eagerly and sticks her tongue out for concentration as she fiddles with her joystick, the chair moving backward, then forwards, then spins in the blink of an eye. Another woman shows off her trick: typing 80085 into her computer, which proceeds to read it out as “boobies.”

That earns a chuckle from Akaashi. Perhaps this isn’t too bad.

After the third session, Akaashi has grown quite close to Haruko, especially after she gladly showed him how to do her spinning wheelchair trick.

“My…hus…band thought-t it wa…s cool,” he says, and Haruko laughs. Akaashi had to tell Bokuto to stop making him do the trick over and over, but it was reluctant since he hadn’t seen that look of pride and excitement on the man’s face in a long while. Bokuto makes him promise to learn more tricks to show him, and he goes so far as to take videos to send to their friends and family. Kuroo replies with That’s dope, Akaashi! Parkour! and that makes both men crack up laughing.

Kuroko looks at her computer, waiting for the eye-tracking technology to start up, and flicks her eyes around the screen.

“I’m glad he liked it,” the robotic female voice replies. “How long do you have left?”

It’s a common question among the group. It’s never a sure answer since everybody still prays they have Hawking’s luck, but there’s usually an empty space when it gets near the time a person says they have left.

“A…year,” Akaashi says, and he suddenly has the urge to just use the computer to have a semi-normal conversation again. He’ll ask Bokuto to set it up tonight. “But…I wan…t to m-make it to-o my 40th…birthd-day.”

“That’s a short time,” Haruko says, her previous smile down turning into a frown. “I mean, I have shorter, but it’s more real hearing it out loud. Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

Akaashi nods, and that’s the end of the conversation until he can get the computer booted up and figures out how to use it.

After the fourth session, Akaashi approaches Haruko with a brand-new set of communication, and he proves it by picking up on their conversation left from yesterday. “I have decided what I’m going to do.” The voice is, of course, robotic, and Bokuto tried to call Kenma for help on how to fix it, but Kenma’s advice only made it sound creepier. But it’s worth it to carry a conversation and not hear how awful his voice sounds. He tried to use his voice until it gave out, but it became impossible. He had to swallow his pride, and it worked out. He can now hold a regular-ish conversation.

“And what’s that?” she asks, a look of intrigue on her face.

“I want to be cremated and buried under a cherry blossom tree I loved as a kid,” Akaashi replies, a sense of tranquility washing over him. The thought of dying always used to scare him before he was diagnosed, as it does to everybody. But now, he can’t think of anything more peaceful. “I used to read books underneath it, and I fell in love under it for the first time.”

His mind wanders to that one picnic in the humid spring weather. How reluctant their touches were because they were both in love but were too scared to admit it. How the sun lit up Bokuto’s face just in time for him to confess, highlighting the deep blush on his face as he picked up a cherry blossom from the blanket, tucking it behind Akaashi’s ear. How Bokuto smiled and laughed out of pure relief once Akaashi confirmed his feelings as well. How they cuddled, savoring each other’s touches before they had to leave for university. How the light filtered in between the branches of the cherry blossom tree until the horizon swallowed it. How he wishes he could go back to that memory one last time.

“I want to be cremated, too,” Haruko says, breaking Akaashi out of his thoughts. “But tossed in the ocean to be fish food.”

They both laugh, but Haruko interrupts the moment by asking, “Have you told your husband yet?”

Akaashi shakes his head, letting it droop forward in a show of embarrassment. “He still thinks I’m going to be the next Stephen Hawking. Sometimes I get mad at him because he gave us all false hope.”

“I wouldn’t want to live that long like this anyway,” Haruko retorts. “I’m tired. I’ve made my peace. My family has made their peace. I just want to close my eyes and open them in Heaven. Or Hell. I’m not jinxing anything.”

Akaashi stays silent, and the two cease their conversation when Fumi comes by to feed them a few pieces of fruit while both their caretakers come to pick them up. When she leaves to tend to the other people, Haruko turns back to Akaashi.

“’When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not here to see; if the sun should rise and find your eyes; all filled with tears for me’,” she recites, and Akaashi cocks his head in confusion. “It’s my favorite poem now. I’ve always loved poetry, but this one resonates with me. You should look the rest up.” A man walks into their peripheral vision, a grand smile on his face when he spots Haruko.

“Come on, babe, I made soba! Let’s go before it gets cold,” he says, and Haruko grins and starts her wheelchair toward him. She spins around and lifts her eyebrows in a sign of goodbye, and Akaashi tips his chin in acknowledgment.

Bokuto isn’t too far behind Haruko’s boyfriend, nearly doubling over with how out-of-breath he is. “Sorry, honey, there was a ragin’ line at the grocery store. I had to elbow a middle-aged woman out of the way for a box of crackers.”

Akaashi laughs, and Bokuto laughs with him. He tells him all about his day at the grocery store, the never-ending tale lasting all the way back home. And while Akaashi usually loves listening to Bokuto’s intriguing tales, he finds his mind wandering to the poem Haruko quoted. When Bokuto is washing the dishes, he tries to look up the first lines of the poem as quickly as he can, and when he finds it, he reads it over and over until he can recite it by heart.

When Bokuto lifts him out of his wheelchair and into bed, draping the blanket over him, Akaashi clears his throat. Bokuto slips into bed and listens attentively, brushing the hair out of Akaashi’s eyes.

“I w-want…to be crem…cremated,” Akaashi says. He pushes on, even though he feels Bokuto stiffen next to him, the mattress sagging under the added weight. “Un…der the cher…ry bloss…som tree.”

Bokuto wants to argue. He wants to scream and yell and repeat over and over that Akaashi’s not dying, he’s not going to die anytime soon until it becomes true. But he knows better. He’s been to group sessions of his own—partners of those with ALS—and knows that denial is the first stage of the grieving process. But all this knowledge doesn’t make the air in the room any less heavy whenever the morbid subject is brought up.

He’s about to reply to Akaashi when he continues. “’When…tomo-rrow start…s…without me…’” He recites the lines Haruko told him today, slowly but surely, until he’s panting with exertion. Usually, he’d be crying whenever the subject of dying is brought up, but just like Haruko, he’s made his peace with the idea. He used to be terrified of the idea of death, but now, he’s expecting it like a visit from an old friend. It’s comforting to know that their suffering will be over soon. He wants Bokuto to be happy. He can see how stressed he is, how he’s been losing weight alongside the actually diseased person. He’s grown paler, and his smile carries the weight of an eighty-year-old man’s. He’s tired. They’re both tired.

Bokuto, however, doesn’t take it as well. He hates seeing how accepting Akaashi has grown over the idea of death. Fight a little harder, he wants to shout. Fight like you mean it. Fight like you want to live.

But Akaashi has no more fight in him left to give. He can no longer make fists with his hands. He can’t move his legs at all. He’s lost almost all his facial muscles. ALS is the grand champion of this fight, and Akaashi isn’t getting up from the floor.

“What’s the rest?” Bokuto asks, but by the time he’s finished wiping away his own tears, Akaashi is asleep.

…

Sleeping next to Akaashi is nearly impossible now. His wheezing is loud and sharp, the sound a constant sheer whistle in Bokuto’s ear. When they get him an oxygen machine, it isn’t much different. The tank makes clicking noises every time he inhales like a clock, ticking down the time until it goes silent, meaning Akaashi took his last breath.

Akaashi snores up a storm, which he supposes is payback for all the times he complained about Bokuto’s snoring. But Bokuto can’t risk moving to the couch and missing Akaashi’s last breath. Akaashi had chosen to have Do Not Attempt Resuscitation status, even though every single bone in Bokuto’s body screamed at him to stop the notary from signing off on the papers. He wanted to claim that Akaashi wasn’t mentally fit enough to have given permission, but he knew that Akaashi would never forgive him if he did that. The official paper framed above Akaashi’s nightstand mocks him every day, jeering at him, saying, “The love of your life will die, and you legally can’t do anything about it.”

Dr. Hirose tells Akaashi he should finish putting all his final touches on his will, but Akaashi hasn’t even started it. Yes, he’s accepted that he’s going to die—it’s another thing to put it on paper.

Akaashi spends his 39th birthday in a musty office, trying to think of everything he owns that will eventually go to Bokuto. Bokuto waits outside the office as he speaks with the drafter about his will. He covers his ears since he can still hear the muffled robotic voice from Akaashi’s wheelchair. If he hums a song loud enough and squeezes his eyes tight, he almost forgets where he is.

Each week, Akaashi recites one more stanza from the poem. Bokuto has to suppress the urge to just look it up and read until the end, wanting to hear it from Akaashi’s mouth. Each week, Akaashi gets sicker and sicker, his mouth nearly freezing up multiple times through his recitations. He chokes on a noodle during lunch one day, and the near-death experience knocks him out for a few weeks, having to skip multiple group sessions. When he shows up again, people nearly drop their food out of pure shock. Akaashi had left an empty space in the group, and nobody questions an empty space. They just move closer together, as if covering up that the space was ever there.

But Akaashi notices Haruko isn’t at the group session. When he asks Fumi, she just purses her lips and shakes her head: the universal sign of ‘they passed away.’ He wonders if she’s in Heaven or Hell. He wonders if he’ll meet her wherever she is and hear her real voice.

Akaashi isn’t too far away from dying either. He’s filled out the paperwork. He’s made funeral arrangements. He’s contacted the cremation place. He’s said all that he needs to all his friends and family. All there is to do now…is wait.

“Koutarou,” Akaashi says one day as Bokuto’s giving him a sponge bath. He remembers a time where he said he’d rather slip and die in the shower than let Bokuto bathe him, hire a nurse, fight tooth and nail to the very end. He never expected he’d be so tired by the end. He thought he’d go out with a bang. But it’s quicksand instead: slow, inescapable, and exhausting.

“Yes, Keiji?” Bokuto asks, his breath hitching in his throat. He tries not to cry around Akaashi anymore. When Akaashi’s absentmindedly watching a game show on TV, he feigns needing to go to the bathroom and instead locks himself inside and sobs into the sleeve of his shirt. He wishes he could one day wake up and be the one with ALS, for Akaashi is the last person on Earth deserving of such hell. He feels so helpless—none of his kisses or hugs or feeble attempts at jokes are enough to save Akaashi. He’s going to die, and there’s nothing Bokuto can do about it except watch his soulmate slip through his fingers like watching Akaashi lobbing a perfect set his way, and no matter what he does, Bokuto’s hand goes straight through the ball. The ball falls pitifully on their side of the net—match set point. The point is irreversible. There’s no way to get it back. There’s no way to win the game. They can reflect on the things they did wrong in hindsight all they want—“we should’ve done this,” “we could’ve done this better”—but there’s nothing they can do to change the game. They lost. Both of them.

“I want to go to Iceland again,” Akaashi says. “That’s my final wish.”

The words ‘final wish’ is a gut punch, and Bokuto has to take a few seconds to reel from nausea swirling in his stomach. He squeezes the sponge in his hands until all moisture dissipates from it, his nails digging into the foam. He tries not to splash the computer as he wets the sponge again.

“Dr. Hirose won’t let that happen,” Bokuto replies, returning to lightly wiping Akaashi’s skin.

“He can’t deny a dying man a final wish,” Akaashi defends. “You can’t deny me my final wish.”

Bam. Straight to the heart. Akaashi always knew exactly what would get Bokuto’s blood pressure through the roof. Because that’s exactly what Bokuto is trying to do. If they do go to Iceland, Akaashi will either die onboard the plane, in Iceland, or on the plane back. He’s not surviving the trip. He will die there. And Bokuto will be left cold and alone.

“Okay,” Bokuto relents, bowing his head so Akaashi can’t see the tears pricking his eyes. “I’ll book it tomorrow.”

…

The arrangements with the airline take longer than Bokuto ever thought since the subject matter is a dying man. He shouts one too many times into the receiver that Akaashi doesn’t have that many days left, and even after repeating and emphasizing that point, it’s as if his brain blocks that fact. It substitutes it instead for the idea that they’re simply going on another vacation, and the two of them are coming back together, not with one in a body bag.

He doesn’t let any of the flight attendants touch Akaashi or his wheelchair. He’s the one who folds up the wheelchair. He’s the one who lifts Akaashi into the first-class seat. He’s the one who touches him because any touch could be his last before his husband turns cold.

“Comfortable?” Bokuto asks, buckling both their seatbelts. “I’ve never been in first class before.”

Akaashi nods, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headrest. However, his eyes flutter open when Bokuto snaps his fingers in front of him, shaking his head.

“No, we’re watching Despicable Me 2. No sleeping on my watch.” Partly because he wants to watch their comfort movie together one last time, and partly because the mere sight of Akaashi’s eyes being closed gives him indescribable amounts of anxiety.

Akaashi rolls his eyes, which is one of the few things from his past he can still do now, and leans his head against Bokuto’s shoulders as they start the movie. Akaashi wheezes for a laugh since they couldn’t bring his oxygen tanks on board (it isn’t as if he’s going to need them for much longer, anyhow), and Bokuto senses the other passengers shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He couldn’t care less. He’s embarrassed for the other passengers, shifting away from a dying man. Pathetic.

He’s evidently fallen into the anger stage of the grieving process.

When they get to the hotel, the first thing Bokuto asks is when the northern lights will appear. The woman says possibly in two days. He bites his lip and looks down at Akaashi, who blinks slowly to reassure him that everything is alright. He’ll hang on for a little while longer.

They lay in bed those two days, Bokuto listening to Akaashi’s breaths and Akaashi savoring the warmth and fullness of Bokuto’s torso in his arms.

“Are you scared?” Bokuto asks, his voice cracking in the middle.

Akaashi holds up two fingers, meaning ‘no.’

“Will you miss me?”

He holds up one finger, meaning ‘yes.’

“Are you happy?”

One finger.

“Do you regret anything?”

One finger.

Bokuto reaches for his phone and opens the notes app for Akaashi to type. He does it so slowly, Bokuto nearly forgets what question he asked.

“Making you sad. Making you worry.”

“Oh, Keiji,” Bokuto whispers, setting down his phone and hugging Akaashi close, resting his chin on his oily hair. “You’ve only ever made me happy. And annoyed when you’d steal my secret stash of Oreos.”

A sharp breath comes from Akaashi, signaling a laugh.

“It’s the thought of you being gone that makes me sad. You never made me sad. I’m just worried about myself.” Bokuto chokes back a sob. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.”

They fall into silence again, until Bokuto asks one last question.

“What’s the end to the poem?”

He looks down, and Akaashi’s sound asleep on his chest. He slowly and steadily picks up his phone and takes a picture. Akaashi looks…normal in the photo. He looks peaceful. He doesn’t look tired at all. He looks ready.

They arrive at the same lookout point where they had that transformative crash. It seems only natural to end where everything started. Bokuto sets out a blanket and sits down on it and next to Akaashi’s wheelchair, leaning his head against Akaashi’s forearm.

“Are you excited?”

One finger.

“Me, too.”

Before long, the light show starts. Akaashi gasps, but it isn’t one of those ‘searching for breath’ gasps. It’s one of amazement, his eyes widening as the colors dance across the sky, resuming the previous ballet dance they saw three years ago. His eyes, which had since gone dull many years ago, shine like he’s a child. They shine like mirrors, reflecting the aurora in their blue irises. He wants to tell Bokuto to look.

But Bokuto, once again, isn’t looking at the lights.

“Keiji,” he starts, the lights illuminating the wet film over his eyes. “What’s the end of the poem?”

Akaashi’s head lolls to the side to meet Bokuto’s gaze, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile.

Flashes of their life together, all culminating to this moment, streak across the sky in the form of the aurora. White for Fukuroudani’s volleyball uniform, where they first met and became the closest of friends. Green for the pistachio mochi Bokuto always made when Akaashi was sick. Purple for the color of the petunias at their wedding reception. Yellow for Emiko’s collar. Pink for the cherry blossom tree where they confessed their feelings for each other, where he realized his setter was the love of his life. Blue for Akaashi’s eyes. Black for the ink used to sign Akaashi’s will.

Instead of saying the end, the computer recites the poem from the beginning.

When tomorrow starts without me And I’m not here to see If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.

Akaashi wheezes painfully.

I wish so much you wouldn’t cry The way you did today While thinking of the many things We did not get to say.

Akaashi’s eyes close. I know how much you love me As much as I love you Each time that you think of me I know you will miss me, too.

Akaashi’s hand on the joystick goes limp.

I promise no tomorrow For today will always last And since each day’s the exact same way There is no longing for the past.

Akaashi’s head drops.

So when tomorrow starts without me Do not think we’re apart For every time you think of me Remember I’m right here in your heart.

Akaashi dies before the computer finishes the poem.

He dies 301 days before his 40th birthday. He dies under the northern lights that he first fell in love with more than three years ago. And a part of Bokuto dies with him.

…

Akaashi’s father digs the hole underneath the tree and watches as his mother tips her son into the earth. The ashes land in a neat pile. Fitting. Everything Akaashi ever did was neat and tidy.

His mother breaks down before she can fill the hole. Emiko rushes to her side, their whimpers resonating together.

His father helps his wife out of the way, and Bokuto takes over. He takes one last look at what remains of Akaashi before scooping the earth into his hands and tipping it over, scooping and patting until the hole is filled. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the dirt underneath him darkens. He nearly collapses on top of the hole before Kuroo catches him by the shoulders. But even Kuroo can’t stop the tears. The two men sob into each other’s shoulders until they have no more tears left to cry.

“Petunias were his favorite,” his mother says. She hands Bokuto a bouquet to lay down. He complies, his body on autopilot.

He sits next to the pile of dirt, even when everybody else has left. They all bid him goodbye, kissing him on the cheek, giving him hugs. But he doesn’t register any of it. He just keeps his hand on top of the pile of dirt, hoping that Akaashi is sitting right next to him, his hand on top of his.

Akaashi gives him everything he owns, minus his money. His money is reserved for his parents—to provide them medical care for when they get old because they’re afforded that luxury—for his favorite nonprofits, and the biggest sum is split among various ALS foundations. Bokuto is left with his wheelchair, his crutches, his medications, his too-smart computer, his photos, and most bittersweetly of all, his memory. His body shape etched into their mattress. His scent—eucalyptus and black tea—that bursts out whenever he opens his closet. He’s everywhere and anywhere Bokuto goes. But he can’t bring himself to leave the apartment.

He buries Emiko next to Akaashi underneath the old cherry blossom tree. It’s bare-bones by now, having shed all its leaves and flowers in the autumn. They say Emiko’s death was from grief, but she was growing old as well. It seems as if everybody’s leaving him. What did he do to deserve this? To see all his loved ones turn into ash?

He enters the depressed state of his grieving process. He’s often too tired to eat the food his neighbors and friends bring him. He stopped smoking, which is what Akaashi would’ve wanted, but it’s less so about making Akaashi happy as it is he can’t even lift an arm up to grab the carton and put a cigarette up to his mouth. He just stares at the other side of the bed, his hand resting on the indent left by Akaashi’s body, wishing for his love to fill it once more.

When he finally gains the courage to get up and clean out Akaashi’s closet, a note falls out of one of his jackets when Bokuto tosses them into a pile on the bed. He picks it up and opens it. Inside is a horrible scrawl, barely decipherable. But Bokuto knows the poem all too well to need to decipher it.

When tomorrow starts without me…

The poem has haunted his every waking moment. He never really listened to Akaashi tell the poem. Mostly because it was too difficult to follow along with how little he could speak by the end, but also because he was too focused on savoring every little moment with him, ingraining it into his head. But as he sits down on the floor and stares at the poem, he now has the time—all the time in the world; wretched, wretched time—to read it in its entirety.

Each day is difficult. But with each day, he gets out of bed quicker and quicker. He eats bigger portions and more frequently. He brushes his teeth. He goes to the volleyball courts to say hello to his former teammates. When he spikes a ball, he instinctively turns his head next to him to seek out his setter. But with each day, he eventually stops looking. But Akaashi isn’t gone. He’s in his husband’s heart, just like the poem says. Akaashi’s body is no more, the ashes gone to feed the nature around him. But his spirit is more than alive. It thrives.

Every time he passes by the tree, he swears the tree grows a few more flowers. And every time he visits the aurora on his annual trip to Iceland, he swears there’s one more flash of light than usual in the sky.

[callmearcturus]

I think the big main reason a few of the aces in the fandom get defensive about all the nsfw stuff is because the lines that made Jon ace in canon also implied he’s sex-repulsed as well. ("according to Georgie, he... doesn't. Like, at all.")

And as a sex-repulsed ace myself it gets kinda uncomfortable seeing it. Like that part is being ignored. But I also stay 333 feet away from those tags in the first place because people are people and that shits gonna happen no matter what. (It’s just an annoyance when shit ain’t tagged correctly but others are very good about that!)

And either way the vast majority of the fics I’ve found are very ace-repulsed friendly anyways! And there are so many other types of aces just, doing them! People can do them it’s just wild to see this all being thrown around while I sit and watch with popcorn wondering what the fuck you know???

That’s not the discussion happening here. The person in question made a moral argument that if you, a fanperson who is making a fanwork, writes Jon having sex, then you are a bad person. Oh and for some mysterious reason, if it’s kinky sex? That’s worse. How? uh, ANYWAY.

I’ve seen people take that exact same line from fandom and Well Actually it to mean jon isn’t canonically ace at all (/rolls fucking eyes). In my opinion? If you want to write sex repulsed Jon, you’re good. You can point to that bit and go “see, sex repulsed.” But like. That was a third hand account that originated with someone’s ex. I am just as capable of going “well Jon didn’t want to have sex with Georgie, that doesn’t mean he’s sex repulsed.”

Like, as an ace person, broadly speaking I am not interested in having sex. But I can also conceive of situations where I would. /nods meaningfully at a steady hand, a delicate man

There is space here for all flavors of ace folk. What we don’t have fucking space for is ace people bullying each other for Doing It Wrong. We are not immune to exclusionism and we need to stamp it out everywhere.

[flowercrown-bucky]

As it turns out, adventuring in the unconscious mind is super overrated.

Fandom: 1970s!Loki Multi-Chapter

Pairing: Loki x ConArtist!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, drinking, drug references, later death, later smut, crime, loki and the reader are con artists..... It’s a wild one y’all, hold onto yo’ seats.

.Word Count: Lots

Chapter One

[Something Wicked This Way Comes - Chapter Two] 

Loki’s life on Asgard has become vapid; uninspiring. He’s got the taste for a little danger. During a trip to earth, he finds just the danger he’s looking for.A partner in crime - in every imaginable sense. 

TAGLIST IS OPEN - EITHER COMMENT OR MESSAGE ME TO BE ADDED

Authors’ Note: When I worked as a barmaid, one of my regulars used to refer to his wife as ‘the current Mrs Osbourne’. I always found it funny, and I snuck it in here. 

Also - I’m back. Yipee ki yay, motherfuckers.

You sighed as you slept, your breasts heaving.

Loki turned on his side, running the tips of his fingers over your sleeping form. The thin blanket was draped over you, not quite thick enough to warm your body properly. 

You snored, he had noticed, and it had bothered him to no end. As a god, he was required to sleep very rarely, which left him with nothing better to do than watch you sleep, most nights. 

He was intrigued by your mind. He had never entered a consciousness quite like it before, and the mystery of the contents of the shelves was really getting on his nerves. 

Over the last few weeks, you’d been sharing a room. After all, it was cheaper to have one room and it helped maintain the pretence that you were husband and wife. 

Your system had become fairly streamlined, and you’d become quite comfortable in each others’ presence. Comfortable enough that you’d allow yourself to sleep and trust him to protect you. After all, your body was a powerful asset, and you would rather it remained in one piece. 

Your unconscious mind, however, was a mystery to Loki, and one he fully intended to investigate.  

He lifted his hand, pressing his palm against your forehead. 

He looked around, briefly. It was just ask dark as it had been before, and just as empty. 

He wandered towards the boxes again. What was stored in your mind that you so badly needed to hide? You had revealed everything to him, but not your mind, and that was a concept he really, really struggled with. 

He grabbed at the handle, jiggling it with all his might, but it just wouldn’t budge. 

“I told you never to invade my mind again.” Your voice startled him. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep.” He spun on his heel. 

“And you are most certainly not supposed to be inside my head, so don’t try to take the highroad with me.” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“You’re supposed to be asleep.” He repeated, blinking incredulously. “Your body is asleep. How are you not asleep?” 

“Are you broken, or owt?” You raised your eyebrow. “As you can well see, I am not asleep. I find it suits me to be at least partially conscious at all times.” 

“Are you always like this when you’re sleeping?” He eyed you suspiciously, sat once again on your chair. 

During the short period of time he’d known you, he had discovered that you found it very difficult to sit normally on a chair, opting instead for a number of uncomfortable looking and seemingly anatomically impossible positions. It didn’t annoy him as much as had he thought it might. 

He’s asked you about it once. You’d mentioned that you had been briefly employed as a contortionist, but brushed it off whenever he tried to bring it up again. 

In all honesty, it wasn’t the most unusual thing he’d discovered about you. 

“Yup.” You popped the P. “And yes, that does mean that your midnight perving has not gone unnoticed.”  

“I do not perv.” He rested one hand on his hip. “I observe interesting things. You happen to be interesting.” 

“Well, I sure am glad you think so.” You drawled. “Anyhoo, to what do I owe the pleasure of this little midnight intrusion?” 

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s in all these boxes?” He asked. 

“Trust me when I say it is best for our combined safety that I don’t.” You looked straight into his eyes. 

He hated when you did that. The only other person who had ever looked at him was that same intensity was his mother, and she had always had quite the knack for staring straight into his soul. 

Come to think of it, so did you. 

--

Loki shifted his weight in his seat, lifting his eyes from the steadily melting ice cube in his glass to the pair of breasts that had shifted into his line of vision. They were, he noted, rather nice breasts. Large. 

“Another drink?” A smooth voice asked him. 

“I’m good, thanks.” He cleared his throat, waving a hand dismissively. With the assistance of his unique talents, the evening’s entertainment had left him rather better off than he had started. 

To any other man, being dealt a three and a seven as a holecard in your first game of the evening would surely be a bad sign of things to come. But Loki was no ordinary man, and with a little coercion his cards had switched themselves out for a slightly better hand. Never a pair of aces, he had learned, it was much too suspicious. No, two queens were his weapon of choice. 

But, as ever, if you made a man a fool, he would call you a thief. 

It did not bother him much. He had been called far worse.  

He’d had no need for your quick hands and easy deceptions in his games this evening - but you were, as ever, his charming accomplice, as pretty and poisonous as you had been the night you met him. 

His eyes were on you now, and it seemed he was not alone in that. You were slightly distracted as you crossed the room, one hand running through your hair to smooth it. Your carefully outlined eyes had smudged ever so slightly, the seam that ran down your left thigh slightly askew. 

“Really? Him?” He raised one eyebrow as you approached him. 

“What? He’s cute.” You stuck your tongue out at him. “Sort of.” 

“Finished?” He continued, holding out his hand. 

“He certainly is.” You raised your eyebrows. 

He pulled a face at you, and you couldn’t help but grin as you reached your hand into the side of your dress. This was, he had learned, your favourite place to keep things you would rather not lose - with the exception of your handgun, of course, which was always either tucked into the band around your thigh or under your pillow whilst you slept. 

He wondered briefly how the hell you explained why you were in immediate possession of a 10mm glock to the gentlemen you entertained. 

A tiny metal key dangled between two of your delicately manicured nails, and he grinned. 

“You beauty.” He held his hand out further to you, palm up, waiting for you to drop it. 

“Tut, tut, tut. Where are your manners?” You teased. “Ask nicely.” 

He stared at you incredulously. You tilted your head to one side, sticking your tongue out mockingly. 

“You are an infernal nuisance, you know that?” He rolled his eyes, leaning over to grab your arm and tug you into his body. You were supposed to be his wife, after all. 

“So I’ve heard. Now, if you want the candy..” You leaned into him, your voice dropping to a low whisper. “You’ve got to play ball.” 

Your lips brushed gently against his jawbone, nothing more than a chaste brush of skin, leaving a burning trail in their wake.

“You know I could just kill you, right?” He turned to you, trailing his fingers down your arm, his own wrapping round your waist. 

“But what would be the fun in that?” You blinked up at him innocently. 

If he wasn’t a god, if he didn’t have so much self restraint, he would be melting in your hands. 

He felt a gentle jingle and a slight weight in his back pocket, followed by the gentle brush of your fingers across his bum. 

“You know, a good fuck would really sort out your little attitude problem.” He mused, turning to face you.

“Nice try, Loki.” You rolled your eyes. “And, well..” You waved your hand at the gentleman who had been your evening’s companion. 

“I said good.” He chuckled. “And by the way, darling, you really shouldn’t touch a man’s bum like that. Leads the mind to all sorts of unsavoury places.”

“You fucking wish.” A very un-ladylike snort left your mouth. 

“Mr Evans, who exactly might this delightful young thing be?” A sharp voice drew his attention. 

He glanced up at the man standing before him. He was tall, taller than Loki, and thin, like one of of those gross spiders you find in the corner of your room. His face was drawn, likely from stress, he concluded . A smattering of whiskers littered his chin, a slightly unpleasant twinkle in his lined eyes. 

“My lovely lady wife.” He smiled, pulling you in to him a little tighter. “The current Mrs Evans.” 

You turned your head in such a way that only he could see you rolling your eyes.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” You turned back to face your company, a tight lipped smile curving on your face. “I do apologise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before.” 

“It does seem that way, so please, allow me to introduce myself.” He took your hand in his own, lifting it to his face and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Roger Slater. I was just chatting to your husband here, not twenty minutes ago.” 

Something about the way he was looking at you made Loki grab you a little tighter. 

“Would you like anything to drink?” He asked, trying to remain as polite as he was able. “I’m sure my fine lady can assist me in carrying a few extra drinks.”

“An old fashioned, if you would, my good man.” His tone was level, his voice smooth. It made Loki cringe. 

--

You weren’t paying that much attention to either of the men before you, so the cold fingers wrapped around your wrist and the sudden sharp tug came as something of a surprise to you. So much so, that you almost yelped in surprise. 

Almost. 

You gathered your composure as you steadied yourself, smoothing down your skirt with your free hand. You weren’t sure whether it was the heels that left you so unsteady on your feet, or the negroni you had necked not five minutes earlier. 

Loki’s hand was tight on your wrist as he led you towards the bar, his fingers icy cold on your delicate skin. Why was he always so cold? 

“Be careful with that one.” He whispered. You opened your mouth to question him, but he had turned towards the barmaid to request more drinks. 

The man to your left wasn’t particularly subtle in his eyeing of you, his gaze sweeping your form a few times before shooting you a smile that made your skin crawl. 

You shuddered, grabbing at the tumbler closest to you and taking a long sip, scowling to yourself. 

“Why the long face?” A look of bemusement settled on Loki’s face - something you found really, really infuriating. 

“These men.” You grumbled. “They talk to me, treat me like a pretty little piece of fucking meat.” 

“That’s because to them, you are.” He shrugged dismissively. “Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Rage bubbled in the pit of your stomach, like an angry, venomous torrent climbing up your throat. 

“Why, you little - hmmmph.” His hand slapping over your mouth cut you short. 

“Might I remind you, darling, that you have a role to play. You shall get your vengeance.” He shot you a sickeningly sweet grin. “But for now, you shall have to grin and bear it, little pork chop.” 

You seethed from behind his hand. 

“Hold your tongue, that’s all I ask of you.” His gaze was earnest. “Will you do that for me?” 

You cast your gaze downwards, nodding your head. 

“Good girl.” He lifted his hand from your mouth, smiling as you glowered at him. He kissed your hand delicately, a brush of his lips across the skin of your knuckles, before holding out his arm for you to take. 

The unusual gentleman, Mr Slater, was, as promised, still waiting for you across the room. He thanked you politely as you handed him his drink, his eyes alight as if something were terribly funny. 

“Are you sure we have never met before, Mrs Evans?” His left eye quirked as he spoke. “You seem awfully familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.” 

“I guess I just have one of those faces.” You shrugged. 

“Yes, quite.” He said. “Anyway, I have a rather unusual talent that I often whip out at parties, just as a little amusement. I feel it might interest you both, if you care to indulge my silliness.” 

You glanced across at Loki, trying to hide the bewilderment from your face. He shrugged, holding out his hands. 

“Be my guest.” He agreed. 

You weren’t really sure what exactly you were expecting. Perhaps table top magic - rabbits out of a hat, coins from behind ears, that type of thing. Hell, maybe he was truly psychotic and was going to stab the both of you. 

“It’s more of a childish parlour trick, really, but I have this unusual gift for reading people. Amateur psychology, really, but rather fun.” He grinned at your confused faces. “I pick up little things about people, tells me all sort of things. Secret affairs, family feuds, the yearnings of the heart. Even people’s greatest fears.” 

He paused for a moment, lifting his glass to his mouth. He gathered the drips from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, looking back up at you both. 

You thought it was a real shame he considered ‘people reading’ his greatest talent and not this overblown display of amateur dramatics. 

“The pair of you are a little more enigmatic than most, but I think I could give it a crack, if you would allow me.” 

You nodded breathlessly as he leaned towards you, your heart hammering in your chest. It was almost as if every nerve, every cell in your body was imploring you, screaming at you to not let this strange man come any closer to you. 

Your feet felt frozen in place as his hand landed on your shoulder, his calloused palms like sandpaper against the soft skin of your shoulder. A breath stilled in your throat as his head dipped so his lips were level with your ear. 

“You will kill again, and it terrifies you.” He whispered. “It keeps you up at night, doesn’t it? Not the knowledge of what you have done, but what you know you will do. It’s okay, darling, your secret is safe with me.” 

You exhaled sharply as he drew away from you, a nervous laugh bubbling out of your chest. 

Who the fuck was this guy? 

He winked at you as he took another sip of his drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Loki’s line of vision flitting back and forth between the two of you, looking for any hint of what he had said to you, what could’ve so clearly, so deeply, unsettled you. 

You sure as hell weren’t going to tell him. 

Your eyes followed him closely as he leaned in towards Loki. Unlike you, he maintained his cool composure, but you were fairly certain you saw something adjacent to fear flicker in the back of his eyes. 

Over time, you’d become an accomplished lip-reader, but this time, you felt for sure that your skill had failed you. You’d not picked up much, a single word, in fact, but you knew it couldn’t be correct. 

That word, that single word, that allegedly had Loki witless with fear? 

Himself. 

His hand shot out, grabbing at your wrist, his nails biting into your skin. 

“I’m really sorry, but my wife and I have to leave.” He spat out, turning on his heel, and striding away as quickly as his legs would carry him, almost dragging you behind him. 

You had never seen him this flustered before. His cheeks were ever so slightly pink, his eyes glittering with anger, his chest rapidly expanding with every shallow breath. His grip on your wrist was like a vice, and you felt for certain that there would be the imprints of his long fingers marring your skin in the morning. 

Just before you reached the door, you were fairly certain you heard the unusual man call ‘See you around!’ cheerfully over your shoulder. 

“Who the hell was that?” You asked as you hurried down the corridor towards the lift. 

“I don’t know.” He replied. “Like he said, we were talking when you were out. He owns a jewellery company. I didn’t think he’d try and get to us. Messing with you in that way, saying he thinks he knows you to try and catch you offguard.. It’s certainly unusual behaviour.” 

“See, there’s the thing. I don’t think he was fucking with me there. He looked familiar to me, too. I think I’ve met him before.” You pressed a finger to your lip thoughtfully. “And don’t even try taking the ‘weak mortal’ path here. You were bricking it too, I could see it in your face.” 

“You see what I want you to see, little mortal, and nothing more.” He shot you a glare. “Now, about that key.” 

“We all see only what we’re shown, Loki.” You mused. “Even you.” 

He glanced at you curiously as you stepped into the lift. 

The encounter with Mr Slater had left Loki deeply unsettled. From the very off, something about the strangle man had made him uncomfortable. 

He couldn’t even really work out why. He was, if anything, perfectly pleasant. Polite, courteous, well spoken. There was, at least on the surface level, nothing wrong with him. 

But yet, he was nothing short of creepy. His smile wouldn’t have been any more unsettling if black widow spiders had crawled out from in between his pale lips. 

When he revealed he had a little talent, Loki wouldn’t have been entirely shocked if he’d told him it involved punting kittens. 

He himself was not exactly known for his strict adherence to anything resembling a moral code, and if anything, it made it all the more unusual that he had affected Loki so badly. 

If there is anyone in this world - or any other - to be truly afraid of, it’s not the man who stalks your nightmares - it’s who stalks his. 

He was, however, desperate to know what Roger had said to you. You would, of course, never tell him. Under other circumstances, he would consider subduing you in some way, but from the few encounters with your subconscious mind he had already had, he got the feeling that even then you wouldn’t willingly surrender the information. 

It was this he was pondering as he rifled through the irritatingly mundane belongings of one Mr J Grey. When you’d selected him as your victim of the evening, you’d done so on the premise that he was wearing a very expensive suit, but as Loki was discovering, he hadn’t quite been the man you were looking for. Aside from half a gram of cocaine in a small ziploc bag - honestly, who kept their narcotics in their bedside table? - and a scuffed Barclaycard with yet more cocaine tightly pressed into the embossed numbers - expired, he had checked - he had found nothing of any real value. Knock-off watches, fake leather wallets, poorly made suits, but nothing particularly valuable. 

“Your judgement is poor, darling.” He said. “This man is both immensely dull and revoltingly messy.” 

“I am sorry to disappoint, but we Terrans are a rather messy species.” You remarked. “In fact, we are renowned for it.” 

He laughed, staring down at his gloved hands. You were quite right - humans truly were a messy, invasive little species. A cosmic nuisance, of sorts. He was just glad that, for the most part, they stuck to their own planet. The furthest they had actually gotten was their own bloody moon, so they weren’t exactly regarded as a threat to other species. 

“I think we should cut our losses and get out of here before he gets back.” You sighed, running your hand through your hair. 

Loki muttered his agreement, rising from where he knelt on the floor. He was happy to dispose of the clammy plastic that clung to his hands, flinging them into his pocket dimension as he headed towards the door. 

He dropped a throw-away comment as he walked down the corridor, eliciting a true, from-the-chest belly laugh from you. Quick as ever, you responded within a heart beat, but Loki found himself missing your witticism, distracted by a sudden thought. 

Since when did humans start referring to themselves as Terrans?

-- 

TAGLIST:  @chxrryycola @the-middle-oldest-child​ @possessedjoker​ @amour-delicate @marvelouslyme96​

[fanfic-corner]

A-Spec Across Fandoms

23/10/20 - I know I have already done an a-spec post for Destiel fics, but it is asexual awareness week next week, so I thought I’d read a load of fics with ace characters from a few different shows I like! We have some Supernatural, some Doctor Who, some Sherlock, and a couple from Good Omens. Happy ace week!

Supernatural

broken when I’m lonesome by SailorChibi on AO3. (7,015 words).

Tags: Asexual Castiel, Demisexual Dean, Panromantic Castiel, Biromantic Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Angst, Fluff, Touch-Starved, Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Castiel is Not Oblivious, comments that could be taken as ace-phobic.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: After being saved from hell, Dean's old methods of coping aren't working anymore: he's not sexually attracted to anyone, and he's not interested in sex no matter how many times he climbs into bed with hot, naked women. Sam is convinced that his brother is just depressed, but Dean knows this goes deeper than that. He still craves the intimacy that can make him feel safe. Fortunately, Castiel is there to both understand and provide.

Notes: This fic really hit home. I’m not sure if it is because almost every person I have ever talked to has had some form of this conversation, but it was still cute.

La Vie A Plus by K_K_TiBal on AO3. (6,260 words).

Tags: Punk Castiel, Asexual Castiel, College/Uni AU, Roommates, oh my god they were roommates, College Student Dean, College Student Castiel, Pining, First Kiss, Misunderstandings, Art Student Castiel, Love Confessions, Gabriel is a Little Shit, Tattooed Castiel.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester is hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with his best friend and roommate, Castiel. Castiel - with his blue hair, and his tattoos, and his artwork, and his perfect everything. Dean never stood a chance, really. It only sucks because, as far as Dean can tell, Castiel is definitely not interested. But love, much like art, has a way of being unpredictable. Even if you think you know where you're going with it.

Notes: The angst is strong in this one! Again, I feel like many aces have had this conversation or that fear that people (allos, especially) may not want to be with them.

Exposed to What You Hide by SailorChibi on AO3. (1,890 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Creature Castiel, Procubus Cas, Asexual Castiel, Established Relationship, Hidden Relationship, Assisted Suicide, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: "We think Cas is a procubus," Sam blurted out. Then he winced and yelped when Charlie kicked him under the table. "Ow!" "Smooth, Sam," Charlie snapped. Dean looked back and forth between them, realizing that they were both 100% serious. "A procubus." "Basically it's the sexless version of an incubus or a succubus," Charlie explained before Sam could. "It's... it's a demon that kills people by sleeping with them." She was chewing on her thumbnail now, eyes big and apologetic. Sam had done one better pasting on a truly epic kicked puppy expression of apology. "You think Cas is killing people by cuddling with them," Dean said, just to be sure. 

Notes: Well that took a bit of a turn. I’m not sure why, but I love fics where Cas keeps bees, it was just so cute to see him that happy! (Even if he was crazy. Shut up).

Consolation by Trell on AO3. (1,195 words).

Tags: Aromantic, Aromantic Relationship, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Asexual Character.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: In which both of them are ancient, and neither of them are in love with each other.

Notes: Okay, I would first of all like to say that I do not ship Cas and Ten. I was kind of curious though, and clearly whoever wrote this ships Destiel and Ten/Rose. That being said, I am here for some angst; poor Cas and his unrequited love, and poor Ten because all his friends are dead.

Doctor Who

don’t hold this war inside by WishingTree on AO3. (1,824 words).

Tags: Asexual Yaz, Pre-Relationship, Asexual Character.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: “It’s just - I’m scared,” she finally manages. “Scared?” the Doctor stills where she’s been trying to roll up the sleeves of her coat, shoving the material of one arm over her elbow and asking, “Scared of what?” Yaz doesn’t answer, can’t answer, and the Doctor goes to reach for her, aborting the movement halfway and only managing an awkward swaying motion. “...Scared of me?”

Notes: Thasmin is a ship that, had I not stumbled across it on Instagram, would never have thought of on my own. Much like Sabriel, however, now the idea is in my head, I ship it! Also, the author in this fic manages to perfectly capture the Doctor’s personality, which is quite an impressive feat.

Whatever fits my skin by lloydsglasses on AO3. (1,481 words).

Tags: Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Cross-Generational Friendship, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Canon Gay Character, LGBTQ Character, Aromantic, Pride.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: “So, does that happen to you a lot?” Bill asks once they’re safely back in the Doctor’s study, each cradling a mug of tea. “Getting snogged by gorgeous women as a thanks for saving their lives.” The Doctor sets his teacup down gently on the desk, mouth pursing in distaste. “Far more often than I’d like.”

Notes: Oh my god that was so (fucking) cute! Now I want more fics of characters going to pride. Maybe for next June. Also, I’m just saying that I hated Nardole and nothing you can say to me will make me change my mind.

Take It, Leave It (But you’d better believe it) by lloydsglasses on AO3. (760 words).

Tags: Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Cross-Generational Friendship, Asexual Character. Aromantic, Canon Gay Character, Coming Out, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: “I told my foster mum that I’m gay. Now she keeps trying to set me up with guys." 

“Ah,” says the Doctor, with a frown. “That seems… counterintuitive.”

Notes: I’ve always loved Bill and Twelve’s relationship, and this is such a cute scene! It is a crime we haven’t got more River Song content, by the way.

Crescendo by tenscupcake on AO3. (6,013 words).

Tags: Fluff, Asexual Character, Romance.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: As her relationship with the Doctor slowly develops into something a little more than friendship, Rose starts to wonder what's holding him back. But one fateful night, he confesses something that makes her realize she never had any reason to worry.

Notes: Beautifully written! I don’t think I’ve ever read a Ten/Rose fic before, but I have always shipped it and it is adorable.

Sherlock

The Important Bit by Solshine on AO3. (9,984 words).

Tags: Asexual Sherlock, Platonic Relationship, Amarriage, Same-Sex Marriage, Bromance, Domestic.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Just where exactly is the line between “to love” and “to be in love”? What difference is required between “flatmate” and “husband”? (Besides the rings, obviously.) No, the important bit is that they have each other. Thirty years, give or take, in an atypical marriage. Basically a long bit of platonic domestic fluff.

Notes: Oh, this is absolutely one of my favourite Johnlock fics now. Absolutely adorable (because I love domestic Johnlock okay), I nearly cried, and now I want all the art of Sherlock with a fancy old cane!

the art of getting by (isn’t really so artsy at all) by stupidmuse_hatesme on AO3. (6,521 words).

Tags: Asexuality, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Romance, First Time, First Date, Slash.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: “He's treating things like they're normal! Things are not normal.” Sherlock drags his hands from his mussed up hair and covers his face. “You aren't helping much,” he mumbles into his palms. “I hope you know that.” The skull only grins from his perch and says not a word. “Really, you're supposed to do more than just--sit there.”

Notes: John is so unbelievably sweet in this, but Sherlock was bit OOC.

what does the world get by coloredink on AO3. (2,302 words).

Tags: Asexuality, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: A women's magazine quiz leads Sherlock to investigate the nature of love.

Notes: A cute lil’ fic about exploring your (in this case, lack of) romantic and sexual attraction.

Surprisingly Simple by heeroluva on AO3. (855 words).

Tags: Asexuality, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, First Kiss, Touching, Fluff, Cuddling and Snuggling. My Rating: 3 stars. Description: In which John is asexual, and Sherlock never asks. Notes: Pretty cute, and it is always nice to see a character who is just cool with it, without some massive explanation. I can dream.

Good Omens

An Honest Surrender by Kedreeva on AO3. (4,107 words).

Tags: Ineffable Husbands, Post-Apocalypse, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Marriage, First Kiss, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Soulmates, Soul Bond, Aziraphale’s True Form, Crowley’s True Form, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: "For six thousand years," Crowley said, voice cracking, "I have wanted something I couldn't have, because I asked the wrong questions. But I'm asking the right one now. The only one that matters." In which Aziraphale follows Crowley home after the nonpocalypse.

Notes: Seriously, reading Good Omens fics always makes me so relaxed and sleepy it is unreal. I need to read them more often. Anyway, this is such a cute explanation for the final episode, and I loved it!

You’re the Only Prayer I Need by Kedreeva on AO3. (5,507 words).

Tags: Ineffable Husbands, Wingfic, Angel Wings, Angel/Demon Relationship, Wing Grooming, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexual Relationship, Snake Crowley, Love Confessions, Trust, Non-Sexual Intimacy.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Crowley had, in the six thousand years Aziraphale had known him, shed his skin exactly twice that Aziraphale knew of. Both times he had disappeared without a trace, having retreated somewhere very safe and very, very unknown to hide while he was so vulnerable, and Aziraphale had never thought to ask beyond that information. Everyone was, he had supposed at the time, entitled to their secrets. The problem was that he had stumbled directly into this secret now, and there was hardly a graceful way out of it.

Notes: The sheer level of trust is adorable, and I’m always here for snake Crowley.

A Little Less Celestial by Kedreeva on AO3. (2,360 words).

Tags: Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual, Sharing a Bed, Ineffable Husbands, Literal Sleeping Together, Wingfic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Aziraphale accidentally falls asleep, and Crowley teaches him sleeping isn't so bad, really.

Notes: Oh my God, this was so calming to read in a way I really can’t describe? Also, now I want a bookshelf bed.

Just One Yesterday by Kedreeva on AO3. (1,952 words).

Tags: True Form Crowley, True Form Aziraphale, Ineffable Husbands, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Post-Apocalypse, Time Travel, Time Loop, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Missing Scene.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: Crowley and Aziraphale didn't stop the apocalypse on the first try, but you know what they say... try, try again.

Notes: I could not tell you the plot of this, but that image of Crowley’s true form was beautiful (and the artwork was phenomenal!).

So, there we have it! I hope you enjoy them, and have a nice week. By the way, if you have instagram, please would you consider following @justaceofficial? They are trying to get funding for a TV series which focuses on an asexual main character, and they ran an asexual advent running up to this week!

[teamfreewilllover]

Almost Lover: Part 4 - Xavier Plympton Imagine

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3

Y/N was happily seated in between Xavier and Chet, as the group roasted marshmallows by the campfire. The nurse, Rita, had joined them a few minutes earlier, much to Y/N’s annoyance. Rita soon brought up the night stalker, as Y/N watched Brooke grimace at the mere mention of his name. However, clearly she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Xavier quickly stood up and walked over to Brooke, placing his arm behind her back as he leaned in closer to her.

“Rita. I totally understand the tradition, and usually I'm cool with that, but our friend Brooke here had a for-real assault, and we're just not in the mood for a bullshit ghost story” Xavier explained, a protective tone in his voice.

Y/N practically bristled as she watched Brooke give him a grateful smile. If it wasn’t bad enough that he still seemed to like Montana, now his attention was drifting towards the new girl.

“It's not bullshit. And there was no ghost. I'll be honest with you. I've never been a nurse at a summer camp before. And you've never been counselors. So how did we get these jobs with no prior experience? That's because anybody that knows anything about Camp Redwood doesn't want to be in Camp Redwood” Rita announced, as Y/N gave her a dubious look.

“Then how come your here, Rita? If it’s so dangerous?” Y/N accused.

“I like a little danger” Rita shrugged, as Y/N brushed off the comment, turning her attention back to Xavier.

Xavier seemed to notice she was staring at him, as he straightened up a little, a somewhat guilty look on his face. Y/N was barely listening to Rita’s ghost story about some weirdo named “Mr Jingles”, as she gave Xavier a confused look, which he shrugged to in response.

“Am I boring you two?” Rita questioned, noticing neither of them had been paying attention.

“I was listening. He was a freak who liked to cut peoples ears off” Y/N shrugged.

“You’re wrong. There was a lot more to him than that” A voice told her, as they all turned to see Margaret had snuck up on them.

“Don’t take it personally, Margaret. When these two are around each other, they don’t really pay attention to anything else” Montana teased, as Y/N had to restrain herself from stepping over the fire and strangling Montana.

“Duly noted” Margaret mumbled, as she walked over to Y/N and raised an eyebrow.

“If you want to hear what really happened then I should at least get a seat” Margaret went on, placing a hand on her hip.

Y/N rolled her eyes, as she reluctantly stood up from where she was seated on the log. She could see that there were nowhere else to sit, so she marched over to Xavier and got ready to kneel on the muddy ground.

“If you’re going to tell a story, tell it right...” Margaret began, whilst Y/N stopped listening when she felt a warm arm wrap itself around her waist.

She looked down and realised it belonged to Xavier, as a blush began to rise on her face.

“You can sit with me” Xavier mummured, not looking at her, as he was trying to listen to Margaret’s story.

“There’s no room” Y/N pointed out, as Xavier pulled her onto his lap.

She sat on his thigh, as he kept his arm still wrapped around her waist. By now, Y/N could tell her blush had grown, not to mention her heart rate had sped up. She tried her best to listen to Margaret’s story and ignore her current position, when Xavier began to unconsciously stroke her hip with his thumb. Y/N bit her lip, as she wondered whether Xavier really didn’t know what he was doing. She was brought of her trance as she saw Margaret stand up, as Y/N guessed she had finished her story. From what Y/N’s preoccupied mind could gather, Mr Jingles had killed everyone but Margaret, who had gone on to be the star witness and send him to jail. Y/N was beginning to question this, when she felt Xavier rest his chin on her shoulder.

“She’s kind of spooky, huh?” Xavier teased, his cool breath on her neck.

“Uh...I’m...I’m going to check on the hiker...” Y/N stuttered, as she quickly stood up.

“I’ll come with you. I want to make sure he’s alright” Brooke informed her, standing up.

“I’ll come too” Xavier announced.

“You really don’t need to. We’ll be fine” Brooke stated, as Y/N crossed her arms and looked away.

“It’s no problem. I’ve got to keep an eye on my best girl” Xavier teased, making Y/N rolled her eyes.

“I’ll just leave you two to it then” Y/N mummured as she began walking away.

Brooke shook her head fondly, as she saw Xavier watching her go with puppy dog eyes. The pair were so clearly pining for each other, but neither seemed to realise it.

Y/N burst into a fit of giggles as she watched Montana all but drool over the new arrival. Trevor had clearly captured her interest...or at least a certain part of him had. Whereas Brooke seemed uncomfortable as he stretched in front of her, his crotch more or less in her face. Not for the first time, Y/N couldn’t help but question if Brooke was even interested in men.

“You’re a legend” Montana informed Trevor, a dreamy look on her face.

“Thanks” Trevor replied, with a small smirk.

“You’re welcome” Montana said, in a breathy tone.

“Okay, down girl” Y/N giggled, as she nudged Montana.

“It’s cool. I’m used to fans” Trevor grinned.

“You better be careful on your way out...I’m not sure your head is going to fit through the door” Y/N retorted.

“Ah...but which head?” Trevor joked, as Y/N laughed.

“You got me there” She giggled.

“Cute...he’s mine, Y/N” Montana whispered, but was still loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Don’t worry, she’s not my type, baby” Trevor winked at Monatana.

“Rude!” Y/N exclaimed.

“Hey, you’re a good looking girl, kid. But your still...well, a kid” Trevor pointed out.

“Montana’s only four years older than me” Y/N scoffed.

“And you know what that means...four years more experience” Montana smirked at Trevor.

Later that night, Y/N was sitting on the floor, her back against the bed Xavier was lounging on, while they watched the beginning of the Olympics.

“I heard the male athletes outnumber the females five to one. That's some tough competition” Brooke teased Chet, who had a devestated look on his face.

“What the fuck would you know about it?” Chet retorted, in an angry tone.

“Woah!” Xavier exclaimed, as he pushed himself upright.

“Dude, shut up already. You’re being a dick” Ray told him, as Chet scrunched up the can he had been drinking from.

“Fuck You!” Chet yelled, as he threw the metal can at Ray, who held up his hand to protect himself.

“Chet, what the hell?” Xavier gaped.

“You need to calm down right now” Y/N told him, pushing herself up.

“Shit...” Ray trailed off, as he saw his hand was now bleeding.

“My bad...I...I didn’t mean to-” Chet began, approaching Ray with a concerned look on his face.

“Back off!” Ray shouted.

“I’m sorry, man” Chet sighed.

“Damn roid rage” Ray mummured, as Chet shook his head and stormed out of the room.

“Chet, wait up!” Y/N exclaimed, following close behind him.

“Y/N, just leave him. It’s not worth it” Xavier insisted, as Chet left the cabin.

“He’s our friend, X” Y/N retorted, as she rushed outside.

“Chet, it’s okay-” Y/N began, but he cut her off.

“No, it’s not! Ray’s right, look at me! I’ve ruined my life and for what? I have no career, no girlfriend, no future...” Chet trailed off, almost sounding like he was going to cry.

“Hey, it’s not all bad. At least you’ve still got your abs” Y/N suggested, as Chet chuckled.

“Yeah, they are pretty rad” Chet nodded.

“Just come back inside, okay? Apologise to Ray, and just...chill” Y/N told him.

“Yeah...thanks, Y/N” Chet smiled at her, as he pulled her into a hug.

“Uh, Chet? You’re kind of crushing me” Y/N giggled, ushering to his arms wrapped around her tightly.

“Oh, sorry” Chet laughed, as he pulled away slightly.

Just then the cabin door opened, revealing an annoyed looking Xavier, who frowned as he saw how close the pair were standing.

“Am I interrupting something?” Xavier questioned, gritting his teeth.

“No. Uh, is Ray still in there?” Chet asked.

“He’s gone get bandages” Xavier replied, with an angry tone.

“I’m gonna’ go after him” Chet announced, as Y/N nodded, watching as he went back inside the cabin.

“Seriously, Y/N? Chet?” Xavier accused, as he shut the cabin door so the others couldn’t hear their conversation.

“Nothing happened. Jesus, what is with you lately? One second your avoiding me and the next your breathing down my neck? Are you that pissed that I’m leaving?” Y/N retorted.

“Maybe...maybe I am. Your my best friend...I don’t want to lose you, okay?” Xavier sighed.

“Just because we’re not going to be living in the same state doesn’t mean we won’t still be best friends, X. I’ll be home all the time” Y/N explained.

“That’s not why I’m worried about losing you” Xavier admitted.

“What do you mean?” Y/N frowned.

“I care about you...a lot. More than I should-” Xavier began but was cut off by Y/N.

“Did you hear that?” Y/N gulped, as she looked out into the forest.

“Hear what?” Xavier inquired, following her gaze.

“I thought I heard...nevermind. Let’s go back inside” Y/N mumbled, as she opened the cabin door, with a frown.

Was Margaret’s story just getting to her or did she just hear keys jingling?

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list and if you have any ideas for future parts!

Tag list: @bedazzled-bandit-ban @avacadontyoudare @cheshirecat107 @fandoms-allovertheplace @theeonlyroman @anoud1970 @mysterious-adventurer @littlelimonchik @delightful-pirate @grippleback-galaxy @molethemollie @rachelle3musicals @shadesofbarryallen @vixi3303 @mostawkwardperson101 @freeshavocadoooo @chris-parkers @yady24 @miskwaadesiwag @isletsoflou-gerhans @thefandomzoneisdangerous @trickei @catastrophicneed @rainbowmagicpixecorn @alexandrathegreat3 @gorgeousmisery @quacksonbarnes @btsarmygirl417 @rhiannon-the-troublemaker @yn-yes-from-the-imagines @faith-alons26 @uwonman @kellysimagines @psychobitchtess @thexmancometh @snarkyanimecartooncop @ace-fiction @anon-1112 @perfect-ginger-maniac @professionalunicorn15 @jetblackpayne @ren-ni @luna-xxxxx @courtcourt2607 @fuck-yeah-bruno-buccerati @myluciferiscody @codyl-angdon @deadly-unicornius @rubbrninja @shydragonrider

[homespork-review]

HOMESPORK ACT 5 ACT 1: Mobius Double Plusungood, Part 3

TW: """funny""" sexual and physical assault of a child by another child, extreme bullying, extreme ableism, a very brief discussion of shipping characters outside their canon sexuality.

CHEL: We get some implications of the part of troll culture we ended on last time when a slightly baffled-looking Nepeta, watching through the viewport, updates her SHIPPING WALL. Instead of hearts, some of the hypothetical pairings she’s painted are marked with diamonds. What this means will be explained shortly.

I can’t help but feel it’s slightly creepy to hypothetically matchmake your own friends, but I’m pretty sure the other trolls know at least that the shipping wall exists if not exactly which ships they’re in, and they do live in a society in which it’s stated later that mating is mandatory, so it would indeed be helpful to have at least emergency-doable matchmaking done well in advance and they might appreciate the help.

I’d like to take a moment to note a ship at the bottom row, left of centre; GA/Tavros. Hussie, on his Formspring, later said that GA was “obviously” a lesbian, or anyway was only interested in women, which doesn’t have a specific term for it in troll culture. It’s actually hard to tell going by what’s shown in canon, because she only displays specific interest in girls except for in a complicated case we’ll discuss later, but trolls are supposed to be bi-normative, plus it’s not like the male selection here is particularly inspiring, so, yeah, the evidence we actually see isn't conclusively "obvious". The fandom, knowing this, systematically harass anyone who even muses vaguely about the possibility of shipping her with a boy, even if they don't know about that Word of God. This is why I’m wondering whether the trolls knew about the shipping wall, because if they did, we can presume GA didn’t care. For the record, I’m sex-repulsed ace and have in fact written about.my own imaginary persona fucking (admittedly fucking an opposite sex clone of herself, it was a complicated injoke) and my reaction to someone else writing it would depend on context and reason, so I can imagine her reacting similarly, but not everyone would. A similar thing with a canonically gay male character explicitly on-screen not caring about hypothetical shipping of himself with girls comes up much later; he’s not a troll, but his upbringing was troll-influenced (long story).

BRIGHT: Harassing people over the ships they make content for always baffles me. It’s not like fanart/fanfic for a ship which contradicts canon has any effect on the canon, and playing around with character dynamics (often in a pornographic manner) is a major part of fanfic.

CHEL: On top of all this, gender and sexuality are really shaky concepts to even try to apply to a species which reproduces hermaphroditically. On this side of the fourth wall it’s obviously because Hussie is a not-very-reflective cisgender heterosexual man, and didn’t think about it any further than “girls wear skirts, right?” Plenty of people fanwank up possibilities for how it could happen on the other side. I think we may have to make a “What The Fuck Is Alternian Biology And Sociology” post or two separate from the sporking at the very end.

Discourse discussion over! Next page, we see some of the relevant terminology used in troll culture, though we still don’t get any explanation of what any of the words actually mean, which is a tad annoying for new readers. The context is a discussion between Karkat and Vriska about getting her into the game.

BRIGHT: Specifically, Karkat wants Vriska to get Tavros into the game, leading to this exchange…

CG: WHY DO YOU EVEN HATE HIM, IT'S FUCKING RIDICULOUS. CG: IF ANYTHING YOU SHOULD PITY HIM. CG: ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU WERE THE ONE WHO PARALYZED HIM. AG: I know. I don't really understand it. AG: It's just a really special kind of h8! It never goes away and it doesn't make a lot of sense. CG: THIS IS KIND OF A WEIRD TIME TO BE CONFIDING IN ME ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS OF BLACK ROMANCE BUT OK. AG: Oh god, what? CG: I MEAN IF YOU'RE REALLY IMPLYING TAVROS IS YOUR KISMESIS I THINK YOU'RE BRAYING UP THE WRONG FROND NUB. CG: BOTH PARTIES HAVE TO HATE EACH OTHER EQUALLY, I MEAN LIKE TRUE HATE. CG: MAYBE YOUR FEELINGS COME SOMEWHAT CLOSE TO FITTING THE BILL BUT I DON'T THINK HE CAN HATE ANYONE, IT'S WEIRD, HE'S KIND OF BROKEN IN THE HEAD.

Finally, our long-awaited introduction to troll romance!

And the introduction is an effective one. We now know that there’s something called ‘black romance’, that it concerns hate, and that one’s black-romantic partner is a ‘kismesis’. The conversation also flows naturally and fits the characters having it, rather than being an awkward as-you-know infodump, although brace yourselves, there’s one of those coming up. Thirteen is about right for kids starting to have romantic feelings and being confused about it, not wanting to talk about it is pretty normal, and Karkat lecturing people at a good opportunity is absolutely in character.

Karkat goes on to lecture Vriska about the emotions involved in different sorts of romantic relationships, and wow, it really says a lot about troll culture…

CG: OK, MOST PEOPLE WHO HAVEN'T HAD THEIR LOBE STEM CAUTERIZED ARE CAPABLE OF FEELING THE TWO PRIMARY EMOTIONS, HATE AND PITY. CG: PITY IS OF COURSE JUST THE TONED DOWN VERSION OF THE CENTRAL EMOTION, HATE. CG: AND ALL THE NUANCES OF PITY MANIFEST AS VARIOUS OTHER KINDS OF FEELINGS LIKE WHATEVER CHEMICAL REACTIONS TRIGGER MATING FONDNESS OR THE MYSTERIOUS FORCES THAT ARE BEHIND MOIRALLEGIANCE.

CHEL: It’s never really clear if this is just Karkat’s idea of it or if this is how trolls actually work biologically. Trolls do use the word “love” later on, so I always interpreted it as “pity” being a euphemistic term because “love” in such a warlike and oppressive culture could be exploited as a weakness. Fandom has played it with their love actually being based on a weird form of sympathy/seeing the other as needing protection, which is also plausible.

FAILURE ARTIST: I have played with the pity thing before but in retrospect Karkat is the only one who seems to see it that way. Maybe this is all his fake deep teenager view of romance.

BRIGHT: Vriska makes a performance of how bored she is, but Karkat’s on a roll.

CG: A WELL BALANCED PERSON IS IS GOING TO HAVE A GOOD DISTRIBUTION BETWEEN HATE AND THE VARIOUS PITY HUMORS. CG: HAVING A GOOD BALANCE KEEPS ALL THE EMOTIONS SHARPER, SEE I THINK THAT'S YOUR PROBLEM. AG: Oh???????? AG: I hope you know I already wore out some good note-taking pens today. All the pens. AG: All of them. CG: SEE, MY HATE IS LIKE A FINELY TUNED INSTRUMENT BECAUSE I'M AWARE OF THESE PRINCIPLES. CG: I COULD HATE A HOLE IN PARADOX SPACE ITSELF, STRAIGHT THROUGH TO A NEW REALITY FRESH FOR THE HATING. AG: Hahahahahahahaha, you don't even know how much I'm laughing at this. CG: BUT SEE, YOU'RE TOO HEAVY ON THE HATE SIDE, OR AT LEAST YOU PRETEND TO BE WHICH IS MAYBE WORSE. AG: You aren't reading anything I say are you? You just want to talk and talk and talk. CG: AND YOU THINK YOU'RE HATING UP EVERYONE HARD WHEN YOU'RE REALLY JUST BURNING OUT THAT ENTIRE EMOTIONAL HEMISPHERE. CG: IT'S LIKE LUKEWARM HATE. PRETENDER'S HATE, WITH NO COUNTERPOINT AT ALL. CG: AS SUCH THERE'S NO REAL SUBSTANCE TO YOUR HATE, IT'S LIKE A CARDBOARD MOVIE PROP. CG: WHICH IS WHY YOUR BRAIN IS BROKEN, KIND OF LIKE TAVROS'S BUT ON THE OPPOSITE HEMISPHERE I GUESS. CG: OR MAYBE YOUR BROKEN BRAIN LED TO THE IMBALANCE IN THE FIRST PLACE, I DON'T KNOW. CG: WHATEVER THE CASE IS, YOU'RE KIND OF EMOTIONALLY SCREWED, SORRY TO SAY. CG: YOUR HATE'S TOO DULL FOR A PROPER KISMESIS, IN MY OPINION. CG: AND I DON'T SEE ANYONE CHOMPING AT THE BIT TO BE YOUR MOIRAIL HONESTLY, UNLESS THERE'S SOMEONE OUT THERE WHO WOULD ACTUALLY BOTHER PITYING YOU. CG: AND LANDING A MATESPRIT? HAHAHAHA! CG: SERIOUSLY, LIKE THAT WOULD EVEN INTEREST YOU. CG: BASICALLY ANY FEATURE OF YOUR EMOTIONAL PROFILE THAT USUALLY MAKES SOMEONE VIABLE IN THE REDROM DEPARTMENT MUST BE TOTALLY FRIED. CG: YOUR BLACKROM POTENTIAL'S PROBABLY TOAST TOO.

Whew.

So now we have ‘kismesis’, ‘moirail’, and ‘matesprit’ as terms for romantic partners, as well as the concepts of black romance, red romance, and ‘moirallegiance’ as the relationship one has with a moirail. Troll romance is not going to get any less confusing for a while.

If Karkat’s grasp of psychology strikes you as amateurish, there’s a reason for that: He gets all his knowledge from romance movies.

AG: Hey asshole, stop watching movies for girls.

I think that’s another strike against the ‘girls are the dangerous ones on Alternia’ argument. Romance movies, per this exchange, are both female-coded and seen as inferior -- Karkat defends his viewing choices by saying they’re INTRIGUING SOCIOLOGICALLY, but Vriska isn’t buying it.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 42 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 33

CHEL: I’m not sure an interest in the workings of romance should be a socially gendered thing in a society where, as it turns out, you have to have an acceptable romantic partner by a certain time or die. You’d think most kids would be trying as hard as they could to learn and put into practice everything they could about it, and you’d also think there’d be better information for them than romcoms.

BRIGHT: Has the mate-or-die part come up yet? I’m not sure when Hussie thought of it.

CHEL: I don’t know if he’d thought of it yet, but it does come up very soon.

BRIGHT: Karkat then moves on to the original reason he contacted Vriska -- he needs her and her mind powers in the game, because he’s just run into a double agent called Jack.

Over on the next panel, Karkat is still talking to Vriska, but he’s glancing back over his shoulder at Jack Noir. His hand is covered in blood, which keeps cycling through a range of colours. The blood, it transpires, is because Jack stabbed him. Karkat is amazingly calm about this.

CG: HE'S COOL, IT'S FINE I DON'T REALLY MIND THE STABBING, IT WAS ALL A MISUNDERSTANDING. CG: WELL OK I'M PRETTY SURE HE MEANT TO STAB ME. CG: BUT I KIND OF THINK THAT'S LIKE CG: THE WAY HE GREETS PEOPLE? AG: This game is so stupid. CG: IN ANY CASE I THINK HE'S PROBABLY ALL STABBED OUT.

This would be ridiculously chill even from someone who isn’t extremely cagey about his blood colour -- and it’s not that Karkat suddenly doesn’t care any more, because as soon as Vriska says she’ll ask Terezi or Jack what colour he’s bleeding, he tells her that he’s out of Terezi’s range, Jack is sworn to secrecy, and Sollux (who’s incommunicado) is the only one who knows how to make Trollian’s viewport feature work. (Given we saw how easy it is to use earlier, I’m surprised Vriska doesn’t try to figure it out herself.)

Over on the next panel, the viewer is now Jack, a few minutes prior to this conversation. Contrary to Karkat’s protestations, Jack stabs him because He's got a pretty sharp tongue and can't seem to keep it sheathed. He is curious when Karkat cares less about the wound and more about Jack seeing his blood colour, which is apparently some freakish mutation. Jack looks at his knife…

CHEL: While it’s not a realistic depiction of the colour, recall that this is the shade of red used in-comic to depict human blood. This reveal probably isn’t a surprise to anyone by now, if you’ve encountered fanart, and honestly it wasn’t a huge mindblowing revelation on my first read before I knew, but I do think it’s a clever little “aha, THAT’S why!” moment. Skilfully done.

It seems he's the only one of his kind with this mutant candy-red blood. An outcast. He thinks he was put on this planet covered in an ocean of his own blood to be taunted. Punished for something. Saddest story you ever heard. Got to do something to shut him up.

BRIGHT: Awww. That’s kind of sweet.

This little interchange gave rise to the ‘Stabdads’ fandom phenomenon, where Spades Slick is envisaged as Karkat’s father-figure. In Homestuck canon, it’s dubious how much affection Slick has for Karkat. He seems more irritated by him than anything else, but that’s about on par for how he treats the rest of the Midnight Crew. On the other hand, it clearly makes a massive impact on Karkat. We’ve seen how important blood colour is on Alternia and how insecure he is about his own; his sudden rush of fellow-feeling towards Jack is understandable, even if it does make him way too forgiving about having been stabbed.

CHEL: Karkat and Jack shake hands, and proceed to be in cahoots. Cahoooooooots. Doodling on the defaced parking ticket from earlier, they draft OPERATION REGISURP.

Your whole team executes the plan along the course of its journey, employing espionage, mind control tactics, political sabotage, vicious interrogations and cold blooded assassinations. Everyone does their part and you begin to learn the true meaning of teamwork, as well as this troll disease called friendship.

Yeah, it actually happening is skipped over with one paragraph, but that’s probably a good thing with all the complexity already going on, and we do hear more details about it. First, we’re reminded of the existence and functions of the Queens’ Rings, the magic rings the queens of Derse and Prospit have which give them traits and powers from whatever the players put in their sprites. The trolls have put their lusii in their sprites, except for Aradia, whose lusus died long ago, so she got in the sprite herself. The Queen could put up with getting bits and pieces from eleven hideous monsters (well, ten hideous monsters and one adowable little fairybull thing oh my gosh it’s cuuuute) tacked onto her, but what she absolutely won’t stand for is the other thing Aradia put in her sprite…

She could not stand bearing the visage of the most loathsome creature known to existence. So vile is its appearance, so contemptible its purpose, all depictions of the creature let alone members of its population are permanently banned from any jurisdiction in the reach of her agents. Those of its kind go by many names, and so does the reviled patron god they herald - THE GREAT DETESTATION, KING PONDSQUATTER, SPEAKER OF THE VAST JOKE, or most commonly, BILIOUS SLICK.

Recall that AR thought of the hieroglyphs in the Frog Temple as “illegal pictography”. We’ll find out later why the Black Queen has such a revulsion for frogs, it’s important. But the important part right now is that she took the ring off. At the time of planning it’s in the ROYAL VAULT.

We briefly see a moment in the future of the Black Queen wrapped in rags, just like the human sessions’ White Queen, wandering the desert as the BANISHED QUASIROYAL, and the caption notes the plan was a success.

However, Doc Scratch appears in the desert in front of her, and it’s noted she was given a new purpose. This, it seems, is the origin of Snowman.

FAILURE ARTIST: I would like if there was some canon Homestuck material expanding on this REGISURP plot.

BRIGHT: Same! It sounds really interesting. One example of Homestuck’s idiosyncratic pacing, I suppose -- we spend pages and pages on trivial alchimeter nonsense, but skip over something more meaty.

CHEL: The Red Team work on that, while the Blue Team battle their own session… or so they think. Yeah, I’m sure you’ve all already figured it out, but the trolls hadn’t just yet. They note that their prototypes are affecting the opposite team’s underlings, and the readers are shown Alternia’s two Frog Temples, one near Aradia’s home and the other near Kanaya’s, each with six pillars outside (one seems to have five, but the sixth is hidden behind the building). Superimposed on each other, the pillars make a full ring of twelve.

The truth was it had always been the same session all along. That your teams were not competing, but cooperating toward a common goal. In the more drawn out form of this adventure's narrative, figuring this out would have been a huge deal. We would have been completely blown away by this stunning revelation. Wow. Same session all along. Really? Huh.

This is what Aradia’s been so mysterious about. She knew. We’re provided with a handy diagram, in case we haven’t been able to keep up.

After watching the phrases MOBIUS DOUBLE and REACH AROUND toggle for a few minutes while in a sort of stupor, you finally snap out of it.

(I just noticed, the Blue Team are the Derse dreamers and the Red Team are the Prospit dreamers. Neat!)

The reader’s attention is drawn instead to the Aquarius and Pisces symbols in the top left, belonging to characters we haven’t met yet, and the narration promises we’ll learn about them soon. Drawing attention again to GA’s Virgo symbol, the narration muses about her.

It will probably be quite some time before you get to be her. It could very well be pages and pages and pages.

Naturally, we jump right back to her.

GA’s intro is long, so we’ll take it piece by piece.

Your name is KANAYA MARYAM.

The Sanskrit name for Virgo is “Kanya”, and it’s also the name of a town in Japan. “Maryam” is the Arabic version of “Mary”, as in Jesus’ mother. It may also be a reference to Marya Zaleska, the title character of the movie “Dracula’s Daughter”.

You are one of the few of your kind who can withstand the BLISTERING ALTERNIAN SUN, and perhaps the only who enjoys the feel of its rays. As such, you are one of the few of your kind who has taken a shining to LANDSCAPING. You have cultivated a lush oasis around your hive, and in particular, you have honed your craft through the art of TOPIARY, sculpting your trees to match the PUFFY ORACLES from your dreams. You have embraced the tool of this trade, which conveniently is the weapon of choice for those who would hunt the HEINOUS BROODS OF THE UNDEAD which crawl from the sand at sunrise to feast on the light and the living.

Couple things established here; trolls are not only nocturnal but actively harmed by their planet’s sun, and undead beings other than ghosts exist. Said traditional weapon for hunting them is a chainsaw, which we can see lying against her bookshelf, a reference to the Evil Dead movies.

It would be convenient if you actually hunted them, but it is of course far too dangerous, every bit as suicidal as attempting to poach the terrible MUSCLEBEASTS who roam at night. So you indulge in your bright fascination with the grim through literature. Just before the sun goes down and you join your flora in rest, you immerse yourself in tales of RAINBOW DRINKERS and SHADOW DROPPERS and FORBIDDEN PASSION.

Rainbow drinkers are, as discussed later on, troll vampires. I don’t think shadow droppers are ever expanded on, but they might be zombies or werebeasts. Troll goths, apparently, are the reverse of human goths, dressing in bright colours and staying up in the daytime, which makes sense for a species who can only safely go out at night.

You are one of the few of your kind with JADE GREEN BLOOD. As such you are one of the few who could be selected and raised by a VIRGIN MOTHER GRUB, an event so rare as to elude documented precedent. She would defend you from desert threats, and though her life would be short, in time you would assure her of progeny.

Recall that the Mother Grub is required for troll reproduction.

You are a SEAMSTRESS or a RAGRIPPER or a TREETRIMMER or a LUMBERJACK, whichever you care to be, and your unique hive is equipped with a great supply of advanced technology to accommodate your interests. The technology and indeed the hive itself were all recovered from the ruins nearby when you were very young. The seed of your hive was deployed on the volcanic rocks beneath the sand with the assistance of your lusus and her remarkable burrowing skills, and you have lived there happily together since. You know the ruins and the hive and everything here that is not sand and rock originated from the world of your dreams. You also know that one day you will visit this world while you are awake. That day is today.

Like Jade, Kanaya has been awake on Prospit for years, and the technology in question is Skaian in origin, so that’s how she knows what’s going on with the game.

Kanaya is prompted to equip her chainsaw, which promptly turns into a lipstick in a Problem Sleuth reference. Like Jade, she has a Wardrobifier, set to randomise, which suddenly turns her black shirt and red skirt into a red leaf-print dress. She takes out the lipstick.

You can choose between your trademark jade or black. Even though a troll's lips are naturally black. But they can always be blacker, and a lady with a true sense of style knows this.

She goes with green, her dress turns into a blue kimono, and she’s messaged by someone with a fuschia Pisces symbol. This person, named cuttlefishCuller, turns out to be rather excitable, greeting her in all caps and following it up with Glub glub glub glub glub!

BRIGHT: This conversation is pretty sweet, with some friendly joking about CC’s quirk (they stick hyphens in front of their capital Es) and mention of their Collapsing And Expanding Bladder Based Aquatic Vascular System. There’s another mention of moirails, with CC saying they’ll have to join the game late to keep an eye on theirs.

It also turns out both CC and Kanaya are having some premonitions of what’s to come! Kanaya is seeing visions in the clouds of Skaia, the same way Jade does, but CC hears whispers from a mysterious ‘she’ who needs her voice keeping down. It’s implied to be CC’s lusus, as both Kanaya and CC are aware their lusii are going to die soon.

Kanaya hopes to be with her lusus as she dies, but looks out of the window to find the Virgin Mother Grub has already passed away, apparently of natural causes.

CHEL: The Mother Grub was seen briefly before; it’s a moth-like creature with a huge fat body the size of a bus, with wings too small to ever lift it, horns the same shape as Kanaya’s, and a skull-like head with big lips. The skull on Terezi’s Doomsday Scale was, we can tell now, a Mother Grub, except quite a lot bigger - presumably a breeding Grub.

BRIGHT: Kanaya changes back into her original outfit, and goes down to live up to her end of the bargain… which entails slicing a hole in her lusus with her chainsaw and pulling out a round object covered in spikes the colour of trolls’ horns, called a Matriorb. Kanaya stores it in her sylladex; she’s using a CHASTITY MODUS, which locks each card away, and the key will serendipitously be discovered when it’s time for the card to be unlocked. These modii are getting more and more esoteric.

Kanaya proceeds to have a conversation with her own moirail, Vriska, which we already read earlier.

You then proceed to have the rest of this conversation we already read, bugging and fussing and meddling through the special and magical union one can only describe as being in moirallegiance with another. At least, you guess that's how you would describe it. Maybe. Troll romance sure is confusing!

Yes, yes it is. (Spoiler: It’s not that confusing once it’s explained.)

Kanaya doesn’t have long to dwell on the conversation, as she’s contacted by caligulasAquarium, someone with a violet Aquarius symbol who she doesn’t seem to think highly of. It rapidly becomes apparent why.

CA: kan make her talk to me do somethin GA: Who CA: your no good connivvin fuckin backstabbin girl crush thats wwho

CHEL: Trolls are supposed to come bi/pan as standard, so why does he need to specify “girl crush”? I wonder if Hussie hadn’t decided that yet when he wrote this part, but I’m not sure.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 34

CA’s gender hasn’t been revealed, but let’s not kid ourselves, we know from how he’s talking that he’s a dude. Nice Girls certainly exist but they don’t tend to get portrayed as so whiny in fiction, plus CC comes off as very girly, and that leaves us with six boy and six girl trolls. Balance and opposites and counterparts are a running theme throughout Homestuck. Not that there can’t be nonbinary characters, as some show up in Hiveswap; just that there would most likely have to be an even number of them, split evenly between the groups of players. Fine by me as a nonbinary person with a thing for balance and even numbers of my own.

Also, note that we’ve seen this guy, or at least his hand and foot, before. This is the litter-hater in the bowling shoes.

GA: Overstating Our Relationship Wont Make Me Feel Very Cooperative GA: Its Paler Red Than That Ok CA: pshhhhhh that is a fuckin laugh and you knoww it evveryone does CA: so help me out tell her to talk to me i think she blocked me you got to GA: Why Do I Got To GA: I Dont Got To And Every Time You Take My Help For Granted I Feel Like I Got To A Little Less CA: wwhatEVVER you are so the vvillage twwo wwheel devvice wwhen it comes to auspisticing CA: you cant let a grudge go by you wwont stick your busy stem betwwixt so get wwith the program fussyfangs

BRIGHT: Oh hey, another troll romance term! ‘Auspisticing’ is the last of the lot, don’t worry.

CA: wwho givves a shit wwhy she blocked me or about my fuckin manners come on youvve got a wway wwith her CA: i figure if youre going to auspisticize any twwo brinesuckers wwho sneer at each other a funny wway you might as wwell make it official and be ours right GA: Your Black Solicitation Just Seems Really Indecent

Funny words aside, Hussie does a good job at laying down context for what auspisticism is here; we now know that it involves mediating between two parties who dislike each other and that it’s a form of black romance. Meshing worldbuilding naturally into the dialogue is something Homestuck does really well at times.

Anyway, CA is trying to get in contact with Vriska because he asked her to make something for him and now she’s blowing him off.

GA: What Is It CA: kan stupid wwhat do you think its a fuckin gizmo to bloww up the wworld or somethin CA: ok wwell not that obvviously CA: but somethin thatll kill all land dwwellers wwhat else wwould i be after GA: Can You Just For A Moment Entertain The Thoughts Of One Untouched By Megalomaniacal Derangement And Tell Me Why Id Want To Assist You With That CA: wwell CA: im not goin to vvery wwell kill you am i that wwould be fuckin unconscionable CA: wwhat kind of friend wwould i be

While CA is obviously a douche, there’s something funny about how over-the-top he is about it and how utterly oblivious he is to the idea that Kanaya might have a problem with a device that would kill all landdwellers, although the humour is inversely proportionate to how likely he is to pull it off.

CHEL: Maybe I’m strange, but I think he’s adorable. I get the impression of a small kid trying to puff himself up to adult size.

BRIGHT: There’s also more romance talk, and this next bit is one I find interesting:

CA: you could either play along as our auspistice and do a little mediating like you wwere fuckin hatched to CA: or wwatch she and me devvolvve into fuckin full fledged kismesisses the kind like you dont get once in ten thousand swweeps CA: you knoww thats wwhat it wwould be there wwould be rainboww rivvers runnin through star systems and all nebulizin like liquid firewworks CA: it wwill be beautiful and heartbreaking all at once CA: you should read up on your history instead of poring through that godawwfull sunny rubbish

I’m going to take a step back from Homestuck itself for a moment and talk about kismessitude as it’s portrayed in fandom. People tend to envision it in a variety of ways -- some see it as a BDSM relationship, some as a way of pushing a rival to be better, some as just straight-up hate-sex -- but most depictions show it as something that only affects the two people involved.

Here, though? CA’s talking about kismessitude as something that’s potentially really damn dangerous, to other people besides those involved, and cites history as a backup -- implying it can really be that dangerous, and it’s not just a teenager’s flight of fancy. (Although, that said, CA is clearly using this to try and get Kanaya in a relationship with him, so how sincere he is is questionable.)

CHEL: Later on we do see a little bit of one of the historical cases he might have been citing. We’ll discuss it more then. Also, I do like him saying “sunny” instead of “gloomy”. Makes sense!

Kanaya tells CA none of this matters, and he sneers about the “purity of the bloodline”. That’s an… uncomfortable turn of phrase, especially since he’s speaking to someone not covered by the “purity” standard, but since it applies to aliens and it’s in a society where that’s hammered into its inhabitants it’s not a Problematykks issue. Kanaya tells him it still won’t matter because their race will be wiped out entirely, and his reaction is remarkably understated:

CA: huh CA: wwell ok HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 11

CA says he knows Kanaya doesn’t lie except to herself, surprisingly perceptive for one so puffed-up otherwise. CA might be smarter than he’s letting on? He asks if her clouds told her that; that was the reader’s assumption too, but she says no, she has a different source. Uh-oh. We know what the last source of information was, and it cost Vriska an arm and an eye-sevenfold. CA’s own clouds “hide nothin but misfortune and monstrosities”, so we can guess she’s Prospit and he’s Derse. He goes back to nagging her to tell Vriska to talk to him, and when she continues to refuse he poutily steps off.

CA: you dont wwant to be our auspistice cause you dont wwant to get locked into that sort of relation wwith her i can respect that

Kanaya denies this, and CA says everyone knows, including Karkat.

GA: Its Unbelievable GA: Her Patience CA: wwhat CA: wwhoa wwait wwho GA: Never Mind CA: ok wwait did she talk to you today CA: wwhat did she say CA: or glub or wwhatevver

They’re talking about CC, if it wasn’t clear. Kanaya, in a callback to John’s comment to Terezi, facetiously tells him that she talked about Longing To Touch You Indiscretely and That Shes Basically In The Scarlet Throes For You. CA, flustered, picks up that she’s teasing him, and she tells him the truth, that CC’s just concerned as a moirail.

CA: if youre not savvvvy about howw you define yourself to people CA: you can just splash into the moirail zone before you knoww wwhich wways upwward

I’m going to comment on this attitude in a bit more detail when we get a clearer explanation of what moirallegiance actually is. CA leaves her with some arc words.

CA: being a kid and growwing up CA: its hard and nobody understands

Kanaya heads back to her room, planning to emphatically not meddle but help her friends, and consults her source; it’s fortunately not a Doc Scratch-related one at all. It is, in fact, Rose’s long-forgotten GameFAQ, saved on a server floating in the Furthest Ring, to which Prospit’s clouds directed her. I have to show you the panel for a moment though…

I’m sure there was a way we could see the screen without having it facing away from Kanaya who’s supposed to be reading it.

You can only assume this took place a long time ago. This race is likely ancient, preceding yours by millions of sweeps. Maybe billions! You like to try to imagine the adventures of these players. Were they successful in repopulating their race? Did they manage to protect their matriorb and hatch a new mother grub? Could they hold it together, or were they torn apart by the complex social dynamics, the matespritships and moirallegiences and auspisticisms and kismesissitudes that will surely plague your group along the way? You have little doubt they succeeded with flying colors.

Oh dear, dramatic irony. Kanaya fantasises about a troll version of Rose, thinking she must have been the leader of this supposedly long-ago group.

And yet they appear to have been the only of their kind to have risen to the challenge in a session stacked heavily against them.

Huh. So is this just because Kanaya can’t find more information, or are the four kids in fact the only humans who successfully got into the game? Picking four specifically white-coded kids to be the last of the human race due to supposedly their own competence is… not a good choice. And why the hell couldn’t other people succeed? This strikes me as more of the whole theme of “nobody matters except the people we’re focusing on”. A good lampshading of video game tropes, but in a literary story, that’s the opposite message to everything I’ve ever read, and it’s a creepy one.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 43 HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 12 WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 35

BRIGHT: I thiiiiiiiink it’s at least implied later on that there are other sessions going, it’s just that each session is a closed loop of players so we don’t see the others...although if that’s the case, does that mean Earth’s getting hit with meteors from multiple Skaias?

CHEL: That over with for the moment, we cut to Tavros’ house as you take your place as the PAGE OF BREATH in the LAND OF SAND AND ZEPHYR. Vriska, his server player, gets down to the business of building up his house towards the Gate…

… entirely out of staircases.

AT: i THINK THIS, iS, AT: pROBABLY MEANT TO ANTAGONIZE ME,

Okay, this probably makes me a bad person, but I’m crying with laughter at his expression and that line.

It’s more disability slapstick, but here the point of the joke comes off as being more that Vriska is a jerk and Tavros’ reaction is really understated than any reasonable person being supposed to assume Tavros is wrong for not being able to climb stairs. Emphasis on “comes off as”, unfortunately. I’m still gonna give a Problematykks point, and further experience with Hussie’s attitude to disability has soured the joke somewhat, even in just the next couple of pages.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 44

BRIGHT: Vriska tries to get Tavros to crawl up the stairs, first by telling him that he promised not to be boring anymore and then by saying that she’s trying to help him get stronger. She caps off the rant by demanding that he apologise.

AT: oKAY, AT: tHANKS, i GUESS, AT: bUT, AT: sORRY FOR WHAT, AG: For 8eing crippled, you ass! AT: yOU WANT ME TO APOLOGIZE, AT: fOR BEING PARALYZED, AG: Yes. AG: Say you're sorry. AT: i DON'T MEAN TO BE RUDE, oR bORING, AT: bUT THAT'S RIDICULOUS, gIVEN, AT: uH, tHE CIRCUMSTANCES, AG: 8ullshit! AG: It's something called 8asic decency and civility you fudge8looded 8oor. AG: Now get down on your useless wo88ly knees and apologize. AT: nO, i DON'T WANT TO, AG: >::::O

Vriska, what the fuck.

Tavros is really great here. He’s obviously not comfortable fighting with Vriska, and repeatedly tries to redirect her into building him ramps instead of engaging. But, at the same time, he holds his ground and doesn’t let her push him around, and won’t let go of solid hard reality in the face of Vriska trying to emotionally manipulate him.

FAILURE ARTIST: And yet people still call him a wimp.

BRIGHT: Vriska retaliates, because of course she does, by grabbing his wheelchair with her cursor and shaking it about. If Hussie left it at that, everything would be unobjectionable, at least in terms of narrative voice. Instead, well…

Now she's done it. She has awoken the mighty inner fury that is... RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

CHEL: It just occurred to me to mention that the name Rufio comes from a character in the movie Hook, the leader of the Lost Boys after Peter Pan left, played by Dante Basco. Tavros’ mental image of him is a reference to that character.

FAILURE ARTIST: Dante Basco did read Homestuck, with hilarious results as we will see.

But unfortunately, Rufio is not real. He's imaginary. A fake. Like a made up friend, the way fairies are. You continue to be sad and alone.

BRIGHT: Eurgh.

Let me be clear: Tavros having no further recourse to deal with Vriska’s abuse beyond his visualised self-esteem is a problem for the character, but it’s not necessarily a narrative problem per se. Escapism is a thing. You could get a decent character arc out of Tavros learning better ways to deal with harassment he can’t escape. It is a narrative problem when the narrator mocks it and makes him out to be pathetic for even trying it.

CHEL: I’d consider this to be just Tavros’ own thought process, but, sadly, this kind of narrative sneering at him carries on throughout Tavros’ presence in the comic and the fandom seems to buy into it. Tavros gets a lot of hate for reasons which mostly boil down to him being a male abuse victim; there’s a feeling that he should “try harder” to fight back, despite him being physically disabled and a member of a caste out of sight beneath her on the social ladder and legally permitted to be killed by her on a whim. Might that count as a point for WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM, for Huss and the fandom not taking the social dynamics into account for why Tavros can’t defend himself?

BRIGHT: I don’t know if it’s fair to count against the fandom when we’re reviewing Homestuck proper, but we can definitely count against Hussie!

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 36

CHEL: It’s also notable that the common fandom interpretation of Tavros is as Hispanic-coded, at least partly due to his Spanish username, and of Vriska as white-coded. That’s probably not helping.

Since Hussie appears to expect us to agree with Vriska that this is funny, I’m adding another to these as well.

ALL THE LUCK: 2 CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 45 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 3

BRIGHT: What’s weird about this whole mess is that Hussie doesn’t — yet — try to say that Tavros should be trying to get stronger; his disability is fully acknowledged. I feel like this kind of mockery is usually accompanied by the attitude that disabled people should just get over their disability, but Hussie’s clear that Tavros can’t. Which means he should do...what, exactly?

CHEL: Not have let Vriska disable him in the first place, presumably. Never mind that, you know, she has mind control powers so he didn’t really have a choice in that either. That is, however, an argument Vriska fans actually make. Apparently some of them actually blame him for not flying when she threw him off the cliff, which… well, unpowered flight is a thing that can happen in the comic but he certainly couldn’t do it then.

BRIGHT: ...Apparently I retain the capacity for surprise at how awful people can be. The fuck?

Back in the comic, Tavros fortunately does have one other means of recourse. Back in her hive, Vriska is suddenly prodded in the back with a flying toilet, courtesy of Kanaya.

GA: Just Presenting A Floating Reminder That Tavros Will Need Plenty Of Inclined Surfaces For His Ascent AG: That's silly. I made so many ramps, you wouldn't even 8elieve it. AG: I specifically decided I wanted to 8uild something ugly and 8oring. It is now the land of ramps and yawns. GA: Hes Reported Otherwise AG: That lousy snitch! May8e I should take his computer away so he can't go crying to fussyfangs anymore. GA: Maybe I Should Upend This Load Gaper Over Your Head AG: No, don't! GA: Im Still Learning The Interface GA: It Could Happen Accidentally At Any Moment AG: I'm only trying to help him. ::::( GA: Think Of Another Way To Help

CHEL: Did I mention Kanaya is my zodiac troll? I can only long to reach her heights of awesome. Of course the ability to levitate toilets would kinda help.

BRIGHT: Vriska heads down to her treasure vault and retrieves a pair of ROCKET SHOES. The captchalogue code for these is ‘PSHOOOES’, which amuses me greatly. Vriska sends the code to Tavros, who combines it with the code for his wheelchair to create a flying wheelchair. Now that is a good use of alchemising!

CHEL: Awww!

Tavros flies up to the Gate, and we cut back to him later on, leading an entourage of communed-with imps and ogres to move obstacles and help him solve puzzles. Using his skills well, I see! In another set of ruins the imps load jigsaw pieces of rock into a frog-shaped alcove,

Things, however, don’t continue to go so well, because Hussie hates this poor kid. I do not mean that facetiously. Statements he’s made elsewhere imply he has a hell of a lot of contempt for several of the characters he created, which I don’t understand at all. We’ll go into this after Act 7, but I get the sensation that the characters are merely tools to show off the complexity and meta references, which are the parts he really cares about.

BRIGHT: It’s not unknown for authors to dislike characters they wrote; the great Terry Pratchett reputedly hated his character Rincewind. The key difference is that in Pratchett’s case, the audience couldn’t tell. Hussie, on the other hand, tends to make his disdain pretty obvious, to the detriment of the story.

CHEL: That’s a point. Conan Doyle grew to hate Sherlock Holmes, too. He didn’t, however, set up situations solely to shit on Holmes in his books.

BRIGHT: I think that’s the key. I’ll forgive a multitude of failings as long as the author seems to be treating the characters fairly. That doesn’t mean that good things have to happen to them — plenty of bad things can happen and I’ll enjoy it — it just means that the author has to...respect how the character feels and would behave, I guess.

Of course, respect is Hussie’s antithesis, so.

Also, nothing so far has shown Vriska to be anything other than a (granted, entertaining) bully. I wasn’t around while Homestuck was updating, so I’m not sure when her fandom took off, but it has to be later than this, surely?

CHEL: I don’t know. I wasn’t around till about mid-Act 6.

What was I on about? Oh yes. Tavros is interrupted by Vriska again, who bitches him out for doing things the boring way and seeking the boring lore.

AG: The minds of your consorts are very soft and impressiona8le. AG: As easily manipul8ed as all those imps you've 8een 8ossing around. AG: I have picked apart their tiny little lizard 8rains and seen through all the smoke and mirrors of their riddles. AG: I have gotten to the truth they are guarding. The great 8ig mystery 8ehind this planet. And you know what it is, Tavros? AT: nO, AG: It's 8ullshit! AG: Meaningless, 8oring, fanciful 8ullshit wrapped in flowery poems to keep you guessing. AG: It all leads to one thing anyway, and that's what we should put our attention on. AG: Real gamers cut to the chase. They power through all the nonsense and go for the gold. AG: They cheat, Tavros. AG: It is time you learned to start cheating.

Interesting theory. Tavros thinks befriending his monsters instead of killing them is cheating, and Vriska grudgingly agrees but is annoyed he isn’t killing anything. She claims to have designed a better and more challenging quest for him; he asks after her own quest, and she says she has time because Kanaya’s busy.

AG: Which is just as well 8ecause I was starting to get nannied HARD. WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 37

Strange word choice for a species raised by animals, but okay. Vriska sends Tavros a map to the next Gate, and he sets off in his little rocket chair. Little does he know.

You proceed through what seems to be your second gate, into the LAND OF MAPS AND TREASURE. The THIEF OF LIGHT lies in wait.

In a callback to our last meeting of Breath and Light players, Tavros crashes through Vriska’s wall and is left hanging upside-down in the rocket chair from the large cobwebs across the room, while Vriska sleeps on a pile of broken eight-balls. Doesn’t look comfortable, but trolls rest in worse places later. Vriska wakes, and Tavros falls head-first onto the floor.

Here is where it gets incredibly uncomfortable, and we have to show it in detail to assign points properly and so that there’s no ambiguity about what’s happening, so if you have any sexual assault, ableism, underage, mind control, or victim-blaming triggers you may want to skip this part. No clothing is removed but it’s very unpleasant to read and the attitude toward it is worse. Seriously, this is Taklamakan Zoo levels of bad.

(This heading below’s not part of the comic, I just put it there so you can skip. The sequence ends with the piece of fanart of Kanaya looking at the sideways screen.)

~*THE ASSAULT STARTS HERE*~

Vriska sits up. She’s wearing a very short strappy white Tinkerbell dress with her sign on it, and what look like over-the-knee socks, a commonly fetishised style of clothing. I remind you these characters are supposed to be thirteen years old. The dress is also the same as the one worn by the fairy in the artwork on Tavros’ desktop background. I don’t know if Vriska had seen that or not.

FAILURE ARTIST:

To be fair she’s just in an actually-more-modest version of what Peter Pan’s sidekick/love interest wears and the socks come off as more dorky than sexy.

Oh my! It appears Pupa Pan himself has flown through your window while you were asleep. How exciting! Surely he is here to take you away on the adventure of a lifetime. He is more dreamy and heroic than you ever imagined. But what's this?? It seems the legendary Boy-Skylark has misplaced his shadow. He is looking EVERYWHERE for it, to no avail. He is having a devil of a time, what with being paralyzed from the waist down and all. He clearly needs your help.

CHEL: Vriska is prompted to Help Pupa find shadow, and approaches Tavros with a nasty-looking grin on her face, while he lies on the floor, gritting his teeth in noticeable pain.

Pupa! You truly are a silly goose. Your shadow has been trapped underneath your useless torso the whole time! Honestly, where else would it be you stupid sack of shit?

Charming. Vriska proceeds to kick him in the head, or at least nudge him with her foot, while he lies unresponsive.

Of course, the secret to reuniting with your shadow is to get up and walk around. And play and dance and frolic! Your shadow will surely join in your gaiety. But it appears Pupa has lost the use of his legs. There will be no frolicking in this young man's future. ::::( Unless...

Everyone knows that just a pinch of SPECIAL STARDUST along with a happy thought will allow any boy to get up and walk again. Everyone knows this because it is in the classic tale, PUPA PAN. Young Pupa flies through the window of a fairy girl's respiteblock, falls on the floor, and has trouble getting up like an enormous pansy. The fairy girl then helps him walk again, and in return, he teaches her to fly, even though she probably already knows how to fly. Because she's a fairy. They fly out of her window together, and have magical adventures for many sweeps thereafter. To be honest, you hardly know a damn thing about Pupa Pan. But you do not care.

Pupa remains as pathetic and useless as ever.

FAILURE ARTIST: The story just keeps mocking Tavros for being disabled.

CHEL: Not to mention for being interested in fairies. Because how dare a boy have a gender-nonstandard interest, or a young teenager enjoy whimsical escapism from an increasingly horrible and guaranteed-to-be-short life.

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 39

I might be projecting because the fandom has made me loathe her, but it honestly comes off like Vriska dressed up like this in the first place less to seduce Tavros and more to make sure she thoroughly ruined his favourite thing to hurt him further, especially if the narration is supposed to be things she’s actually saying to him.

The stardust did nothing! Probably because it is just glittery powder with no magical properties whatsoever and is basically bullshit. Because in case it wasn't clear, magic isn't real, and neither are miracles. OR It could just be that Pupa has failed to have a happy thought! Your duty is clear. You will have to MAKE him have happy thoughts. Vriska: Make Pupa have happy thoughts.

He certainly doesn’t seem to be having happy thoughts now. Notice his expression, what we can see of it, looks terrified, he’s trembling, and let’s recall that he’s paralysed from the waist down. Even if he wasn’t, she’s of a far, far higher caste than him, legally permitted to do whatever she wants to him, including killing him if he tries to resist. It’s kind of gone back and forth on, but higher bloods are a few times stated to be a lot stronger than lower bloods, and if they work like humans, they’re in puberty right now, a time at which human girls tend to get taller and stronger sooner than boys. Again, it’s gone back and forth on, but a common interpretation is that female trolls are stronger than male trolls in general and/or have the social power advantage. Let’s also remember that, even if none of those factors apply, Vriska has mind control powers. There is no point here at which Tavros has the advantage, nothing he can use as leverage on her. She can do whatever the hell she wants, and she does.

BRIGHT: We’ve also been explicitly shown that Vriska has little to no respect for anyone else’s autonomy if she finds it inconvenient, and that Tavros is her favourite punching bag, and that his ability to stand up for himself when she gets going is extremely limited.

CHEL: Despite the odds stacked against him, Tavros struggles against the kiss forced on him, and when Vriska pushes him back, doesn’t respond with anything but a look of horror, though she appears to expect him to, as a flickering heart-spade with a question mark over it appears between them. I’m not sure whether that’s supposed to be the thought process of him or her or both.

Vriska hurls him onto the floor with some force...

… and activates her mind control, causing little hearts to light up in Tavros’ eyes.

BRIGHT: Vriska has used her mind-control powers on Tavros before, and when it happened she walked him off a cliff. There is basically no way that her doing it again isn’t going to be a traumatic experience for him, above and beyond the inherent horror of losing control over one’s body.

I’m inclined to think that forcibly altering his emotions is worse, though. Being paralysed was bad enough, but Tavros knows what happened and he knows how he feels about it. Making him fall in love with her is just…on one level, it’s a horrible assault on his autonomy as a person, and on another level, it’s tailor-made to make him doubt himself and believe the encounter was something he wanted.

FAILURE ARTIST: I hadn’t thought that he might now consider the encounter as consensual, which would explain his later reaction.

CHEL: Tavros paws at her legs, making kissy faces, and she looks vaguely concerned. Note the background still depicts wavy blue rays coming off her, showing her power is still active.

Looking defeated, she drops the control and dumps him on the floor again.

I’m not sure what she’s supposed to be thinking in this last panel. Is she feeling guilty? Is she disappointed that he didn’t like her under his own power? Has she just decided he’s too useless to be worth the effort? Any could be true.

BRIGHT: I read that as disappointment that even when he ‘liked’ her, he didn’t act the way she wanted. (And the way Tavros acted is kind of disturbing. ‘Mindlessly pawing at someone’ is not what I’d expect from him if he was legitimately attracted to someone.)

FAILURE ARTIST: The common interpretation these days was she was realizing she wasn’t into boys which okay that’s good for her but she should feel more bad about molesting him.

CHEL: That also makes no sense, because she shows interest in multiple boys later.

I’m also not entirely sure if Vriska had the intention of actually raping Tavros here (in the standard way, I mean, as one could argue that mind control is a form of rape), or just making out with him. The fact that she dressed up in vaguely fetishy clothing isn’t making it look good, though. Yes, she’s very young, but traumatised kids in particular have been known to lash out sexually like that. It’s a way of reasserting personal power, and I imagine it would be more prevalent in a society with no sapient adult supervision. While there are mitigating circumstances involved in their social situation and Vriska not really having ever had a chance to learn better, that doesn’t make this not a horrible thing to do, or not traumatising for Tavros.

BRIGHT: The clothing could potentially be down to Vriska wanting to look ‘adult’ without fully understanding why it looks adult. That does come up sometimes with teens — they want to experiment with clothing because that’s how adults dress, not because they want to look sexy, or they might dress a certain way for dates because that’s the social model they have for How Dates Work.

And if I read it like that, this basically looks like Vriska having the date equivalent of a dolls’ tea party. Which says volumes about how she views Tavros’s autonomy.

CHEL: Good point. Though honestly it would say volumes about same either way!

BRIGHT: I said earlier that Vriska is better than Equius at recognising when other people’s desires conflict with hers, and she is, but that doesn’t mean she respects those differences. She just recognises that they’re there, and overrides them. This is a prime example of Vriska viewing Tavros as something between a chew-toy and a prop. First she kicks him around and terrifies him, then she expects him to be able to get over those emotions at the drop of a hat and respond to her advances — and, moreover, she wants him to respond in a certain way, which Tavros has zero way of knowing. This is the first time she’s shown that sort of interest in him, unless her earlier behaviour was the Alternian equivalent of pigtail-pulling.

...I think maybe that was in fact Alternian pigtail-pulling. Or at least Vriska’s version of pigtail-pulling.

CHEL: That’ll actually make more sense, once we explain what the spade symbol means.

Okay, how many counts does this cover?

ALL THE LUCK: 12 ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 31 CALL CPA PLEASE: 26 CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 55 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 13

It also occurred to me during this sequence to think again about how Karkat contemptuously swears at and hangs up the phone on the injured Tavros. This, at first glance, seems to be very much at odds with the “cranky but caring” impression we’re supposed to have of Karkat… but it fits precisely with Hussie’s opinion of Tavros and how pathetic he is for allowing a much more powerful person to permanently disable him. I know at the moment it looks like I’m not separating the character from the author, but it’ll become clear as we go that that is what he thinks.

IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 14

Why didn’t we start a FUCK YOU, HUSSIE count?

BRIGHT: It would have ended up longer than all the other counts combined.

CHEL: The actual assault is over now, but there’s one more picture of it. The ramifications must continue to be discussed, so tread cautiously. The actual act is over now, though.

Said ramifications come pretty quickly. Kanaya, having dealt with getting herself into the game and prototyped her own lususprite, decides to check on Vriska.

Ideally she has not gotten herself into too much trouble. And ideally the dramatic irony has not gotten so thick you could draw a dotted line on it with a tube of lipstick and cut it in half with a chainsaw.

Of course, she sees the exact moment Vriska kisses Tavros.

(Fanart source has now been deleted, sadly.)

~*THE ASSAULT ENDS HERE*~

Humorous art aside over, let’s watch Kanaya’s reaction in more detail. She angrily looks at a copy of the Tinkerbell dress, which she presumably sent the alchemiter code for rather than the actual item to Vriska, hence why she still has it.

So THAT'S why she had you make this dress for her??? And you just went along with it like a sucker. Argh, you are such an IDIOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Like Karkat, Kanaya is presented as the caring one, the protective one. The “mom friend” of the group. And yet, she looks at this, in which Tavros is clearly frightened and struggling, and her reaction is to be mad that Vriska didn’t want to wear the dress for a date with her. I’m not sure whether this says more about Hussie’s opinion of Tavros or the social system of Alternia or both, but it certainly says a lot.

CLOCKWORK PROBLEMATYKKS: 56 HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING: 13 IN HATE WITH MY CREATION: 15

BRIGHT: Kanaya has had to corral Vriska on Tavros’s behalf already! Possibly more than once! She has all the information to realise that this is abusive, even leaving aside Tavros’s reaction! Sure, teens can be self-centred, but even so this is egregious.

CHEL: Kanaya’s Grubsprite comforts her and she throws the dress out the window.

Being a kid and growing up. It's hard and nobody understands.

Yes, I’m sure Tavros thinks so too.

Charles: "I know Sir can be prickly, but you have to understand he had a very terrible childhood."

Klaus: "I understand. I'm having a very terrible childhood right now."

-A Series of Unfortunate Events

[coffeefairy]

Writer’s Month August 2020 - Day 2

Second day running of the challenge, go me!

Day 2, Quarantine

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender

Ship: Sheith

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Keith is stuck in the infirmary with the flu. Shiro visits to hear why Keith landed himself in detention - again - especially since he knows it somehow involved his name...

Excerpt: Keith had never liked Adam. He was too by-the-book, too boring, too uptight, but right now he’d pay to have him back in Shiro’s life. He made Shiro happy and that was all Keith had ever really wanted. And, he provided a buffer, a “no trespassing” sign on Shiro that helped with tempering his wish to reach out, to confess to everything that boiled under his breastbone. Now that buffer was gone and he’d have to watch Shiro, kindly, obliviously, reject him just for who he was, not for who he already had

Tags: Hurt/comfort, one-sided pre-Sheith from Keith’s side. Note Keith is underage but that Nothing Happens - because he’s underage.

Quarantine

Keith was entering his third day of having the flu and he was ready for death to take him. Not because of the flu, but because of the boredom. Confined to the Infirmary at the Garrison to not “spread those germs around, Mr Kogane”, he was utterly bored. There was a TV but it had two channels and they both showed re-runs. He couldn’t read because he kept distracting himself sniffling and his foggy brain wouldn’t let him study. The only thing that broke the tedium was mealtimes and the food was so bad he might starve before the boredom killed him. At least his quarantine counted towards his detention time.

The door at the end of the room swung open and Keith spotted Shiro. Or, Captain Shirogane as he was whenever other teachers or students were around. Shiro had been the one who got Keith to apply to the Garrison, who encouraged him to try out for the pilot program. The one who’d helped him fill in the scholarship applications and who had to date been the only person in Keith’s life who had never once let him down.

He was older than Keith by five years and at twenty-two he was the poster boy for what the Garrison wanted to showcase. Ace pilot, squeaky clean record, top grades. In addition he had the looks, the personality and the charisma for a stellar career in the Garrison Forces. If Keith hadn’t loved Shiro from the bottom of his heart, he probably would have hated him. But he knew Shiro cared for nothing but the flying, not really. It was the love of his life and Keith could wholeheartedly understand. Flying, to both of them, was freedom. 

Glad that he for once had a good excuse for the rosy cheeks he developed whenever Shiro was around, he allowed himself to soak in the picture he made. He’d finished for the day but his uniform was as pristine as it always was. He filled it out like he’d been made to wear it, all wide shoulders and narrow hips. It was a chest to waist ratio that sometimes made Keith’s stomach drop and leave a dark, echoing, slippery hollowness of need inside him. Just like his height, the sight of his hands and the soft hair at the nape of his neck did. 

“Hey, Keith.”

Not to mention his voice. 

Keith, who had had enough spare time - and then some - to prepare in case anyone (he’d only hoped Shiro would) visited, held up the legal pad he’d been doodling on. On the page he’d written in capitals:

Lost voice, can’t speak.

“Oh, so the conversation will be just as normal then,” Shiro joked. 

Keith sent him a rude gesture and the older man laughed. It made something soft and squidgy move in his chest to hear it. 

With a sigh, he sat down on the uncomfortable chair next to Keith’s bed, peered at him.

“You look good.” 

Keith knew what that meant but he bent his head over the pad anyway to let his hair shield his warm face. 

“You looked a lot paler last time I saw you.”

Keith frowned in askance. 

“I was here two days ago. You were asleep.”

Oh great. He’d probably slept with his mouth open, drooling on the pillow.

“You look younger when you’re asleep. Less angry.”

I’m not angry, Keith scribbled. 

Obediently, Shiro read it. 

“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “Then why did I hear about you getting into a fight with McClaine in Flight Sims?”

Keith had hoped talk of that particular scene would not make it to Shiro’s ears. 

McClaine’s an idiot, he wrote. Shiro leaned forward to read it and though he didn’t have his sense of smell, Keith could swear he sensed the scent of laundry powder, after shave and the hint of motor oil and gasoline that came from riding his hoverbike. A smell so familiar to him it haunted his dreams. Including the waking ones.

He could swear he saw a twitch to Shiro’s (unfairly attractive) lips before he leaned back.

“Keith, he’s on your team. You need to find a way to get along. Teamwork is the cornerstone of the Garrison philosophy.”

The Garrison philosphy could fuck itself for all Keith cared, but he didn’t like when Shiro’s voice took on that tone. Not like he was disappointed, or tired of his behaviour but...softly chiding. All Keith wanted was to hear Shiro say good things about him, praise him. Not that he’d ever let the older man know that. 

“Fine,” Shiro sighed lightly when Keith didn’t reply. “What did McClaine do?”

Keith stiffened. There was no way he was telling Shiro. Crossing his arms, he rested back against the pillows.

“I spoke to Captain Parilla about it. He says he heard my name.”

Oh, shit. 

Keith had no issue telling Shiro that McClaine was a bumbling moron who should learn to keep his tongue behind his teeth if he wanted to keep them in that dumb face of his. But he didn’t want to tell him why he’d had to punch him for it this time.

It was common knowledge at the school that Captain Shirogane and his boyfriend were breaking up. In such a small place, gossip was rife and unfortunately this week the hot topic had been the end of the match of two of the teachers. 

Keith had overheard some girl talking about it in the cafeteria, asking her friend excitedly “if she’d heard” and an almost breathless “heard what” had followed. 

“I heard from Maggie whose sister has the late watch that Captain Tremaine and Shiro had a shouting match that ended with them breaking up and Captain Tremaine driving away at like one in the morning. He hasn’t come back yet.”

Keith had stilled but hearing it, he put his tray down and spun on his heel. Unseeingly he turned right and headed down the hallway towards the officers’ quarters. Captain Tremaine, or Adam as Shiro called him, had left Shiro? He knew from Shiro, despite him glossing over the details, that they had been fighting but breaking up? Knowing how seriously his friend took commitment he could only guess how he was feeling now.

He’d gotten as far as Shiro’s door, lifted his hand to knock. Imagined what he might find inside. He hesitated. Why would Shiro want to see him now? What comfort could Keith offer? He was prickly, contrary, awkward. He had to be the last person who could be of any help right now. 

Comfort Shiro? Don’t kid yourself, Kogane, you’re his charity project. 

With this thought ringing in his head he had walked away. He got to his room and crawled into bed, flinging an arm over his eyes. Shiro was the one going through a breakup, why the hell did he himself have tears in his eyes? Despite the question he knew. He knew that everything inside him for Shiro was a tangled mess.

He might have had dark dreams about Shiro leaving Adam but it had never made him sad. He had just realized he could have Keith and he and the other instructor had parted, amicably. 

He was such a child. 

Shiro would always take a breakup seriously, would think he was the one to fail. The kind of person who would try and keep trying to make the other happy. He would always try his best and when it wasn’t enough it would break his heart. 

Keith rolled over on his side, drawing his knees to his chest. It was aching with what he knew would be killing Shiro. 

It was weaved in with the misery that to Shiro, Keith would never be anything more than a kid. They were friends, but with the years between them it would be a long time before they could even be friends on equal footing. Shiro was his teacher, even if they waited a decade, he would still have been Keith’s teacher. And even if they did, if they waited, if Shiro would eventually see him as an adult or an equal, why would he ever want Keith? He was a skinny, awkward reject with a bad haircut and a worse attitude and Shiro deserved… everything. Better than Keith Kogane could ever be. 

And still his traitorous heart wouldn’t just take the defeat and leave him in peace. It had to light up in hope every time Shiro smiled at him in the way that made the corners of his eyes crease, or when he put a hand on Keith’s shoulder, or when he told him he’d done a good job in that deep voice. It sang, lifted, soared and hoped. 

Keith had never liked Adam. He was too by-the-book, too boring, too uptight, but right now he’d pay to have him back in Shiro’s life. He made Shiro happy and that was all Keith had ever really wanted. And, he provided a buffer, a “no trespassing” sign on Shiro that helped with tempering his wish to reach out, to confess to everything that boiled under his breastbone. Now that buffer was gone and he’d have to watch Shiro, kindly, obliviously, reject him just for who he was, not for who he already had.

Still struggling with the decision if he should go see Shiro or not the day after, he’d been flying in Flight Sims on autopilot when McClaine had to open his big mouth.

“You hear Shiro’s boyfriend broke up with him? And no one’s seen Shiro for days.”

“That’s Captain Shirogane to you,” Keith said quietly.

“Whatever, Kogane. I wonder if Shirogane’s out for the count? He looks all badass but he must be a giant softie if he can’t leave his room for three days after some guy leaves.”

“Lance…” Hunk, the large engineer on their team said, clearly trying to defuse the situation. 

“What Hunk? I’m just saying he might talk tough but really, he’s just a big p-”

Keith flew up, the screen in front of him showing the stars spiralling and an explosion “MISSION FAILURE” flashing in red letters. But he didn’t care. In one move he was up, grabbing McClaine by the collar, hauling him to his feet and pinning him to the wall. 

“Shut the fuck up, McClaine! Just because you blame Captain Shirogane for not making you pilot when your scores are way too low doesn’t mean you can talk shit about him behind his back!”

“Get off me, Kogane, I can say whatever I like!”

“Guys…” Hunk tried to pull them apart but Keith just shook it off. 

“What, you gonna comfort him, Kogane? Hold his hand, dry his tears, tell him everything will get better?”

Keith growled.

Lance’s eyes widened and something gleeful slipped into his gaze.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You wanna bang Shirogane?”

His fist connected with the boy’s goading smile and in a flurry of limbs they fell to the floor, Keith kicking, punching, tearing at the other boy. 

Shiro spoke again, returning him to the present. 

“Why were you fighting, Keith?”

Keith scribbled.

McClaine was being a dick.

Shiro’s eyes gentled in a way that made Keith feel small. 

“Cadet McClaine insulted me, is that it?”

Apparently Keith’s refusal to answer spoke volumes. 

“Keith, I…” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you would stand up for me, whatever McClaine said, but you need to find a way of controlling your temper. Punching someone you don’t agree with is going to cost you something more than detention one day. And I would hate to see that. You have too much talent, Keith, too much going for you.”

Keith hadn’t had a lot of people praising him in his life. He had no idea how to deal with it and he twisted the covers in his hands.

With a sigh, he then reached for the pen.

I’ll stop fighting him...if he stops being a dick.

Shiro chuckled, tenderness creasing the corners of his eyes. 

Damn. Keith couldn’t deal with that look, it made him want to both curl up and bask, and hide under the covers like a child. It made his heart race and his throat slam shut.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Shiro tilted his head. “Lance goads you because he’s jealous.”

It was clear he didn’t need a pad to convey his disbelief in the notion.

“Keith, Lance has wanted to come to the Garrison since he was five. He’s dreamed of being an ace pilot, of being at the top of his class. He’s worked really hard for it. Then he meets you and...you know all these things instinctively that he has had to learn. You fly like you were born to do it, you’re crushing every flying record we have and you do it without looking like you’re even trying.”

For you, Keith wanted to tell Shiro and was glad his voice wouldn’t let the incriminating words slip out. He only ever cared about impressing Shiro, about making him proud, of...proving himself. Proving Shiro hadn’t been wrong to put his trust in him. 

“You just have everything that Lance wants.”

Keith crossed his arms over his chest, stared hard at the floor on the other side of the bed, away from Shiro and his gentle voice.

“So just think about that before you punch him the next time.”

At this, Keith couldn’t help the twitch of a smile. Shiro did know him really well. He didn’t decree, or order, or use the authority he clearly had over Keith. He just explained, and asked that Keith thought about it. 

To distract himself from the growing tenderness in his throat, Keith lifted his pen. Hesitated. Glanced at Shiro.

“Go on, ask what you want to ask.”

Keith wondered how to phrase it. Then he decided and wrote,

How’s Adam?

Shiro read, a flash of something broken in his eyes.

“You heard, huh?”

Keith nodded. Then waited. He knew Shiro understood what he was really asking. If he’d asked “how are you?” Shiro would have responded “fine” because that’s what he demanded of himself to always be for others. Asking about Adam made it more roundabout, gave Shiro an out if he didn’t want to talk about it but also let him know Keith knew about the breakup. 

A sigh escaped the older man. He rubbed his hands over his face and let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling. Keith kicked himself for getting distracted by how the column of his throat looked, bared and inviting. 

“I...I don’t think he’s doing so well.”

Keith nodded, kept fiddling with the covers. 

“It’s hard,” Shiro continued and Keith couldn’t believe he was trusted to hear this. He swore to himself whatever Shiro told him, he’d take to his grave. “He’s not...wrong, or not completely wrong but I…”

Searching his memory he tried to make sense of this as an argument he could have heard about. He couldn’t think of anything. Apparently Shiro realized too, and backtracked.

“There’s a new mission. I can’t talk about it, really, but it’s deep space, Keith. Real flying, for months.”

Fear for missing Shiro like he would miss a limb twisted the joy he felt for him. Decisively he strangled the sensation. It was Shiro’s dream. 

“And it’s...it’s my last chance. With my health, this will be the last opportunity for me to ever go into space.”

He knew that too. Knew the unfairness of Shiro’s life, the one part of his physical form that wasn’t perfect. The disease that lay dormant under his skin, that would one day rob him of all the things that made him a legendary pilot. 

“Adam...Adam thinks I’m foolish. That I should stay back, not take any chances. Settle for a shorter mission, something easier.”

Every line of Shiro’s face and shoulders screamed out his pain. Keith reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. The older man’s head dropped. His shoulder shook under his fingers and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Shiro, hold him, tell him he deserved better, deserved everything. 

One handed, he managed to write.

Shiro, hearing the pen against the paper, looked up. He hadn’t been crying but his eyes were glassy.

You need to go

It’s your dream

A shudder travelled through him. Gratitude seeped into his eyes and Keith’s throat started squeezing shut.

“Thanks, Keith.”

He took his hand and squeezed.

[fahhhhq]

Similar but Worlds Apart: Part 3

Fandom: Narcos + Statesman: Golden Circle

Pairing: Reader x Jack Daniels a.k.a Agent Whiskey  //  Reader x Javier Peña

“Warnings”: Cursing. 

INITIAL SUMMARY: Your heart aches for someone who no one has seen for weeks, but when you get new intel about their whereabouts, you’re stunned by what you find in Colombia.

Start here if you’re new here: Part uno, Part kinda dos.

I’m still trying to write more while fighting my writer’s block, so hopefully you’ll be seeing more and more of this story. Thank you for spending a few minutes of this, I TRULY appreciate it. Also for the comments. You guys are amazing!

He was shot.

When you first met Jack Daniels, he was shot in the shoulder. Your new boss, Champagne, was showing you around the medical wing in what seemed like a smaller building from the outside. But now inside, it was huge. He was showing you around a recuperating room when you heard a loud grunt and a “fuck” from the other room. You and Champ both raised your brows in wonder and leaned over to see who was screaming.

That’s when you first saw him…   He was sitting atop an examination table getting his left shoulder cleaned and stitched by Agent Ginger Ale, his hair a bit messy from, you were guessing, was his cowboy hat, well because the hat was right next to him. He had some light scratches on his face, some dry blood at the rim of a nostril and his cute manly moustache disheveled and with some blood on it, too. His white t-shirt was torn where Ginger was finishing up her stitching.

You had already met Ginger earlier in the day, and you thought she was the most beautiful geek you had ever met, and you couldn’t believe that someone could be so perfect and beautiful; your self-esteem plummeting as you kept looking at her. But also, you couldn’t help but to feel a bit jealous of the way she was in the middle of Agent Whiskey’s legs while she put some gauze over her perfect stitching. You for a moment wanted to be standing between his thighs, and you wondered, how could you feel some sort of jealousy for a man you didn't even know…

You had felt jealousy once. Long, long ago. High school long. And when you felt it, you promised to not have feelings for someone like that ever again. And guess what, you didn't. Until now. Damn, cowboy.

As you and Champ stood there with smirks on your face, internally laughing at how much of a baby Jack was being, Jack finally became aware of the both of you standing there. He locked eyes with you and you automatically felt a layer of sweat cover your upper lip. You smiled to cover the fact that you felt like a fucking teenager.

Whiskey stood, pushing slightly Ginger to the side, “Well hey there, pretty lady, I’m Agent Whiskey, who might you be?” He said extending his uninjured hand and speaking in a cowboy accent that you could just melt from.

You extended your hand, “Hi, I’m Agent Vino.”

He looked you up and down, “Well I’ll be damned, now I’ve seen it all.”

You raised a brow, “What’s that?”

You could feel Champ and Ginger’s eyes on you as Whiskey began to spit game, probably thinking that you weren't going to be able to take his coming on.

“Well, pretty lady, I believe one of my ribs belong to you.”

You smile and act like you’re flattered, touching your heart and fluttering your eyes. “Oh, well who wants a knight in shining armor when I can get a wannabe cowboy in old blue jeans.”

He threw his head back and laughed, and then got closer to you, “Ooh, feisty, just how I like them.”

Champ cleared his throat and interjected, “Well, looks like you’ll both get along great. Whiskey, meet your provisional partner.”

Whiskey turned to Champ in shock, “What?!”

He chuckled and turned to leave, “Now don’t kill each other, cause both your lives depend on it, agents.”

You heard Ginger laugh from behind Whiskey and it made you laugh, too.

“I don’t do the partner thing, Champ, you know this!” Whiskey exclaimed as Champ got closer to the door.

You rolled your eyes, “Calm down, he said provisional partner, cowboy, no need to get your panties in a wad.” You walked behind him and spoke to Ginger, “Is he always like this? A baby I mean.”

“Mostly,” she said in a carefree manner and walked to whiskey. “Your wound isn't going to heal like your other wounds, Jack, this one is going to take a while, so, you should be thanking Vino, cause she’s the one that’s going to be picking up your slack.”

You smirk, “Well, well, looks like I’ll be the one holding the reigns around here, cowboy, try to keep up.” You wink and walk away.

“Run if ya want, Missy, but I’ll have you hogtied quicker than you can say ‘stay away from me, you skoal-chewin freak’,” he stated with a threatening but light tone. His voice huskier and lower than before. Your stomach swarming with damn butterflies as you imagined him doing that to you.

You turn mid-way, “Not with that arm of yours, cowboy. So long.” You mimic tipping your cowboys hat.

With that, you knew that you had met your match. And you knew that he was thinking the same thing. Something that he would later confirm.

----------

           As you realized that you were miles away thinking of the first time you met Jack, you smile as you remember of how he made you feel. And now you were comparing it to what you felt when you met Javier, and it was not good.

           You shake your head to clear your mind and take a deep breath. You were just tired and making up feelings that you didn't have. You stood from the kitchen table and headed to your room to take a shower, hoping that it would help you clear your head even more.

           When you get out of the shower, you hear a faint knock coming from the font door. You immediately grab your gun and tighten your grip on your towel. You slowly walk to the living room, where the front door is, and wait to see if there’s another knock.

           Knock, knock, knock...

           You wonder who it is, and only one person comes to mind. In that moment you regret being in only your towel and having your hair wet and tangled. Damn it…

           Your stomach is already in knots when you open the door. Javier Peña is standing there holding onto the door frame with one hand and the other resting on his hip. His hair dark and his bangs almost covering his forehead. His dark eyes slowly eyeing you up and down.

You shiver all over.

“Hi…” you say finally.

Javier gives you a crooked smile, “Hi.”

You try to hide the fact that you're blushing and smile, “What’s up?”

He straightens up and speaks in a lower register, “I was about to go to the uhh restaurant for dinner, and I don’t know if you’ve had dinner already, but umm if you’d like to join me, then we can go?”

Your raise your eyebrow in question, “Dinner?”

He looks at his watch and says, “Yeah it’s later than dinner time, but I figured I‘d  ask.”

“Wait, what time is it?” You ask Javier.

He looks again at his watch, “It’s a quarter till ten.”

“What the fuck…” you say a bit surprised. You had been working and daydreaming the whole day. You hadn’t eaten since the morning.

“Are you busy? I can just go alone,” Javier says a bit quieter.

“Oh, no!” You open your door wider, “Come in, sorry, I’ve just been working all day that I didn't realize that it was so late.”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “been there, don’t worry about it.”

You close the door behind him and again become embarrassed when you realize that you're still in your damn towel and holding a gun. “Let me go change and then we can go. Is that fine?”

His dark eyes roam your body again, “Go for it.”

And you blush once more, “Ok, be right back.”

As you change into a pair of jeans and an AC/DC shirt on, you just think to yourself that you shouldn’t do this, but you want to.

You look yourself in the mirror, brush your hair and make sure you don’t look like shit, but you see that you have dark circles and say fuck it then head to the living room. You see Javier trying to take a peek of what you’re working on and quickly clear your throat before he opens a folder and sees something, or someone.

He quickly turns and clears his throat, “You ready to go?”

You chuckle and go to open the door, “Yeah, let’s go.”

Javier checks you out, “You looked better in a towel,” walks out and grins.

He doesn’t see you, but you roll your eyes and blush so hard you almost feel guilty…

Taggity-Tags: @shikin83 @readsalot73 @otherthingsinhead @batata-elegante @fleurdemiel145 @maryan028 @stxriss @igotmadskills​ 

[artgurusauce]

So, how was Pokemon Shield?

Before I start, this is going to cover the main game, not post-game. Sorry, no talk about Dickhead Swordward and Shieldbert. Also, if it wasn’t obvious already, massive spoilers ahead. 

IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE SPOILED, DO NOT READ THIS POST

I’m not going to ramble for hours about this, because to be honest, my thoughts about this are much briefer than they are for gen 7/Alola. Not to say there’s not much going on in this game, just that if you were expecting a super professional and profound review of the game from me, you may or may not be disappointed.

I will do my best to be articulate, though.

I’ll start with the rivals, the most obvious choice the begin with being: Hop.

Hop is definitely not like Hau like so many people were desperate to make me believe pre-release. In fact, while their arcs are similar, there’s a biiig difference. That difference, to me, is their changes in character. Hau had a big ass crash, yes, but his character change was pretty damn gradual. With Hop, after Bede puts him down, well, you can pretty much tell he’s not the same guy right off the bat the next time you talk to him. I absolutely adore Hope and I’m glad he got as much screen time and focus as he did. His arc was fantastically written and beautifully handled all the way to the end. All I can say is, another cinnamon roll for the collection.

Then there’s...Marnie.

Now, I don’t hate her, far from it. I adore her very much as well. The problem is that it seems she doesn’t get much time to flesh out like Hop did. A problem that goes both ways between her and Bede. Of course when I got to the seventh gym and met big brother Piers I actually did like the dynamic they were going for. Buuut I really wish they had given Marnie just a little more time to herself before that. I just didn’t feel like they did enough with her and...that’s a damn shame considering how popular she was upon her first reveal. Of course, again, this isn’t to say I don’t think she’s still just the cutest little punk goth button ever.

Sigh...and now it’s time for me to talk about Bede.

Look, from what I could tell, half the fandom was nuts for him, the other half was sick to death of a generic douchebag rival that adds no flavor to the table. But I’m a little torn on this one. Like I said, him and Marnie share an awful side effect of Hop’s arc being the most prominent...they don’t get enough time or everything that happens in their arcs feels...rushed, by comparison, at least in my opinion. So the thing is, when Bede gets disowned by Chairman Rose, of course my first reaction is “You had it coming, you were being a shit.” But then Opal...takes him in? And...acts as though Oleana manipulated him? I guess I could perhaps see what they were going for here, and, I’ll admit it, I kind of adored their dynamic, albeit a short interaction between them. And I did find it rather cute at the League when he was all flustered about being trained by Opal, having to continue training because everyone was cheering for him. But the thing is...his arc is kind of...broken? Like, I want to feel bad for him, and I want to feel invested in Opal taking him in and showing him the ropes of the Fairy Gym but...it just doesn’t work like it should. Which is odd considering Bede gets considerably more time to flesh his arc than Marnie, at least, that’s how it seemed to me. I do think the general story and Hop’s own arc really just forced the writing’s hand in sweeping Bede’s arc by as fast as possible. He could’ve been an interesting diversion of expectation, but...oh well.

Speaking of gyms, how do I feel about the gym leaders?

Well, Milo is a fucking cinnamon roll, and I do think I’ve settled on shipping him with Nessa because...I mean...c’mon now. Short bean boy, toll ocean gal? Perfect for each other ♥

I don’t really...feel anything towards Kabu. His design is bland, his personality didn’t stick out to me at all, but I guess they can’t all be iconic gems when you think about it.

Then...there’s my baby boy Allister. And lawd, my dudes, if Hop ain’t my new son well then Allister sure as fuck is. I did HC that he was mute like Red before the game came out and, well, his personality and dialogue are pretty good despite not being what I was hoping. I mean, c’mon, how can you not love that adorable little face? Or that he’s so socially introverted he keeps a collection of masks to make absolute sure his face is hidden? I am going to be quoting “Crumbs, that’s aces” forever now.

Opal was an interesting woman, I definitely think there could’ve been more to her relationship with Bede but I already discussed that. My dad thought she was kinda scary and creepy but she reminds me of that old lady from Spirited Away so I ain’t bothered all that much lol. She was nice enough, I do like her humbleness and that she’s willing to admit it’s definitely time for her to call it quits. And yes, I have seen that official art of her when she was younger. She is a fucking QUEEN  ♥ ♥ ♥

Then comes Melony...hoooo boy my lesbian ass is fallin’ so hard it physically hurts me in ways you will never imagine in your life. Wicke wishes she was this thicc. In all seriousness though, I am pretty curious about that son of hers. I heard you can meet him in Sword but I’ll have to wait and see that for myself. Aside from being the newest love of my life, she’s absolutely adorable and wholesome. I know her card reveres her as strict, but, she just looks like a cinnamon roll.

Piers...oh Piers, where do I even begin? His design is fucking on point, for one thing. And his relationship with his sister Marnie is just so cute and so much fun to watch. As unfortunately left field as it was for me, I did like his arc about not being a good Gym Leader and wanting his sister to take over for him. It was sweet and kinda sad but I just love him so much. For the first Dark Type Gym Leader, not bad guys, not bad at all. Also omg Piers slay me with your metal, king plsssss

Finally, there’s Raihan and...omg he’s so great. This mother fucker not only takes selfies in the middle of a match, not only bombards you with weather effects therefore making him a fun and challenging opponent, but this dude is also beefin’ with our head champ? SIGN ME UP, FAM. For real though, like, I loved battling with Raihan the most out of anybody that I fought. I definitely haven’t felt this much fun battling a Gym Leader in years. And I will forever be torn as to whether or not I want to ship him with Leon >3>

Speaking of the chadster, I ain’t talked about ‘im yet. Or Sonia, for that matter. Honestly, they’re both pretty great. 

But Leon is the fuckin’ MVP this gen, I’ll tell you what. He’s such a bro he tells Rose his “Day of Destiny” bullshit can fuck off til our match is over. Of course, I do like his ditzy and dorky sides too. Like his snapback collection or how easily he gets lost seriously Leon it’s just a straight fucking line to your house how do you fuck that up. But he ain’t just a bro to the main character, naw, he a bro to his actual bro, Hop. And I fuckin’ love it. Their interactions are so investing and entertaining and wonderful to watch. It’s almost kind of magical, in a way. I think he is without a doubt my number one favorite Champion of all time now. 

But as for Sonia, well, I dunno...maybe I’m nitpicky or remembering things wrong but she seemed to drop her disdain for researching the legend of the “Darkest Day” like a hat at some point. Granted, I still think her character arc while it wasn’t even needed was very well done. I loved listening to her dork out about the legends, her research, all of it. It was spectacular. And ever since I first found out she was childhood friends with Leon before the game even came out, ladies and gents, these two have dun been my OTP. The only one still challenging that notion is Raihan at this point, lol.

And now...we get to Oleana and Chairman Rose.

Oleana is just...kind of a nothing character for me, personally. Even after knowing about her Garbardor and all that, sorry fam, she ain’t doin’ it for me. She was a red herring so overblown and obvious it has since been laughable that anybody thought she was gonna be this gen’s Lusamine. She is just...some really crazy lady who happens to be passionate about her job. Ok.

Rose, however, is an absolute bastard. And I love it. However, I do have a problem with this, as it sort of connects to my earlier point with Bede. His relationship with Bede is...I don’t even know if I could call it a father-son relationship. I mean, yeah, he basically adopted him, but he disowns him at the drop of a hat. Granted, what Bede did was wrong, but...really? I guess that’s just how much of a dick he is, but, there’s no closure to that. Even after finding out what a horrible, deplorable man Rose is, Bede never talks to him after he’s disowned. Maybe this was meant to be a “Well it’s better he moves on to the next chapter of his life as soon as possible” sort of thing. But his sudden taking under Opal’s wing did not accomplish that feeling with me. So it feels sort of...hollow, to me. There’s no conclusion, follow-up, it’s almost as if Bede didn’t even know who Rose was anymore after Opal scooped him up. And yeah, Bede says “Everything has gone wrong since I met you” but...here’s the problem; That’s as much as he goes into being affected by Rose. It’s not too important, I guess, but it’s something that bothered me, personally. Rose’s motivations seem...ok, I guess. It’s about what I was expecting. Seriously though, his battle theme has no business being that good.

Those are all my thoughts on the characters, at least any that were all that worth talking about. Without further ado: Allow me to introduce y’all to my babies...

As I mentioned on Monday, my team consists of an Appletun, Centiskorch, Greedent, Hatterene, Inteleon, and an Eiscue. And I only just now realize like 5 out of 6 of them have names that start with a “C” lmao.

First up, we have my very first darling: Chastity

There’s a few things one should know about this slick little bitch:

Big shock, she was a huuuge cry baby as a Sobble. Like, mortified of pretty much everybody. Total mama’s girl. But as a Drizzile she was just a total grump goth binch. The only one of my Pokemon in my camp she would give the time of day is her dear friend Chariot, who at the time was a Hattrem. They pretty much grew up together and they’re besties now.

But now that Chastity is fully grown, well...she’s a little...flirtatious. Oh, no, not with the boys on her team. No no no. Every camp we step onto she’s just flirtin’ like a mad woman. She even managed to seduce my dad’s Cinderace who was already a huge playboy

Still, I can’t stay mad at this cute little brat. She’s still a total mama’s girl at heart and I love her to death. Btw, her Snipe Shot is ridiculously strong, though that’s probably because she’s still holding a Mystic Water haha

Up next is our resident lady in waiting: Chariot

I found Chariot in the Motostoke Outskirts and she has always been a picky snob even as a Hattena. She only ate small portions unless it was Whipped Cream Curry. Though nowadays I’m sure she only eats in such small portions to maintain her figure...

As I said before, she and Chastity have pretty much always been best friends. I definitely love to imagine her always hassling Chastity for her less than lady-like behavior though, haha. Chariot was weirdly sleepy as a Hattrem, though. Like...she dozed off a lot. She must’ve been getting plenty of beauty sleep for her evolution lol. 

I used to have a Toxtricity on my team named Ripper before I found an Eiscue for the League, and she seemed quite enamored with him. At least for the long period he was with us, she talked to him 50% of the time when I stopped for a little break. It was incredibly adorable, though I fear what might happen if I leave them alone at a daycare for too long...  <(⚆_⚆;)>

As a grown Hatterene, she’s rather dainty and conversative. I’m actually surprised, lately she’s starting to talk to some of her other fellow team mates lately. I suppose she’s not as stuck-up as she pretends to be, haha.

Up next we have our looonnnggg boy: Mushu

I picked up Mushu at Kabu’s gym. He was pretty shy as a tiny Sizzlipede and often avoided talking to most of his team mates. He was pretty spooked by a lot of them, actually, particularly Ripper for reasons I never quite understood. I guess when Ripper was still a baby, Mushu didn’t understand why he cried so much and was terrified of the loud noises he made lol.

However, he grew into a long boi rather quickly and he’s pulled us through some pretty tough spots in the gym challenges so I like to spoil him with lots of play time. He’s got a Jolly nature and honestly, it shows a lot more now that he’s all grown up. He loves to play and races with his team mates pretty much all the time. Rip Caramel, your utter annihilation will not be forgotten. He’s a very sweet and almost gentle boy and I honestly feel bad for all the battering he’s had to take before because I was a little too eager to take on opponents way out of my league.

A couple of fun facts about him before we move on:

His favorite curry in the curry dex is Smoked Tail Curry, which he always eats in gigantic portions. He freaking loves camping on Route 6 or in Stow-On-Side, I guess he really loves the heat.

Up next is my precious dumpling baby: Caramel

I first caught Caramel on Route 5, and I love love looove my baby apple pie. He’s such a chill and adorkable little dragon and I’m not one to pick favorites but...oh, who am I kidding? He’s totally my favorite.

As an Applin he was just too cute. He was a little slow and none of his team mates seemed to understand him so they tended to leave him by himself. So I ended up having to give him lots of attention so he wasn’t too lonely. And gosh was he just the cutest little baby apple. Of course, he wasn’t an Applin for very long, so there’s not much to speak of regarding his early stages.

However, once he evolved, he became a fucking tank. Caramel can take hits like a freaking champ and since I gave him Draco Meteor he’s practically an unstoppable beast. Of course, by heart, he’s a Lax boyo and enjoys the littlest things in life: Like the nice breezes in the Wild Area, or his Apple Curry, even if it’s snowing something fierce outside he’s all about it. And I just- argh he’s so fuckin’ cute!  ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Up next we’ve got the chunky cheeked baby: Peter Griffin Conker

Conker is a Gentle boy who’s been with me since the very beginning at Route 1, and it fits since objectively he’s probably the weakest Pokemon I’ve got on my team. But that’s ok, because he’s definitely scored us a couple of hard gym challenges just like Mushu has. He was definitely useful for buying some time when I needed it, that’s for sure.

He was pretty chattery as a Skwovet, even if some of his team mates weren’t all that talkative looking at you, Chastity. This probably comes as no surprise, but he’s always had a bottomless stomach. Seriously, he’s eaten large portions even as a baby Skwovet and it baffles me. Guess he’s just a really hungy boy, lol.

As a fully grown, chunky Greedent, he’s pretty slow. Like, really slow. Even when he runs it’s like a snail tracking through peanut butter and molasses. And it’s too cute to watch. I really wish I could give him belly rubs tbh, he looks like the type that’d enjoy those, haha. These days he’s best friends with my Eiscue, Cubert. They usually race each other after they have lunch.

And finally, one of my greatest MVP’s: Cubert

Cubert joined us very late in the game on Route 10. And while unfortunately he ended up taking Ripper’s place, I knew he’d be a good addition to the team. I’ve given him Hail and Aurora Veil, which is super useful for battle prep. It’s pretty lucky I was able to find this little guy waddlin’ around up there on my way to Wyndon.

As I said before, he was pretty anti-social with everybody at first. Though I’m sure that’s because he was so new by the time we got to the League. Thankfully, Conker got him out of his shell and they’re best friends. He still seems a little shy around the others, and even myself, but I’m just glad he’s got somebody to talk to. Not much to say about him unfortunately, since he’s so reserved and tends to keep to himself, but I’m sure that’ll change eventually with time.

Now that’s everyone that’s on my current team, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my boy Ripper at all, so, allow me to introduce an old friend who’s been livin’ in retirement for the past few days:

I first picked up Ripper at a Nursery while I was omw over to Hulburry, I believe. So Ripper was with us for a damn long time until I picked up Cubert. Initially I had hoped he’d be a High Key Toxtricity, but I’ll take what I get. Besides, he was more than helpful with quite a lot of battles, especially Opal’s gym.

He was pretty loud as a Toxel, which should come as no surprise. Always throwing tantrums and never really seemed to eat anything bigger than a small portion of whatever curry I cooked, so he was picky just like Chariot was. All around a bastard baby, really. He didn’t really start getting onto the battle field until he evolved, in all honesty.

But once he did, hoo boy, he was killin’ the competition like a pro. I feel pretty bad I didn’t take him into the League with me, but I felt like Cubert would’ve been more useful so I swapped ‘im out. I’ve been pulling him back out of the PC box for some more training lately to help him catch up to make up for it, though. And he seems pretty happy about it, so bygones are bygones I suppose.

And it seems he’s still very much taken with Chariot. Sigh, young love, so adorable. Anyways, respects to the OG madhouse that got me through some toughies, you did good out there buddy. ;w;

Alright, well, that’s just about all I have to discuss, for now. I hope this wasn’t too droning of a post or anything. But before you head out, I’ve got a little surprise. Since this was such an interesting experience, I’m opening a new Tumblr based on my journey that will follow my Trainer OC Luna and her adventures through Galar. If you’re curious to check it out, click here. I don’t really have an upload schedule, so just keep your eye out for any posts in the future. Hope you guys enjoy it!

[stevie-steven-stevington]

wake up and smell the coffee

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: MCU Prompt: Dissociation Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Warnings: Dissociation and mild panic attack Word count: 3.3k

Generally speaking, Avengers meetings are not boring.

It's kind of hard for meetings to be boring when everyone on the team is constantly clashing, constantly butting heads on any and every issue. The arguing is annoying, to say the least, but Tony is beyond used to it at this point. He's come to expect it.

This time is no different. They haven't gotten to the yelling yet -  he's sure they will eventually - but they've been going back and forth for the past half hour and nobody has been willing to compromise.

Oddly enough, the de facto leader - Captain Freedom himself - has been silent.

Tony doesn't notice at first. There's so many voices in the room that the lack of one doesn't register very easily. But there's only so much senseless squabbling he can take, and Rogers generally drags the team down from the ledge.

"Hey, Cap," Tony says, and all eyes turn to him. "You usually have an opinion - a wrong opinion, but an opinion nonetheless. What's your take?"

Steve doesn't turn his head. Doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.

Huh. Okay.

Across the room, Sam Wilson leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and says, "Steve? You alright?"

Still nothing.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This just in - Steve Rogers, the Steve Rogers, has issues just like the rest of them.

Because Tony knows what this is. Even if the other don't recognize it right off the bat, Tony does. He's been in Steve's place more than enough times to know when someone is dissociating and Rogers has clearly lost it. The only question is just how far gone he is.

Judging by his complete and utter lack of reaction when Natasha waves a hand in front of his face, he's pretty far gone.

Well. Tony can handle this one.

Not to brag, but this is his area of expertise.

"Guys, guys, hey." Tony looks between Sam and Nat, because he knows that they trust him as an Avenger but that doesn't mean they trust him with Steve. He's just glad Barnes is out on mission right now so he doesn't have to deal with his overprotectiveness too. "I can handle this one - been there, done that, got the t-shirt, y'know?"

Nat nods pensively. Sam just squints at him.

Tony rolls his eyes and tries his best not to look too gleeful (Captain Perfect has a flaw! A flaw! And not only that, it's a mutual flaw!) as he moves to Steve's chair.

It's entirely possible that the method he knows won't actually work. The two of them manage to be incompatible on pretty much everything else, so it's entirely possible that what works for Tony won't bring Steve any closer to Earth. But nobody else has stepped up to the plate yet, and Tony's default philosophy is, in fact, what would Rhodey do?

Rhodey's the one who usually talks people (Tony, sometimes Barnes, occasionally Bruce) down from these sorts of things, but he's busy being an Air Force Colonel so it's Tony's turn now.

Tony kneels down next to Steve's chair. "Alright, Stevie. How d'you feel about joining us back in good old reality?"

Steve's gaze stays locked on a random spot on the wall. He's tense, practically rigid, and Tony wonders if it's this disturbing when he dissociates.

No touching until given permission. No loud noises. No panicking. No added stress.

"Everyone, get out," Tony says, careful to keep his voice low. There's a noise of protest and he shoots a glare at Sam. "The more people are around, the more stressful it'll be for him. I've got this, alright? Go away. Quietly."

A long moment passes in which no one moves. Some of them are clearly reluctant to leave him alone with Steve, while others just keep looking between him and Sam like they're watching a tennis match.

Natasha puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. An entire conversation seems to pass between them in the space of five seconds, despite not a word being spoken; after, Sam gives a begrudging nod, throws one more look to Tony that says fuck this up and we're going to have a problem, and walks out with Nat at his side. Everyone else shuffles out after them.

He's sure they'll all be standing right outside the door, but he'll take it.

"FRIDAY, dim the lights by 40%." Not enough to plunge them into darkness, but enough to ensure it’s not accosting Steve's senses. "Okay. Alright. Steve, buddy, you're dissociating. I know you're not really processing anything right now, but we're gonna fix that, yeah?"

In most cases, Tony is way too out of it to catch the specifics of what Rhodey says until he's already come halfway back down, but he knows the gist.

Narrate everything. Tell them who they are, where they are, what's going on, and anything else you can think of. Give them simple statements, basic facts to latch onto. Assure them that they're safe and that you want them to come back.

Once they've regained partial awareness, walk them through a coping exercise. Engage their senses, engage their brains. Make them interact with not only you, but also their surroundings. Repeat as many times as necessary for them to find their way back to reality.

"Your name is Steve Rogers," Tony starts, entirely more gentle than he thinks he's ever spoken to Steve. The next logical step is his age -  a quick calculation tells him that Steve, at this point, is exactly 102 years old, if they're including the time he spent in the ice, and...Jesus fucking Christ, that doesn't exactly seem like the thing to bring up. Instead, he says, "It's Tuesday, October 6th, 2020. You're Captain America. You're an Avenger."

He could be imagining it, but Steve's eyes do seem to deglaze, just a little.

Steve's story is a fucking minefield, though. Especially when he's not even sure what triggered this episode, if anything, so he doesn't know what pieces of information would end up making it worse instead of better. And if he makes it worse, Sam will come for his kneecaps.

"You're at the Avengers tower, in the conference room. You're sitting in a chair. I'm - Tony Stark is talking to you." Steve's fingers curl on top of the table. Progress. "I'm gonna keep talking to you until you can understand what's going on. You're safe. It's just the two of us in here. I'm not going to hurt you; I won't even touch you unless you say it's okay. I need you to come back to me, though, if you don't terribly mind."

Would cracking jokes make things more real for Steve or would that be in bad taste?

Bad taste, he decides. "We miss you back in reality, man. We were trying to come up with a plan for our next mission and we could really use your input. I know it's a lot, but you'll be alright. I'll be right here, Steve. You're okay."

Steve blinks quickly, the haze that had settled over his face clearing just enough to confirm that Steve is, in fact, still in there. Tony watches him glance around, gradually beginning to recognize his surroundings.

Eventually, his head turns to Tony, eyes darting over his face. His brow furrows as if he's not quite sure who he's looking at. Voice strangely hoarse, he says, "Tony?"

Tony gives him a bright smile. "Yep, you got it. How ya feeling?"

"I...huh?"

"Yeah, alright." Never in his life did Tony think he'd see Captain Eloquence so incoherent. "I'm gonna need you to do something for me, Cap. I need you to look around and give me five things you can see, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Steve is practically swaying in his chair, but he does as told. “Uh...the - the table. You. The chairs.”

He talks slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him. There’s pauses between phrases, between words, almost between syllables. It’s hard to watch, especially as someone who’s had to do this exact exercise God knows how many times.

Jesus. Tony’s been putting Captain America on a pedestal for so long that he forgot there’s a man underneath the ridiculous costume. Underneath the star-spangled facade.

He can’t forget anymore, because this - this right here is so irrevocably, irrefutably human.

"The glass," Steve continues, making a vague, half-assed gesture toward the glass of water in front of him. "The water...thing."

In any other context, Tony would snort at that. As is, the new official Avengers term for a water pitcher is water thing. Patent pending.

"Good, that's great, Steve." His knee is starting to hurt from kneeling. He ignores it. "Now, four things you can touch, yeah?"

"The table," Steve says again, after a moment. His left hand pats around while his right comes to rest on his thigh. "My, uh, my jeans."

The hand that's roaming around finds the front of Tony's AC/DC t-shirt and clutches tightly. Tony stiffens - he always does when anyone who isn't Rhodey, Pepper, or Peter touches him without warning - but he lets Steve have this. “Your shirt.”

Steve releases his shirt and then immediately drops his hand right on top of Tony’s head. It takes everything he has not to flinch, breath hitching and both hands curling automatically into fists. He thinks Steve speaks, giving the last thing on his list as your hair, but he’s a little preoccupied.

The hand leaves his hair, but the instinctual fear lingers.

Fuck. Fuck, he can’t do this right now. He can’t panic right now. Steve needs him to be here, fully here, and to be calm and collected and not having a fucking anxiety attack because someone touched him.

His fingernails dig into his palms as he inhales (one, two, three, four), holds (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven), and exhales (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). Repeats. Then repeats again. All the while, he can hear Rhodey’s voice in his head, coaching him through it.

He’s okay. Nobody’s trying to hurt him. He’s safe.

“Three things you can hear,” he tells Steve, once his breathing has evened out. He’s gotten good at this, the whole fending off a panic attack thing. “You’re doing really well, Steve, just a couple more, alright? Three things, go.”

Steve’s fingers tap, absently, against his knee. “Your voice. It’s...annoying.”

Tony barks a surprised laugh. Steve’s tone is still bordering on blank, but a hint of a smile crosses his face, making it clear that he’s just teasing, even when he’s barely coherent.

“My breathing,” Steve says. “And, uh - there’s a...bird. Outside.”

So there is. We’re getting there, Tony thinks. He’s not sure if he’s surprised that this is working or not.

“Fantastic. Now, two things you can smell.”

Steve’s breathing is starting to quicken. Typical, really, that they’d both end up on the edge of a panic attack within two minutes of each other. Dissociation and anxiety attacks really do go hand-in-hand, he supposes. He makes no move to touch Steve, still, just places his hand on the table, palm up, and leaves it there.

As hoped, Steve slips his fingers into Tony’s and squeezes and holy fucking shit, that hurts, does Steve not realize that he needs that hand? Tony can’t stop himself from wincing this time, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway, blissfully unaware that he’s cutting off Tony’s circulation.

Which is fine. Totally fine. Tony’s had worse, after all. And it appears to be helping Steve, so there’s that.

But God, Steve is strong.

(It’d be kind of hot if it was...literally anyone else. Steve is attractive, conventionally speaking, but it’s still a hard pass.) “I can smell coffee.”

Full sentences now, huh? Sure, it was only four words, but at least those four words didn’t have choppy pauses between them.

“Last but not least, Cap - one thing you can taste.”

The answer comes in short order this time, weirdly enough - this part is always the one that takes Tony the longest. “Mint.”

Makes sense. Steve drinks mint tea constantly. At meals, at meetings, at random intervals throughout the day. Tony’s gotten so used to the smell of mint in the compound kitchen that he doesn’t even notice it anymore; he’d thought it was annoying until he realized that Steve uses mint tea the same way Tony uses stress balls.

Steve’s grip on Tony’s hand loosens, ever so slightly. He looks...clearer. Sharper. Solid.

He looks, finally, like Steve Rogers.

Tony taps his thumb against Steve’s knuckle and asks, “You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” He runs his free hand through his hair, then wraps his arm around his torso. “Uh - thanks, Tony. Did I…hold up the meeting?” “Yes.” He sees no point in lying. “But it’s no big deal. We can figure out how to save the world later.”

Steve hums vaguely, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

Tony’s knee is still aching. He lets go of Steve, trying his best to be discreet as he shakes out his hand, then stands and moves to hop up onto the table. Kicks his feet against the carpet and says, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No,” Steve says bluntly.

Damn, okay. Not what he was expecting, but...also not surprising when he thinks about it. This is Steve he’s talking to, after all.

On the list of who’s most to least likely to talk about their problems, Steve is pretty low. Below Peter, but above Natasha, Tony thinks.

In all honesty, it’s hard to get anything out of anyone on the team. Whether it’s trust issues or secret agency or just an unwillingness to ask for help, most members of the Avengers have a shit-ton of unresolved issues. Including himself, but at least he’s working on it.

Steve, on the other hand, seems to have no interest in dealing with his shit.

It’s not Tony’s problem. Not on a personal level, at least. He’s not Steve’s therapist. All things considered, he’s barely even Steve’s friend.

But Tony knows firsthand how bad things can get when nobody’s forcing you to talk about your problems (the memories of his birthday party are blurry, but he distinctly recalls shooting watermelons out of the air with his repulsor), so with his infamous birthday party in mind, Tony says, "That's cool. If you don't wanna talk, then fine."

Steve narrows his eyes. "There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

"But. In my experience, not talking never works. I've tried it. It sucks. I get it if you don't want to talk to me, but you should talk to someone, if you aren't already. Sam or Nat, maybe. Or a therapist."

"I don't need a shrink, Tony."

Tony holds up his hands, placatingly. “It’s your choice. Just - it’s not the 1940s anymore, Steve. Going to therapy doesn’t make you weak. If you need help, it’s okay to ask for it.” It took a long time for him to realize this. He’s been in therapy off-and-on for seven years now, and he probably should’ve started years before that. But he knew that, with how public his life is, as soon as he stepped foot into the office, everyone and their mother would know that Tony Edward Stark was seeing a therapist.

Eventually, though, the need outweighed his worry about his image.

He half expects Steve to brush him off. After all, Tony brushed off Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy’s first few vague mentions of therapy. And then their next few pointed mentions of it. It wasn’t until the anxiety attacks started that he even considered it, and then it was still months after that before he actually went to his first session.

Steve doesn’t brush him off. Not really, anyway. Slowly, he asks, “Does it work for you? Has it helped?”

“Yes.” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I go once a week, my therapist is brilliant. She could probably recommend someone for you, if you want.”

“Right…” Steve’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I - look, Tony, I’m not really a therapy kind of guy. I’m glad that it works for you, but I don’t think the whole ‘talking about it’ thing is for me.”

Ah. So he is being brushed off.

Still not surprising. Though when you’ve seen aliens come out of a portal in the sky, accidentally created a robot intent on destroying the human race, and watched your pseudo-son crumble to dust in your arms, nothing is really surprising anymore.

“What set this off?” Tony asks.

“Huh?”

“The dissociation, I mean.”

Steve gives him a blank look. Jesus fucking Christ.

“The - this - the thing that literally just happened. When you were physically here but your brain checked out? That’s called dissociation. And judging by how unconcerned you are about it, I’d say it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“Oh, that,” Steve says, like the self-satisfied bastard he is. “It’s just zoning out, it’s not a big deal.”

Is he fucking serious? He can’t be fucking serious.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Tony says.

Steve just tilts his head and blinks up at him. Tony can't tell if the nonchalance is an act or if he's actually being serious. "Why...not? It's really not a big deal, it happens all the time."

He's going to have an aneurysm. That's it, he's calling it. This isn't real.

He knows Steve. He knows this goddamn nerd has done his research. He knows that Steve knows exactly what he's talking about.

Steve has to know this isn't normal. He has to.

"You do know," Tony says, "that that statement is not helping your case, right? It's not just zoning out, and it's sure as hell shouldn't happen 'all the time'. I should know, it's one of the many things I'm working on in therapy."

"The fact that it's a problem for you doesn't mean it's a problem for me." Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. Tony is so close to choking him. "It's just stress. Being the leader of the Avengers is stressful."

Just because he can, Tony says, "Mm, I wouldn't say you're the leader, per se."

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. "That's not even the point, Tony."

He's aware. The point is that Steve is totally, completely, 100% fine and does not need help of any kind. Which is the biggest load of bullshit Tony's ever heard. He wonders if Steve has said this to anyone else and actually had them believe it. There’s no way in hell Sam “I run a PTSD support” Wilson would’ve bought it.

Dissociating as a reaction to stress is neither normal nor healthy. It's exactly the kind of thing that people are supposed to get help for.

Clearly, Steve doesn't want to hear it. At least not from Tony.

Fine. But Tony will definitely be keeping a closer eye on him - he's seen too many people spiral into nervous breakdowns (including himself, more than once) to ignore Steve's blatant mental instability, even if Steve himself is content to ignore it.

Hm. Maybe he should talk to Sam. Compare notes.

"Tony." Steve flicks Tony's knee. Tony's left eye twitches. "Don't worry about me. I'm alright. And if I ever think I'm not, I'll ask for help, okay?"

No, you won't, Tony thinks. Because he's Steve Rogers and, in Tony's experience, Steve Rogers is never one to ask for help.

"Okay," Tony agrees. "I'm here if you ever need to talk."

And he leaves it at that, because he knows that pushing further won't do anything. Because he'll be here when Steve finally reaches his breaking point.

Maybe (hopefully), Steve will see himself spiraling before he actually crashes. But the likelihood of this, apparently, is pretty slim.

So when Steve inevitably falls apart, Tony will be there, right alongside the rest of the team, to pick up the pieces.

"You can call the others back in now. And, uh - thanks, Tony. Really."

Tony says, "No problem," and gets up to go find the team.

All the while, he's thinking, Don't thank me yet.

The hard part hasn't even started.

[angelofrainfrogs]

Heatstroke

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairing: None (Father-Son Relationship w/Dad Hank and Son Connor)

Description: Connor suffers a system malfunction while on a case and finds out that he's more similar to humans than he originally anticipated.

Rating: T

Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort

WARNING: UNSAFE TEMPERATURE INCREASE

BIOCOMPONENT INSTABILITY

INITIATE COOL-DOWN?

YES                NO

Connor jerked his head to the right, selecting "NO" on the holographic display currently blocking his vision and kept running. He knew he should stop- the large red letters painting themselves directly in his eyesight made that extremely clear. However, he'd been trying to catch this perpetrator for two weeks straight and, now that she'd finally been found, Connor wasn't going to give up the chase that easily.

So what if it happened to be an unnaturally blistering 102 degrees outside? The android's advanced biocomponents should be able to handle the strain long enough for Connor to catch the criminal. He and Hank had worked too many long, tireless hours for Connor to fail now.

The warning began to flash again, repeatedly blocking the android's clear line of sight. His body did feel warm, extremely so, but he would soon find the nearest air-conditioned building and sit there for a few hours, and everything would be okay.

He just had to catch that criminal first.

The obnoxious alert is what Connor attributed to making him knock his foot on a loose brick and stumble. Connor reached towards the perpetrator running further away with every second, as if he could catch her from this distance, eyes locked onto her receding form as the telltale beeping sound of a FULL SYSTEM SHUTDOWN echoed through his head.

"Connor!"

Hank's scream was the last thing Connor heard before he hit the pavement with a sickening thud.

***

SYSTEM REBOOTING: STANDBY

Slowly, sounds began to fade back in. Save for the increased speed of basic life functions, which never truly stopped unless an android was broken, the hearing organs were always the first component to reactivate when an android awoke from a full system shutdown. Ambient sounds of a restaurant faded in: the clattering of plates, employees talking and barking orders, the noise of food sizzling on the stove. However, these sounds were uncomfortably muffled.

Through the fog in his brain, Connor wondered if he'd damaged his hearing organs in the fall. Carefully, allowing time to adjust to the dim lighting, he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. Beginning an internal scan to assure that all systems and biocomponents were functioning as they should, Connor turned his head to the right and found the reason the sounds were subdued: he was in a large storage pantry at the back of the restaurant, separated from the main kitchen by a closed, partially-insulated door.

Connor shut his eyes briefly, relieved that nothing appeared to be damaged. He had no time to locate a new compatible part; he needed to find that perpetrator and apprehend her before-

"Connor! Oh, thank fucking god!"

Hank's relieved tone prompted Connor to turn his head to the left, just in time to see the detective kneel down next to him and place a hand on his forehead.

"Hank, I'm sorry, I... I overheated," Connor explained, vaguely noting that the pressure on his forehead seemed calming, somehow, though he couldn't quite place why.

"Yeah, so the android-savvy guy on our team told me," Hank responded, the worry lines on his face deepening. "He said as long as I got you somewhere cool so your system could reboot, you'd be alright. This restaurant was the closest building with decent AC."

"Thank you, Hank." Connor offered the briefest of smiles. "You did the right thing; I'll be fine. My system scan is almost complete, and once I've assured that nothing is damaged I can go back out and-"

"Aw, Jesus, shut up," Hank snapped, lifting his hand away only to give Connor's forehead a light flick. "You're staying in here until it stops feelin' like the Sahara Desert outside."

"But-"

"Don't worry, we've got other people on the case; last I heard, they still had eyes on the perp. Just relax, Connor."

The android's lips pursed into a tight line, forehead creasing. He had failed yet another mission due to his inability to listen, this time to his own system regulators. He should have taken the time to cool down before rushing straight out into the heat; he should have known that there was no way he could make it out there more than ten minutes without a break, running at that speed. Androids could withstand a lot, but excessive heat or cold was still one of their weaknesses.

"...I'm sorry, Hank," Connor said, face still crinkled frustration.

"Stop fuckin' apologizing, kid, it's not your fault," Hank replied with the air of an exhausted parent.

"You should go help with the investigation; I'll be okay, really."

Hank let out a barking laugh. "Bullshit! You're gonna sneak out the back door the second I take my eyes off you." Connor's mouth twisted into a brief scowl, at which Hank rolled his eyes. "I'm staying right here until it's cool enough to get you back home."

"...Alright," Connor said after a brief pause. Hank was an extremely stubborn person, especially when it came to others' safety, and Connor didn't have the strength to pick a fight with him in his current state. With a grunt of oncoming age, Hank shifted off his knees into an actual sitting position, back against the wall near Connor's head and legs stretched out in front of him. The pair lapsed into silence for a few minutes, both mulling over their own thoughts.

"...You scared the hell outta me, you know," Hank eventually said, in a rare, quiet tone. Connor tilted his head back, essentially having to look at Hank upside-down because of the angle in which he laid. The detective was staring hard at the ground, refusing to meet Connor's eyes. "Just seeing you go down like that... I didn't know what the fuck was wrong with you."

"It was a system overload," Connor answered simply, "-caused by excessive heat." At that moment, a small ding in his right ear announced that his full-system scan was complete. The blue holographic display flashed in front of his eyes, causing him to smile. "There are no anomalies detected in any of my systems or biocomponents."

"Thank fucking god." Hank sounded relieved. "You hit that sidewalk pretty damn hard."

Connor slowly sat up, allowing his body to fully readjust to the reboot, and then maneuvered himself so that he leaned against the wall next to Hank. The detective glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his expression difficult to read.

"Your heartbeat is slightly elevated," Connor said, cocking his head. "You still seem distressed, even though I've assured you that I'm fine; what's wrong?"

"I just told you, idiot." Hank gave Connor a light shove. Whether this was meant to be a gesture of camaraderie or annoyance was unclear. "It was really... disconcerting to see you just fucking drop like that. You're always so poised and proper..."

"Even if something did happen to me, I'll come back, remember?" Connor's mouth briefly flipped into a tight-lipped smile that he hoped was at least mildly reassuring. "I don't want to shut down, but if I do, my memory will be uploaded and CyberLife will send another Connor to take my place, just as before."

A grimace of unfiltered terror clouded Hank's face. Then, suddenly, he grabbed Connor by the front of his shirt and gave the android a light shake, speaking through clenched teeth. "Do not fucking think like that anymore, you hear me?!"

"Hank, what-?"

"Do you hear me, Connor?!"

The android nodded, LED flashing red, a tingling at the base of his neck signaling an unfamiliar emotion: fear. It wasn't a fear of Hank himself, for Connor knew that the detective would never truly harm him. It was fear of what could possibly be going on in Hank's mind to make him react this way. Connor understood that Hank had an issue with him "dying," even though it only occurred one time during their first few days together, when a deviant had gotten too stressed and put a bullet through Connor's forehead before shooting himself. However, Connor had been extremely careful to keep from losing his life during the rest of their investigation, mainly for Hank's sake.

Still, the true reality was that Connor's body could easily be replaced. He was a machine, after all, and part of his ability as a prototype was the capacity to upload his memory into a new version of himself to be deployed when the previous body failed.

“…You haven’t had any contact with CyberLife in a while, have you?” Hank said eventually, gently releasing Connor’s shirt. The android shook his head.

“No.” Connor blinked a few times, his LED settling to yellow. “Well, I’ve spoken to a CyberLife representative once during the early relocation efforts, but that was only to put the company in direct contact with Markus. I haven’t been in communication with them myself since the day androids gained freedom, when…”

Connor trailed off, locking gazes with Hank for a brief moment, who nodded in understanding. The android had confided in his friend about what happened that night on the platform when a remnant of his old programming nearly gained control of his system, and Hank had agreed to keep an eye out for “anomalies” ever since. Thankfully, up to that point nothing had been amiss; it seemed as though Connor’s deviancy had completely severed his connection with whoever or whatever was behind the detrimental Amanda program.

Hank heaved a sigh, pulling his legs towards his chest and resting his arms atop his knees.

“I went to CyberLife a few weeks after you started living with me,” he admitted. “I’d never had an android, especially one as… unique as you, so I wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything special you’d need to function. You didn’t come with the usual package of essentials when I took you in, y'know. When I told the guy I had an RK800 model, he gave me this funny look and said that…”

Hank trailed off, exhaustedly massaging the bridge of his nose before continuing. “He told me that on that night in November, about the time Markus was making his speech, all the RK800 models they had in storage just… deactivated.” Connor’s eyes widened, but he made no move to stop Hank’s recounting of events. “There were only nine of them, the guy said, and they were in standby mode just in case… you know. But they all suddenly stopped working at the same time and no one’s been able to activate them since.”

Connor remained silent for a long time, processing what Hank said. That would explain why he was no longer able to feel a connection with CyberLife. His virtual link had been through the next version of himself, and if that android was gone then there was nothing to keep him connected with whatever electronic storage bank kept his memory alive.

That dark tingle appeared at the base of Connor’s neck again as he understood the full ramification of Hank’s words.

“If I shut down now… there’s nowhere to upload my memory to,” the android said slowly, staring hard at the ground.

“Yeah,” Hank agreed with a grunt, trying to remain as emotionless as possible, though he was doing a bad job of it based on his increasing stress level. “So stop with that ‘I’ll always come back’ shit, okay? You’ve gotta take care of yourself from now on and not be so fucking reckless.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Connor questioned with a frown, mimicking Hank’s sitting position with arms resting atop his knees.

“You seemed… calmer, recently.” Hank made a vague hand gesture, as if searching for the words. “More… settled; I dunno. Less hell-bent on ‘accomplishing the mission’ while ignoring everything else.” The detective let out a snort, his mouth momentarily breaking into a half-smirk. “I didn’t expect you to take off like a fucking rocket and go after that perp earlier.”

“I thought I could catch her…” Connor sounded apologetic; he felt guilty about making Hank worry. He was also still mad at himself for yet again refusing to listen to what his own systems were telling him. Now, he could no longer afford to be so careless.

“Yeah, well, you didn’t, and it wasn’t worth the risk.” Hank reached over to give Connor a hard pat on the shoulder. “Just keep that in mind next time you decide to run off like a fucking idiot in hundred-degree weather.”

Connor nodded, still staring at the ground. It was a weird sensation to suddenly find out that he was no longer “immortal,” in the sense that if he died now, he was gone for good. Though this obviously wasn’t a good thing, in a way, it made him feel more… human.

“Hey,” Hank spoke up, placing his hand on Connor’s forearm. This time he left it there, gripping the android with tight sincerity. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I found out. I… I dunno why I didn’t. Guess I was scared of how you’d react- like you might have an existential crisis or something.”

Connor gave a tired sort of smile. “I don’t think I’ve been a deviant long enough for that sort of thought process.” He rested his hand over Hank’s and reciprocated the pressure. “But thank you. I understand that you were trying to protect me.”

“I guess.” With a roll of his eyes, Hank took his arm back. “Don’t start gettin' sappy; you know I hate that shit. You’re so fucking blunt.”

“Because you are so in denial about your emotions,” Connor responded without missing a beat, cracking a smile. “I’m trying to help you become a better person by allowing you the opportunity to understand your own feelings.”

“Fuck off, Connor, you just realized what ‘emotions’ were seven months ago!”

“Seven months and nine days, to be exact.”

“Whatever.”

Connor let out a small chuckle, and Hank did the same, catching the android’s eyes for a brief second before turning away and shaking his head. After a moment, Hank reached over and coarsely ruffled Connor’s hair, causing the android to blink rapidly in surprise. He’d never received that gesture of affection before.

“I’m gonna go check the temperature outside,” Hank announced, pushing himself off the ground. Connor followed suit, standing up as well, but Hank held up a hand signaling for him to stop. “Nuh-uh- you’re staying right here.”

“But Hank, I can detect the temperature within half a second at an accuracy of-”

Hank shoved his open palm closer into Connor’s face, effectively cutting him off.

“Stay.”

Connor knew he didn’t have to listen. Hank was not his owner, and there was no reason for Connor to obey any commands the detective gave. However, as Hank walked through the back door, pausing before he opened it to make sure that he wasn’t being followed by a curious android, Connor felt no need to go against him.

It wasn’t really an order, anyway; it was more of a request intended to keep Connor safe, the sort of thing a parent would tell a child so they wouldn’t get hurt. Hank thought he knew the best course of action to keep Connor from harm, so he acted based on that personal judgment.

And Connor was finally starting to believe that Hank might, sometimes, be right.

This Oneshot is part of a series that takes place during the Post-Pacifist Ending of Detroit: Become Human.

Read Reunited. 

Read Family.

Read Health.

Read Heatstroke. (You are here.)

Read Fear.

Read Nightmare.

Read Forgiveness.

Read MEMORY_CORRUPTED [Part 1/4].

Read MEMORY_RESET [Part 2/4].

Read MEMORY_RECONSTRUCTING [Part 3/4].