#possibly longer idk

[effervescentwolf]

nothing impossible <- ao3 link

“Hey, Buck!” Eddie practices in the car as he enters LA. “Christopher’s finishing his school year so I’m—”

He gets stuck in standstill traffic. He’s gotten used to it, used to any obstacle really, driving around in Texas, kind of expects it. Before, he’d complain to Buck about every little inconvenience on the road until Buck wrestled the keys from his grip.

“If you wanted me to drive, you could’ve just asked,” Buck would say, fondness all over his face, and Eddie’s whole body would go warm.

There’s a crash up ahead so he sits there, windows down, breathes in the smell of this place. El Paso and LA smell similar in a lot of ways, but there’s a difference he can’t quite put his finger on. There’s also an ease to the way he sits here rather than there, a rigid line of tension that he can’t find anymore when he searches for it.

There’s a difference between traffic there, where it would build up inside him, where everything was building and building, and traffic here where he’s a puppet cut loose, where he can simply sit and breathe and think.

He thinks of Buck when the traffic starts moving again.

“Buck?” he imagines calling, if he used the spare key safe in his pocket, trying to figure out where Buck would be in the house when he gets there. He glances at the time, nearing 4 PM. Buck isn’t on a shift today, he reasons. He probably went to the gym in the morning, got groceries sometime after. He didn’t have anywhere to be for lunch today, and there was nothing special in his calendar. “I’m home,” Eddie says softly, trying to imagine saying it in about thirty minutes, which is how long it’ll take him to get home if his estimate is accurate.

“Missed me?” could be on the table when Buck opens the door, and Eddie will grin wide and hold his arms open for a hug he kind of desperately wants.

Or, “Is there enough for two?” because dinner might be on the stove, or in the oven, and Eddie will be able to smell it from outside the house. Buck will turn, wearing that blue apron of his, and his eyes will widen, mouth in a perfect o, and Eddie will laugh, then.

“He’s coming home,” Eddie might say first because he knows that’s on their mind. That would happen after a silent hug, after Buck takes one look at him and maybe cries as he pulls Eddie in. If Buck cries, Eddie will too, and he gets a little emotional just thinking about it, them crying together on the doorstep, holding each other, and then laughing together at how ridiculous it is.

The minutes whittle down to streets and it hits Eddie suddenly that he’s home. He’s not nervous to see Buck the way he was nervous to see his parents, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, smoothing down his hair in his rearview mirror, over and over.

No, here, he parks, walks easily up to his door, grinning already, and all the debate about what he’s going to do dissipates. He knocks on the door because Buck isn’t expecting him. He’s not sure how Buck believed Eddie’s fumble of a lie about going out today and not being able to call, but he did, though he texted him throughout the day anyway.

Eddie waits a minute. Taps his foot, turns with his arms folded and surveys the neighbor’s houses. Knocks again, and frowns this time when there’s no answer, and then he lets himself in.

It’s quiet inside. “Buck?” Eddie calls anyway, halfway through kicking off his shoes when he looks up and realizes it looks the same. Different, because it’s not his furniture, but things are where they were when he lived there. He’d suspected over FaceTime, but it feels like Buck’s been preserving a little of kernel of him, and all of a sudden it hits Eddie that he’s really home. That he belonged here, and belongs, that he’s about to see Buck, and he’s going to have his kid, and that he has it, everything he’d ever wanted.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, runs a hand over the couch as he passes, says quietly, “Can I crash here?” That’s what he’ll say first, a joke about the couch, or Buck taking over his house, when Buck gets home.

He makes his way to Christopher’s room, opens it a sliver, sees it’s empty, and then closes it, putting his forehead on the door. Buck kept him too in his own way. Kept both of them there while they were gone. He didn’t replace them.

He doesn’t bother knocking on what used to be his own bedroom door, just opens it and oh, there’s Buck.

He’s sprawled out on his back, one hand on his stomach, not even under the covers. He hasn’t shaved today, Eddie can tell, and he doesn’t really think when he comes forward and sits next to him. Over FaceTime, he couldn’t see as much as he can now. Couldn’t watch the way Buck’s chest rises and falls with every breath, the scratch on his knuckle he whined about yesterday. Eddie can see it now, a little white mark on Buck’s hand, and he thumbs over it absently, not sure why he has to touch it, only that he does.

There’s a breadth to Buck that a phone could never approximate. A realness. He’s right there, in his bed in Eddie’s room, all of him, down to his socked feet. Eddie feels oddly emotional over seeing his socks, and he’s not sure why, but he’s been feeling emotional at a bit of everything these days when it comes to coming home.

“I missed you,” Eddie says, and he’s glad those are the first words he says with intention in this house, even if Buck isn’t awake to hear them.

His hand is still resting over Buck’s. He doesn’t move for a long time, just watching Buck breathe, and breathing it all in, and then he goes off to shower.

Buck is still asleep when Eddie walks back in with wet hair, barefoot, wearing shorts and a t-shirt he scrounged from the closet. Droplets roll down the back of his neck to dampen the collar of the shirt, which feels good after the heat of outside. He’d forgotten how much he missed that particular brand of shampoo, and the way the light in his bathroom looked on him in the mirror. Even the squeaky faucet, the way the door stuck a little when Eddie pulled. It’s like discovering everything anew, and it’s also like he never left.

He rummages through the fridge, discovers leftovers, and piles up a plate that he takes back to the bedroom so he can sit next to Buck and eat, munching thoughtfully as he mentally rearranges the house.

“I was saving that,” Buck mumbles, voice rough with sleep, and Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Warn a guy, would you?” Eddie says, turning to look at him once he’s swallowed, heartbeat still a panicked pace in his chest, and then he thinks only, that’s not how it was supposed to go.

Buck yawns, blinking blearily at him, rubbing at his eyes. “Where’s—”

“Finishing the school year,” Eddie answers, easy, and then he doesn’t want to eat anymore. He just wants to look. He wants to look at Buck looking at him. “You can have the rest,” he offers, something squeezing at his chest.

Buck ignores it. “But he’s coming back?” he asks, earnest. Sincere. Eddie can't put into words how much it means that someone's right there with him.

Eddie nods, manages to put the plate on the bedside table, and then Buck is sitting up next to him and pulling him into a hug. “Oh, Eddie,” Buck says, and Eddie breathes him in and holds him tight, and he thinks, I did good. I did good.

“Proud of me?” he mumbles, like he can’t feel it in the way Buck is squeezing him.

“You smell good,” Buck says instead, and there’s a little thrill that runs up Eddie’s spine at that. “Have you been back for a while?”

“An hour, maybe,” Eddie answers, face tucked into Buck’s shoulder. “I showered.”

“Mm,” Buck says, nosing at his ear, and Eddie’s stomach swoops like nothing else.

"Buck," he complains, words soft around the edges. He doesn't mean it, and he's reminded that Buck knows him better than anyone because he doesn't move an inch, rubbing Eddie's back comfortingly, and that’s where it all catches up to him.

"Yeah?" Buck says, smile all over his voice. Eddie can hear the rumble of his chest from here, and that wasn't captured on FaceTime either, and he can hear Buck breathing right next to his ear. “I didn’t know what I was going to say to you,” he confesses into the safety of Buck's shoulder. “I was practicing in the car.”

Buck doesn't say anything for a moment. “Anything you said would’ve been good,” he offers, like it's obvious, voice warm all the way through, and there’s something different about Buck’s warmth than the sun on his skin in El Paso, something that cuts the last string keeping him there, that tames something within Eddie’s chest that has been begging to be let out.

Eddie sniffles, just a little. "Not anything," he protests weakly.

Buck's next breath is a little shaky, and it takes Eddie a moment to realize he's crying too. "Anything," he repeats, sure of it, and Eddie forgets standing on another doorstep, practicing what to say, fumbling over the words and feeling small under his own failures. Here, he has a million things to say, none of them impossible, but he only needs to reach up and squeeze the back of Buck's neck for Buck to say, everything like home, "Eddie."

[dailygihun]

day 26 || he is like lily of the valley to me

[salamispots]

gift/commission for a relative, 15"x20"

[crybaby-bkg]

"to what do I owe the surprise?" the inmate says, his voice low, taking on a teasing lilt at the way you seem to hesitate at the door. its locked now, the guards just a bit too far away so that they won't have to hear what's going to happen next. what's guaranteed to happen, how you'll sound; loud and whimpering and pleading. it won't be their first time hearing you in such a compromising position, and you doubt it'll be their last.

"good behavior, apparently." you answer...Shidou, the card in your hand says. you look up at the inmate, how he stands in the corner of the cell, unbound. all you can really see is the tips of neon pink hair, slitted eyes to match. you wonder what he's in for, what he's done to land himself in such a compromised position.

"how do you want me?" you ask him flatly, already pulling your cardigan off, folding it over the one lonesome chair beside a too thin bed. Shidou only pauses though, before stepping into the light for you to really get a good look at him. and he is pretty as all hell, with brown skin and pretty teeth that he shows in a near feral grin. he holds himself back though, standing just a few feet away from you with his hands in his prison jumper.

"what, no foreplay?" he teases, walking another step closer, his grin never faltering as you watch his every move. "you gotta woo me a bit more than that, don't ya think?"

"all I have to do is call the guards if I think my life is in danger." you tell him, fisting his flanks when he steps into your space, holding you firmly, yet surprisingly gently, by the cheeks. he looks down his nose at you, eyes bouncing around as he takes in every detail of your face, and hums under his breath at the sight.

"they just bend you over and stick it in, these other shitty inmates?" Shidou asks, dipping his head down to speak against your mouth, yet he doesn't kiss you. this is the longest time you think you've ever stood in this cell without half of your clothes ripped off and something inside of you. the wait almost makes you want it more, almost makes you forget that you're simply completing a job.

"they're usually creaming their pants by the time I even get mine past my thighs, so there's not much wooing that I have to do." you say to him, tilting your head, pursing your lips for a kiss that he steals quickly before pulling away from you.

Shidou holds you by the back of your head, his hands wrapped around your jaw, his thumbs beneath your chin as he tilts your head up to look at him. and suddenly, you remember that you're sleeping with prison inmates who have had a good behavior streak, that these are hard criminals who have done bad shit, who could do anything they wanted with you before the guards could even blink.

and suddenly, you think that you want this man, this Shidou, to do everything he silently plans to with you. suddenly, you're wet between the thighs before he's even touched you below the neck. suddenly, this isn't just a job for you and you want him, with just as much desire bleeding from your eyes as it does his.

"what a shame to not even enjoy you." Shidou says with a grin that promises nothing but ruin.

[nevertheless-moving]

Stormlight AU 17B Part Two

Continued from Here

Kaladin takes the honorblade because Syl insists it’s too dangerous to leave, collapses on the way back because holy shit exhaustion and injuries and also it's draining his stormlight a bit.

(There’s some interference between Syl Bond/ Honorblade Bond that takes time to sort out.)

When the storm starts dying, Kaladin and Szeth are found laid out like a Rosharan Renaissance painting.

Kaladin’s sprawled on the palace steps, still clutching the blade. There’s probably a single beam of light streaming down from a break in the clouds, illuminating Kaladin’s artistically devastated and storm soaked body with golden light, because of course there is.

The Assassin in White has dagger wounds in his heart and throat. Wounds from a darkeyes weapon. A LOT of witnesses to that messy aftermath because people are too freaked out to move either of them until Dalinar comes downstairs

When Kaladin wakes up he's injured. Syl isn’t answering. He’s surrounded by lighteyes and a handful of his men. The shardblade is on a pedestal.

Unfortunately this hits right in the incredibly specific trauma.

Adolin wasn't exactly sure what he imagined would happen when the bridgeman woke. No, that wasn't true. Over the last two days vigil, he had had plenty of time to think.

A haughty sneer, maybe. Or maybe a victorious smile, gloryspren, stormfather knew he deserved glory. More likely shock, surprise at even being alive — his body must have been devastated, he couldn't have expected the blade to heal him after he won, could he? A suspicious part of him had considered the idea of an attack, some form of betrayal, but not...

Whatever this was.

Prince Adolin Kholin stood in full shardplate watching bridgeboy — bridgeman — the Captain who killed the Kingkiller, face him down. Kaladin stood in a corner, one hand outstretched towards Adolin, wielding a scalpel like a dagger.

That arm was the only part of him that wasn’t shaking.

His eyes were feral, terrified. Storms, he had seen the man tackle the Assassin in White out a fifty foot drop with less fear. Shudders wracked his body. His other arm was gripping the one armed Hardashian that had been tending him, pushing him behind, protecting him.

Protecting him from Adolin.

Adolin took a hesitant step forward, hands held placatingly in front of him, feeling abnormally overly large and clumsy in his shardplate, like a chull, or a chasmfiend.

Captain Stormblessed finally spoke. "No," he said.

No, he didn't just say it, he begged. Adolins jaw dropped with shock. Before that moment, he would have laughed at anyone who claimed that the proud man could lower himself to plead like that. It felt...wrong.

"No," he said again, and almighty, were those tears in his eyes?

"Just let my men go. They won't say anything. I won't say anything. I don't want it. You can have it. I don't want it. Don't hurt my men. Please."

He was babbling. The proudest, most taciturn man on Roshar was babbling, pleading. Fearspren writhed sickly around his chest.

Adolin felt sick. He...must have been wounded in the head. That would be the most singularly cruel injury he could imagine. Worse than rotspren taking a hale warrior.

He glanced helplessly at his father, but he looked just as disturbed as Adolin felt.

Or — could the blade be doing this? It was impossible to miss the way it glowed, pulsing in time with the bridgemans gasps for air. Could it be cursed? Granting power, somehow healing a shardtaken arm, a body shattered from falling, but stealing the mind of the man who bore it?

"It's alright gancho," the hardassian said softly. "The fights over, eh? You can put it down, see, we're all friends here?"

"You have to run Hab," Stormblessed whispered, audible in the too still room. "It's a trap. They're going to..." he was barely able to stay on his feet, but he pushed at the smaller man, making sure to stay in between the Kholins and the uncertain bridge four guards.

More fearspren choked the air. Stone faces too — almighty above agonyspren too? Those hadn't even shone up when light had flooded to his shardtaken feet, and that couldn't have been comfortable.

The hardassian frowned. "Gancho, I'm getting the feeling you ain't completely with me. Surely you remember the Lopen? One armed hardassian? Irresistible to women? Your favorite wall decor?"

The Captain didn't seem to hear him, eyes glassy and unfocused. "No," he whimpered, looking at Adolin and Dalinar. "They're not a threat." He pushed the Herdassian further back. "I don't want the blade."

Adolin was glad his helmet was off, because he was pretty sure he was going to puke. This wasn't...he had tried sometimes, to put the darkeyed Captain in his place but storms...it wasn't right. The memory of his own behavior made him sick. Did the Captain really think so badly of him? That he would kill to steal the blade? Or was it just the delirium?

"It's alright Kaladin," one of the guards — Moash said, stepping forward. "It's not going to happen again. Bridge four is guarding the hall, just a shout away."

He glared at Adolin. Storms. Their entire guard thought that little of them?

Kaladin shook his head in Moash's direction, tears falling freely now. "We cant take them all, Coreb," he rasped. "We — you — you have to run."

His father finally spoke. "It's alright Soldier. I'm not Amaram. You're not there. You're safe. You're a hero."

Adolin and Kaladin stared in confusion.

Amaram? What in Damnation?

"I —" Stormblessed's voice cracked.

Father looked... hollowed out. He took a deep breath, then stepped toward the pedestal that held the sword. Moash, incredibly, lowered his spear at him.

Kelek's breath, Adolin knew that his men were loyal to their captain, but...stormfather.

Dalinar ignored him, lifting the sword, cloth wrapping the hilt, stepping forward.

Stormblessed's whole body was shaking now, scalpel barely staying in his grip. Still, Adolin barely restrained himself from stepping up to protect his father. On one hand, he could hardly imagine Stormblessed in a less threatening state. On the other hand, the Assassin in White might have thought the same.

Kaladin pushed Moash back, eyes fixed on Dalinar's approach.

"I am not Amaram," he repeated. "You know that soldier. Do you remember our conversation, after I exchanged the shardblade for you and your men?"

The captain blinked, scalpel still brandished in warning.

“What is a man’s life worth?” Dalinar asked, calmly stepping forward.

“The slavemasters say one is worth about two emerald broams,” Kaladin mumbled, frowning.

 “And what do you say?”

“A life is priceless,” he said immediately, blinking hard.

Dalinar smiled, then knelt down holding the blade in front of him, still not touching the hilt directly. Moash sucked in a shocked breath, and Adolin couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment.

“Coincidentally,” his father said. “That is the exact value of a Shardblade. Two days ago, you saved the four lives I hold most precious in this world, not to mention countless other priceless lives across Roshar. There is no treasure great enough to serve as payment for such a deed. If, as a start, you would be willing to accept what you have already earned, I would consider it a bargain.” He extended the sword, holding it perpendicular to them both.

“I…” Stormblessed blinked down at Dalinar in confusion. “Sir…?” 

The scalpel slipped through his fingers and landed on the floor with a clatter. Adolin exhaled in relief. I mean, the man could probably  do unreasonable amounts of damage with his bare hands but — still. One less thing to worry about.

The man blinked harder, eventually turning away from the blade to look at Moash.

"Syl," he said fervently. "Something's happened to Syl."

The lieutenant's eyes widened — he clearly recognized the name. Did bridgeboy have a girlfriend?

"It's alright Kal," he said soothingly. "Syl's tough, right? She always comes back."

"She always comes back," bridgeboy said, squeezing his eyes shut and swaying on his feet. Moash and the little Herdasian both moved quickly to steady him. "She has to come back," he whispered.

Dalinar rose smoothly, stepping back. "Perhaps it would be wise to allow the Captain more time to rest before discussing anything further."

"Of course brightlord," Moash said, nodding respectfully, as if he hadn't leveled a storming spear at his Highprince minutes ago. "Come on Kal." The three started moving slowly back to the bed.

Perhaps they were all going to pretend the last ten minutes hadn't happened. That seemed like a good plan to Adolin right now.

Upside of all this, Dalinar is pretty convinced about the Amaram accusation.

Funny conversation with Zahel because yeah fair enough you didn't need shardblade training but also because of that you definitely need shardblade training

REALLY funny conversation with Shallan because the boot stealing incident already happened, Kaladin's getting feasts and parades, and she's like oh. oh i done goofed.

Don't worry Syl's fine, it's just a tight fit until Kaladin's soul adjusts. She maybe even gets a nebulously defined sick power boost (ability to hold honorblade in physical realm perhaps?!?)

Kaladin gets ordered to go master his new powers and is just like. Ok. But i'm doing it because i want to, not because you told me to.

comes back a day later like Ok I can stick rocks together wahoo.

Comes back three days later like "I CAN FLY!! GUYS, GUYS I CAN STORMING FLY!!" it is the first time any lighteyes in camp have seen him smile and might cause several minor sexual crises

Learning to fly and getting to joyfully share it with bridge four right away because why not :)

Happily swapping the blade around bridge four giving a bunch of lighteyes aneurysms, though Syl insists on always taking it back after a bit because she's maybe sort of also bonded with it and its uncomfortable for it to go too far for too long

Incredibly resistant of new titles/lands. It becomes a thing.

Whitespine Uncaged except its like, 20 guys because it's a desperate trap for Kaladin specifically, trying to get him before he masters the honorblade and becomes the Blackthorn's unbeatable champion and the rest of the world get washed away in a river of blood.

...People are kindof freaking out about the blackthorn having a personal magic assassin

Adolin gets a little more beat to shit but they still manage to wreck everyone. I think Renarin also gets the honorblade for a hot minute and gets to go to town since this one doesn't scream. Possibly more of bridge four gets involved.

Absolute epic clusterfuck of a duel. 'Duel' is really the wrong word for 20 shardbarers trying desperately to kill a minor demigod and two pissed off kholins.

Dalinar and the King actually end up giving back a bunch of the shardblades and plate after the Kholin win because keeping all of them would be it's own political nightmare

i mean the 'duel' was already a painfully obvious metaphor. it's Kholins v Everyone Else time and the odds are not looking good for the everyone else side.

Kaladin gets his boon and duel with Amaram but of course it doesn't go how he wanted. Was there ever even a best case scenario here?

(Amaram desperately wants to become a radiant)

(Amaram has also accurately judged his likelihood of victory against the OP darkeye who has gotten even more OP since the last time he saw him to be approximately zero)

(Amaram sees the writing on the wall for house Sadeas now that Kholin is on the rise)

Amaram surrenders completely, throwing himself at Kaladin's feet, swearing over his lands and all that he owns, swearing eternal service to Kaladin in repayment for his sins. Kaladin really really really wants to kill him in cold blood but FUCK he's got morals that's like his whole thing

Kaladin: oh god does this mean i have to deal with Amaram all the time now

Dalinar: i mean he's yours to do with what you want. you could lock him away forever without trial.

Kaladin: oh god why is that even an option

Dalinar: ...the more politically expedient thing to do would be to keep him on as an advisor, at least until you get a better grip on his lands

Kaladin: oh GOD

Adolin kills Sadeas so now the other highprinces are REALLY freaking out

Actual radiant status gets hidden by glowing sword clearly giving Magic powers.

Like. The crabcat is out of the bag on the magic and flying but the sword is VERY CLEARLY GLOWING so. Fun sideways reveal.

TREMENDOUS number of assassination attempts because i can not stress this enough — this sword makes you unkillable and also gives you the power to fucking fly.

Oh! Forgot to mention: Shortly after waking up/bonding the blade he attends the meeting with Stormform!Eshonai, still dissociating slightly, because Syl is high on honorblade and extremely attuned to cognitive realm. Ends up helping Eshonai get rid of stormspren and bond her own light spren. End result for plot is this:

Rumors filter out that one of his powers is making people Radiant, so that's definitely adding to people going wild over him/The Blade/Dalinar's weird religious midlife crisis

new uneasy partial detante with Parshendi because at least one of them has superpowers now (thanks for that)

the desolation gets pushed back another year (tbh mostly because I want more time to explore plot device/political fallout of Kaladin being an absolutely overpowered freak amongst normies)

Stormlight AU Masterlist

[biddy-biddy-biddy]

can you draw older josh next…

i was planning at first drawing him than Bill. but my hand slipped. anyways 54 years old josh. pops. sorta. just an idea. a doodle..

[nach0]

@electrozeistyking's LTN au has me in a vice grip so i had to draw her siffrin... the poor little meow meow someone get them Outta There

[lettuce-gremlin]

Something Something Beckett declaring that he doesn't want anyone to feel the pain of losing a loved one again, but by self isolating to the extent that he is, he has basically caused his family and friends to lose him anyway

[starry-sophrosyne]

me realizing i havent ever posted my initial designs for tox and leo/ive stopped talked about ttos as a whole:

[chirpsythismorning]

When the interviewer asked when we should expect s5 to be coming out, that’s when Shawn mentioned that a little bit of an answer to that might be out there soon.

He actually mentions that this answer could be out by the time the video for this interview comes out, and since this interview was filmed mid-May and it’s now mid-June, I’m assuming we could be getting something soon or within the next couple months, potentially about a release date aka possibly a small teaser with 2025 stamped at the end…

[shiningstarr15]

Nessie and her “little monster”

No I have absolutely no regrets making this.

Also this was supposed to be for Gregtober prompt “monsters” even if it’s more of Vanessa’s spotlight but idc they are a package deal.

The absolute siblings ever

@gregaverse

Ver without text under cut

[dragontamer05]

Honestly something that does concern me is while backwards compatible, apparently not ALL games will be able to be brought over to the new system.

Why? and What games? because if I'm having to say port / copy my account and saves over to a new system but can't take a certain game do I just have to then lose all the saved progress just to have my account ported brought over to the new system because for whatever reason I couldn't bring that one game.

:/

[solasfenheral]

veilguard really feels like its missing a guy thats weird about faith. faith (or the absence of) as a central talking point between the companions in general tbh

[blade-that-was-broken]

“Hey Clay?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I know you don’t really like to talk about your older bro-...” 

“Did he call again? Ignore it, he’ll stop. Honestly, he should know better by now,” Clay grumbled, not looking up from his project. Last week, Bruce had called him, out of the blue. It had been a weird phone call, acting as if the last several years didn’t happen. As if Bruce didn’t just pick up and move across the country the moment he could, leaving the rest of them to their mother.

He knew he was holding a ridiculous grudge. It had been years. And Clay might have gotten over it eventually, if Bruce hadn’t replaced them with his perfect family. He barely stayed in contact - even with the brothers who weren’t as mad at him. Branch had been young when Bruce left, barely six years old. Clay wasn’t a whole ton better but at least Branch knew him to an extent. Branch at least knew his favorite color. Clay doubted Branch knew the first thing about Bruce. 

“He… he’s here.” 

Bruce wouldn’t leave his resort and his wife and well, now his kids. It was like he expected everyone to pick up and go visit him just because he lived on an exotic island or whatever. As if Clay didn’t have responsibilities or Floyd wasn’t constantly traveling. As if it was so easy for Grandma to leave the house and fly across the country. Bruce barely called and he never, ever visited - much less out of the blue like this. 

Clay stopped and looked up, his head swiveling around to look back at his best friend. Her curly blonde hair was wrapped up in a messy ponytail, which was fairly normal, but the uncertain and awkward expression on her face was definitely not the norm for her. “What?” he asked, shocked. 

She nodded. “Yeah. There is a guy down in the courtyard. He said he’s your older brother.” 

Clay shook his head. Bruce would never leave his precious wife and resort to visit him, especially when he knew how much Clay was upset with him. Had been for years. Honestly, aside from one phone call a week or two ago, Clay hadn’t really heard from him in years. Clay could have chalked it up to Bruce just knowing that he was angry with him for abandoning him - them - with their mother the first moment he could, but he barely kept in contact with Floyd and Branch as well. And they didn’t hold the hard feelings that Clay did. Not that Clay was much better; he didn’t talk to any of his brothers much either. 

“There is no way,” he protested with a huff, rolling his eyes. She must be mistaken, there was no other option. “He’s never made a trip out here. He would never leave his resort. What is he doing out here?” Viva hesitated, glancing away, which was very strange for her. She was very straightforward and easily excitable. Clay felt his brow furrow a little. “Viva…” 

“He’s not… like how you said.” 

He just sighed and took a deep breath. Bruce definitely had a way with people; he always had. Granted, Clay probably painted him in mostly a crappy light, due to the fact that whenever the subject did come up - which was extremely rare - it was not often positive. Clay had a lot of anger and probably a lot of resentment. It was a work in progress. “Look, Viv. I know he’s easy to believe. He seems soooooo friendly and charming that you want to just swoon or whatever. He’s got that effect on people but…” 

“No.” 

“No?” Clay asked, confused. She said it so strong, so flat, so sure and Clay wasn’t sure what to make of that. 

“Clay… he’s not like that at all. He was actually really quiet and awkward and super uncertain but held him with some kind of…rigidness? At least as much as he could,” Viva looked uncomfortable, like she had seen something she really didn’t like. He wasn’t sure what that was about. At the moment, he was more hung up on the description which did not sound like Bruce at all. 

He scoffed. “Bruce?” 

“He didn’t say that was his name,” Viva continued, still uncertain, glancing towards the window. “But you only have one older brother right?” 

Clay blinked and his whole world came to a standstill. “I….” 

“Clay?”

Older brothers. 

There was no way, though. He hadn’t heard anything from him since their parent’s divorce and when he was practically dragged away almost kicking and screaming. Clay barely remembered it; he tried not to. Everyone had been crying but Branch’s screaming, going along with everyone else's tears kind of drowned everything out. It hadn’t been a pretty memory and Clay avoided thinking about it. Coupling that with his mother’s systematic way of erasing anything that evoked him or their father from their house and their lives, it only took a few years for everyone to stop considering them entirely. 

His eyes widened. There was no way. There was no way it was possible. 

Clay didn’t even think. He bolted out the door, not even bothering to strip off his lab coat. There was no way. It had been at least fifteen years. What were the chances? After fifteen years? There was no way. 

He had to be sure. 

Making his way down to the courtyard, with Viva shouting after him, he scanned the area upon slamming the doors open. It had been a decade and a half. He had no idea what to look for anymore. They had all changed. 

“He’s by the fountain, sitting on the stone wall,” Viva supplied. 

That helped. He made his way over, still looking over the area until he spotted a more middle aged guy with short hair and bandages on his arm. When he looked, Viva nudged him, giving him the sign that who she had talked to was him. Definitely not Bruce. 

He looked over at Clay and recognized him, suddenly nervous. Clay just stared. That was all he could really muster up to do. “Uh… hi, Clay. I know you might not really remember me but…” 

Clay didn’t say a word at first, just launching himself at his big brother, knocking him into the grass behind in a hug. He clearly wasn’t expecting it but he took to the action pretty quickly, wrapping his arms around Clay’s back for support and to keep him from being tossed around. 

“John Dory.” 

Clay couldn’t remember the last time he thought of him, much less said his name out loud. He hated that. His eyes were squeezed shut, just soaking up the firm grasp his oldest - his oldest - brother had on him. He had so much to say and so many questions but only one happened to come out. It had been fifteen years and now John Dory just showed up out of the blue. 

“How did…how did you find me?”

It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say. There was a lot he wanted to say and do but his mouth had run off with him, questioning so much that he really didn’t actually care the answers to. Because he was here. After fifteen years. 

“Bruce told me.” 

Clay shifted slightly. “B-Bruce?” He supposed it might have been easier to find a resort owner before some crazy older college student. Although Clay felt like he had his name out there more than his other older brother, as he had written papers and had been featured in several journals. Although it might not have been in things John might have looked through. They could be pretty niche. 

“I…” John tensed a little and hesitated. “He found me. The hospital found him, I guess? They found him and called him. I’ve been staying with him for my recovery.” 

Clay’s heart dropped as he pulled away, trying to assess. He scrambled off his brother, stepping back. “Your what?” 

John grimaced. 

Viva nudged his shoulder and spoke quietly. “Clay.” 

Clay’s eyes were drawn downward. Sure, there were bandages on his arm but John’s grip didn’t seem to be very weak so he doubted that would be so debilitating and honestly, his legs seemed fi-… where was his leg? 

“W-Where is your leg?” 

“Sudan… I think?” 

Clay just stared. 

“Right, sorry. Kinda dark humor there,” John muttered, sitting up a little more. “I was… I have been, I guess, in the military for a while. Over ten years I guess, uhm… it’s a long story. But some stuff happened, my arm got kinda burned up but it’ll be okay. Head got banged around a bit but that should be fine too. The biggest thing was my leg which… well, that ended my military career pretttyyyy quick. The hospital found Bruce and yeah, I’ve been staying with him but…. I wanted to see you. Needed to see you.” 

There was a pause. 

“Sorry, that was… that was a lot of words.” 

“When Bruce called…” Clay drifted off in realization. Bruce had called to tell Clay about John. 

“He didn’t want to freak you out.” 

“But I hung up.” 

John nodded. “Bruce didn’t really tell me anything about what happened with you guys or anything but I just… I bought a plane ticket and well, here I am.” 

Here he was. 

“Does Bruce even know you’re here?” Clay asked, uncertainly. With John’s state, it probably meant that Bruce was kind of taking care of him, which meant he was in charge of his welfare and health. John was still on leg crutches and probably couldn’t get around super well. It couldn’t have been that long since it happened. 

John snorted. “I am a grown man.” 

“Missing a leg!” 

“So?” John asked, his nose wrinkling. Clay almost felt like he had been slapped. Floyd and Branch did the same thing. “I knew a guy who lost both and guess what? He lives alone. Does just fine.” 

“He’s probably freaking out.”

“Bruce? Probably.”

“Then why are you here?” 

John tried not to look hurt. He would have done a great job too, if he hadn’t looked away. It was a telltale sign and Clay noticed. He didn’t even realize what he had said and how it came out until it was too late. He cursed himself; he didn’t want John to think he didn’t want him here. “I haven’t seen you in fifteen years, Clay. No matter how much time passes or what happens, I love you.” 

Shit. 

“Clay… he’s so cute,” Viva sniffled. “You never told me-” 

“That I existed?” John guessed, making Clay cringe. “That seems to be an ongoing theme.” 

“JD, I just…” he didn’t really know what to say. He didn’t have any excuse, really. He could blame a lot on his mother but that felt wrong to say to him. There wasn’t any real excuse that would make anyone feel better. 

“It’s alright,” John replied, although Clay could tell there was some struggle. Which made sense. No one wanted to feel forgotten by loved ones. Especially not the ones still alive. “Bruce didn’t tell his kids I existed either. I’m getting over it.” 

He shouldn’t have to get over it, Clay thought. He shouldn’t have had to do any of it. He should have spent the last fifteen years with them. He should have been there for birthdays, for their graduations, for their important moments. He should have been there when Bruce got married. For Floyd’s first show. For Clay’s best college awards. Bruce’s kids should have known their uncle their entire life, not just now and so forth. 

“She’s dead, our mother,” Clay said, blandly. He blamed her a lot, for pretty much everything. Not the divorce itself; that was both of them, but for cutting them off from his brother. For forcing his name to never be spoken. For erasing his memory. It was one thing to keep them away from their father, although Clay didn’t like that either, but to keep them away from their older brother was unforgivable for him. 

“So is dad. Over ten years.”

Ten years. Over even. John lost his family, became an adult and lost his father. No wonder he joined the military. 

“Six.” 

“I tried looking for you,” John promised, like it was something he had to convince Clay of. Like he didn’t want Clay to think that he didn’t try. It wasn’t meant to make Clay feel worse and Clay knew it but it did anyway. Because Clay hadn’t. He hadn’t looked. He hadn’t even considered it. “Before joining the military. After too, a little, I suppose. I’m no detective I guess.” 

Clay just stared at him. Did he think…?

“I know…” John frowned again. “I know you’re mad at Bruce but I can’t… I… Clay, I want to be…to have… to be in some part of your life and I just…” 

“I’m not mad at you.” 

Clay hated the almost hopeful look that John stared at him with. It was a expression that screamed he wasn’t expecting this reaction. “You… aren’t?”  

“No. Of course not. Our parents were petty and bitter and it is all their fault. JD, you never… you didn’t abandon anyone. Dad took you away and mom decided to try and erase that part of her life. Have you blamed yourself this whole time? For years?” 

“No, no, I just… I don’t want you to think I stayed away or something.” 

“I believe you,” Clay promised. “And I’m so glad you’re here.”

[clowningaroundmars]

so interestingly enough, some ppl have been pointing out that maybe miles42 is slightly older than 1610 miles? and i was like "yeah maybe" but looking at miles42's face more and more lately i'm... i'm starting to see it? :o

like if you just compare the jawlines and cheeks, it actually looks like 42 lost some more of the baby fat 1610 still has

and even without the Dramatic Ink Lines, 42 still looks like he's older than 1610 by at least a little! he has slightly more defined cheekbones imo

its kinda hard to tell with limited camera angles and weird lighting tho. there's also the possibility that bc 42 lives in a household that's clearly struggling financially, one could argue he just happens to be not as well fed as 1610

not only that but the different murals they have of aaron in 1610 and jeff in 42 are also completely different. i've heard ppl pointing out that jeff's mural looked more worn out but actually.... the one thing that strikes me is how simplistic jeff's mural is.

almost as if someone younger than 1610 made it.... someone who lost their father at a younger age and started growing out their hair to braid it around that same time. someone who developed an effective routine with their uncle also around that time, and who's had it down pat by the time 1610 appeared in their universe...

but what do yall think?

[wannabe-minion-of-chaos]

For a stick of truth au, consider

Craig/Feldspar being the one to have stolen the stick and brought back Clyde from being banished from space and time in the first place

(also I'm elaborating in tags again)