#i get that it’s not seen is ‘necessary’ in our world anymore but op is right

[tigerdrop]

so. this is my attempt at posting a 20k-word-long g/t frenrey RP that kogo and i were doing at the start of this year. its not finished and im not sure when were gonna pick it back up, since we are currently working on co-op game theory instead of a filthy RP that takes place like 100k words down the line of co-op game theory. but ive been sitting on it long enough so here u go

i never really planned on posting this anywhere so its really self-indulgent and not as polished as our usual stuff but look. this is a ludicrous amount of erotica im dropping here. cut me a lil slack

anyway, here it is: Gordon Gets A Xen Bath

Gordon tries to keep moving, but eventually his pace slows to a stop, his legs growing heavier and heavier until he can't bring himself to lift them.

"Okay. Okay," he pants, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees. "I can't fucking do this anymore, man! I'm tapped out! We've been walking all day - or, well, I have, I don't know about you. We can't... can't all be alien god fuckers, floating around or whatever." He pauses to catch his breath. Every muscle in his body aches from the strain of hopping around Xen in the HEV suit. Sure, gravity doesn't have quite as strong a hold here as it did back on Earth, and that makes all that metal easier to lug around, but it seems like time doesn't work the same way, either. Gordon can't tell how long it's been. Feels like days.

Smells like it, too, now that he's got a moment to breathe. He's covered in dirt and slime and congealed alien blood and God know what else.  In short, he needs a fucking break. And Gordon aggressively takes one right then and there, dropping to his feet. What's the rush, anyway? "Like we're ever gonna find out way out of this fucking place," he mutters.

> Benrey watches as Gordon collapses, a pile of metal and smells. Odors. Sweat and dirt and tangled hair. His head tilts to the side but his expression remains flat as he lifts his head and gazes out into the vastness of Xen, before turning back to Gordon and furrowing his brow. They hadn't even gotten far, not really, so it doesn't really make sense that he'd just crumple like this.

> He sniffs, shuffling in a circle on his feet as Gordon bitches behind him--something about never escaping Xen, as if Benrey hadn't traveled from one end to the other to find him in the first place--and chews his lip in deep concentration, trying to think of literally anything that would maybe make the guy stop. Stop with the, uh, whining and whinging and "blah blah, we're not all alien god fuckers" or whatever.

> (Though, well, technically, Gordon was an alien god fucker anymore. Their time back with the space maggots and the gun bugs and that skinny doppelganger had seen them in a couple of situations where Gordon happily fucked an "alien god.")

> But. Wait. No. Mind wandering. Wandering to fun places, places more fun than being lost in Xen (though he's not lost; they'll find their way out eventually), but not anywhere useful. And, for once, he has to think along those boring terms. Being, you know, reliable or whatever.

> What matters is making Gordon go. The hamster wheel in his head turns and turns until the rodent is slung clear off and, with a slow blink, Benrey accepts defeat. Ideas are not his forte when he's actually trying to be helpful. He turns to his human, he tilts his head in the other direction, and he waits for his human to look up at him. Then, he speaks without even waiting for eye contact.

> "So, uh... what can best friend Benrey do to... make you. I dunno. Less dumb?"

> Nailed it. Benrey is getting good at this "empathy" thing.

Gordon drags his gaze up from the ground to Benrey, and immediately scrunches his eyebrows up. "Wow, that was almost nice of you," he says, a touch of genuine surprise in his voice. It doesn't outweigh the disdain, though. "You know what? Just don't do anything. The best thing you can do right now is to stand right there and do absolutely nothing... and let me just... catch my breath."

He hopes against hope that, for once, Benrey will do what he says. Despite all the evidence that suggests otherwise. His internal monologue turns a bit haggard. Well, it's not like there's anything he could do about it, anyway. Even if he was fit as a fiddle, if Benrey wanted to fuck off and get lost, there was no stopping him.

He can't hold Benrey's stare for long, though. It's-- it's always harder to look him right in the eye like this. Something about the size of him makes it uncomfortable, like he's staring right through Gordon. So he darts his eyes away, scanning his surroundings. The perils of an alien landscape: all the little islands and chunks of earth start to look the same after awhile. Rocks and strange, angry plants and pools of mysterious fluids. He's seen it all. There's a number of all these things and more around him, but the one thing he finds himself wishing for is something to eat. You can't trust anything out here.

"I just want a burger, man," Gordon groans. "Sick of jumping around like I'm playing some kind of platformer. You know, they never tell you how exhausting this shit is! My heart's-- my heart's racing-- like, adrenaline? Hate fucking jumping over these big-ass pits, I'm tellin' you."

Or, failing that, like, a nap. Or a bath. He vocalizes both of these things before burying his head in his hands. Maybe he could get one of those microsleeps going. If he can just calm the fuck down, anyway.

> Food? Nap? Bath?

> Benrey's mouth curls into a jagged smile. Of course Gordon would just need some of that weird, seemingly pointless human stuff. You would think after two grand adventures of dragging this sad sack around and listening to him complain every two meters, he'd have picked up on the human necessities. Things like 'burger" and "bed time" and "smelling like preferred smells, and not the natural smells that are apparently 'bad.'"

> A huge sigh heaves out of Benrey and he watches in amusement as it makes Gordon's hair puff out of his face. Small little tiny man, curled up on a chunk of rock, not able to embiggen and make things easier. It's sad and pathetic, almost as sad and pathetic as Gordon looks, but Benrey knows he's capable of being a good enough guy for the both of them. A real bro. A best friend.

> Because he knows Xen inside and out for some reason. And he's observant. He's seen things and can do the mental math necessary to figure out how to problem solve, sort of. He's spent enough time floating around Xen to figure out what those sparkly puddles do, and he's seen enough of those people back in the Wrong World eat the not-Lamarrs (or, at least the Vorti-bros did, which were close enough).

> And, well, Gordon could literally sleep anywhere. There was dirt for days, lots of rocks to align the spine. Fun nap places. Good for Gordon.

> With a burst of pride and dagger-toothed grin, Benrey propped his elbow on the island where Gordon was whining and held out his hand, palm up and flat, extended as an open invitation.

> "Oh. Uh. That it? That's, uh... that's a cool I can do. Big cool for you."

He stares, eyes narrowed in confusion. "What? What do you mean, that's a-- What are you doing?"

> "I'm doing a cool," Benrey responds. Though his voice is still fairly flat, there is a bite to it, hidden almost completely under his monotone. As if to emphasize the point, he lifts his hand and slaps it back down into the earth once more in a way he thought was light. Judging from the way the ground shook and the island rocked, perhaps not as light as he'd imagined.

> "Gonna, uh... help. Or somethin'. You gettin' on or you gonna be a babyman about it?"

Gordon yelps as the ground shakes around him, even though he's (relatively) safe on the ground. "Jesus, Benrey! Watch it!"

What the hell is he doing? His eyes dart between Benrey's hand and face as the gears struggle to turn. It's been a long fucking day, all right, and Benrey's... Benrey-isms are hard enough to understand at the best of times. This is supposed to help, somehow. So, scratch the burger. And the nap, too, probably. So, does that mean he wants to--

No. That's stupid. He's stupid for thinking it. Gordon steadfastly ignores the way his ears prickle and shakes his head, like a dog ridding itself of water.

"Please tell me you're gonna just carry me the rest of the way," Gordon sighs. It's a visible effort for him to get back to his feet. "Hey, actually, why didn't you just do that from the get-go? You're not even breaking a sweat!"

He complains, sure, but it doesn't stop him from dizzily shuffling forward and stepping on. Better late than never. He'll have plenty of time to chew Benrey out for this once he's out of this alien hellscape and back in his own goddamn bed.

> Benrey blinks.

> Oh. Yeah. He probably could have carried Gordon, huh? The thought never really occurred to him at first because, well, why would it? Was he a bad guy--a bad friend--for believing that his bestest buddy was a capable man? Color him insensitive for actually expecting things of Gordon, but he'd just watched the guy win Space Invaders in real life.

> After that, traipsing through Xen should have been a walk in the park.

> Best not to point that out, though. Gordon may take offense and, for once in his life, he isn't out to make him mad. He's trying to be good, trying to carry that camaraderie they built from Shit World Without Sony Products back to Good World With Heavenly Sword. Highlighting Gordon's stupid human failings would only work to reset the karma he'd worked so hard to build up in their social link. Or, you know, however humans fucking worked.

> Instead, he lets Gordon crawl onto his hand and then turns away, wracking his mind for the last place he saw a good puddle. After all, it made sense to start with a bath, right? Eating while gross would make Gordon complain, and sleeping while gross wouldn't be much better. Drifting past island after island, his head swivels to see if maybe there are some good candidates going forward.

> And there's... really not. Testicle stalks. Pointy rocks. Less pointy rocks. Tit-on-stilts that is aggressively spitting little Lamarrs over the edge of a rock chunk that looks like Swiss cheese. Benrey isn't sure what it's hoping to accomplish, but it's sure as fuck not accomplishing it.

> Then, he sees it, in the distance: A glittering pool of blue that sparks like electricity and glitters like cheap body mist. A strange smell, not unlike Sweet Voice, wafts from its direction. It's certainly one of the Good Smells Humans Like. Gordon will love it.

> Wordlessly, he glides toward it. Gordon's smart. He'll know what he's getting at.

Benrey's not saying anything, which is mildly concerning, but he is looking around like he knows what he's looking for. And when Benrey fucks off, Gordon in tow - held in a grip that's a little looser than he likes - Gordon lets his brain wind down for the first time in... a long while. Flying around Xen like this is nervewracking, yeah, but in a way he's more equipped to handle. Benrey's chest at his back helps. It's solid as a wall and deceptively warm, and if he keeps himself pressed flat against it, he can almost forget about these bottomless pits they're flying over.

He lets Benrey go like that for an indeterminable amount of time. (He may have dozed off a little.) But Gordon comes back to himself once Benrey's velocity changes. Gets a bit more pointed. Eventually, Gordon puzzles out that he's heading for one island in particular, one with a shimmering pool on its surface. Not exactly what the endgame was.

Wait. Gordon's brain chugs. He was looking for... some kind of water? Oh, Christ.

"Wait, were you being serious about the bath thing?" he asks as they approach. "I-- I wasn't being that serious about it! Getting out of here kind of seems like the more important thing!"

> "Huh?"

> The word falls off of Benrey's lips despite the fact he actually heard everything Gordon said. He heard him and even registered him, but he just didn't get him. After all, he's fairly certain that Gordon wants a bath considering it was one of the big things that spewed out of his mouth when he was being all needlessly fussy before, so why isn't he just saying it? Owning up to it?

> Was it because it was a detour? Slowing them down? Or was it just Gordon being whatever-the-hell-Gordon-was?

> Yeah, that had to be it. Gordon just doesn't want to get side-tracked. That's fair, he supposes. Or, at the very least, he assumes that's what a human would consider fair, considering how obsessed with "time" and "schedules" and "fast" they all were.

> "Real quick dip," Benrey promises, hoping to put Gordon's mind at ease; it was a far cry from what he typically did, so he could only hope it landed properly, that he was saying the right things and had the right inflections. "Real fast. Get'cha all nice. Wet. Uh. Soaps and hygiene. You know."

"Oh my God, man, it's gonna be a whole fuckin' production!" Gordon agonizes as Benrey brings them to that strange, glittering watering hole. "Saving the world's kinda time-sensitive, you know? And it's always such a hassle getting in and out of this thing! And-- Okay, hold on, you actually want to-- Okay. Fine. Look, I'm just saying, this is weird even for you, Benrey!"

Soaps. Hygiene. You know. Letting his best frenemy peel him out of his suit so he can scrub him clean, like normal people do. A shiver runs down the back of Gordon's neck. There's gotta be some kind of catch, but honestly, he's having a hard enough time keeping up with events as they're written. If there's some kind of malicious subtext to this whole thing, well, that's not his problem. He's got more important things to worry about, like convincing Benrey that it would be a little more prudent to just keep forging on rather than waste valuable time on a bath.

...Unfortunately, he's close enough to smell whatever it is that wafts off the surface in waves, and it makes Gordon's resolve waver. It's a clean smell, warm and vaguely fruity, with an undercurrent of salinity. Like a shower that's just been used, almost. God, he'd really like that, wouldn't he.

> The words don't really have weight to them anymore. If Benrey had a nickel for every time Gordon called him "weird" or told him he was endangering the world by taking detours, he'd have enough nickels to melt them down and make a big-ass nickel. And, judging from the way even Gordon's mouth wasn't running anymore, it didn't seem like Gordon had put any weight into his own words, either.

> Which was good. Real good. It meant Benrey was doing a nice job of not pressing every one of Gordon's buttons like a kid in an elevator, and being a proper friend. Best friend. More than friend? God, he fucking wished.

> And he'd shut up right in the nick of time, too, because the urge to tease is building up inside of Benrey like pressure in a flaming aerosol can. It's hard not to want to pick at him when Gordon is griping like this, just goading him on with his (strangely cute) bullshit. Benrey mentally pats himself on the back for a job well done as he glides to the edge of the island and leans carefully over the tiny expanse of mottled dirt and glittering water.

> "S'fine. You're fine. S'gonna be fine. Just cleanin' you up, makin' you pretty. Like a good friend. Best friend."

> The water bubbles against the back of his hand as he extends it, dangling Gordon over the surface so he can get a good look at it himself. Maybe, with the proper viewing, he'll realize that this will be a pleasant time all around. Good for him. Fun for Benrey. Bonding experience.

> "Gonna make you, uh, real shiny. Polished.  A, ah, regular... Casa... Casa del Nova."

> With that, he hooks a nail under one of the thigh pieces of the HEV suit and waits, eyes resting on Gordon's face in search of approval. Approval he selfishly hopes comes quick, before reflex takes over and he pops it off regardless.

Gordon peers over the edge of Benrey's hand to look down at the water, where it lies placid and clear and a vivid blue-green. Mysterious bubbles aside. It's... it's like one of those pools at Yellowstone, he thinks dizzily. They look so warm and inviting and then you step in and suddenly your flesh is deciding to melt right off of you. Gordon's stomach swoops unpleasantly.

Then Benrey offhandedly mentions making him pretty, as if he were just trying to sell Gordon on a new restaurant, and it swoops for an entirely different reason. An irritating reason.

"Don't just fucking say things like that," he says hotly, his voice pitching up and cracking from nerves.

But it becomes an afterthought in short order when Gordon feels Benrey's nail tugging at his HEV suit, and he realizes that Benrey's very, very serious about this. Especially when he fixes Gordon with that intent stare. Like he's waiting for something. Permission? It must be, since he's not making any moves to pop off the armor on his thigh. Gordon looks down at Benrey's finger, chipped black paint peeking out from the corners, then back up at Benrey.

Oh, fuck this. He hates when Benrey does this. It's one of those mind games, or something. Make Gordon be the one to make the call, like it's a game of chicken and Benrey's trying to get him to lose. Instead of, you know, not derailing his entire fucking journey in the first place with the suggestion of a bath. One where, well, it does smell really nice. And he can feel the ambient heat from the water from his perch on Benrey's palm. And Benrey's offering to pry him out of his suit and, presumably, do the washing for him. So Gordon doesn't have to move a muscle. Or even think about it.

His face twists and turns its way through a melange of emotions before he decides, fuck it. Even if this is weird, and Benrey's probably playing some kind of 4-dimensional chess, his mind's already sold itself on the idea. So Gordon's tongue darts out to wet his lips, mouth unexpectedly dry.

"I-- Okay-- You know what, fine. We're already here. Just... no, fucking, tricks or jokes or whatever, man. If you leave me on some fucking rock with my dick out, I'm going to kill you," Gordon tells Benrey.

> What Benrey wants to say is that Gordon is being a baby. A bitch, even. There's no reason for him to get all flustered and pissy when they've already done so many things together. Things that only the closest of bros do, like take down a hostile invading force and push their dicks together and make out. But instead, Benrey takes a deep and steady breath as he works his nails deeper under the chassis of the HEV suit and tugs up with a satisfying click as the latches come undone and the thigh piece flops uselessly off of Gordon.

> "Cool."

> He moves onto the next section, eyes narrowing and eyebrows knitting above his nose as he looks down at Gordon and tries to focus. Head empty, aside from trying to figure out how in the hell he's actually supposed to undo all the delicate bits with fingers as big as his human. It was easier when he was small, and he supposes he could be small again, but that would be no fun. Perhaps he could just rip it off of Gordon with his teeth like the top of a sardine can, but it would be even less fun to deal with the little guy yelling at him for hours.

> Getting Gordon's goat was fun and all, but god, did the guy know how to harp on a subject like no other person he'd ever met.

> Instead, Benrey's tongue pokes out between his fangs as he presses the tip of his finger against the inside of Gordon's other thigh and lets his fingernail search for the seam, the latch. He cocks his head like an owl and leans down close enough that Gordon could touch his face, heaving out a huge and uncharacteristically irritated breath. From here, he can smell the musky odor of sweat and dirt and grime and alien goo, and it's strangely nice. Earthy. Very Gordon.

> He'd smelled it before, when he wasn't quite this big, when Gordon was unzipping his suit and climbing into his lap and drool pools at the corner of Benrey's mouth, equal parts saliva and lusty Sweet Voice and--

> Click.

> The other piece of thigh armor falls away. The noise shakes Benrey to his senses.

> "Turn please," he orders mindlessly. His voice is a bit more husky and demanding than it had been a moment before.

Gordon watches as Benrey pops off his armor like it's nothing, like Gordon hasn't spent hours fruitlessly trying to do the same himself. It would have saved him the constant indignity of relying on Benrey to get him in and out of the fucking thing. He tries really hard not to think about the indignity of this, too - Benrey's face so close to his, a hot, irritable breath fanning over him, and fingers at his--

Oh. Gordon jumps a little at the insistent press of a fingertip against his inner thigh, and heat rushes to his face. This part's mildly embarrassing at the best of times, when Benrey's smaller and more human-sized, but now? With fingers much too big for the job? Spreading his legs apart where he sits, rubbing insistently against his inner thigh... He can't help the shaky breath that forces its way out of him.

Jesus Christ, his hands are big, Gordon thinks, mind racing. Sure, yes, he's had this thought before, when Benrey was using them to slap gunships out of the air, but it's a little more pointed when they're prodding him like this. He tenses. Not entertaining these thoughts today, thank you. The whole point of this, presumably, was for a normal, ordinary bath. In a pool of mysterious alien water. With his rival stripping him down and scrubbing him. While he's so big that he could squish Gordon like a bug, if he wanted... or pick Gordon up and maneuver him around, broad fingers all over him, sizing him up. If he wanted.

He comes back to himself when he hears a command. Turn please. Quick and insistent. Gordon's eyes jerk away from where they'd been staring at Benrey's finger.

"Turn? Like, fucking-- God, ow--" Gordon hisses through his teeth as the motion twists one of his aching muscles the wrong way. "I don't even know why I'm doing this. It's not like this was stopping you... You know, I'm starting to think you just like bossing people around for no fucking reason." Despite his bitching, he does as he's told.

> Maybe he does like it. The bossing, that is. Benrey isn't sure. It's one of the few human things he knows--his job back at Black Mesa--and it's one of those things he's good at. Usually. At least now he feels good at it, with Gordon actually listening to him.

> He watches as Gordon turns, head shifting to tilt in the other direction, watching as his human trustingly turns his back to him and displays himself in a way that makes more Sweet Voice seep from between his teeth. He sniffs, he uses the back of his free hand to wipe away a trickle of fluorescent fluid trailing from his lips, and quickly wipes his hands off on his pants. His eyes never leaves Gordon's back.

> Lower back.

> His ass.

> Benrey had told him before that it was a nice one, and it was still true... uh, even if he can't really see it with Gordon sitting and all. He can imagine it in its entirety, though, nice and small, even as he fumbles with the latches on the back of the chest piece. He hardly notices as he clicks it open and the front hits the pad of his palm with an audible slap of metal against skin. He reaches around to pluck it away, the side of his hand brushing against Gordon's front.

> Gordon's heaving chest. His soft midsection. His...

> Benrey shakes his head as if snapping himself out of a trance. An involuntary laugh snorts out of his nose as he leans down, peeking over Gordon's shoulder like a creeping dragon, breath hot against the back of Gordon's neck.

> "Cute."

> And with that, he grabs the next part of Gordon: his arm, raising it up effortlessly like a doll's and carefully searching for the next latch.

Maybe facing away from Benrey wasn't the smartest idea, in retrospect. It feels like he's closer, somehow, his breath coming hotter and faster against Gordon's back. Benrey breathing down his neck should be, like, gross. Creepy. Gordon knows by now that Benrey likes to make a big deal about keeping them clean, but it's not like he knows when Benrey brushed last. It shouldn't smell... like that. Sweet. A distinct chemical note on the underside. Like ketones on his breath, but nothing that Gordon can place for certain.

Sweet Voice, probably. It's muted and subtle. He's not belting it out like he usually does, so Gordon can only guess what Benrey's feeling. Unfortunately, he's all too aware of what he's feeling: goosebumps, pebbling his skin from the neck down. A little frisson. They crawl all the way down his arms and make him shiver.  He can practically feel Benrey's eyes on him, too, all up close and personal. Don't break a sweat, he wills himself, because he knows Benrey's watching him like a hawk.

It doesn't stop a bead from pooling at the back of his hairline, then losing the fight against gravity and slowly trickling down his neck.

Benrey snorts, and Gordon flinches, cursing under his breath. He couldn't even have that, huh. Then Benrey has the audacity to call him cute. And that makes his blood pulse, briefly flashing his skin with heat, before receding just as quickly and leaving a chill in its wake.

"Wh-- Whoa, okay," Gordon starts. His indignant response is temporarily cut off by Benrey lifting his arm between a thumb and forefinger. He offers about as much resistance as a fucking action figure, even creaking a little for good measure, and it's distracting, okay?

After a few moments, though, he regains his bearings. "Shut up, man," he says, flustered. "I'm not even-- Just-- Quit being weird, okay?" Because, frankly, this is weird. He's not used to Benrey being so... accommodating. Helpful. Nice. And he doesn't know what Benrey's endgame is, here. So it just leaves Gordon feeling off-kilter. Uncertain. A little hot in the face.

> Benrey's eyes flick up like a lizard that's spotted its next meal when he hears Gordon's words, conveniently at the same time as he finds the latch with his nail. The armor on his upper arm falls away with a clonk and his fingers move down to the much-easier-to-remove gloves and wrist pieces, which come undone with a light twist and an even lighter yank. But his gaze isn't even looking at what he's doing, instead resting on the back of Gordon's hair, now wet with sweat and the dampness of his own breath.

> His skin is raised up in little bumps, and so are his hackles. Something bright and violet and base, fluorescent, builds at the back of Benrey's tongue, and he swallows it down. He has to focus, keep his composure. Get the other arm with a few quick clicks, fingers now more adventurous than they were before. The pads trail across Gordon's back, the undersuit bunching with his touch, pressing into his side for no reason other than the urge to feel. Then, when the second arm is freed, he remembers he forgot the boots.

> "Not being weird," Benrey protests as he wrangles Gordon in his grip, sighing heavily as he pinches him lightly in his grasp and rolls him in his hand like some kind of trinket. Until they're face to face once again and Gordon is flat on his back in his palm. He takes a moment to idly scratch his chin before reaching for the metal encasing his lower legs and feet.

> "Not weird to, uh, help a bro out. Be a friend. Friends call friends cute. All the time. Every day. S'pre... pre-requi... prere..." He pauses and stills and, then, with unwarranted confidence, forces the word out and continues fiddling. "It's pre-registered to, uh, do that. Yeah."

Blunt fingers at his arm, his back, his sides, prodding and rolling him around - each investigatory touch makes Gordon cognizant of just how much he's holding his breath. Until Benrey manhandles him into laying flat on his back, that is. A startled noise bursts out of him, and then Gordon's looking straight up at Benrey, with nowhere to go to escape him. Even without a hand pinning him down, he can't help but feel like he's stuck in place, anyway.

At least Gordon can sit up on his elbows a little. Less like he's some kind of specimen that way. And he lets Benrey fiddle with the boots, the strange feeling that curls in his stomach easing up on him the longer Benrey messes with something other than his soft, fleshy, vulnerable bits. He lets out a shaky breath of... relief. Let's go with that.

"IIII don't know about that," he says. "I'll be real with you, I'm not the kind of guy who does that... Uh. Well. Except there was that one time in high school? But it kind of weirded her out and she stopped talking to me."

Gordon pauses for a moment, brows wrinkling in thought. Then he shakes himself. "Anyway, that's not even the point. The point is," Gordon emphasizes, feeling like he's trying to present a convincing legal argument to a judge with all the size and breadth of (and possibly, the powers of) some ancient Greek god, "I think you have a, uh, tenuous grasp of what friendship entails, buddy. My friends don't call me cute."

As an afterthought, under his breath, he adds, "Nobody calls me cute." It comes out more bitter than he expects.

> The boots come off, one after another. The shin guards, too. Politely, Benrey scoops up all the miscellaneous pieces piled in his palm between his free fingers and puts them to rest next to the pool of... well, "water." Liquid. Something, though he's hard pressed to tell you exactly what it is. "The Bath."

> He listens as he does so, to Gordon squawking and muttering and saying, well, things. Things that he's not really listening to as he brings his hands back up to Gordon and tries to figure out where the zipper to the bodysuit is. Technically, he knows where it is, but his fingers are huge and the zippy-uppy part is so small, and he's prodding and poking with gentle strokes along Gordon's chest and belly where he saw the seam once-upon-a-time. He feels his nail click against the metal and it's... uh, well, it's aggravating.

> And Benrey isn't used to this kind of aggravation. Fuck's sake, he just wants to see some dic... ah. He just wants to help his best friend get a nice bath and feel better. Because he is a good guy who does good things like kill gun bugs for tiny dudes who can't shoot straight and not drive off with vehicles when Gordon leaves him alone. He's a good guy who doesn't want to be bad and--

> "Uh," he drawls, his mouth moving before he can really catch himself, "fuckin'... maybe people would call you cute if you, uh, weren't such a, uh, mean. So mean about it. Mean to me, just trying to say nices. To my best friend. Being such a good and a cool."

> His voice dies as he misses the zipper again. Fuck. When he speaks again, it darkens.

> "Please unzip suit? Please? Thank-you."

Soon enough Benrey's got him down to that reinforced bodysuit, the last piece of armor sliding off his hand with little resistance. Usually, this is where this process stops: Benrey gets him out of the armor, and Gordon fucks off and does whatever it is he needs to do. Change. Wash up. Sleep. The part where Benrey starts tugging at the fabric in search of the zipper? That's new. And it catches Gordon so unawares that he can't even speak.

That fingertip strokes him, almost, warm even through the black fabric, and a harsh breath whistles through Gordon's nose. It feels him up from his chest to his belly, a warm and insistent pressure. All the words in Gordon's brain get trapped in a mental sieve. In their place is a single, repeating thought:

Oh, God.

Benrey keeps trying, again and again, fingernails scraping uselessly against Gordon's belly. And his eyebrows furrow harder with the effort, frustration evident in his frown. And his fingers. Their grasping grows rough and imprecise and Gordon's trying so hard to bite his lip because there's an ugly noise threatening to punch his way out of him and Benrey's saying something to him that he can barely focus on and then finally, finally, he's giving up and pulling away. Christ.

It takes a moment for his mental fog to clear and for Benrey's words to sink in. Unzip? Himself? Oh, no. Somehow that's worse.

"Can you, like... give me some privacy, maybe?" Gordon complains.

He immediately feels stupid afterward. It trickles down from his scalp like something cold and slimy. So he clears his throat, and admits, begrudging, "I, uh... I'm not trying to be mean. It's been a long fucking day, okay? You're... uh... Well. Thanks. I guess. For trying to be nice."

There's a beat before the silence gets to be too uncomfortable, and Gordon hurriedly follows it up by saying, "Don't take this the wrong way. I think you could still use a few pointers on being 'nice' to 'humans', you know."

> "Wha?"

> In a second, the irritation is gone. Benrey's expression turns flat. He leans in close to Gordon and inhales deeply (yup, still smells like Gordon) and exhales just as hard.

> "I'm nice," he defends, eyes flicking down the pile of HEV parts on the island. "Fuckin', ah, Mother Tuh-ree-sah. You're the one who is bein'--"

> A pause. Nice. He was being nice, and he wasn't going to pick at Gordon. He wasn't going to point out that he was the one being snippy, while he was out here undressing him, and carrying him around, and getting ready to give him a bath, and maybe touch his--

> Wait.

> "Privacy?"

> The word tastes bad, real bad. The kind of bad that makes Benrey want to scrape his tongue off on his teeth. That isn't how they'd played these games before. Is this even still a game, though? Did "nice" contradict "games" too much? He isn't sure and he doesn't even give himself a chance to think about it as he nudges Gordon encouragingly with a finger and the words just start rolling out of his mouth.

> "No? No place to private at, bro. Maybe gonna have to just, ah, suck it up, friend. Besides--"

> Benrey leans forward on the island on his elbow, chin resting in his hand. As his body tilts, Gordon raises higher up due to his shifting of positions.

> "Can't, ah, can't not look. Dinosaurs and, uh, zombies out here. Ghosts. Gotta keep my eye on you. Safe-tee."

Safety. Right. As much as Gordon doesn't want to admit it, Benrey has a point. He's... vulnerable like this. And it would be just his luck that he gets beset by a peeper puppy with his dick hanging out. More to the point, he knows that it's stupid to develop a sense of modesty all of a sudden when Benrey's seen his dick before. It's just, you know, the size. The scrutiny.

Heat lodges itself in Gordon's face and makes a home there as Benrey brings him all the closer. As if to see him better. "Dinosaurs and zombies," he snorts. He can't believe that's the justification Benrey's giving him. And he can't believe he's buying it.

"Just... fucking, okay. Don't stare, at least," Gordon tells him, as if it will help.

The zipper's nestled in the seam at his neck, right in the center. Gordon fishes it out with shaky fingers. And then, slowly, he drags it down his front.

As he does, his flesh starts to spill from the suit in a creamy sliver. He's paler underneath, skin shielded from the sun for so long that his characteristic tan has all but faded. Consequences of running around in a HEV suit in the middle of Bulgaria. The rattle of the zipper rings in Gordon's ears, louder than life. First his chest, then his stomach, prickling with goosebumps in turn as they're revealed.

Finally, he pulls it down to its endpoint, just under his navel. Gordon's face burns with embarrassment.

> That... was easier than Benrey anticipated. Usually there's more resistance or, you know, playing involved whenever he asked Gordon to do something like that. Usually he had something a little more snide to say. Something in the air has changed, though, and he dimly wonders if maybe all of that advice he'd taken from the Resistors (Resistance? Transistors? Alyx, basically) has actually paid off.

> Learning how to human does, in fact, make interacting with Gordon easier.

> His pupils widen as he stares, mouth slightly agape, as more and more of Gordon's skin is revealed to him, a pretty porcelain color that looks incredibly soft and as delicate as a china doll. Usually he's darker, tanner; Benrey didn't know humans could change colors like that, but it's an interesting development and one that requires further investigation.

> So he leans closer, head tilted, watching the zipper come undone. Curiosity grips him as he gingerly reaches up and hooks his nails into the open edges of the suit and tugs, enough to jostle Gordon and peel away the wrapper but not enough to actually knock Gordon off his feet. As he does so, he ignores the sounds of protests, mouth opening wider and lifting in a sharkish grin.

> He's so pale now, but he's just as soft as Benrey remembers. Just as warm. Hair's still in all the right places, muscles in his arms growing visible as Benrey tugs the sleeves down, then the rest, leaving the top half of the bodysuit dangling from around his still-covered waist.

> He waits a moment, drinking in the sight. He could almost see his--

> No. No. No dick thinking, not now. No. He wasn't going to say anything because he was seriously just trying to be nice. And make Gordon shut up. And...

> And...

> "Cute."

> The word comes out while his brain is still arguing with himself. For a moment, he considers apologizing, or trying to pretend he never said it, but ultimately decides to stand by what he said.

> His eyes lift to rest on Gordon's face as he silently doubles down, waiting for a reply.

"Hey, careful," Gordon yelps, caught off-guard by fingers at the edges of his open suit. "You don't have to fucking-- Benrey, I can do this myself!" But there's no fighting him off before Benrey's tugging it down his shoulders, baring him from the waist up.

Impatient. That's the word that comes to mind. Benrey's itching to get him out of this thing, Gordon realizes. If it wasn't already obvious by that insistent scrape of nails against his jumpsuit, or the way Benrey's looking at him now, eyes wide and mouth parted. That heat in Gordon's cheeks crawls down to his chest. He's staring at Gordon like he's hungry, and all the pasty skin being revealed to him may as well be a juicy T-bone steak. Being half-naked ought to be making him pretty chilly in a place like this, but for some reason, it feels way too fucking hot right now.

Thankfully, Benrey stops there, which gives him a moment to get his bearings. On the other hand, Benrey's calling him fucking cute again, and Gordon was having a bad enough time handling that earlier. Now? Jesus, the guy's barely paying attention to him. Mumbling it like it's an afterthought. He doesn't know what it means.

"I-- I'm not fucking cute, dude, we already established this," he insists, doing his level best not to meet Benrey's stare. Gordon folds his arms, irritable and flushed a bright red. "I'm too mean or whatever. I got the picture. You don't have to keep fucking with me."

> Oh, he's changing colors again. Red now, from the tips of his ears down to his chest, and Benrey snorts a laugh. Of course humans can change colors. He'd seen him do this before. A few times actually.

> But he's just turning red, and being snippy, and he's not making a move to take off the rest of the suit. Benrey's eyes flick from Gordon to the water and, with a low chuckle, he decides to take the cue. Which... was a cue, right? He's pretty sure it's a cue, but humans were weird to begin with and Gordon was odder than most.

> Has to be a cue, he decides after a moment of silence wherein Gordon doesn't budge. He grabs the draping top of the suit and gently peels it downwards towards Gordon's feet, watching it pull away from sweaty, dirty skin. Watching it expose dark curls of hair just below his stomach, and watching Gordon's dick spill out into the open air. Benrey's teeth dig into his lips as he watches, even as his hands move clumsily to strip the rest of the rubbery material off of his legs.

> He's touched that before. Wants to touch it again, wants to say something about it. But he can't because apparently it was bad form to say shit about your best bro's average-but-good meat when he wasn't specifically asking, or at least that's what his stupid, skinny doppelganger had said and--

> God. Wait. No. He shakes his head. Best to focus on anything else.

> What else had the Resist-y Squad said? To listen? Humans liked listening? Even when they were being bitchy little drama-snots?

> Then he should... listen, right? But... what had Gordon said? He wasn't actually paying attention. He furrows his brow and his stare intensifies as he tries to piece together enough of the words he did hear to paint a picture. It takes a moment, but soon, it clicks.

> Oh. Yeah. Not cute. Blah, blah. Something, something "mean."

> Benrey's mouth snaps shut as he struggles to tear his eyes away from Gordon's cock, instead keeping a trained eye on his face. His mind is a machine running on fumes with rattling parts, but he struggles through the distraction. He's going to be reassuring. He's a good friend.

> "Uh... yeah? Mean? Cute? You can be both. Bratty little, ah, Gordon Meanman with his nice... cute. Cute little hog."

> The words come out before he can stop them.

> Goddammit.

Oh, God, okay, so none of what he said got through, clearly. He squawks out as much. Gordon's mind spins into overdrive as Benrey manifestly does not let him take care of it himself, instead peeling the jumpsuit clean off his hips and legs and exposing him from top to bottom. His heart thunders in his chest, and he presses his legs tightly together in a futile attempt at modesty.

"My-- my cute little-- Jesus Christ, Benrey, you can not say shit like like that!" Gordon snaps. He jams his hands between his legs to cover himself, humiliation boiling over.

Fucking Benrey. Always saying the worst possible shit, the most embarrassing shit. Gordon thinks this as furiously as he can, because if he acknowledges that there's anything other than purestrain embarrassment and indignation at play, he's gonna snap like a twig. That's all it is. He's a normal guy, and normal guys don't feel their dicks twitch when their best friend calls their dick cute. And... little. That's worse. Much worse.

The thing that Gordon's still failing to understand is why Benrey's still calling him cute. Yeah, it gets his goat, but it's not like Benrey was in the habit of pulling this shit before. And... And Gordon doesn't know why it's getting to him so much, either.

The first time seemed like a prank. A bad joke. The second time, an accident. And the third - fourth - fifth? The times after that, he's not sure anymore. But each time it gets his skin burning hotter and his heart skipping a beat and Gordon's still pissed off but he's not sure exactly why. (Well, in the general sense. This time, it's because Benrey's straight up insulting his dick, thank you.)

"Why did I even agree to this," he moans, head hanging between his shoulders. "Everything's always gotta be a big fucking ordeal for Gordon. You know what, just put me down if you're gonna-- gonna make fun of my meat or whatever! I'll get myself a bath and then we can go and forget this ever happened."

> There is something about the way Gordon fusses at him that makes Benrey's heart skip a beat, though it also awakens something in the back of his mind that he's been consciously trying to tamp down. The urge to pick at him grows as large as his smile as he hooks two fingers under Gordon's arms and lifts him up and out of his palm like a claw in a skill crane. Words dance on the tip of his tongue, ones better fit for a schoolyard bully, and he rumbles a dark laugh as he contemplates what to say.

> It seems the crack about his hog got him all worked up in a delicious sort of way, judging from the way he's still bright crimson and his dick seems appreciative of Benrey's attention. He could double down on that. Then again, he was supposed to be nice in this situation, wasn't he? He'd been doing so good up until this point, and he could imagine the Resist-y People would be proud if they could see him now.

> But the reaction. It's... it's good. Seeing Gordon's dick twitch, seeing him bright as a tomato, seeing him sweating and nervously dodging his gaze. All were signs that he was interested, that he may just be thinking the same things Benrey has been trying not to think and... fuck, them's good thoughts. Great thoughts.

> Maybe there's a line to walk between. Play the game and still be "nice." Benrey wets his lips and huffs a sweet-scented laugh into Gordon's face, before gently lowering him into the water. The surface of the pool practically sparks as Gordon's bare feet make contact, and a shimmering azure mist billows into the air.

> "Nuh-uh. Nope," Benrey replies with a pop of the p. "You're, uh, tired. Gonna, y'know, get you sparkly. Clean. Squeaky. Pretty. Make you feel so good you'll, uh, wanna buy BFF necklaces after."

> Once Gordon is nestled in the pool, he leans down close and presses down on his shoulders to urge him into a seated position.

> "'Sides, ah. Not making fun. S'nice. Cute. Fun size."

> Emphasis on "fun," Benrey thinks, and his smile widens.

A tingle effervesces across Gordon's skin as Benrey slowly lowers him into the water, something like carbonation but not quite. For one, bubbles aren't nucleating on him so much as drifting toward the surface, sluggish and small. But the effect is as curiously refreshing as a cold glass of Pepsi.

In contrast, the water itself is warm and clear, and the humidity fogs up his glasses in short order. Makes it hard to see Benrey before he's firmly suggesting that Gordon sit down. With his hand. He's not expecting it, and he sinks to his knees with a splash and a quiet "whoa, shit".

Gordon rights himself, sitting back against the edge of the pool. And he opens his mouth to say-- well, something, you know, there was a lot to unpack in whatever the fuck Benrey just said to him, but he barely gets it out before Benrey's talking over him.

Cute. Fun size.

"Stop, okay, just stop talking about my meat! Can we please move on? Any other topic?" He crosses his arms in front of his face.

This is, it's too fucking much, okay, there's-- it's just-- the word was already starting to crawl under his skin, and he's just an average American male! You're not supposed to say this shit to another dude! And you're not supposed to, fucking, swallow and shudder when you hear that shit, either. Not supposed to like being talked down to like that. By... by such a big guy. Who probably does think he's a fun size right now. Probably wants to...

Gordon splashes his face with water. Then he takes off his glasses after the fact, feeling like an idiot. See, this is why he's got to get Benrey to knock it off. Too much. Gets him lost in his own head. Gets his blood pumping. And the last thing he wants is to embarrass himself by looking a gift horse in the mouth, getting a boner when Benrey's just trying to do him a solid.

Well. At least that's what he's saying he's doing. The jury's still out on that one. But either way, the most likely outcome is that Benrey never lets him live it down, and Gordon doesn't know if he can handle the psychological devastation right now. So.

"Here, look, I'll even... okay, so, what is this stuff, anyway? It feels like I'm taking a bath in a... a hot energy drink. But like, in a good way?" He cups some in his hand and lets it spill through his fingers. "Last time I jumped in this stuff, I think it fixed a bone. Is that normal? Weirdest fucking thing I ever felt, man."

> "I 'unno," Benrey answers honestly. Because, well, he doesn't know what this stuff is. Even if he knows a lot about Xen (and would be hard-pressed to tell you exactly how he knows these things), it's not like he knew much more than "this thing will eat you" and "this thing won't." All he knows is that these pools feel good and smell good and do things that are good, and could more than likely get Gordon clean. Make him have a more agreeable scent than the already agreeable people-odor he's already wearing.

> The Gordon smell. It's... a nice smell.

> "It's water. Uh. Bubbles." Benrey dips his fingertips in the pool to wet them and feels the curious, sparkling sensation around his skin; it's warm and cold and fizzy and, honestly? Yeah, kind of refreshing. Like caffeinated Pop Rocks or something. He dimly wonders what it tastes like, but ultimately decides not to drink the bath water.

> "Doesn't matter. You're thinking a lot. About wrong things. Need to focus on, uh, getting you ready. For the ball. Gordo-rella." He pauses, scowling. That was bad even for him. Quickly, he recovers, as if it never happened. "So, quiet? Please? Relax?"

> With that, Benrey extends one wet finger and presses against Gordon's chest, as carefully as he can, working in the glittering water and scrubbing gingerly at his chest hair. He works his muscles with a care he didn't know he possessed, and then maneuvers to his shoulders. He feels Gordon's muscles loosening underneath his touch and it makes him feel... accomplished.

> But his eyes keep straying down, down into the water where Gordon's dick should be, obscured by bubbles and blue. And he exhales, fighting the urge to press a button, to raise him up and see if it's still twitching in anticipation, wondering if he'll see it break the surface and greet him.

> Benrey's eyes screw shut and his fingers still as he takes a moment to force himself to be, as Gordon would say, "normal." It is a foreign feeling.

> He is not a fan.

"G-Gordo-rella?" Gordon bursts out laughing despite himself. "That's so bad, I know you can do better than that!" And the funny thing is, he does know. Benrey's got jokes. He's... good at making Gordon laugh. Even when he's clearly phoning it in.

The laughter sets him at ease for the first time since they'd set out the day before. And when Benrey reaches out to start scrubbing, Gordon flinches, but does as Benrey suggests and eventually relaxes into it.

Benrey's strangely quiet as he does it. Doesn't make any dumb quips. Doesn't start talking about video games or whatever. So Gordon doesn't feel inclined to break the silence, either. The meaner part of him insists that it's just because he doesn't want to set Benrey off on some dipshit tangent, but the truth is, it's kind of nice. The quiet. Even if it's bordering on surreal. All he can hear is the quiet sound of Benrey washing his skin, dipping his fingers into the water. His breathing, measured but heavy. And the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his chest.

The bath itself isn't half-bad, either. He didn't expect Benrey to be this... careful. Not a word Gordon really associates with the guy. But Benrey's fingers work his muscles in tight circles, slow and firm, washing off however many days of sweat and dirt and blood, and Gordon's finds himself melting a little. Letting his eyes drift shut.

He groans when Benrey works his thumb into his back just right, dislodging a knot in the muscle he wasn't even aware of until it was gone. "Oh my God, how did you do that," Gordon breathes.

> Oh. Oh.

> That noise was a... nice one. A pleasant one. One that makes Benrey hesitate for a second and lose his smile before quickly regaining it and pretending he'd never misplaced it in the first place. And he figures Gordon likely didn't notice--his human can't see without the glasses--so he says nothing as he dips his fingers yet again and massages into Gordon's shoulders, exploring every inch and feeling how bizarre every groove and curve is underneath the pad of his finger.

> It's odd, but not a bad odd. The kind of odd that requires further investigation because, while he's had his hands on Gordon before, this feels different. Better, even, in some ways. Motivated by equal parts curiosity and mounting desire, he continues to glide across Gordon's skin and work his muscles and feel them loosen and pause to take in the rapid thudding of Gordon's tiny, tiny pulse against his skin.

> Benrey swallows the Sweet Voice pooling in the back of his mouth. He gags. He coughs into his shoulder. His voice breaks a bit as his normally flat demeanor begins to falter amid a mob of intrusive thoughts that march right into his brain like little soldiers.

> "Can do it 'cause 'm not human. Got magic fingers. Call now. For $19.99, we'll throw in a second one free," Benrey recites, but his eyes are still looking for a hint of cock. But not just that--

> "Limited time offer. Supplies going fast. Better, uh, pick up that phone."

> -- his chest, bits of leg sticking out of the water, that pretty neck, that long hair--

> "Call in, uh, next fifteen minutes and I'll... uh..."

> --that stomach, slightly soft around the middle, and arms that were too strong for somebody of his persuasion--

> "Uh."

> -- every inch that HEV suit wouldn't let him see. Gordon would look so much better in something more... breezy. Clingy. Revealing.

> "Fuck," he says breathily. Something roils inside him, and a lot of it is unfortunately roiling below the belt. So much for subtlety. So much for "nice."

Benrey keeps scrubbing, keeps rubbing his sore muscles between thumbs and index fingers, and it takes a conscious effort for Gordon not to doze off. Even the prickling of fizzy bubbles against his skin fights an upward battle to keep him awake. It's just, he's been on the go for way too long, now, and days of tension are leaching out of him, and Benrey's, like, weirdly good at this. For once, Gordon doesn't have to be thinking about parallel universes and the end of the fucking world or whatever. Somebody else can do the thinking for him.

And then he starts rambling about magic fingers like he's hosting some kind of infomercial and Gordon's laugh comes easier and harder than it has any right to. But Benrey's trailing off now, distracted. Swearing under his breath. Gordon blinks open his eyes and glances up at him.

Despite his lack of glasses, Benrey's big enough (and close enough) that Gordon can make out most of his expression, even if it's fuzzy and indistinct. His mouth hangs open a little, and his brows are knotted up under the cast shadow of his helmet. Like he's thinking about something.

"Free shipping?" Gordon finishes his joke for him. Benrey must have lost his train of thought again. Gordon's mostly used to it... mostly.

He shrugs and rolls his shoulders from side to side, grunting and making small, quiet noises as he stretches. Man, that feels good. There must be something in the water, even if Benrey was, as usual, unhelpful as to what.

Finally, Gordon decides to tug out the band from his hair, spilling it loose over his shoulders. He snaps it around his wrist for safekeeping, then runs his hands through his hair to shake it out.

"Uh. While we're at it. Think you could get my hair later? Like, I don't know where you got the soap from, but I'm assuming you can just, like, magic up some conditioner or something, too."

> Benrey doesn't know how to tell Gordon he didn't actually have soaps. He said so, but he... he didn't. If not for Gordon pointing out that he could "magic" some up, he might have been really stuck, but with a quick shake of his head to bring himself back to his senses, his face lights up once more with a teasing smile and his tone eases back into his typical taunting monotone.

> "Uh. Yeahs. Soaps and, uh, condo-stuff. Got'cha."

> There is a flash of green as he lifts his hand above him (in a dramatic way that he hopes is as cool and impressive as it looks in his head), and feels something slimy manifest in his hands. Slimy and, well, scented like a Glade plug-in. Like flowers and "summer breezes" and things that are a lot more Earth-y than the Sweet Voice. It's a nice color, too, but one that doesn't match how he feels it should look, because it smells more like blue than it does white and...

> ... You know what? It doesn't matter.

> Benrey dips a fingertip in the soap like a child about to paint and, tongue poking out between his teeth once more, sets to work giving Gordon a once-over yet again. He hopes that maybe Gordon won't notice or point out the fact he hadn't even used soap in the first place, as distracted as he was, and just accept the fact that Benrey is once more rubbing his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his legs. Lifting up limbs and maneuvering them to get into hard-to-reach places. Pushing a little firmer than before to feel for that fluttering pulse.

> God, his own heart is beginning to match it beat for beat.

> "Yeah," Benrey mutters at long last as his tongue darts back into his mouth, "I can. Do that. Get your hair."

> His hair. His hair is so pretty when it's down, already having grown out after he cut it in the Bad Ending World. Silky and nice with bits of gray that make him look like he's as smart as he thinks he is--

> No, no. Nice. Nice. He is grappling with the idea of being nice!

> "Get your hair with, uh, real shit. Good shampoo. Actual soaps and stuff that ain't, uh, the stuff. Your stuff. Head and Shoulders. Make you look real good, real nice. Nice for m--uh."

> He pauses. He snaps his mouth shut. He pauses over Gordon's body and thinks for a moment. He wants to say it, he wants to tease and pick and make Gordon flush bright red and play their stupid goddamn game, but now isn't the time. He doesn't think so, at least? Maybe it is?

> Does Gordon think it is? He hopes so, but he doesn't know how to tell. And, apparently, humans didn't like it when their alien best friends played games they didn't want to play.

> "... Mandatory hair inspection," he recovers. "Black Mesa, uh, protocol. Already fucked up the passport. Don't... don't fuck up hair day."

Blood doesn't so much rush to Gordon's face as it crawls, moving as sluggishly as his mind does, processing this. He knows what Benrey was gonna say before he snapped his mouth shut like a mousetrap. Gordon swore he could even hear the teeth click.

Maybe he didn't actually say it, but Gordon's entire system reacts as though he has, because, fucking, he did! For all intents and purposes! A bright, prickling heat surges down his spine that has nothing to do with the water. Why does he talk like that?! Fucking cooing at him, like Benrey's taking some kind of sick pleasure in teasing him in the most embarrassing way possible... but that's about what Gordon expects at this point.

So why did he stop himself?

When Benrey marshals his voice into something more flat and toneless, Gordon frowns. He's... he's really trying, isn't he. Trying to do something decent without turning it into one of their fucked up little games. Some of the mental furniture rearranges itself in Gordon's head, pictures straightened and doorways unjammed.

Unfortunately, all the dusting and clearing in the world can't change the fact that the foundation in his head is wired to make him a paranoid little fucker. And Benrey's always playing some kind of 4th-dimensional chess with him, anyway, right? He's just being rational. Wary.

That said... he's already here. He might as well relax and deal with the consequences later. Especially when... oh.

Benrey's washing him in earnest, fingers pressing into him and manipulating him. They're all over him, probing him without direction, and now Gordon's not sure if "relaxed" is the best descriptor for himself. There's just, there's a lot of touching happening, and Benrey's hands are so, so big, and Gordon can just make out the tip of Benrey's tongue poking through his teeth and something about that intense focus - on him - makes Gordon's breathing go shallow.

Christ. He can't-- He shouldn't think about this. This is the kind of sick shit that only happens in his head, not in real life. Gordon's just a normal guy with something very wrong with him, and that "something" makes him more prone than most to awful little fantasies, intrusive thoughts.

That's all this is. There's gotta be something wrong with him to want somebody ten times his size to touch him like this, but in, like, a horny way. Like some kind of freakjob doing gross shit with an action figure. Maybe it doesn't make him a bad person. So long as he keeps it to himself. He'll keep all his weird little fantasies right next to his heart, and then he'll die. That's that.

It's almost over, Gordon tells himself furiously, willing his blood to stop rushing to his dick and his stomach to stop coiling with heat. If he can just focus, he can will his boner down before he has to get out of the pool and then Benrey will be none the wiser.

"Okay, first of all, I didn't fuck up the passport," Gordon blusters, in an attempt to power through it. "I never needed one before! If anything, I think you fucked up, man. Never told me about Black Mesa Picture Day or whatever."

> Benrey's fingers do not pause as Gordon fusses at him, but his eyes can't stay focused on his own work. He's too busy watching Gordon's throat bob as he swallows around a lump, or how his blush is darkening and spreading. He's gauging the look in his eyes, looking for any indication that he can go ahead and make it weird, but--even though he's sweating and nervous and fidgety and acting just like he does when they're playing--Benrey is too nervous to make a move.

> And "nervous" wasn't a part of his vocabulary until that Alyx lady and Gordon's own downhill slide made it obvious that he actually had to think human to interact with humans. His human specifically.

> So, even though he sees the signs, he decides to bite his tongue. It is foreign, it is uncomfortable, and it's almost painful to choke down. To redirect his alien brain into more terrestrial channels. To try to figure out what a human person would do in his situation and, barring that, just continuing to do what he was supposed to be doing in the first place.

> Bathing Gordon.

> "Shouldn't have to tell you. S'in the, ah, employee handbook. Welcome packet. Folder. Right next to Warhammer 401k and, uh, ensure-ants."

> He cups a small amount of water in his palm and trickles it over Gordon's body, watching it drain down his form in sparkling rivulets. They trace his contours, weaving into every nook and cranny and crease that Benrey couldn't reach, and he watches them with an intensity that even he can feel. A warmth in his gut, a twitch of his dick. His tongue laps at his lips like a hungry animal; he wants to lick every droplet off of Gordon and explore ever inch of him as thoroughly as the bathwater.

> But... no. No, no. He's normal. He's normal and human and he's being nice, and Gordon hasn't said anything so he's going to close his eyes, huff angrily, and then continue on his merry way.

> "Everyone knows about, uh, Hair Inspection Day. And Passport Inspection. You, ah, you're just... uh."

> Benrey breathes heavily out of his nose as his eyes lock on Gordon yet again. Staring up at him, red-faced. Hair now adhered to his skin from the water. Chest heaving. He reaches out in spite of himself and presses a fingertip to Gordon's torso once more, feeling that rapid pulse and feeling it rise and fall with each breath. Knowing he could make Gordon's heart race faster and really put his lungs to work.

> He wants to feel him pant, wants to hear each heavy breath accompanied with his name and...

> No. God, it's getting so fucking hard to resist the game, but Benrey is good! Good for his best friend! He's learned and he's going to stay good. He's just being nice. He can be nice without being--

> "Missed a spot," Benrey lies as he pulls his finger away. He pretends to rinse Gordon off once more and sputters a cough. "Now, let's get those, ah, locks. Clean and brushed. Shiny. Barbie Girl, Barbie World, am I right?"

Gordon ducks his head instinctively as Benrey douses him with water, shielding his face. There's a huff from above him, and then another, breath hot and heavy on Gordon's neck. The closest comparable experience is... it's like being trapped under some kind of big fucking animal. A bear, maybe, snorting at the nape of his neck before it decides to eat him. Violently.

Cool. He loves thoughts like that. A pleasant reminder that they don't exactly carry fucking risperidone in the aftermath of a fascist takeover.

He shakes his head again to rid himself of it, then looks at Benrey in surprise when he presses a fingertip to his chest. It just rests there, warm and steady. Not pulling or pinching or shoving or any of the things Gordon expects. Gears whir to life in his head. Benrey's being-- he's being kind of fucking weird, but not in the ways Gordon's grown accustomed to, and when he's spent the entirety of their working relationship trying to get his sea legs, it throws him off just as badly when the boat stops rocking.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but it's not just Barbies who have to wash their hair," Gordon snorts at him. "You got me all worried now, man, I don't even know if you know the basics. It's shampoo, then conditioner, okay?"

After a moment, he slicks his hair back out of his face, too. For good measure. "And try not to get it in my eyes, either... Actually, uh, I'm kind of having second thoughts about this. Maybe you should just let me handle it. No offense."

> "Know what I'm doin'. I got hair. Nice hair. Better than... uh, Mr. 2-in-1," Benrey protests, masking the sudden wave of panic that just roiled up inside of him. Just the idea of not touching Gordon is too much, and he inwardly crinkles at the thought of missing his chance to feel his human again. And again. And again. Petting and scrubbing and massaging and imagining what it would be like to get Gordon close enough to his face that he could taste him.

> But... he can't do that. He's not allowed. This isn't The Game. This is A Nice Favor for His Person and, well, he's got to be normal. And chill. And calm. And this is all really too fucking hard.

> However, as long as he plays by the rules, he still gets a chance to touch Gordon, and he supposes that is a small victory. It's what spurs him on to press his thighs together and shift his weight to hide his burgeoning boner behind the Xenian island so that Gordon can't be alarmed or scandalized or angry or accusatory. It's what prompts him to summon from the ether, yet again, a new supply of nice-smelling soaps and an equally pleasant conditioner that still don't match the color his brain tells him they should be.

> And, with fangs pressed into his bottom lip, he dips his finger into the shampoo freshly spawned in his palm and swirls it gently, watching as Gordon regards him with a mixture of curiosity and what he hopes isn't disdain. He's been working so hard to try to not make the guy angry, and he's struggling not to slip.

> Slowly, he drips a dollop of soap onto Gordon's head--towards the back, since he is honestly trying to obey the request not to blind him--followed by a few drops of glittering, warm water. He monitors the way Gordon's expression changes as he presses against his head as gently as he can and begins to work it into a lather.

> It's... nice. It's not the usual rough stuff and bullying he's used to, but there is something undeniably pleasant about watching Gordon melt into his touch as he works, careful and light, his body rocking with the movements in a way that makes Benrey feel both strangely aroused and, well... warm. As warm as the pool of water, all on the inside like a badly heated burrito. It's new, and uncomfortable, but not unwelcome, and he savors it by trying to make the moment stretch.

> From the scalp and downwards, until his finger is stroking the side of Gordon's cheek and reaching under his chin as if trying to tilt his head up for a kiss he was way too big to give. Like a true romantic that he knew, in his gut, he wasn't actually anywhere close to being. But it felt right, and the dazed and pleasant look in Gordon's eyes shatter the alien armor around his heart in one powerful blow.

> Benrey swallows hard and says nothing. He just scrubs and stares. And scrubs. And stares.

> Slow, precise, delicate circles. Enjoying the moment, and buying time as he tries to untangle this utterly alien knot of feelings that is twisting around in his gut. Feelings he isn't sure he understands or particularly wants, but addictive all the same.

"Oh, that's kinda nice, actually," Gordon mumbles distantly, as Benrey starts to lather up his hair.

It's impressive, honestly, just how delicate Benrey's capable of being when he puts his mind to it. The pressure's firm enough that it feels good against his scalp, but he's not being knocked around or given a headache or anything. It's... pleasant. His eyes drift shut again, now that he's pretty sure Benrey's got the hang of it.

That finger slips lower, lower, stroking the side of Gordon's jaw, and Gordon leans into it. Lets him work soap into the underside of his facial hair. (And that's nice, too. It's the kind of thing he figured Benrey would miss.) And if Benrey rubs a bit slower, tilts his head up just a little so that Gordon has to peer up at him through slowly-blinking eyes, well, he's not going to complain.

Benrey's eyes are so big, so close to his and so intently focused that-- that he's sweating a little, just visible at the edge of Gordon's vision. Gordon's heart beats faster, and a strange tension begins to wind itself tight in him. It's like Benrey's trying to scan him. All that attention focused directly on him gins up butterflies in his stomach.

Gordon's suddenly hit by the awareness that nobody's done anything like this for him in a long, long time. Maybe ever. And here he is, letting his frenemy (best frenemy, whispers an annoying little voice that sounds suspiciously like Benrey) scrub him clean. Take care of him. How in the fuck did he end up here? And, more importantly, why is he so comfortable with this? This is the guy who got his arm cut off, not, fucking, not his live-in girlfriend. That broke up with him a couple years ago, citing the fact that he was "a puffed-up MIT asshole". Whatever. Details.

After a long stretch of silence, Gordon breaks it by saying, "I, uh, I think that's good. Yeah. Lemme just..."

And he pushes Benrey's finger away before ducking his head under the water, hoping Benrey doesn't notice the way his voice cracks.

> It... almost feels like he's being spurned when his finger is pushed away. There's a quaver in Gordon's voice and he isn't sure if it's nerves or rejection. In an instant, a long-dormant part of Benrey's brain flares to life, leaving him mentally bouncing theories as to why his person had sounded so off. It could have been that he was having the same sorts of thoughts Benrey had been having the whole time, or it could have been that he had done something wrong. Getting advice on how to handle Gordon came with the unpredictable side effect of giving him a lot to worry about in terms of "boundaries" and "behaving," which he honestly wasn't comfortable or keen on dealing with.

> These insecurities melt away as he watches Gordon duck under the water, however. It creates a hiccup in the system, a blue screen that necessitates a reboot. There's something distracting about the way his back arches forward, muscles moving, head dipping beneath the surface. On his knees, ass lifting up slightly so he has a touch more leverage. Hair floating to the top, and then clinging tightly to his skin as he emerges with a gasp and throws his head back and slicks it out of his face and...

> ... His face is dripping. Sopping. Water trailing from his mouth and down his beard. Running down his temples, his cheeks. Like sweat. Like... something else.

> "Holy shit," Benrey mutters with the barest hint of voice. He pauses, he tries to think of something to say that would mask the fact he's not being "normal," and he's been playing The Game the whole time, regardless of what he's been telling himself. The hamster is running, the gears are whirring, but Windows is still updating and he's at a loss for anything better to say.

> So he doubles down. His voice grows louder.

> "Holy shit."

Gordon winches his eyes shut as he wipes water from them, slinging his hair back out of his face for good measure. God, he can feel how much less greasy it is now, and it's like taking off an itchy sweater for the first time. Makes him breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, man, that's honestly really... uh..."

He slows to a stop, thrown off by Benrey muttering something. Almost inaudible. It gets him to crane his neck to look up at Benrey properly, about to ask, before Benrey says it again. Louder. Okay, yeah, he did catch that right the first time, huh.

Even though he's out of focus, Gordon can still see how wide his eyes are. How slack his face is. He doesn't need the finer details to notice Benrey's hand hovering in midair, like he's been interrupted in the middle of a thought. Staring at him like... like...

Heat crashes over Gordon in a violent wave, from the crown of his head to the pit of his belly. He's not even-- he's not even doing anything. He's sopping wet, and he can't fucking stand the way his hair looks when it's laying flat and slick against his head like this, and he can't exactly hide all the unseemly scars and and stretch marks and soft spots and all the other issues he's poked at in the mirror time and time again. (He had a growth spurt as a teenager, okay, and stretching him out an extra foot and a half so quickly didn't give his skin a lot of time to adapt.)

In short, he feels more naked and exposed now, half-covered by the foamy surface of this shallow pool, than he did when Benrey had him in his palm with his entire dick out. And it makes Gordon fucking throb under the surface of the water.

He's gotta be making fun of me, Gordon desperately tells himself. Defense mechanism. It's not working as well as it usually does, and he subconsciously presses his thighs tighter together.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, suddenly dry despite the water carding down his face.

"What," starts Gordon. But he doesn't know where to take that question, and it dies as quick as it came.

> Game over. It's done. Benrey's used his final life and lost it in a valiant attempt to beat the final boss, but now he's gawking down at Gordon who is gawking right back up at him with a tell-tale look on his face that makes Benrey almost positive that he's playing just as hard. His own breath quickens as once complicated thoughts congeal into something more comfortable, something more streamlined, something more natural.

> Something that Alyx would have been disappointed to hear, especially after how good he had been doing.

> He inhales sharply through his nose and leans in close, the air coming back out at a low laugh as his mouth twists into a hungry grin. A finger extends and he presses it against the side of Gordon's face, an almost loving stroke. He can feel a burst of heat in his cheeks and he knows, glasses or not, that Gordon can probably see how red he's getting. He shifts his legs as he floats beside the island, trying to accommodate a cock that is now frighteningly hard and twitching against his stomach.

> "What 'what?'" Benrey asks, his voice monotonous but still somehow teasing. "Can't a bro, uh, admire his bro? Have a look-see? Look nice. Pretty."

> His finger drops to the water and stirs it a bit, creating a roil of bubbles that send a pleasant, tingling sensation up his hand, his arm. It seems to travel straight to his heart, which is pounding furiously in his chest.

> "You, uh... you good? Need anymore help? Getting clean? Hard to reach places?"

> A pause. He feels his stomach twist into knots. This has never really happened before while playing this game, but it's powerful. Makes him feel desperate. Needy. Makes him feel guilty and he hates it because he never feels guilty.

> As quickly as the mask breaks, he picks up the pieces and puts them back together. He slides it back on. He takes a deep breath, fumbling with his words.

> "Want to, uh... pla... pretty? Want to pretty? Want best friend Benrey to make you, uh, cleaner? Prettier? Help you? Please? Thank-you."

Two paths emerge before Gordon. On the one, well-worn and well-lit, he would tell Benrey, "No thanks, I'm good," and he would tell Benrey to turn around so he can dry off and crawl back into the jumpsuit. And then he would let Benrey fit him in the armor again, trying his best to ignore those fingers on his skin, and later he would duck away and jerk himself raw thinking about it. Swearing at himself. Wishing he could be normal for once in his fucking life and not develop questionable new fantasies about the one guy who's as out of place in this world as he is.

On the other, bracketed by brambles and dark, uncharted woods, Gordon would... He would...

He'd get it through his head that he's not the only little fucking weirdo in this relationship. That Benrey keeps staring at him like that for a reason.

And that Benrey's trying so fucking hard to play nice because... well... Gordon hasn't wrapped his head around that one yet, but he has his suspicions. Some of them more worrying than others. But the point is, Benrey's not taking the bait. He's got Gordon in a highly vulnerable position, and he could be pushing Gordon around if he wanted, playing their little game and driving him up the wall.

But he isn't. He keeps choking it back. It's unsettling. Gordon doesn't know how to handle it. He kind of wishes, in the back of his mind, that Benrey would tack on his 'schoolyard bully' demeanor again. At least that Gordon understands on some level. Push, pull, tussle.

And most unsettling of all is that downright tender way that Benrey drags a finger along his cheek. Anxiety thrums to life in Gordon's blood. No, no, that's not-- This is weird. This is so weird. There's something roiling and ugly churning in his stomach, and he doesn't like it one bit. He's not coping with it, he needs to-- to wrangle this situation, get some control over it, steer it back to familiar territory.

And in doing so, Gordon floors it directly into the woods.

He looks back at Benrey, taking in the hot flush crawling up his skin. The awkward shifting. I'm not the only freak here, Gordon reminds himself, blood pounding in his ears.

So he shifts himself. Sits back, draws his legs up so that his knees peek out of the water. Lets them fall to the sides, just a little. And he says, tucking a strand of wet hair behind his ear,

"What, and you're not even gonna-- That's some low-hanging fruit you're leaving on the vine. Startin' to get worried about you, man. You haven't gone this long without making fun of me in... uh, ever."

> Wait. Was that...?

> Was that admission?

> Benrey's pupils grow wide at the words, and his smile threatens to falter as he feels the cogs creaking inside of his head. Connecting the dots with all the newfound information he has on human people is like doing the advanced science stuff Gordon seemed to believe he was so special for knowing. There's emotional equations, rechecking the data, counter-arguments for every theory he comes up with, but in the end a little lightbulb flickers to life. The lights are on, somebody is home, and by god does that somebody want to play ball already.

> Benrey's finger stills on Gordon's cheek and he feels an uncharacteristic lump grow in his throat as his face grows redder and sweat beads at his brow. That weird emotion that once wrapped itself around its siblings, Worry and Guilt, finally cut itself loose and tangles itself in his stomach. He doesn't like it--it's too warm, and it's not the horny kind of heat that he's used to--but he allows it to stay. It feels like it may turn into something good if he just lets it incubate.

> "Uh, what? Not gonna... huh?"

> Benrey's voice cracks just like Gordon's had a moment before. He pretends it never happened and seamlessly continues.

> "Not gonna, ah, make fun of you. Gonna... gonna pick that fruit, though."

> His finger trails down Gordon's chin, down his neck, across his shoulders, down his chest. It rests dangerously low on his belly, threatening to dip lower. He grins at Gordon, leans in close, and huffs a laugh that's less malicious than it is honestly amused with its own cleverness.

> "Uh, get it? Fruit? Picked? You're, ah, you're the fruit, bro."

> A pause.

> "Laugh, please."

Gordon swallows, hard. The implications hit him like a bowling ball. That somebody's dropping on him. Maybe from an overpass or something. He's spinning out a little, alright, and losing his grip on the metaphor.

Benrey's fingertip leaves goosebumps in its wake, and his breathing goes shallow as the nail lightly catches on the crook of his neck. Lower, lower, slipping just below the surface of the water to rest on his belly, and Gordon thanks every deity he can imagine (and some he can't) that the bubbles hide... well. This, feeling it throb where it lies heavy against his hip.

Despite himself, he does actually laugh when Benrey prompts it. It comes out high and way louder than he intended, but still. Now that's a metaphor he's got a good grasp on, he thinks wildly. Oh, Christ.

"That's-- that's not really what I meant," Gordon tries to argue, but not with very much conviction. "But, uh, ha ha! Great joke! Fucking love jokes, man!"

> Benrey doesn't really hear what Gordon is saying. He does know that tone, though, from times they've played The Game before. It's a tone that speaks of permission, a sort of polite denial without the force. The kind of arguing that Benrey knows he can get away with ignoring because it's not sincere. Game talk. A challenge.

> Their own secret language of want.

> "Thank-you," Benrey purrs when Gordon forces a laugh, and his finger rubs a slow, slow circle into Gordon's stomach. He's sure Gordon notices when it bumps a bit too low, because he can feel something tell-tale just beneath the surface of the water. His grin grows at the realization that he was on the right track, tongue slipping out from between his teeth and running along his lips. A show, given to Gordon.

> A show he desperately wants Gordon to notice is meant for him. A tech demo. A promise.

> "But, uh... if that ain't what you meant. What did you mean? 'Cause you seem to be enjoyin' this, best friend."

A noise threatens to burst from Gordon's chest when Benrey starts to rub, slow and insistent, and grazes against-- Oh, God. But he clamps his lips tight, and all that escapes him is a harsh puff of air through his nose. He knows now, he knows, and it's written all over his face, a raised eyebrow and a smug smile and the slow, deliberate movement of his tongue over his lower lip.

It's fucking cartoonish, is what it is. Gordon should laugh. Gordon does laugh, again, another nervous little titter that doesn't communicate "amusement" so much as "flustered hysteria".

"I don't know," he blurts out, and it's the most honest thing he's said all day. "Fucking, God, I'm not-- This isn't what it looks like, okay, you just-- you keep looking at me like that, and I don't know what your fucking game is, man!"

He can't look at Benrey, not right now, not when he knows Benrey's looking at him like that, and so he looks down and oh, no, that's a bad idea. Because Benrey's still drawing tight little circles into his skin, unnervingly gentle. And so Gordon's eyes keep darting around, finding nowhere suitable to land.

At least Benrey's taking the bait. He's not doing that weird sappy shit anymore, and Gordon's in more familiar territory: the push and pull. The teasing. So he pulls harder, in hopes that Benrey will knock it off for good.

"If anybody's 'enjoying this', it's you, buddy! I'm just a, uh, innocent bystander, you know?"

> He doesn't sound convincing. There's fractures in his voice, and his words are stumbling like they fell down the stairs. He's looking everywhere but at Benrey, his face red and his eyes nervously darting from thing to thing to thing. But, in the end, they always come back to him, in one way or another.

> It's tells like this that let Benrey know that he's playing. The Game is afoot, he's been given the go-ahead. It's time to take the ball and run.

> "Uh-huh. Sure. Innocent. Lessee what you're hidin', bro."

> And with that, Benrey removes his finger from Gordon's stomach, instead parting his fingers into a V-shape and hooking Gordon underneath his arms. It's like a claw in a skill crane and, with a snort, he lifts Gordon out of the water. Naked, wet, and standing at attention from the looks of it; his human apparently had been playing along a lot longer than Benrey knew. He watches Gordon dangling a few feet from the pool at the end of his hand and smirks.

> But there's something different now, isn't there? Something Benrey sees in his human that makes that weird feeling he's been fighting twirl and twist. He's barely even noticing Gordon's boner more than he's looking at the way his hair is clinging to his face, and the way his eyes are flicking up at him expectantly, and how warm and small and cute he looks. He looks delicate and handsome and he wants to touch him, but he wants to touch all of him, and his heart is thumping so hard he starts to worry because... fuck. Is he dying? Is Gordon killing him just by being cute?

> Benrey swallows hard. He hopes his expression didn't falter. He broadens his grin in case it did, until the muscles in his cheeks honestly hurt. And he inhales deeply and forces a mocking laugh and squeezes his fingers around Gordon gently in an attempt to further mock him.

> "I 'unno, bro. Looks like you're, uh... you're carrying without a permit. That's... uh, an infract... fracta... infection. You're a bad boy, aren't'cha?"

Gordon yelps as those fingers hook under his arms and drag him out of the water. Oh, God, his legs are kicking out from underneath him, and his hands scrabble at Benrey's, and Benrey's just smirking at him all up close and personal and he's fucked, he's really, really fucked. His fucking dick bobs in the air like-- like-- he doesn't know, he doesn't have a simile for this! Gordon's never been in this situation before! But bob it does, until he comes to a stop right in front of Benrey's face.

"It's infraction, dude!" Gordon snaps, his mind jumping to the least important thing Benrey said. "Fucking 'infraction'! And I don't-- I don't know what you expect when you're all, fucking--"

He's cut off by a gasp when Benrey squeezes him, just a little. Makes Gordon keenly aware of those big fingers. He can just... he can do whatever he fucking wants, huh? Pick Gordon up like it's nothing? Wrap those fingers around him, so big and hot and rough against his skin, and move all his limbs around just like he was doing earlier and--

And--

Gordon blinks, coming back to himself. Face hot. Mouth dry. And Benrey's grin looks impossibly wider.

"You know," he finishes weakly.

> "Maybe I do," Benrey responds, jostling Gordon lightly. "Maybe I don't. Maybe you should tell me, bro. When I'm all fuckin' what?"

> He lifts Gordon higher, and closer. Really gets a good look at him, leaning in and running his tongue along his jagged teeth. Like a predator, like something that wants to swallow Gordon whole, though that's the last thing on his mind. He wants to taste Gordon, that's for sure, but there's... there's more to it.

> He wants to reel him in. Follow this weird feeling. Press his lips against Gordon and--

> Benrey inhales sharply through his nose. Gordon smells positively delicious. Like something fruity and sweet and earthly. And he looks delicious, too, all soft and supple and soaked to the bone, smooth skin glistening in the alien lights.

> His dick twitches, straining against his pants. He's so hard it hurts. He wonders if Gordon can see, but can't imagine he can miss it.

> "C'mon," he teases, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Tell me what I am, bro. Tell best friend Benrey what's on your mind. Bonding experience. Bros being bros."

He wrenches his eyes shut, breath coming harder and faster despite his efforts to control it. When Benrey fucking talks like that, he can't help it, okay? All-- all smug and condescending and all the shit that should get under his skin-- and does, yeah, it drives him up the wall, but. But. There must be something wrong with him, Gordon thinks desperately. Something warped in the fabric of his mind that makes a shiver race down his spine.

Then he feels warm breath puffing against his face, and he opens his eyes again. Just in time to see a broad tongue run across sharp, sharp teeth. A naked suggestion. Gordon's mouth falls open a little and hangs there, stunned speechless.

Until Benrey mutters, c'mooon, voice low and heated in a way that goes straight to Gordon's belly. And his dick twitches in the open air, fully visible this time. Fuck.

"You're," he starts, staring at his own fingertips, where they're digging into Benrey's hand.

God, this is humiliating! And he should, he should tell Benrey to fuck off and put him down, but he doesn't. That same warp in his fabric goes all the way down to his autonomic nervous system. Heart racing, blood pumping, pupils dilating and sweat beading and every other unconscious reaction he can't wrangle into submission.

Because he wants to be wrangled into submission.

Okay, Christ! He gets it! He doesn't need the color commentary from his own fucking brain!

Gordon takes a deep breath to steel himself, and then he starts again, choked and hesitant, "When you're... God, fucking, touching me and breathing on me and shit, man! Like you'd be doing any better if you had somebody's big fucking hands all over you! Okay?"

As soon as the words leave him, a fresh wave of embarrassment crests and crashes over him. Stupid, stupid, he shouldn't have said it.

> Oh. Well. That was new. Usually, there's a bit more arguing, a bit more resistance, a bit more of Benrey getting called things like "weirdo" and "freak" before they have a good "haha" about it and touch dicks. But Gordon is being so earnest and honest and talking about how he's touching him, about big hands, about doing this same thing to Benrey (sort of talking about it, anyway), and...

> ... And Benrey feels... wanted? Was that the word? Wanted?

> Yeah. He feels wanted.

> And that foreign, alien, hot-cold emotion twisting inside of him balloons and explodes, and there is a sudden, pulse-pounding sensation of want and warmth that courses through his body like a poison. He can feel drool pooling under his tongue and he swallows hard, his smile fading into something more earnest as he tries to maintain a mocking, bullying stare. Tries to keep his head in the game.

> Their game.

> "Oh. You, uh. You like it when I breathe on you? Fuckin'... secret alien power. Uh, blow dryer." He pauses and chuckles. "Heh. Blow."

> He inches Gordon closer to his face, and the closer he brings him, the more he can feel the little bit of warmth radiating off of him. Welcoming him. Blazing hot, like he is on the inside, and flushed so red he looked burned. And that warm, weird, unwelcome emotion surges again as he lets out a sigh and sits Gordon in his palm, plopping him down unceremoniously like a captured bug.

> Only he's not watching him with a childlike curiosity. He's really examining him, trying to wiggle the wrench out of the gears in his brain. With some effort, he pops it loose, and the words pour out of his mouth without any restraint.

> "Bet'cha you'd like it if I, uh... dried you off. Gentle breeze. Pick a scent. Have eight exciting flavors. Blue. Watermelon. Other blue. Tropical, uh, kiss."

> Even he isn't sure why he stressed that last word. The weird emotion spoke for him.

> His mouth snaps shut.

> Awkward.

Whatever Gordon was expecting, it wasn't "being dropped buck-naked onto Benrey's palm". His legs splay out in front of him, and he instinctively tries to draw his knees up. Doesn't change the fact that he's got his boner out in front of God and everybody.

"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Despite himself, he bursts out laughing. He does his best to choke it back down. "You really, uh, gotta work on your dirty talk, man."

Gordon doesn't manage to catch himself before he all but admits that, yeah, that was dirty talk. This is a situation where Benrey should be trying to talk dirty to him. It's breaking the rules a little. Breaking kayfabe. But it's hard to resist bringing it up when Benrey's trying to get him hot by talking about blowing on him like a spoonful of soup.

Then he actually thinks about what Benrey said. Tropical kiss. That's not-- that's not anything. That's not real. Benrey's just talking about kissing him, in whatever weird fucking roundabout way he usually does. A small part of him softens. It's... almost cute. If he were inclined to ever describe Benrey that way. Which he isn't.

But Gordon plays along anyway. "What are you talking about? Scents? Dude, I smelled your breath earlier, and lemme tell you, it wasn't any kind of fucking tropical kiss."

> "Uh, no. S'one of the other flavors," Benrey responds indignantly, façade breaking for a moment. "That flavor was, uh... Glade Plug-in."

> As he speaks, he reels Gordon in closer, sitting in his palm and still sopping wet. He looks so small, so delicate, so... cute, and the thought makes his heart flutter again. It grabs his tongue and twists it into an awkward knot that takes a moment to untie. He works fast, hoping to save face. Get back in the game.

> But it's hard. Harder than before, and as Gordon stares at him expectantly, he's suddenly floundering. While he is externally stiff, flat, and monotonous, on the inside he is scrambling to pick up his scattered index cards during a speech. He wants to play, but he wants to taste. He wants to stroke Gordon's head as much as his dick and he doesn't know why. He wants to say something naughty and nice all at the same time and...

> "Lemme, uh. Demo. Demon-stray-shun," Benrey says, interrupting his own thoughts. "Tropical kiss. Free sample. Here we go."

> And with that, he brings Gordon to his mouth. He presses the smaller man into his lips, a small and chaste kiss being planted in the first place he can reach: Gordon's throat. Only it's... not just his throat. It's basically his whole shoulder, and throat, and beneath his jaw. He practically envelops him, could literally swallow him if he wanted to, but pulls away and snorts a laugh as though this spontaneous act was premeditated as a joke.

> He sounds unconvincing.

> Even more so when he chuckles, "See? Coconut. Sea breeze. Lime. Seagulls. All the classic smells."

Lips press against Gordon's skin before he's fully prepared for it, and he lets out a surprised little sound. Jaw and throat alike find themselves enveloped, a heat and softness and moisture the likes of which he's never felt quite like this. And then it's over. Gordon's still left dizzily processing this as Benrey draws back.

"Did you just kiss me?" Gordon asks, stupidly. He touches a hand to his jaw, where there's a hint of moisture lingering.

The longer Gordon thinks about it, the more disoriented he becomes. Benrey's never kissed him like that before. All, fucking, sweet and tender. Those aren't words in his vocab. Like, yeah, sure, they've kissed before, but only in frantic, snarling bursts. This is strange and new.

But... at the same time... that's not all it is, is it. At this scale, chasteness is impossible. Gordon's so small in his hand, wet and splayed like some kind of foal, and those hands could wrap around every inch of him at once just to touch him. Lips, kissing wide swathes of skin. Hot breaths of air forced through Benrey's nose and spurring the hairs on the back of Gordon's neck to stand up. The unpleasant realization that Benrey is very, very big, and could probably just swallow Gordon whole if he so chose. You know. Normal things to worry about.

But he doesn't. He just lets Gordon go with a kiss. And Gordon flushes up to his ears, still a little dumbstruck.

> That was... new. That wasn't like the lust-fueled, rushed kisses he'd given Gordon while trying to get fingers around his cock, but it wasn't bad. It was something that scratched an itch he didn't know he had, something that made his lips tingle, something that milked an incredibly good feeling out of that foreign emotion swirling inside of him. It's intoxicating in a way human substances never could quite pull off, and Benrey feels an addiction already forming.

> It takes him a moment to realize that Gordon has spoken. It's just a tiny sound to his colossal ears, one he nearly misses from the full-body throb of lust and affection. It's not just his dick anymore. His heart is thundering against every bone, every inch of skin, and he feels almost overwhelmed. Again, like he's dying. This is new, it's intense.

> He wets his lips and furrows his brow, and with a surprising amount of clarity, rattles, "Yeah... uh. I guess I did, huh?"

> His tongue continues to run over his lips. His teeth. His eyes dart to Gordon. He's struggling to play the game properly, but there's a sudden bout of nerves involved. He can't help but wonder if this is how Gordon feels all the time, and the realization clonks him like a clawhammer.

> If this is how Gordon feels all the time, then no wonder he's always such a mess. It's latching onto his jaw and holding it shut like an invisible muzzle, it's pumping him full of drugs that don't exist, it's making him feel small despite being absolutely batshit levels of huge. And, it feels like he's learning... god, what had Alyx called it? Empathy? He's not sure how much he likes it, but it mingles well with the now-welcome warmth following the kiss in a way that feels positively, cathartically self-destructive.

> Benrey coughs. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't tease. He looks to Gordon with an intensity even he's surprised he can pull off.

> "You, uh. Like it? Wan' another one? I got, uh, plenty. Warehouses full. Best Friend Special. BOGO."

Gordon watches Benrey's tongue slide over his teeth like it's in slow motion, a reminder of what lies just underneath the surface. And he freezes under the intensity of Benrey's stare, anticipatory sweat beading on his forehead.

"What, you mean you want to..." He trails off with a nervous laugh. "C'mon, man, put me down! I know you get a kick out of, fucking, making fun of me or whatever, but I don't know what you're getting out of this!"

> Unfortunately, Benrey knows exactly what he was getting out of this. A feeling, strong and tingly that's now full of a primal need that he understands quite a bit better. And, beyond that, he was getting permission. Full permission in every movement Gordon made, every lilt of his voice, every glance up at him that was filled with a hunger that his human never got quite got the hang of voicing. It's a look that Benrey knows good and well, though, from the other time they've played their little games.

> He says nothing. He just smiles, moves Gordon to his mouth again, and pushes his lips gently against his collar bone, though it stretches down to his chest. He can feel Gordon's nipple brush against the corner of his lip, hair brushing against his mouth, the taste of the strange, glittering water and skin as he parts his lips and rumbles a laugh into Gordon.

> He pulls away. He maneuvers his human. He presses his mouth against him again, brushing his stomach with a feather-light kiss that nearly encompasses his dick. He can feel it pressing against him, feel it twitch as he pokes a tongue out between his teeth and presses the very tip into his soft flesh.

> His eyes angle up to Gordon's in a silent bid for a sign. The lick intensifies, nimbly avoiding the cock poking at the very corner of his mouth.

> He continues to say nothing. He has a feeling he doesn't have to. Gordon isn't the only one who can get away with communicating silent intent in their back-and-forth.

Of course Benrey's not gonna answer him. Of course Benrey's just gonna grin at him - like an asshole - and kiss him again, lips soft against his chest. Right over his heart. It's cartoonish, is what it is. And, unfortunately, it's also more ticklish than Gordon expects, and he snorts aloud.

"What are you doing? You're being weird, dude."

When Benrey laughs back at him, his huffed breath ruffles Gordon's body hair, and it just makes that whole "sensitivity" problem worse. Gordon tries to choke down a giggle and fails. Despite himself, it's... it's nice. He almost feels light-headed.

And then Benrey's doing it again, a soft kiss against his middle, shifting him bodily into position, and Gordon laughs again, shoving at his face. Playful. Roughhousing. Their usual.

And again. "That-- That tickles, man, c'mon!"

And again, hot against his belly. Mouth parted. Benrey's chin grazes his dick, which he'd all but forgotten about in his reflexive urge to kick Benrey away. A peal of laughter bleeds into a gasp. All the worse when Gordon feels the wet-hot tip of a tongue push into his skin.

Oh God. It feels just like he thought it would. In that dream, that fucking dream, the one he can't get out of his mind. The one that's made Gordon look twice every time Benrey grins at him, teeth sharp and glossy. He freezes, afraid even to breathe too heavily and press himself all the more against Benrey's tongue.

"What are you doing," he asks again, this time less of a playful rebuff and more of a high squeak. Then it's hotter, wetter, more of the broad side of Benrey's tongue flattening against him, and his dick twitches, hard.

Fuck.

> Alyx would be disappointed, Benrey thinks. He was doing so good and playing so nice, and now he's licking a hot, wet stripe across Gordon's belly, feeling the hairs and skin against his tongue, teeth barely grazing against sensitive flesh. But, he knows things she doesn't and will never know, about the game and the language that he and Gordon have built. He squeaks in defiance, but with a tone that shows only polite refusal: Oh, I couldn't possibly, but if you insist.

> Gordon isn't pressing against his face. He isn't pushing him away. He isn't snarling and cursing, and he hasn't made any move to extricate himself. He's parting his legs invitingly, his voice is getting higher in want and anticipation, and his dick is so hard. As hard as Benrey's, to be honest, and twitching almost as if its beckoning.

> "What'm I doing?" Benrey purrs, and he can see Gordon's body tremble at the way it rumbles through him. "M'helpin'. S'what best friends do."

> With that, his jaw opens wide, his tongue slithering out and the tip dipping lower. Low enough to catch his cock, his legs, the entire bottom of his stomach. It presses hard against Gordon and then creeps upward before coiling up politely behind Benrey's jagged smile. Drool pools at the corner of his lips and he swipes it away with his spare hand.

> He opens his mouth and dives back in again, the faintest hint of flesh and salt and soap and glittering, sweet Xen water dancing across his tongue. It fills him with another burst of primal want, though it's watching the flush on Gordon grow deeper that satiates that other, newer beast nesting inside of him.

Hot, wet, sinuous, pressing against his belly like a snake, making him gasp and jerk instinctively - Gordon's head spins on contact. And Benrey's eyes keep flicking up to meet his, like he's gauging Gordon's reaction. Looking for the go-ahead. Like-- Like they haven't been playing this fucking game for hours, glorified foreplay, you know, like he hadn't let Benrey practically feel him up behind the bleachers while he was (is) stripped down to nothing.

When Gordon's legs jerk open, though, he doesn't snap them closed again. He lets them fall open, leaving room for Benrey's face. If he wanted. To put his face anywhere around there. It's embarrassing as soon as the thought hits his conscious mind, and Gordon burns a bright red down to his shoulders.

"I-I don't know if this is what every 'best friend' is supposed to d-- oh-- oh God, Benrey--"

His voice pitches up, raw and hoarse, as Benrey's tongue flattens itself against his thighs and dick. No more games. Just what this was always building up to, this whole time, if Gordon had just paid a little more attention, pushed his glasses back up on his nose and seen the hunger in Benrey's eyes. And the full knowledge of it cracks over his skull like an egg.

His chest heaves desperately to catch his breath, but it's so much, he can't--

He can't--

Benrey's going back for more, licking him in slow, deliberate strokes and chuffing like a big cat against him, and Gordon can't fucking think. His hands clench at Benrey's, then, finding that inadequate, at his own face. His hair.

"Benrey," he chokes out again. "You're gonna-- oh-- you just gave me a bath and you're gonna get me all fuckin' nasty again, man!"

It comes out as a whine that belies just how fucking stupid he sounds.

> "I'll, uh, just bathe you again. No biggie."

> Benrey's voice is low, dismissive. There is a dark and teasing chuckle hidden just under the surface, as much of a predator as the rest of him. Waiting for a moment to strike, to snag his prey and drag it beneath the surface. But not now, not now.

> Benrey likes to play with his food.

> His alien tongue is strangely dexterous, encircling Gordon's thighs and tracing wet lines into the crease where they met his body. Faint trails of Sweet Voice-tainted saliva leave visible marks of where he's been, allowing Gordon to ogle at exactly when Benrey is doing to him even after he's moved on. Even after he's moved from one leg to the other, to his belly, to his cock.

> His own aches as he flattens his tongue against his dick and licks upwards, like an animal lapping water. His tongue curls delicately and folds back into his mouth, scraping against pointed teeth before emerging again. Hungry, tasting, teasing and growing faster, more deliberate. The taste of Gordon swirl in his mouth and he feels a heat building in his belly so hot and dangerous that it almost makes him feel ill.

> And it intensifies with every squeak Gordon makes, every pant that falls out of his mouth. It drives him onward, a leopard on the prowl, gradually cornering its next meal. His own breath is becoming ragged, his mind a messy whorl of emotions and thoughts that make time seem as though it hardly matters. He's long forgotten how long he's been teasing, eyes nearly crossed to focus on Gordon. Benrey has long been lost in the sounds he makes, the way he writhes.

> It's almost like divine inspiration when it strikes him that he should maybe push him a bit harder.

> Delicately, and uncharacteristically slow, he rolls his tongue back into his mouth. He parts his lips and fits them around Gordon's length. He can't suck, not at this size, but he hums in satisfaction, the vibrations pulsing straight from him and into his human.

> If he wasn't so afraid of doing damage, he'd have smiled.

"We don't have time to--" Gordon breaks off in a moan, that compulsive need to worry stopped in its tracks by Benrey's tongue.

He shivers from his neck down to his toes when it worms around his thighs, digging into those sensitive creases in his skin. Something like a laugh bubbles out of him, but it's also something like a whimper, with a hint of a plea.

"You can't," he gasps, fighting for breath, "you can't do this to me, man, you don't even-- ah! Fuck! Don't even know!"

Gordon turns his face to the side and buries a noise into Benrey's hand. Makes it easier to cope when Benrey licks up to his chest and swirls his tongue, his own breath loud and hot around it. Tasting everywhere he can get to.  Benrey just keeps going, salivating and groaning for the sheer thrill of it, and it makes heat pulse off Gordon's skin in waves.

Faster, harder, enveloping him in ways he had only dreamed possible, something only he can do - Benrey - just for him, he doesn't do this shit with anyone else, how could he. Gordon squirms and gasps in his grip, legs straining to arch into that wet heat.

Agony creeps into his voice, low and haggard. "Benrey," he whines, "how are you so fucking... good at this, why are you even--"

He doesn't get to finish that thought before Benrey's lips wrap around him, and he hums, smug as a cat that's gotten the cream, and Gordon cries out so hard that some winged thing bursts out from a nearby outcropping. How is-- Why is he-- what does he even get out of this, he thinks wildly, brain desperately clinging to neuroticism even in the face of sexual obliteration.

> Every time Gordon shifts his weight, whines, looks away, says a word, Benrey feels that warm, weird emotion surge through him in a way that defies explanation. A feeling he thinks he can now identify, but is hesitant to verbalize, lest he somehow break the rules. But, it's so much stronger than before, especially after everything they'd been through, especially with the way Gordon is finally saying what he really means. Instead of snapping that he's being weird, he's whimpering praise and the words hang crookedly in his head like paintings in a forgotten room.

> "Benrey, how are you so fucking... good at this?"

> The boner he'd been ignoring for what seemed like millennia is now aching, and he pushes his hips against the side of the island and grinds upwards in hopes of finding something resembling relief. Unsurprisingly, what he finds is a crotch full of rocks, and he winces even as he continues to lavish Gordon with attention, breath hot out of his nose as he continues to hum and mouth at his dick. As he unfurls his tongue once more and presses it against his entire body and pushes Gordon against the palm of his hand, something akin to a wet hug. As the tip once again finds Gordon's cock and greedily laps at it, mesmerized by how prominent it is compared to the rest of his soft body.

> There is no give. Just hardness, sinking into the sensitive muscle.

> As he continues on--gently sucking on entire hands, tracing circles into the wet skin of his stomach, tasting the inside of his thighs while grazing his junk with the side of his tongue--he grunts. He feels his hips rocking just out of Gordon's sight. He clenches his free hand when its not in use pulling Gordon's legs apart for easier access or fiddling with his arm to get access to his fingers.

> It's instinctual, and impossible to ignore. He aches, and he knows Gordon can see he's losing himself to this as much as his prey.

> He waits to see if Gordon will have anything to say about it.

Gordon grabs desperately at Benrey's face, a nasal noise forced out of him on every exhale. It's more than a blowjob, it's, it's Benrey humming through his entire fucking body, okay? He can feel it down to his bones, and the inside of Benrey's mouth is achingly warm and so, so wet, and Benrey just keeps mouthing at him, tongue unfurling behind his teeth to lap up Gordon's length in a hot stripe.

It's... it's good. It's so good. Gordon closes his eyes tight and moans aloud.

Benrey moans, too, as his lips part from Gordon's dick to envelop his fingers instead. He pants through his nose and shuffles awkwardly, and the uncomfortable motion gets Gordon to open his eyes again. And he really looks, this time.

Oh.

He's hard.

Benrey's hard, and he's rocking his hips forward into the barren earth. And he's got his hands on Gordon instead of himself. Thumbing his chest and spreading him open. The burden of that knowledge makes Gordon pant like a dog.

"Oh my God," he warbles, voice cracking as Benrey draws patterns into his stomach with his tongue, "are you-- are you not gonna--"

Gordon slaps his hands over his mouth, suddenly regretting his words. No, he's not going to ask if Benrey's gonna touch his own dick, Jesus Christ. That's none of his business. What does he even care, anyway. It's not like he wants to see it. Not like he's curious about how big it would look once Benrey whipped it out. Gordon's aware of the general, you know, size and girth, proportionally, but it looks so much bigger down there, even in the confines of his work pants. It's not really fair.

And then Benrey grunts against him and flicks the tip of his tongue against his dick even faster, and Gordon can't stop the agonized whine that forces its way out of him.

> Benrey's tongue rolls up Gordon's body yet again, and again, and again. It envelops his dick, his thighs, his stomach, and everything in between. He watches, he waits, and eventually he hears Gordon's voice small and broken from his palm. It is enough to make him recoil, to open the floodgates in his mind. That warm feeling floods the inside of his skull and drowns out every thought out but lust, who is gasping for air defiantly.

> "Huh?"

> Benrey pauses, looking down at Gordon--soaked and slimy and oh-so-small--laying with his legs parted, his face flushed, his eyes locked on the very prominent erection straining against his pants. His own trail down to it and he smirks as the weight of Gordon's almost-question hits him.

> "Oh... huh? Wha? Touch myself? Is, uh, is that what you were gonna say?"

> He leans down over Gordon, tongue sticking out between sharp teeth but frustratingly distant from his body. The hand he'd once used to manhandle his human pulled away, fingers slipping into his waistband behind his belt. He sneers, but there is no actual malice behind it. Feigned mockery, just to make Gordon grow brighter. Redder.

> "You... seem to like the idea. You, uh. You... you wanna see? That what you want? Wanna see best friend Benrey's massive hog? Wanna... wanna touch it?"

> A pause, a laugh.

> "Want me to touch it? Seems you like the idea. I can do it. Just, uh, gotta say so."

Gordon mumbles a quiet plea into his hands, begging for some higher power to-- to do something. He doesn't know what. All he knows is that Benrey's sticking his tongue between his teeth, now, looking at him as if he's some problem to be solved or some piece of furniture to wrangle into place. Instead of keeping that tongue right where he had it. Gordon squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath through his nose. He's not disappointed, actually. That would involve caring about what Benrey was doing at all. Which he doesn't.

"You can... you can do whatever you want, man. It's your life," he says, not meeting Benrey's eyes.

Not like he wants to... oh, God. That's Benrey's hand in his pants, isn't it? Slipping under the waistband before Gordon’s even finished his sentence. A sound escapes him that he really wishes wouldn't. He’s really into this, huh, Gordon thinks distantly, just as surprised by the realization as he has been all the previous times he’s figured out that, yes, Benrey actually is pretty hot for him. Like he’s still waiting for the Band-Aid to be ripped off, even now. Even after Benrey’s sucked his dick in a fucking dumpster. (You take what you can get.)

And-- And there it is, huh. Larger than life. Gordon swallows, a little intimidated. Then he wants to curse himself out for feeling intimidated by Benrey’s dick. Freud would have a field day with him.

#writin stuff #please clap.

[mrsalwayswrite]

Murder Is Not On The Schedule (Ron Speirs x Reader)

So this is loosely based on a prompt I found on Pinterest about murder not being on today’s schedule and immediately thought SPEIRS! I also wasn’t feeling great this week so I wanted to write something lighthearted...ya know? So this is what my brain came up with. 

Warnings: some swearing, sexual tension (cuz i can’t seem to write Speirs without it...sorry?), my poor attempts at humor

Words:2500

Tag List: @happyveday​ @sydney-m​ @saritanotserena​

  The sound of mortars and 88s followed me as I walked into the room being used for Captain Speirs' office in Haguenau. Those same sounds should be terrifying but no one flinched anymore thanks to Bastogne. The office was in the back of Easy HQ, looking towards the river. All the walls and windows were still intact, even if the place was dreary and drafty, it fulfilled its purpose. 

 Speirs, who had been staring out the window in parade rest, turned around to lean back against the window and looked over at me. "Lip in bed?"

 "Yeah. Finally convinced him that I could handle it." I dropped down onto one of the two chairs. Both chairs were placed at the table which occupied the center of the room. 

 Lipton was an admirable man, second only to Winters himself. But Christ Almighty, he had to be the worst patient with his perpetual refusal to rest. I did not envy any of the medics who were diligently trying to take care of him. It pretty much took both myself and Luz to drag him to one of the cots in the back and me swearing in blood that if I needed help, I would find him. 

 And if I threatened him a little, no one needs to know, right?

 "Well, I appreciate you stepping up and taking over for Lipton while he is sick."

 I shrugged, already looking at all the paperwork spread out on the table. "He kept us together while in Bastogne. It's the least I can do. Besides, I used to be a secretary before joining up. It's not a problem."

 "Lucky us." He murmured, distractedly. One of his hands tapped a repetitive pattern on his thigh as he seemed to stare at nothing. 

 I knew there was to be a patrol tonight. A prisoner snatch. From what little I had overheard and observed, it weighed heavily on both Lipton and Speirs. My guess was all the names had not been chosen yet on who had to go. Glancing at Speirs, eyebrows furrowed just slightly, repetitive tapping, biting just the inside corner of his lip...he was working on the list in his head. 

 I could not help it as my eyes traced his jawline...his messy hair that looked so damn soft...those dark eyes that pierce your soul but also lit up like a beacon when amused. He looked like a rugged, dirty Greek god with an affinity for bloodlust. Even his hands looked perfect to hold my--

 You are here to help. NOT OGLE YOUR CO! 

 Even if he is pretty.

 Handsome?

 Gorgeous?

 Wet dream worthy?

 Whoa! Too much. Pull up, you buffoon! 

 With all my willpower, I turned back to focus on organizing the reports on the table and checking to make sure we had enough paper. Who knew the army used so much paperwork? Everything had to be documented. I could see why it seemed Winters never left his office...or Nixon. Without Lipton's help, I doubted Speirs would ever see his men. I absent-mindedly wondered if I should offer to help out more often. 

 Obviously out of the goodness of my heart and not to ogle the handsome devil currently before me. 

 Nope. 

 Several minutes later, there was a knock on the door. After Speirs bid them enter, two replacements stepped into the room. Their ODs were clean, helmets practically sparkled in the sunlight, eagerness written all over their faces. They did not carry the weariness from the Ardennes on their shoulders. They still looked like boys wanting to play soldier with the other neighborhood kids. All I could figure was they had gotten dropped off with the other soldiers returning from the hospital. 

 Both rapidly saluted Speirs, who only lazily saluted in response, still leaning against the window. 

 "Captain, sir." The shorter of the two spoke first, practically bouncing on his toes. "We were wondering if we'd see some action soon."

 The other one chimed in, a proud smile exaggerating his chubby cheeks. "Yeah, we heard a rumor there's a patrol. Sir, we're ready to get our rifles dirty by killing Krauts, sir."

 Christ. These two are greener than the Jolly Green Giant. 

 I quickly muffled a snort by turning it into a cough. It must have not been as subtle as I hoped with the side-eye Speirs gave me. 

 Speirs sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. "Your platoon leader will let you know. I suggest you head back to your OP… and try not to get hit by mortars or snipers on your way there."

 The two glanced at one another, seeming to remember that Nazis were just as likely to kill them. A necessary reminder. After another round of salutes, they hurried out and closed the door behind them.

 "Jesus Christ! If I hear those two asking about killing Krauts again, I'll shoot them both…. And murder wasn't on my agenda today."

 "Murder usually isn't on anyone's agenda." I murmured, making notes on a supply list. We definitely needed more ammo...and chocolate bars. There might be a mutiny if we did not receive more chocolate bars and cigarettes. 

 "No, it's on mine. Just not until Thursday."

 Wait….

 ...What?

 My head whipped up to stare at Speirs. I honestly was unsure if he was joking or serious. I mean, hell, we all knew the rumors about him. With his signature serious expression, he held my gaze, as if waiting for me to question him. I chose not to. Really, I believed him. He would be the one to throw a grenade near his men to get them to pay attention. Or get bored and sneak into the enemy's camp to steal their rifles or something just to mess with them.  

 Then I saw the twitch of his lips, forcing back a smile. 

 At that I laughed, shaking my head. "No offense, sir, but I think we need to find something better for you to do with your time."

 "Oh?" He tipped his head slightly, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Like what?" 

 Me.

 Shit. Don't say that aloud. 

 "Mmm…" I tapped my lip with my finger, pretending to think about it. "Preferably something other than terrorizing your men."

 "Ah, but it's fun. You should join me."

 I shook my head, not even trying to suppress the indulgent smile on my face. What had my life become? Here I was joking with CAPTAIN SPEIRS about committing murder…. for fun? Later I should question my sanity, but right now, I was more than amused to see him in this new lightheartedness. I had only ever seen him always stoic, poised, ready for anything in war. I found this new side of him only increased his attractiveness. 

 Damn it. 

 "What are you doing on Thursday?" He probed, still watching me with a hawk-like gaze. 

 I shrugged my shoulders, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. If he was going to joke around, I felt I could return the favor. "Maybe I'm going on a date."

 "With who?"

 "Whoever can afford me, I guess."

 He laughed, widening my own smile. I had never heard him laugh before, and if I could admit it to myself, the world was missing out without that sound. He shoved off the window, to come sit on the corner of the table, one leg dangling off the side, almost touching the chair I sat on. "And what would a date with you consist of?"

 I thought back to before the war. Back before I was weighed down by pain and death. What my life had once entailed. "An elegant dinner at the best restaurant around. Pictures or dancing afterwards. I'm not picky. Then after all that, if I had a very good time, I might be tempted to bring him back to my apartment for some late-night drinks and, well, we'd see where it went from there. But don't tell my mother that last part."

 "Sounds like you've got it all planned out."

 "I'm a lady who knows what she wants."

 "Mmm…" He ran a hand over the stubble growing on his jaw. "I need to change my schedule for Thursday now."

 This information you are trying to process does not compute. Please try again.

 "You taking me out on the date?" I teased back, leaning back slightly in my chair. Mentally, I prepared for him to make a joke about killing whomever was taking me out for the company's sake or something along those lines, since the idea of him having interest in me was preposterous. 

 In one swift move, he shifted over so his leg was between mine allowing him to lean forward and hover over me. The air between us suddenly felt hot compared to the rest of the room. Those dark eyes scanned me, as if slowly undressing me with both the utmost care but also unbridled passion. "Yes. Though we might have to skip with the elegant dinner. I'll share the better parts of the K rations. We also might need to skip the pictures or dancing. But I am positive I can steal some of Nixon's Vat 69 and we can go straight to the late-night drinks. Of course, I'll be a gentleman and let the lady decide what happens after." He finished with a cocky wink at me. 

 Holy mother of-

 I was not ready for that. 

 I could only stare at him for a long moment. My body practically throbbed for him with the image he painted in my mind. The way his voice became so smooth and sensual. The peak of his tongue as he quickly licked his lips before speaking. Now he sat there, his leg dangling between mine, keeping me glued to my seat. Subtly, I tried to press my thighs together to alleviate some of the pressure building. Not that it helped with his intense gaze making my heart beat faster and his lazy smile telling me he KNEW the effect he was having on me. 

 Act cool. 

 Act cool! 

 Play it off! 

 I leaned forward, smirking. "Do you always offer to take your executive officers out on a date? If so, I can see why Lipton likes you so much."

 He chuckled, eyes alluring and heated. "No, not all of them. Just the ones that I've been admiring for some time." 

 Well shit. 

 Abort. 

 Abort! 

 Don't you dare, you've dreamed about this man before. Ride it out, you coward! 

 I blinked in surprise but before I could respond, he had already made his move. He leaned forward and braced his hands on the arms of my chair, hovering over me. His face now was only inches from mine. I was positive he could hear how fast my heart was beating. My lips parted, trying to encourage breath into my lungs that were struggling to send oxygen to my brain. His eyes drifted down to my lips and lingered there. As if in compliance, my own eyes glanced at his lips, how soft they looked, even slightly chapped still from our time in Bastogne. His hands slid ever so slowly further up the arms of the chair, stopping just next to my elbows. Now I could see the faint lines around his eyes. His hair slipped forward, calling my eyes upward. I struggled to not reach forward and touch it. To see how it felt with my fingers running through it. A soft chuckle had my eyes snapped back to his, as he watched me with an intensity that border-lined frightening and lascivious. 

 I gulped. "Captain Speirs…"

 "No," he just barely ran the tip of his nose over the shell of my ear. His hot breath caressed my skin. My eyes fluttered closed on their own accord; my body unable to handle the pleasurable sensation. He whispered into my ear, voice fully commanding and salacious. "No, you call me Ron when we're alone."

 Mission control. We are going down. I repeat we are going down in flames! 

 My underwear was not prepared for this! 

 "Ron." I liked the way his name rolled off my lips. If the quiet, sharp inhale from him said anyway, he liked the way it sounded too. Tilting my head just the slightest, I could look up into those dark, smoldering eyes. Our lips though...I could taste his breath on my tongue. I could feel the warmth from his skin radiating onto mine, turning me into a puddle of desire.

 Oh God, he smelled like everything that is beautifully masculine. Not the nasty, sweaty teenage boy but the pheromones that make your ovaries take notice and your uterus demands for something to be done with it. How was that possible? 

 "I'll...um, I'll make sure to add this to your schedule on Thursday." I whispered, almost able to feel his lips ghost over mine as my lips formed each word. 

 "Excellent."

 His hand trailed up my arm, setting fire to my nerves. Gently, he wrapped it around the base of my throat, his thumb rubbing a pattern into my skin. The whole time our eyes remained locked. His pupils dilated, desire coloring them and I wondered if mine looked the same. The small amount of air between us was thick with tension and salacity. My body screamed for me to drag him down and crash our lips together. To see if he tasted as good as he looked. My hands were stuck in my lap though. It felt like we were in a stalemate, unable to move forward, to take that next step.

 If something does not happen, I swear I will spontaneously combust! 

 Then someone knocked on the closed door. 

 .

 .

 .

 Dear universe. That was NOT what I meant! 

 With a sigh, he slipped his hand up to rub his thumb along my bottom lip for the briefest of seconds. I swear the regret coursing through my veins, I could see mirrored in his eyes. Ever so slowly he retracted his hand and leaned back, but stayed on the edge of his desk, his leg still between mine. 

 "Enter." He called out, only turning his heavy gaze from mine when the person stepped through. 

 First Sergeant Talbert walked in, opening his mouth then hesitated for a second as his eyes seemed to take in but not fully comprehend the scene before him. "Um, sir, there's a couple of replacements asking about a patrol…"

 "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

 I laughed at Speirs' pained expression. Quickly, I jumped to my feet and brazenly patted his chest, my hand lingering on the feel under my palm. "I'll take care of it before murder happens."

 "That's not till Thursday." He looked at me with a wry grin. His hand subtly reached forward to skim my hip before grabbing the edge of the table. 

 "Remember, you're busy now. Murder has to wait."

 "Fine. Friday it is then."

 "If you have the energy after." I winked at him. I only caught a glimpse of the hunger that flooded his eyes before I turned on my heels and headed out the door. The whole way out I could feel his heated gaze on my back, like his fingers were trailing down my spine. I shivered in anticipation for what it would really feel like. 

 I'll make sure he doesn't have the energy to terrorize Easy… I'm definitely doing this for their sakes… completely self-sacrificing… yep, I won't enjoy this at all. 

#band of brothers #Band of Brothers fandom #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagine #ronald speirs #ron speirs #ron speirs x reader #ronald speirs x reader #ww2 #world war 2 #mzwrites

[foxydivaxx]

Eren, Lelouch, Light, Seto Kaiba and Sasuke: Beautiful Sinners Chapter 3

Time for some fun

There was silence in the car save for Seto humming and Light tapping his feet. Sasuke looks out the window to catch a glimpse of the city they would be living in for now. 

It comes across a pretty nice quiet town which is good news for all of them as the last thing they want is to attract unnecessary attention towards them. So if this school they would be heading to is decent, then they are sorted.

This makes him to glance over at Eren who was staring into space once again. He then remembers the conversation he and Lelouch had when they arrived the house before going into their rooms.

Flashback

The boys had just arrived at the mansion and decided to go explore when Lelouch taps Sasuke’s shoulder.

“We need to talk.”

The other was taken aback by his comment but nevertheless accepts it and follows him to the kitchen.

Once he was sure the coast was clear, Lelouch then speaks. “Have you been noticing how quiet and closed off Mr Shirtless is?” he asked.

Sasuke then thinks for a moment. “Now that you mention it, he seems a lot more closed off than we are which is weird. We probably went through a lot more shit than we did. Yet we are getting along well.”

“Almost as though we have all met each other at some point in the past.” says Lelouch with widened eyes of shock. Even Sasuke is surprised by this.

“Could it be that we all had some other life in some timeline where we met and probably became friends or something hence why Wizard-Kun brought us together?” Sasuke asks.

Lelouch grins. “Hmmm..seems likely. Though I wonder what horrors Mr Shirtless must have seen. Unless....”

“Let me guess, you intend to coerce whatever horrible truth you could get out of him.”

“That will be totally unethical of me but at the same time, I will only use it when it is necessary.”

“We need to be on alert then in case some crazy shit happens.”

End of Flashback

Eren yawns and rests his head against the window. He does not understand his sudden gloominess. Could it be because of his dark past and having to live through the same disastrous time loop Lord knows how many times till he finally fucking snapped and went ape-shit?

One thing is for certain, he has to tread carefully here because chances are his sacrifice might have been all in vain and accomplished nothing.

A couple minutes later, they arrive at Jump City High School. “Here we are gang.” says Seto as he parks the car and stops it.

The boys all get out. “Pretty huge school.” says Light. Eren looks around in awe. This school is bigger than the crappy classroom he and his old friends used to be in.

Sasuke nudges him causing him to nearly trip but follow the others as they head inside.

As soon as they walk in, the other students stop and stare at them. Eren simply rolls his eyes at them. Considering the world he came from, it makes sense for him to get irritated and uncomfortable, haven been treated as a weapon and canon fodder for years.

Once they reach the Principal’s office, Seto take me charge since he is the oldest and get forms for the boys to fill in and sign. Light helps both Eren and Sasuke with theirs by telling them what information to put in.

“So we are pretending to be cousins of sorts?” Eren asked in a low tone. Seto shrugs. “That shit works like a charm.”

“I guess the first phase of our mission is to more or less do some research into this town. So us posing as students here makes our job easy.” says Lelouch.

“Agreed. Like who would suspect a group of young men from different worlds and timelines to carry out whatever crazy heist it is that we are gonna carry out?” says Light. Sasuke smirks. “This will surely make our work easy.”

The boys head off to their first class, not noticing a certain brunette boy watching them over his shoulder. Hmmmm.....who are those guys? Are they new here?

During lunchtime, the five of them gather at a table together. “That wasn’t so bad.” Seto asked as he sips some mineral water.

“I slept off during History class.” says Eren, earning laughs from the others. “Bitch that shit is boring!!” says Sasuke. “I might have been a A star student in a previous lifetime but that shit still pisses me off.” says Light. “History? Pfft!!” says Seto.

“Now you know why I fucking ditch class.” says Lelouch. At that moment, Eren panics inwardly as he sees two familiar looking faces, a Asian-looking girl dressed in black and red goth clothing and a blonde boy in a white shirt and glasses.

“Shit....”

Lelouch notices his look. “What?” He asked. Eren then whispers to them. “Those are my former friends from the previous timeline Armin and Mikasa.”

“Oh shit.” says Light. “Wait....if those guys are here then..,” Lelouch does not finish his sentence as he sees Kallen, C.C, Shirley and Rolo pass by as well. Sure enough, a couple other noticeable people from the various timelines all five of them came from start to show up.

“Wait....so we are in an alternative timeline.” says Light. “I guessed as much because how else would this make sense?” says Seto.

“A timeline where you all get a second chance.” At that moment time stops as Wizard-Kun re-appears to them.

“Second chance?”

“Yes. You see, your deaths in various timelines helped to reset the world into its current state.” The quintet exchanged looks. It seems they all reached the same conclusion.

“Now your purpose is simple: all five of you shall serve as a special black ops team. You have already figured out why I sent you to this school.”

“Like duh.” says Light.

“Now your first mission will take place in the evening. Will stop by. In the meantime, enjoy some normalcy.” With that, he disappears.

“Ok. Now that is sus.” says Seto, raising an eyebrow.

Later on the evening at approximately 6.30 pm, Wizard-Kun re-appears again. The boys were already at home and all of them were sitting in the living room.

“Ah. Good to see you all here.” he says. Eren rolls his eyes. “Spare is for the formalities and just get down to it.” he grumbles. Wizard-Kun smirks. “Ever the first one huh Eren?”

He then clears his throat. “Your mission is a very deadly task.” He then glares at them seriously. “Years ago, I had a similar squad like this one with a different set of individuals. However, one of them by the name of Leblanc betrayed the squad and went rogue.”

“So our task is to find this Leblanc and bring her back right?” Lelouch asked. “Yes. But a little warning. This woman is a mistress of magic and can manipulate one’s cognitive senses. Plus she is an assassin.”

“That should not be a problem.” says Sasuke. “The rest of you that have some magic ability of sorts get to retain them. Eren on the other hand....”

“I guess my little sacrifice to rid my people of our Titan curse worked.” says Eren as he runs his hand through his head.

“It worked way too well meaning that you cannot transform into a Titan anymore.” Eren heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God!!”

“But I do have a special something for you.” Waving his hand, a gold gauntlet materialised out of thin air and lands on Eren’s lap.

“What is this?”

“Your new weapon.” Eren raises an eyebrow as he puts on the gauntlet. “This will take some getting used to.” he says as he carefully moves his hand around in order to get the hang of the gauntlet.

“Light I believe you would love this.” He magically creates a rifle which lands in Light’s hands. “Hmmm...sweet.”

“Kaiba.” He hands the man a sword. “Lelouch.” Hands him two revolvers. “And lastly Sasuke.” Gives himself replica of the sword he once used in his old life.

“Leblanc owns a nightclub downtown named Black Rose. She ironically has a secret team of the same name. I hear that they are expecting some shipments tonight at 9pm. You have to take all of them down.”

“Understood.” says Seto.

“Now you are sorted. So off you trot.”

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #eren jaeger #eren yeager #lelouch lamperouge #lelouch vi britannia #code geass #Sasuke uchiha #naruto #light yagami #death note #Seto kaiba #yugioh #fanfiction

[radramblog]

Rating the letters of the alphabet

I feel like part of my style of comedy is just rambling about shit and making loose connections between things as part of an overall bit. I think. I’m no expert on myself, unfortunately.

The inspiration for the following absolute load of shite is trying to search Tiermaker for nothing. Like, no characters in the search bar. Didn’t come up with anything. Did a search for just a space. No dice. What about just a? Surely that’ll bring up everything with an A in the title. But it didn’t, and I was somewhat disappointed.

Then my head started writing bits about letters and that’s how we got here. This is probably really stupid, but maybe it’ll at least be fun. Wordplay is cool, though maybe not my strong suit? Anyway.

A: A is one of the two letters that’s also just a word, as you’ve just seen, giving it a necessary promotion in rank. Not a lot of things get to double up like that, though with the “an” ligature maybe it’s actually a double or nothing. But because of the confusing common connection crossing contexts for the character, it gets somewhat awkward to talk about the letter in conversation. An A, in my opinion, A does not get. 4/5.

B: B is also just a word letter but unlike A when you write it out you have to stick a few extra letters on to make it work, making it not as good. But B’s association with bees isn’t enough, because in the year of our lord, like, 2019 or something, it would become inextrixably linked with shite memes as the B emoji became king. And I just don’t respect that. It’s otherwise a fine letter, dragged down by its company. 2/5.

C: Oh come on now, the word doesn’t even have a C in it anymore! You can sea the see without any of our tertiary letter’s involvement whatsoever. Not to mention how its two main sounds are just copies from other letters wholesale. C must be confusing to non-english speakers, I’d imagine. C as a grade gets what C as a grade typically entails for many a schoolchild. 3/5.

D: It would be remiss of me not to give a sterling grade to the D. Why, none of us would be here without it. While many a youth may find the D to be quite a humourous subject, I assure you I’m taking it with the gravest of sincerity when I say the D has got to be one of the best letters of all.

And by D I mean deity, of course. Wait, what did you think I meant? 5/5.

E: The absolute absurdity that is the E meme elevates E efficiently enough to excel beyond many another vowel. However, it is also the single most common letter in the English language, going so far as to open the damn name. It’s to the point where someone made a point of writing an entire book without using it, and I think Gadsby is cool but mayhaps avoiding fifth uncial was a bit showy. I can’t help but mark it down for the sake of hipster cred. 3/5.

F: F is for Fuck. I like the word Fuck. F is for paying respects. I think the military-industrial complex has poisoned our cultural landscape to the point that a reference to one of its most prized productions’ awkward moments has become one of the most colloquially used meme letters in existence, And That’s Terrible. 3/5, I’m conflicted.

G: Man literally who the fuck cares about G. What is it even good for. Just an absolute waste of a letter, total shithouse. It’s NATO equivalent is Golf, the Worst Sport, too. Who asked for any of this? Just use a J instead, it’s cooler. 1/5.

H: I’ve seen “Hhh” used enough times in written forms of pornography to not consider it a Horny Letter. That and it, being short for Hentai, is often used to denote adult material in Japan. Basically what im saying is, I think this gets worse the less sex-positive you are. 6/9.

I: I think I’ve said enough about letter words already, but I is another high-tier one because like A I is just it’s own thing. It can also, however, be a bit confusing, looking just like an l a lot of the time, and having to constantly capitalise it is a pain in the ass. I also don’t have a particularly high opinion of myself, so a high opinion of I seems disingenuous. 3/5.

J: Clearly the best letter, hands down. I’m definitely not biased. There are so few letters as underappreciated by J- a fact many a person who’s had to do that “assign yourself an alliterative adjective” icebreaker game has had to reckon with. Because it appears to be a lot more popular with names than with words, and that just kind of sucks. 6/5.

K: K has in some circles managed to bump off its partner to become yet another letter word, though in a very informal abbreviated sense. However, when you’re looking into scientific fields, eventually said partner returns, having lost some weight on the trip down to absolute zero. This all makes complete sense in my head, and I’m sure is a lot less funny to anyone who doesn’t live there. 4/5.

L: I’d argue that L doesn’t cop its namesake. It’s a really useful letter, loads of words use it, especially in pairs, and my ADHD-brain thought it was fun to just say LLLLLLLLLLL for a bit while I was thinking about this so I guess that’s staying in now. Put me down as an L Lobbyist. 4/5.

M: Mmmmmm. M&Ms. But also it’s kind of a pain to write. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. 3/5.

N: I’d like to fight whoever decided we should have two letters that sound so similar right bloody next to each other in the alphabet. Actually, who the fuck even decided the alphabet’s order to begin with? Maybe it should go M to N, that’ll bloody show you. 2/5.

O: Our fourth vowel, and perhaps one of the underappreciated ones. O is similarly a letter word, but a much more common one considering its use as an interjection. It’s also one half of a very powerful letter combo, as we’ll see. 4/5.

P: There’s the other half. Many a joke involves OP as a phrase, whether it mean overpowered or original poster, and the letters’ adjacency is a lovely bit of serendipity. Whenever I say P out loud, on its own, I have to resist the urge to do some incredibly shitty beatboxing, which may or may not be a good sign. 4/5.

Q: I was going to write some very harsh words about Q, and its dependency on U, but then I realised that that is probably hate speech against the disabled. It still sucks, though. 0/5.

R: R is the one I am most struggling to think of things to say about. R is another letter that’s just kinda there. I’m sure the Roberts and Rachels of the world would disagree with me, though. It’s also the name of a program that I know has traumatised a lot of young biologist wannabes, slapping us with a whole pile of maths and statistics when we just wanted to look at cool plants and shit. Or in my case, cool cells and shit. 2/5.

S: The most overrated consonant, but also the thing that makes plurals not a pain in the ass. However I’m going to lean towards giving S a positive rating, if only because it’s associated with snakesssss (and serpentine characters who can talk) and I like those. 3/5.

T: I don’t think T gets enough credit as one of the pillars of the English language. A lot of very common words feature it, and yet it feels like it never gets the same level of credit as big shots like S or half of the vowels. T is like the character actor of the alphabet, is basically what I’m saying. 4/5.

U: Ah, the letter Americans hate for some reason. I think this is actually commentary on the history of American politics. Because throughout history, America has been extremely selfish and self-centered, while attempting to present a positive image that people are finally seeing past. They only entered WWI and WWII when it was convenient for them, they started wars and initiated coups in even their allies for petty ideological reasons, and they’ve gone to war with several countries and funded wars with several others seeming just for shits and giggles. Because apparently if you’re not an American, then you’re not one of them, and that means they hate U. 4/5.

V: I actually think V is underrated. It’s a fun sound. That’s it, no joke here. It’s neat, I like it. 4/5.

W: This may come as a shock to you, but double-u over here is actually two Vs! unless you’re writing in cursive, but fuck cursive. The French actually have it right on this one, naming it double-v (pronounced doobleh-vay). Add in the fact that it’s literally just M upside down, and you’ve got a pretty shite letter. 1/5.

X: There’s a reason literally every “A is for Apple” thing you see made for kids uses Xylophone for X, and that’s because there are no commonly used words that start with it. Seriously, it’s all just scientific terms- I’d argue X-Ray is more common than Xylophone in common parlance, but also, who wants to explain imaging to a kid. It doesn’t even get a second page of words on Dictionary.com. X also has implications as a letter word, that I’d rather avoid at the moment. 2/5.

Y: Ah, Ygreck, everyone’s favourite “what the fuck, France?” moment. Between that and being sorta kinda not really a vowel, Y prompts its own question more often than I’d care to admit. 2/5.

Z: As a (technical) member of the generation associated with this letter- on the one hand, I’m sorry, on the other, y’all have it coming. The final letter of the alphabet, one of the other ones worth 10 in scrabble (and yet X isn’t???), and one we probably got pretty sick of in the early 00s when it was everywhere- ironically, when most of the generation was getting born. 2/5.

And that’s the lot of them. I hope this didn’t alienate any non-English speakers too hard. It’s probably fine.

Join me for more bullshit next time I have another stupid idea. I mean, tomorrow.

#ramble #nonce shit tbh #remember when I made good content? yeah me neither

[itsclydebitches]

Volume 8 Trailer: Initial Reactions

This is incredibly short for a trailer. Aren’t RWBY’s usually about a minute and a half long? Will we be getting another? I literally only caught the last five minutes of the live stream so idk. 

Ruby is speaking very confidently about Salem’s plans. “Atlas is only Salem’s current target. She’s not hiding anymore,” etc. I mean yeah, this all seems obvious and easy deductions, but it’s just weird to give Ruby - who only found out about Salem a few months ago and spoke to her for one hot second (that we know of) - a more concrete sense of her plans than we, the omniscient audience, have gotten. 

That throne is wonderfully creepy (as is the music here). Where is this? Is Salem perhaps inside her whale? I’m digging the aesthetic. 

Actually it’s worth acknowledging that I’m happy with the tone overall. It still remains to be seen how this fits in with our clips, but at least the trailer is acknowledging the stakes here. 

“We need to warn them!” I get that now that Salem is actively attacking people it’s necessary to prepare others for that, immortality aside, but I still hate that we’ve jumped straight to ‘Telling the world is an unambiguously good thing!’ when literally everything we’ve seen in seven seasons has told us otherwise. 

Speaking of immortality is that like... a conflict at all? Because Volume 7 didn’t grapple with it and neither does this trailer. I think her being immortal is a pretty big factor in the ‘Do we stay or leave?’ debate/any plans they make to defend against her, but thus far Ruby and co. don’t seem to think so. 

We get a shot where the group is pulling out their weapons but Penny stands there looking confused. Another encounter with the Ace Ops? They’ve since recovered from their fight.  

We also see them standing over what is presumably Clover’s corpse. I’m gearing up for the fandom to crucify them if they don’t demonstrate an “appropriate” amount of grief. Something something see they’re inhuman and Team RWBY was right to betray them. 

I’m here for a Penny and Ruby hug though. Their relationship took such a dive last volume I’ll now accept any meaningful connection I can get. 

Okay, onto one of my biggest issues: so much of this trailer is repetition. We’ve seen the whale grimm arrive. We’ve seen the group go back to Pietro’s shop (and we know that either there’s nothing there to fight or they easily defeat what is there because the bike excitement comes next). We know the group is focused on helping Mantle whereas Ironwood is focused on helping the world. We’ve seen them get bikes. We’ve seen Penny’s eyes glow with the Maiden powers. None of this is new and that’s super disappointing. 99% of this is just rehashing what we knew from the end of Volume 7 or from the previous promo clips. With the exception of: 

Salem has the lamp. So she either took it from Cinder, Cinder rejoined her, or Neo betrayed her and took the lamp to Salem. She also doesn’t know how to use it and is presumably going to hunt down Ozpin(Oscar) with that bloodhound grimm. Depending on if Salem wants anything other than the lamp right now that’s an easy way to help protect Mantle: the group leaves and Salem will presumably follow. It’s a version of what I’ve said before regarding “If you care about the people and know that the evil witch only wants your magic relics/you, how about you actually leave via Atlas and draw her away?” 

Also, Ozpin is no longer “the one who can show me how.” Team RWBY + Qrow and Maria all know how to summon Jinn too. Potentially JNR as well if they were told that during the explanation scene we never saw. They’d better hope Salem doesn’t find out that at a minimum six other people know how to activate this relic, including a presumably defenseless old woman. Funny how taking information by force puts you in more danger, your friends in more danger, and makes the enemy’s job that much easier.

Salem also says that she has “questions” for Jinn, plural. That’s probably the most interesting development to me. What does she not know that she needs magic to gain? Will having only one question left hurt her plans? (Ugh, please don’t make this into a ‘It’s a good thing Ruby used a question to uncover all Ozpin’s trauma because that ended up saving the world!’ situation).

There’s nothing about Qrow or Ozpin’s return. Yes, I remain salty that arguably the most important character next to Ruby was dropped for the majority of two volumes and then doesn’t make an appearance in the trailer. 

All in all I’m feeling really... underwhelmed? As said, we’ve learned almost nothing new from this. With the exception of Salem there’s nothing in this trailer that makes me eager to understand what a clip means, or anxious to see the outcome of something. It’s just stuff we already know about (Penny’s eyes), generic stuff that’s meaningless without context (the Ace Ops standing at attention), or stuff that obviously has no weight (someone - potentially Yang - is chased by a dragon-y grimm. Will they survive??? Of course they’ll survive). If it weren’t for Salem holding the relic and revealing her need for it beyond it being one of the four pieces for summoning the gods, I’d say this trailer didn’t do any of the work a trailer is supposed to. So I guess kudos for giving us one thing to think about/look forward to? Everything else though is pretty tame for the volume where our heroes finally square off against their antagonist. This setup would be the end-game for most series (worrisome considering we know RT wants to continue much farther...) and the trailer is mostly showing repetition and grunt grimm. Can’t say it got my blood pumping.  

#rwby #rwby spoilers #rwby volume 8 spoilers #mymetas #rwde #long post

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Welcome to Surgery: Kauri

CW: MEDICAL WHUMP - includes muzzling, dehumanization, past noncon ref pet whump, and the leadup to hospital/surgery whump (which will be in Kauri’s next piece, just as a warning). Also some thoughts on an abusive relationship from the perspective of someone still trapped in the cycle of abuse. stay safe.

Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl

“Aw, he’s sleeping.”

Kauri jerks awake at the soft male voice entirely too close to him, trying to pull away and curl up, turning his face against the cold tile floor with something like a whimper. He shivers in his regulation clothes, the thin white shirt and black shorts hardly enough against the chill in the stale, recirculated air coming from a vent somewhere up in the ceiling.

They had blindfolded him, after the last visit from the handlers, and in a room that is nothing but thin white light and identical white walls and 162 white tiles, he doesn’t really mind the darkness. At least it’s something different than the white.

He doesn’t want more handlers, more black sticks, more punishment that they keep telling him isn’t even his actual discipline. This isn’t the same place, they say. He’s not here for training. There will be a new kind of discipline, here.

His mind runs in circles, every day he’s stuck in the room where the light never changes, the tiles never count to any other number, and there’s not even a single black speck on the wall to think about. Only thinks about what he did wrong, and what they’ll do to fix it.

Discipline is a necessary and humane event ensuring the continued obedience and well-being of a pet

shut up shut up shut up

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy.” A hand moves roughly through his hair and Kauri flinches away, tries to twist himself free, lifts his hands to push at the stranger’s arms. Fingers twist into the clean, brittle black curls until his scalp hurts. “Hey. No, sir,” The voice scolds, like he’s a misbehaving dog. “We don’t do that here. Look, I don’t want to pull a handler in, but if I have to…”

Kauri goes very, very still, drops his hands back down immediately. Just as quickly as the sudden grip had tightened, it loosens and the hand starts petting him again.

Kauri gets it - he doesn’t try to escape this time.

“There you go,” The voice coos. “Good, good, 645898.”

He doesn’t know this voice at all, but it’s the first touch since he was brought back here - two weeks or three weeks or maybe just two days ago - that hasn’t involved hitting him with something. He takes a breath as the fingers relax and start carding through his curls again. He doesn’t know who it is, or what they’re going to do, but… it feels so good. So much better than everything else has felt. “Ssshhh, it’s okay. It’s okay, buddy. You worried about those big mean guards coming back? Don’t be scared, it’s just us, bud. Just us. We don’t even have those big old sticks, we’re the scientists. You can trust us.”

The voice isn’t familiar - but Kauri’s life has been reduced to pain and the chalky drink they give him instead of food. Maybe he has heard this voice before and he just doesn’t remember. The voice talks to him like he should know it, at least, and Kauri’s days have run together anyway.

They’re boiled down to daydreams about how good it had been with Owen, how nice Owen had been to him, and how much he wished he’d just… understood how fortunate he was. If he’d only been grateful for the life Owen gave him, for the way he touched him and treated him - if he’d only been grateful that Owen let him spend unsupervised time with another pet, this would never have happened.

This is what you get.

He’s here to be repaired, but no one will tell him what the repair is, exactly. They just leave him here in this room, and then they hurt him with the black sticks, and then they leave again. He hasn’t seen anyone from before, he doesn’t think - his original training is still fuzzy, beyond individual memories that come and go - except for a single handler.

It had been the one with dark hair and eyes and expensive black boots. He’d come by and smiled with the same sharp flash as the light off the edge of a knife. That handler came by to see him.

His own, Everly, didn’t. He’s not Everly’s trainee anymore - as far as he can tell, he’s not anyone’s actual trainee any longer. But… in a world both numbingly familiar and totally new, Kauri had sort of expected to see Everly as a part it, too.

No visit from him… but Handler Connor came by.

Long time no see, 645898. Did you miss our days together that much? Had to act up just so you could get sent back for disobedience and I could get you up against that wall again?

Y-you can’t touch m-m-me, they, they said I have to be, to be left al, alone… for, for s-s-surgery… He’d still been shaking from the last round of the sticks, the electricity that never seemed to stop racing through his nerves. Kauri hated what being shocked did to his voice, hated it.

No, you’re right. I don’t get to have all that much fun with you. I’m only here for a little… hello. Say hello, sweetness.

H-Hello… Hello, Handler.

Good. So you still know how to follow a real man’s order, at least. Honestly, I’m a little sad you didn’t get handed over to me for repair, but there’s always next time. I missed you. That son of a bitch they sold you to… he doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Kauri had swallowed against a weird feeling at the words, pressed with his back against the wall, Handler Connor in his space without quite touching him, his skin crawling and wishing for touch at the same time. The man who hurt him most here had said something Owen himself never had - that maybe Owen was the lucky one, and Kauri the gift.

H-How lucky… I am?

Oh, sweet thing. If I took you home you’d be trained for pain and I’d count my lucky fucking stars every day. Someone should tell you how perfect you are - those big eyes that get so scared, your hair, I know you’d bleed so well if you went to the right guy with the right knife… someone should tell you you’re perfect. It might as well be me.

He’d felt gratitude, at the closest thing to kind words he’d ever heard from a handler, and disgust at himself for being grateful - both in equal measure.

But… as nice as it was to hear, it isn’t true. Kauri is the one who should be grateful. Owen wants him back - Director Renford promised he did, she said Owen wants him back and even as Kauri, so he clings onto his name and onto how wonderful Owen is, not to want him refurbished after he broke his protocols so badly.

“I don’t know why you insist on doing this.” A second voice - female, maybe? - and Kauri twitches again. The hand gently petting through his hair pauses, and then pulls away, and Kauri fights an urge deep down to reach out and try to pull it back.

Please, please, someone be nice to me again. Someone touch me. Someone be kind. I feel like I’m not real unless someone is touching me.

“Doing what, Delevigne?”

“I don’t know… that. Interacting with them. It’s not like we’ll see him after his post-op care is over with. He’s just a number.”

“I mean, I know, but look, he’s so scared… poor little buddy. You just had a hard time following the rules, huh?” The hand pats through his hair one more time, and then Kauri feels fingers close around his arm, pulling him up. He goes willingly enough, turning his head slowly in the direction the man must be standing. It’s so cold in here that even just being near him is warmer than the air everywhere else, and Kauri unconsciously moves closer, almost pressing against his side.

“Man, gotta love how needy they get,” The man cooed. “He’s a sweetie, right?”

“He’s a skinny, is what he is,” The female voice says, flatly. “Was he skinny when he got here?”

“Yeah. He’s not too skinny, though, he’ll do fine on the table. I think he looks pretty good for his first week in R&D to be honest. They said his owner went a little crazy on him…” A fingertip traces along the dark, healing bruises at Kauri’s throat and he flinches away from it out of sheer surprise, blinking rapidly behind his blindfold. “I’d believe it.”

“That’s an owner for you. Roll of the dice, every time - and don’t tell the Director I said it, but it takes a certain kind of cold motherfucker to order a Romantic, if you ask me.”

“… don’t you own a Romantic, Delevigne?”

There’s a pause, and then a sort of brittle, cynical laughter. “I didn’t say I wasn’t one of those cold motherfuckers, Ty. I work long hours, no time for a relationship - so I bought one. Employee discount makes it a pretty decent investment, actually, especially if you have them trained for housework, too. Besides, I’m only home long enough to even see him awake like twice a week, so I figure he’s got it made. He and my cat are fucking inseparable. He doesn’t complain about it.”

A pause.

“Del, you and I both know they make sure the merchandise is good and grateful before they ever leave. How many of them even can complain? Can yours?”

“You know, I have no idea. I never asked. He’s a really good listener, though.”

The fingers that were so nice in his hair are suddenly back up on his skin, ghosting up Kauri’s cheekbones and around behind his head, untying the blindfold. Kauri blinks hard as his eyes have to adjust to the brighter light coming in behind them in the open doorway, hunching his shoulders just slightly away from the overwhelming sharp… cologne? bodywash? smell and presence of the man in front of him.

The woman is leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, short dark hair in a pixie cut and thick black glasses perched on her nose. The man has long hair pulled into a low bun at the back of his neck and a bright, engaging smile. Both of them are wearing long white coats with scrubs on underneath. They look more like actors playing scientists or doctors, like the scientists in Owen’s movies, than what Kauri thinks an actual scientist would look like.

There’s a flash, in Kauri’s mind, of a woman standing beside him as he sits on an examination table swinging small legs, getting to pick a toy out of a special box because he’d been so good during his checkup today, and Keira is off to the side playing with her dinosaur toy-

A blinding flash of pain and Kauri whimpers, clenching his eyes shut, as the memory is forced back behind the broken wall of his mind.

“Ooooh, what’s this? You okay, buddy?” Hand in his hair, taking his chin to turn him to look, and it never occurs to Kauri to try and fight the touch, because that’s what being a human pet is - you are touched, or not, and you have no control. He only nods, slowly, breathing in and out. The man takes both hands and begins to rub at his temples, and it feels… so good. “Trying to remember something, huh?” Kauri nods, slowly, keeping his eyes closed. “Well you should know better by now, little man. The whole point is to make sure you can’t do that. Take deep breaths, it’ll pass.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk to them. This wastes so much time, we could have him halfway prepped by now.”

“Oh, shut up, Del. He’s freaking himself out. You have no heart, you know that?”

“Yeah. That’s why I work here, numbnuts.”

The man rolls his eyes, giving Kauri a bit of a wink, as though they’re conspiring together. Kauri only stares, wide-eyed, unsure how to handle this new type of person entirely unlike anyone else he’d ever met at the Facility. The man pulls his hands back. “There we go… better, right?” The man grins as Kauri slowly nods.

He has a wide mouth, and even with everything that has happened to him, Kauri nearly smiles back on instinct alone. The man’s expression is just that infectious.

The man steps back to look him over, suddenly businesslike. “All right, kiddo, enough time wasted. Let’s see you ready to go.”

Kauri swallows, moving into Position One, clasping one wrist with the other hand behind his back, lifting his chin without ever quite looking them in the eyes, either of them. “G-Good… morning,” He tries, and his voice is rough and hoarse - he’s been screaming too much, wearing his throat back to raw even as it heals from what Owen did.

But when they start hitting him, it’s hard not to scream.

“Mid-afternoon, really,” The woman says dryly. “But a good try, I’ll give you that, ‘898.”

“Look at you, being so good for us,” The man praises, his voice thick with patronizing, condescending affection. Kauri feels blood pooling in his cheeks even as he drops his eyes to the floor. Even Owen never talked to him like this. “What do you think, Del? Isn’t he so good?”

“I think I’m here to do a fucking job, not drool all over the merchandise,” the woman - Delevigne, apparently - says in a voice that is trying for annoyed but mostly landing on amused. “Honestly, Tyler, you spend so much time petting them, it’s a wonder you keep turning down the Director’s offers to give you one for a bonus.”

“Nah, I don’t want that kind of obligation in my life. Bring one home and you have to feed it, give it water…” Tyler frowns, considering. Kauri doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift position. His legs and feet tingle from getting up off the floor, and every once in a while he twitches, a little, an involuntary muscle spasm left over from all the electricity that’s been forced through his skin. Tyler moves up and around him in a slow circle, taking in the visible bruises, the healing marks around his bare neck. “Plus… you know I don’t really like that if you get one everyone assumes you’re sleeping with it.”

“Yeah, well, you and the Director are probably the only ones who don’t at least try it out. You like them so much- why not, Ty?”

“They can’t say no, Del, that’s why.”

“So? Isn’t… that kind of the fucking point?”

Tyler shook his head. “If they can’t say no, they can’t say yes. I’m not interested in taking someone home who can’t consent.”

“Oh, but performing surgery on them-”

“That’s different. What we do here is important work, we’re making really important scientific discoveries about human behavior modification that could impact the industry for decades.” Tyler finally stops, back around in front of Kauri, and reaches out, lifting his chin slowly with two fingers. “Besides, this guy signed a contract.”

None of us ever remember the signing. I bet he knows why we don’t remember signing.

Kauri’s eyes raise and finally meet Tyler’s.

Shining, warm brown, but not the right kind of brown. Not dark and intense, but open and light and all these new eyes do is remind Kauri of what his stupid fucking aberrant behavior cost him… his chance to have something just for him, even if it had been in passing, in private, in the quiet mornings before Owen woke up.

With an aching heart, Kauri looks from the man - Tyler - to the Delevigne woman, waiting for an order, for some idea of what to expect.

Tyler pats him on the back, a little too hard, and he laughs when Kauri stumbles and catches himself, forcing his spine back to straight. “Sorry, bud,” He says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t actually care at all. “Okay, 645898, you need to head to the OR to get prepped. Now normally there’d be more of us involved - you’d have nurses, couple of handlers. But the Director wants this hush-hush, so Del and I are it as far as getting you into the room today. Can you handle that? Can you follow us like a good boy?”

Kauri bites back some hint of himself - of who he really was, maybe - that wanted to snap if you stop talking to me like I’m a dog, I’ll get right on it. All he does is look between the two of them again and slowly, carefully nod.

“I can follow you.”

Just because they aren’t handlers doesn’t mean they won’t have the black sticks, or some other way to hurt him.  

When the Delevigne woman twists herself around to grab something that must have been hanging on the hooks outside his door, Kauri feels his stomach drop. “W-wait-” He whispers, barely able to manage even that much of a protest. He’s not drugged, but he’s hungry, they haven’t given him any of the chalk-drink since yesterday. The world is seems to smudge itself, a little, around the edges.  “Wait, I’ve never w-w-worn, never-… I’m not a, a biter!“

Just the once, only the one time, and he had learned his lesson after that.

“Ssssshhh.” Tyler’s voice stays soft and saccharine even as he moves around behind Kauri, pulling his wrists behind his back. It never occurs to Kauri to fight him. “Sorry, bud, I’m sure this is all super new to you, but if we’re not going to have handlers to help us, we have to take some extra precautions.”

“But, but I don’t bite,” Kauri whispers.  

“I know, buddy, I know. Look, you have to wear one for surgery, anyway, so we might as well get you ready now, huh? Think of it as saving you some time later on, okay?”

Kauri has never actually had to wear what Delevigne holds in her hands before, but he’s seen them on other boys, the ones who had a reputation for biting. The ones who tore skin, did real damage, who weren’t so easily drugged into the pliable, loose-limbed empty boxes they could build into perfect little-

Stop it, stop it, this is how you got sent back here, don’t think like that don’t think

Owen doesn’t want you to think

You weren’t made to think

He manages a nod, just to show he’s listening, wide blue eyes focused absolutely on the black straps and dangling, unattached mask hanging from Delevigne’s hand as she steps closer to him. Behind the dark glasses, her eyes are distant, businesslike. She looks beyond him, not directly at him.

“All right, 645898. Open up. Tyler’s a nice guy-” Tyler squeezes the hands holding his wrists twice, as if in emphasis, but all it does is hurt and Kauri winces. Some of the trainees are good at taking pain, it’s all they ever do, but Kauri isn’t trained for it. “-but I’m not a guy and I’m not nice. So open up.”

Kauri’s heart is pounding, but he slowly hesitantly opens his mouth.

The cylinder of heavy, slightly soft plastic slips between his teeth too easily, pressing lightly against his tongue with a faint chemical taste. When she tells him to close, he feels the solid plastic give just slightly between his teeth.

“You’ll be able to bite down on this when the pain is bad,” Delevigne tells him, looking it over thoughtfully. “Trust me when I say you’ll want that option, because the pain will be bad. We’re only allowed to give you a local anesthetic this time.”

“We are?” The man behind Kauri speaks right in his ear and Kauri jumps in nervous surprise “Oh, sorry, buddy. You didn’t know I was this close, huh?” He laughs again, and his laugh is odd and hard to understand - it sounds nice, but he is holding Kauri’s wrists behind his back while Del fastens the straps around his head, forcing the bit in further as she tightens them, until it pulls at the edges of Kauri’s mouth, making them ache.

He’s never worn a muzzle before.

One comes with the box the new owners get, but Owen had thrown his away.

What’s the point if I don’t get to hear you? He’d asked a newly-woken Kauri, who had still been blinking sleepily at him, trying to shake off the transport drugs, sweaty and so, so glad that he’d been given to his owner at last.

Once it’s fastened, he stares a little blankly, biting down on the plastic to test it, trying to move his tongue to get more comfortable. The black mask section is added, clipped onto little hooks on either side along his cheek, and fresh air comes only through small holes punched into the front.

Not that the air here is ever fresh.

“There, how’s that?” Tyler asks brightly. Kauri has no idea what he expects, exactly - he can’t talk, he can barely get enough air to breathe. The straps are too tight along the back, and the corners of his mouth are already aching.

He plays it safe and nods, but his heart is beating too hard, and he’s sure - so sure - the scientists can hear it in the perfect silence of his room, broken only by the soft constant ssshhhhhhh of the ventilation system.

“Perfect. All right, let’s get you moving, bud.” Tyler grabs him by one arm and pulls him and Kauri stumbles along behind, leaving the room and feeling suddenly an absurd wish to turn around and go back to it, to the tenuous safety of 162 tiles and the flat matte white and the light that never fades or changes.

He knows his room - but he doesn’t know where they are taking him, and he doesn’t know what happens next.

He shivers in the cold air, walking between them, his eyes moving to take in details of a part of the Facility he’s never really seen. The interiors of the holding rooms all look the same as everywhere else, but there’s color here - color-coded folders hang next to doors, muzzles hang off hooks. Now and then a number is scrawled on a dry-erase board next to a door - if he doesn’t look right at it and doesn’t try to know what the numbers are, it doesn’t hurt him to make the observation - and Kauri wonders if there are others here, listening to the shuffle-scrape of the pulling him down the hallway.

“Now, you should expect a lot of pain, like we said,” Tyler says, a spring in his step. Delevigne walks beside him without any perceptible emotion on her face, even though Kauri steals glances when he thinks she’s not looking. She looks like she’s thinking, like she’s somewhere deep inside her head. “A lot of pain. Normally we like to knock ‘em out for stuff this invasive, but the Director was pretty… adamant, and honestly, 645898, you do not want to piss her off, not even if you’re us.”

That he understood, and Kauri nodded quickly to agree with him, making a low, affirming noise in his throat. Tyler grinned and slapped him on the back encouragingly, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Delevigne caught him by his other arm, rolling her arms. “Hey, don’t damage the fucking merchandise before we’ve even finished the prototype, dumbass.”

“Whoops, sorry. You’re okay, aren’t you, ‘898?”

Kauri nods quickly, but his eyes are still scanning the hallways. As they turn a corner, the white walls are suddenly blue, and he feels assaulted by the color, even though it’s not all that bright. Blue walls with photos hung at regular intervals, of people doing important scientific work, he thought. Lots of people in the same white long coats Tyler and Delevigne wore giving a thumbs-up next to dazed-looking trainees.

Director Renford pops up in one photo, standing next to a kneeling man with short dark hair. Kauri stumbles to a stop, and the two scientists stop with him, shooting each other a look of something like curiosity, then looking back to him.

The tall dark-haired man has darker eyes, too, although Kauri can’t tell what color they are from the photo. Director Renford looks… young, even though he can tell it’s her. She has long hair in a braid, and her hand lays along the back of the kneeling man’s neck in an obvious display of possession.

Kauri wants to ask, but all he can do is make a muffled, curious sound and point.

Delevigne snorts. “The Director’s first, I think. Ten. He was the tenth successful trainee or something? I don’t know, we have to do a whole… orientation packet with company history, but I’ll be honest - I took a lot of smoke breaks that day.”

“I didn’t,” Tyler says. “I remember most of it. Poor bastard signed his fucking life away thinking they were going to fix his anxiety disorder. Now he balances her goddamn checkbook.”

“I heard a rumor once that he, uh, balances more than that, if you get my drift. Apparently the Director is generous with her friends. Besides, he’s less anxious now, isn’t he?” Delevigne laughs, and Tyler laughs, and Kauri wants to shrink into the floor until he disappears, but there’s nowhere to escape to. All he does is look at the kneeling man’s dark eyes and try to find some sign of life there, stare and stare at the blank expression and Director Renford’s hand on the back of his neck, her self-satisfied little smile, until finally they yank him by the arm and pull him away.

Three cheers for tyranny, unapologetic apathy, sings some ghostly voice in the back of his head, a song he’s never heard and doesn’t know… but maybe he knew before. His head starts to hurt, at least, usually a sign that he’s trying to dig something out from the wall, something that isn’t ready to break free.

They turn another hallway - this one is painted a soft pastel yellow, has more photos on the walls. Now he can see that the rooms have open doors and carpeted floors. They’re offices, with great wooden desks and warm lamps and decor. Some of the desks have people sitting at them, shuffling papers or signing things, typing away at computers. When the people look up, they don’t look at Kauri but through him, the way Delevigne does. They call their greetings to the scientists holding him, but no one stops working, and Delevigne and Tyler don’t stop walking.

Another hallway, a soft dusty red. Now the rooms look like… hospital rooms at the clinic, the place Kauri hates most in the world beyond the Facility training rooms themselves. Each room has two hospital beds, curtains to draw around them, a bunch of machinery. He sees only one boy, lying on his back with some kind of thing down his throat, the soft hissss, hisssss of a machine moving.

“Shit, looks like 533456 isn’t looking any better,” Tyler mutters.

“Yeah, well, you can’t bash someone’s head into the wall that many times and expect them to pop right back up good as new,” Del says, with an angry edge to her voice. “Trainees are an investment. If I were the Director, I’d sue for damages, not just fire the stupid bastard.”

Tyler laughs, and it’s not the soft, patronizing laughter he’s been using with Kauri but a harder-edged sound, and Kauri twists his head to look at him, anxious biting on the bit in his mouth, pushing into the plastic that gives only a little between his teeth. “I wouldn’t worry about that. That asshole’s good-looking and he’d make a good guard dog. I think the Director will get her investment back.”

Suddenly Kauri wondered, for the first time, what the guards signed when they agreed to work here. And what the Director would do to the guard who damaged company property badly enough to get fired for it.

Finally, they moved into a hallway painted a gentle gray, like a winter sky somewhere flat and frigid cold where Kauri thought, with a sharp stab of pain inside his skull, he might once have lived. It looks like the clouds when it snows, but Kauri has never seen snow except on the ski trips Owen takes, and in those places they are high up in the mountains and the skies don’t look the same up there.

No, this is like when Mom comes back from the diner and says, You remember old George VanHoorn, he says there’s snow coming. Man knows his skies, I guess I can’t disagree or I’ll owe him the next slice of pie-

Kauri groans, muffled, as the pain nearly knocks him off his feet, feeling like a blow inside his skull that throws him forward, only staying on his feet when Tyler and Delevigne hold him up, limp between them.

“He’s trying to think,” Delevigne says, disinterested. “I don’t have time for that, we have three surgeries today, and this is the one we have to nail. I am not letting this little asshole get me dragged in front of the Director for failing to meet expectations.”

“He’s fine,” Tyler says, just a little defensively, and leans over to pet through Kauri’s hair, holding him gently as he gets his feet back underneath him, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as his world spins with agony. He can’t remember any longer what it was that caused the pain, only that he had done something wrong, tried to remember something he wasn’t supposed to know. “You’re okay, right, buddy? Not gonna mess up our schedule today, are you?”

Kauri shakes his head rapidly, blinking away the tears, making low hnnnh, hnnnnh, hnnnnh noises behind the muzzle, struggling to take enough air in by sucking it through his teeth and breathing through his nose to stop feeling the world’s sick-dizzy spin around him.

“Good boy, that’s what I thought. All right, bud…” They all but drag him further down the hallway, Kauri struggling to get his feet back under him, bare heels smacking into the floor unevenly. Then they stop in front of a big set of wide double-doors, open to show a room larger than four or even five of the training rooms inside.

There’s a hospital bed there, already. A large sort of metal table that’s bolted into the floor. There are machines everywhere.

Kauri tries to take a deep breath, but he can’t. So he takes several shallow ones, and the world spins again. His heart pounds in his chest, tries to break through, has to settle for nearly bruising his breastbone. The hands on his arms tighten, become inexorable, inescapable.

On a small table on wheels next to the metal table, there’s a tray with a stippled, textured pale blue paper laid out on it. On top of the paper there’s a series of things Kauri vaguely recognizes from Owen’s movies and TV shows as surgery tools - he can see what he knows is a scalpel, actually two scalpels. He can see some tools he doesn’t know, too.

And next to the tools is something he doesn’t recognize at all - it looks like a necklace made up of small flat circles with blue stones in the middle, but the connection isn’t thread or chain but wires.

There’s a loud beep from somewhere nearby, and Kauri nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Welcome to surgery, little buddy,” Tyler says, in a low sweet voice.

“Let’s get you on the table,” Delevigne says, kicking the doorstops so the double-doors swing closed behind him and latch with an audible click.

“Let’s get me my promotion,” Tyler laughs, and Kauri can barely walk as they drag him towards the table.

#whump #medical whump #conditioning #brainwashing #brainwashed whumpee #broken whumpee #defiant whumpee #friendly whumper #distant whumper #lady whumper #scientist whump #science whump #electroshock #tw: shock treatment #tw: conditioning #tw: dehumanization #tw: pet whump #dehumanization #pet whump #captivity #lab whump #erase to control #you are gonna HATE these scientists guys #just hate 'em #tw: muzzling #muzzling #box boy #box boy universe #box boy multiverse

[patriciahaefeli]

A Cautionary Tale? A Love Story? You Decide

It's been one of those rollercoaster weeks, one that began with a great deal of pain, which I tried to ignore at first, so as not to ruin my 17- year old’s already Corona-compromised birthday party. At some point during our 5 p.m. family Zoom celebration, I quietly left the room and went upstairs to lie down, writhe in pain, get back up, bend over, moan, repeat. This continued through the night Monday – and at one point, I remember thinking that labor wasn’t this bad and that I should probably go to the emergency room. In this new world we’re in, that thought was quickly dismissed by one word: COVID. I paced the floor at 3 a.m., alternately moaning and then bopping my head and sort of softly singing what kept running through my head, which was the chorus of The Knack’s 1979 hit song, “My Sharona.” Only my version went “My Corona.” Yes, even while suffering, I’m clever that way. 

By Tuesday morning the pain had subsided. I was exhausted however, and slept throughout the day. “Tricia! Drink this! Jesus, she’s burning up.” It was the alarm in my husband’s voice that I responded to more than the command. I sat up, drank the water he was holding out to me, and when I caught my reflection in the mirror over the dresser I had the brief, feverously detached impression of someone who’d sat under a sun lamp for too long. Sun lamp, the words made me almost giggle out loud. Sun-lamp, sun-lamp, sun-lamp…Does anyone even know what that is anymore? A few hours later I had a virtual appointment with my regular GP, during which the decision was made for me to go to the office first thing Wednesday for a full exam. My instructions (my fever-addled brain again added the words “should I choose to accept them” - hehehe), for entering the building would come in the form a text. 

My office exam was efficient and thorough. Upon arrival, I called the office and someone met me at a side door. As we were both masked and gloved, we nodded and murmured muffled greetings. Two PAs and an MD palpated my tender abdomen while I stifled screams. They decided that I should have a C-T scan that day, with the expectation that the offending culprit was a kidney stone. As many radiology facilities are currently closed, it took a few hours for them to locate one that would take me. My scan took place at 4:30. I was the last patient of their day. 

 Fast forward to 6:30 p.m. Wednesday evening. I picked up the call, which was remarkable in itself because anyone who knows me knows how irritating it is that, a) my phone is always on silent mode, and, b) I rarely answer numbers I don’t recognize. It was another doctor from Vanguard, calling to let me know that my C-T scan showed no evidence of kidney stones – “Yay!” BUT, he cut in, it did show acute appendicitis. What I needed to do, he said, was to go directly to the nearest ER. 

So here’s where this story really begins, because I was about to get a reality check regarding the difference between the inconveniences of “social distancing” and quite literally, matters of life and death. For those of us who are shuffling around at home in our sweatpants, eating too much, complaining about the buffoonery of our President, laughing at all the funny memes, and who are, to one degree or another, COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS to the fact that health care workers do not have the luxury of ANY of that, here’s the newsflash: The Corona virus has virtually SHUT down normal operations for hospitals and surgical facilities, so if you’re also laughing in the face of social-distancing guidelines, and just can’t wrap your head around the possibility of contracting this deadly disease, know this too: If you break your arm, or your spouse has a heart attack, or your child’s strange rash won’t go away and you’re just really concerned, good luck. We are NOT in Kansas anymore, peeps. 

 I considered doing a bit of a negative a rant on the first hospital that I went to here, but perhaps that wouldn’t be fair. “The nearest ER” for me would have been another hospital, but due to their somewhat dubious reputation, we opted to go just a bit farther away. The best thing I can say about that experience was that the safety protocols to enter the ER were impressive. Picture the scene in E.T. where the Hazmat-suited guys from the space program find out about him and “invade” the house in a tunnel of white - then picture the people standing six feet apart outside of say, ShopRite, only these people don’t look so great. They’re kind of bent over, or swaying, or leaning on someone else. Then count your blessings that your gut hurts and you’re not bleeding out…or struggling to breathe. 

Three hours later, after they’d reviewed my scans and completed all of the necessary pre-op tests (blood work, EKG, urine analysis), I got the word that most of the ORs were being used as ICUs for COVID patients, and they were only doing “emergent” surgeries. They sent me home with massive doses of antibiotics, and a referral to see their staff general surgeon - outpatient. 

I figured they were right, too. Must not be very serious. I was doing well with that notion until the following morning, when I heard the barely concealed shock in the voice of my regular MD.  

“Did they see your scans?” his tone serving only to increase my anxiety. 

 “Yeah. But my appendix hasn’t exploded yet.” I said. 

 “Ah,” he sighed, “I know things are being handled differently in the ‘current environment,’ but last time I checked, acute appendicitis was emergent.” 

Okay, pay attention now, because here’s where it gets really interesting: See if you can answer his parting questions: 

 “Do you have a general surgeon? Preferably one with their own facility?” 

 So, do you? And if you do, are you sure they’re even open right now? I sure as hell didn’t (and the name they gave me at the hospital turned out to be for a doctor whose answering machine told me he was not seeing new patients). And the idea that it was now pretty much my problem to solve was a little intimidating – especially for someone who generally needs to be told that they’re sick (enough) or in (enough) pain to seek help—but that’s another story. Now that doctor, who I respect and like a lot, said he’d be trying to find me one, but that I should do my research as well. 

 My husband and I made a fairly long list of people/places to call, and split it. Those we were able to reach at all offered possible solutions to my dilemma, but each dead-ended pretty quickly. I focused on the task now, trying to ignore what it might mean that the ache in my belly seemed to be spreading down my right leg. 

As of this writing, I have yet to hear back from my regular GP and yet, here I sit, post-op, able to get this down mostly because of a Facebook message I sent to one of the nurses in the Belleville Public School district. The only real help I got came from her, a nurse, who responded immediately to an “in-boxed” message, and kept responding for the next hour, sending me the names and phone numbers of doctors (sometimes with their credentials!), links to possible facilities, and words of encouragement. She gave me her personal cell phone number and encouraged me to call it if I had questions and/or to let her know how it was going. I felt like she meant it, too. I also think she was responsible for the first in a series of serendipitous events that just may have saved my life. One of the names she gave me turned out to be the dad of one of my kid’s friends. 

 At that point, things happened pretty quickly. I called him (at home) and told him my situation. In a matter of 20 minutes, he had my scans and had booked  a time slot for me for same-day surgery at Clara Maass. He’s a high-energy, outgoing kind of guy, and although I’d stood on sidelines with him and his lovely wife at many a sports event, I don’t know him well enough, nor did I think it was appropriate to laugh out loud when he laid out the plan: “With everything going on, I just really want to do you – and get you the hell out of there!” 

So here I am, more grateful to him than I can possibly express and having some time to consider just how random and crazy and dangerous that whole situation was (turns out, my appendix had begun to perforate after all, and the real fun was just beginning) and how fortunate I am. 

 But the real heroes here - Oh, and God, aren’t we all a little sick of the “hero” thing? – well get over it, and listen up! From the minute I walked through the door of Clara Maass yesterday, my experience was the best it could possibly have been. The nurses! OMG the nurses - I was in pre-op for hours. Lucky as I was to have been squeezed in to an already crowded surgical schedule, the truth of the matter was that my presence had required a quick shifting of resources—stretchers and space and - nurses. My sudden appearance in the queue was inconvenient, possibly even annoying. And yet all of them, including the nurse who ran the OR, came by to check on me, to give me extra blankets, to chat with me, and laugh with me. A friend’s daughter-in-law, who is a nurse there, got a text from him and even she came from three floors below just to say hello and charm me with her Australian accent and tired-but-twinkling blue eyes. I swear, for me? The whole experience was a cross between a weirdly sterile spa stay, and – as mine all happened to be women - a girls’ sleepover with your best girlfriends—only these were women I'd just met (but they’d also pretty much seen me naked, so, there’s that…). 

Most of them were nearing the end of a 12-hour shift. As I lay there, relaxed and warm, reading and texting, they race-walked back and forth among those of us who waited, or were recovering. I lost count of how many times one of them asked me if I was okay, or if I needed something. They ate their dinners on the move, taking bites and then sprinting off, tearing off one set of gloves, putting on another. These people Do. Not. Sit. The sink was right near my bed, so I saw a lot of hand-washing traffic too, and a lot of red, chapped, over-sanitized hands. They spoke in soothing voices to those who were waiting, and possibly scared, and loud-enough voices for those emerging from the cloud of anesthesia to understand. Sometimes they shouted good-natured complaints to one another, or teased one another – and me, as when one started repacking those bags they give you for your clothes, amusement in her voice as she yelled, “What the hell did you do here, shove it all in like a little kid? Your purse is open – Maria, come over here and see this – she’s a mess!” Hahahaha! One came by and pointed to the cover of the book I was reading entitled “The Silent Patient”, and joked “That’s the kind we like!” 

I even began to wonder if what I was getting was “special treatment” reserved for those whose surgeries were personally called-in by the surgeon. Once he arrived, however, it was clear that not only did they not know he was the one who got me in, but they chided him in the same affectionate way. At a point, I said to one of them, “Doctors think they’re all that, but nurses really run the show don’t they?” She winked at me and elbowed me a little, “Like husbands, honey – they just think they’re in charge!” 

I lounged, for over four hours while they stood on what had to be tired feet, hands on hips as they talked to me, telling me which part of the hospital they’d spent the morning in, or where they were headed next in this crazy, all-hands-on-deck environment. We chatted about jobs and kids, and only when the topic of this deadly disease came up did the lack of words become conspicuous. Then it was all a mime of sad shakes of the head and downward glances. 

It occurs to me today that after all of this, I'm not sure I would recognize any of them tomorrow if I saw them on street – nor they me. Of course, we were all masked. But maybe I would – if I could see their eyes again. And I'm not exaggerating when I say that most of all, those eyes conveyed a profound kindness. And laughter, and concern, and compassion, and dedication—and a toughness that allows them to do it all. 

I'll tell you a secret: I am a person who often has a weird response to unexpected kindness - it makes me cry. I welled up more than once yesterday afternoon. I may have been just one of many for them – this is just what they do - but for me, a bond was made. I will always remember them. 

Make no mistake: it’s no hardship to be home in your sweatpants with your gel manicure looking a little ratchet, and your spouse and kids seeming more like houseguests who have overstayed their welcome. Today, I want you to feel really, really blessed and grateful, and if you’re like me, a generally healthy person who never really gave too much thought to the job that these people do, I hope I was able to convey just a little of it. 

That school nurse who rescued me put it this way: “I took an oath when I graduated just as physicians do. I have followed it for 28 years and it has never let me or my patients down.” That whole oath thing is good and important and all, but the heart behind it gives it grace. 

So, if you get an invitation to do one of those car processions where you beep your horn and cheer for the local health care workers as they go in to, or leave, work– get in your car and go. Or, just mail them each a check for a million dollars. Either way.

[xaphrin]

Kissing

Part Seven

“I needed a little air.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the ah… family.” Dick came up behind her quietly, rubbing the back of his neck as he gave her a sheepish smile. He shifted, as if uneasy, and looked away from her. “I wish I could say that I thought they might be a little better behaved, but… I knew better than to hold my breath. And, honestly, I didn’t think Damian would pull the swords out at the table. Alfred is usually pretty good about making sure he doesn’t bring them into the dining room unless absolutely necessary.”

Raven’s eyebrows knitted together, and she stared at him confused. “Is it ever absolutely necessary?”

“You’d be surprised.” He ran a hand down his face and looked up at the sky, letting go of a deep sigh that almost rattled his bones. “Sometimes I’m surprised. There’s a lot that goes on here that we don’t always talk about.” He let go of a short bark of laughter and stood next to her. “For very good reason, as I’m sure you could see tonight.”  

Raven pressed her lips together and bit back a laugh, the sound a soft kind of joyful. “It’s… fine? I like your family - as weird and raucous as they might be.”

Dick looked over at her and smiled, his expression softening. He leaned against the railing of the patio and looked out at the garden, his lips tugging to the side. “I’m glad you’re here though, it's nice to have the support.”

“Isn’t that what Tim and Babs and Steph are for?” Raven imagined Cass could get into her fair share of silly fights over mashed potatoes and gravy.

Dick snorted and shook his head. “They’re usually just as bad. Jason is notorious for getting on people’s nerves, including my own. It’s like his own, personal super power.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “You should have seen him when I brought Star over once. I thought I was going to murder him by the end of the night.”

Raven laughed and leaned against the railing, her eyes tracing the neatly trimmed grass as it sloped down the to tree line. Her heart seemed to still and her breath didn’t seem to come in such short, staccato bursts anymore. Every muscle in her body seemed to relax, and she felt strangely content - more than she had in a long time. It was the first time in the last eight months were the weight of losing her powers didn’t make her feel so utterly helpless. Being here, being able to be a part of something, talking to Babs, meeting Dick’s family… it made her feel like she was a part of something more. It made her feel like she had her life back to a place where she might be able to finally heal.

“You’re quiet.” Dick’s voice broke her thoughts, and she felt him look over at her. “Anything you want to share with the class?”

“Mm.” Raven rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t keep the smile off her lips. “I’m just glad you’re here, helping me through this. I know I haven’t exactly been the best patient. But you’ve handled all of this with such grace and dignity.”

Dick laughed, the sound a bright light in the middle of the darkness. “Are you actually thanking me for being your friend? Wow. I’d be hurt if I didn’t know your personality.”

Raven huffed out an annoyed breath and stared at him. “I’m being honest, you know. You didn’t have to upend your life to take care of me while I struggle through… whatever this is. It’s not like I expected you to.” She fidgeted for a moment. “You’re my friend, but I don’t ever want you to see me like a burden.”

Dick turned towards her, resting his hip against the railing. His eyes were dark, and he stared at her intently, as if trying to filter out what he should say to her. There was a long pause before he finally spoke. “You’re making it sound like I shouldn’t care about you?”

“No.” Raven sighed and met his eyes. “I’m saying you have duties elsewhere. I’m not stupid. I know that there were two new recruits coming in today.”

“Yeah? So? It’s not like Star and Vic and Gar can’t take care of them. As much as you give them flack, they’re pretty capable people.” Dick shrugged, surprisingly cavalier about the whole situation. For a moment Raven seemed to sense that it almost didn’t matter, because he had something more important to focus on, and that confused her even more. What was more important than the team?

“I don’t give them flack.” Okay, maybe she did a little, but it was always in good spirit. “I’m just pointing out that for being a fearless leader, you should at least be there to meet your fearless recruits. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yeah. I know. And I’ll do it when we get back.”  Dick cocked his head to the side and looked at her, the playfulness in his face bleeding out. The shadows returned to his stare, and his eyes searched her face, as if he was trying to read her without realizing it. “It’s not like the new recruits are going anywhere, and they’ll be there when we get back. But right now… I don’t want to think about the team. I want to think about you.”

Raven swallowed, her tongue coming out to wet her lips. “What about me?”

“You’re doing better?” It was a question, as if he wanted to confirm what he had seen over the last few weeks. He wanted to hear it from her own mouth, and Raven wanted to tell him.

She was healing, yes. But also Babs was teaching her how to be more useful, how to run ops when her team went out scouting and out on missions. Babs had practically loaded Raven down with tech and knowledge to the point that Raven didn’t feel so helpless, that she felt like she had a purpose with the team. Finding a purpose and a spot for herself with the team made everything feel better, it made her feel less of a burden and more like a support member. And even if Constantine found something to help Raven, the skills Babs had been teaching her made Raven feel like she had a whole new skillset. She felt even more useful than she had before.

“I am. Bab’s is teaching me a lot, and I feel like I’m able to help support you even if I can’t be there.” Raven felt a genuine smile pull at her lips, her heart felt aching and full, like she was going to burst with emotion at any moment. “I… I appreciate everything you’ve gone for me, Dick. Really. I know that this wasn’t exactly what you wanted to do with your leave from the team, but… I’m happy you did, and I’m grateful. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”  

Dick’s eyebrows knitted together, confused. “Who said this wasn’t what I wanted to do with my time away from the team? I suggested it.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to do it.” Raven shrugged and looked back out at the lawn, taking a deep breath. The scent of fresh-cut grass and late-summer dew filled her senses, and Raven felt her muscles release the tension she had been holding for months. It felt satisfying to be in a place where she wasn’t swallowed by her emotions, by the fear of being removed from the team, or by not being able to find her place in the world. It felt… good to be here, where she felt whole again.

“I wanted to. I care about you, Raven.”

Maybe it was the fact that he had repeated it so many times to her, or maybe it was that her nerves her settled enough that she finally heard the tone underneath his words, or maybe it was a hundred other things, but Raven heard it. She heard something that she hadn’t heard before, a gentleness to his voice, a caution that made them both pause, and she realized that when Dick told her he cared about her - it was more than that. It had always been more than that. Raven turned towards him and met his stare, her eyebrows knitting together.

Dick flushed, and he looked away with a soft laugh. “So… you figured it out, huh?” He shifted, eyes flicking to hers before looking away. “Only took you like a year.”

“Dick.”

Her mind was a montage of all the moments they shared together, their times alone in comfortable silence, their silly arguments and gentle pushing, their soft conversations when neither of them could sleep, coffee, tea, gentle touching that she just thought was friendly. Every thought and feeling and emotion was coursing through her right now, and it felt as though her body was aching and heavy. Raven felt like she was drowning in the realization that Dick liked her, and that she… she returned those feelings. Of course she did, how couldn’t she? How long had she felt this way without realizing it? How long had she caught herself staring at his profile, or laughing at his stupid puns, or helping him back up when he’d fallen so low? She’d been doing this for years, and not once had she realized the depth of her own emotions, or realize that Dick had felt the same way.

Raven swallowed, feeling like she wasn’t getting enough breath to her head. Or maybe too much. She wasn’t sure, human bodies were weird and her new emotions were practically wild inside her. “So… last night in the library…?”

He flushed, his fingers scratching at the line of his jaw. “Yeah… I… I was going to tell you and… ah… kiss you. If it’s okay, I mean. I wouldn’t want to make you feel like you had to do something you didn’t want to do.” He fidgeted, his fingers flexing before tightening into fists as he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Sorry, I’m being a little weird.”

“I think the situation calls for it.” Raven leaned closer, smelling the musky scent of his soap. It was heady, and somehow comforting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was working up the courage months ago, and… and then you lost your powers.” His shoulders fell and he glanced back into her face, looking sheepish again. “I didn’t want that burden on you when you were already punishing yourself so much, Rae. I wanted you to get to a point where you could heal, and I wanted to help you with that journey. Bleating out that I have deep feelings for you while you’re struggling with your own problems wasn’t exactly the best idea.” He paused and offered her a small smile. “I just wanted you to feel better, and feel safe… especially around me. I didn’t want you to think that what happened affected our relationship in any way.”

“I…” Raven found herself at a loss for words, and she just stared into his electric-blue stare, watching emotions flutter across his face. Her heart turned over, and she took another step closer, lifting a hand to his chest. She could feel his heart thunder under her touch, slamming against his ribs as she moved closer.

Dick looked down at her, his pupils blown wide, waiting.

They were both waiting, uncertain in this tender moment.

Raven took a shaky breath and lifted herself up on her toes, wondering when Dick had gotten so damn tall. “I… I think you should kiss me.”

His eyes widened for a moment, but he seemed to catch himself, and his lips tugged to the side in a half-smile. “Is that so?”

She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. “I mean… we’ve clearly been waiting for it, and it seems stupid to keep waiting any longer. We like each other right?”

Dick laughed and leaned down, letting his forehead rest against her own. His nose bumped against hers, and his breath feathered against her lips. Raven had never felt such intense anticipation before, like her heart was going to burst free if he didn’t kiss her now. Every nerve-ending inside her was lit up, waiting for him to do… something. Anything. Her fingers tightened in his cotton shirt and she leaned up, feeling his lips brush against her own.

“Can I tell you something?”

Raven really didn’t want to drag this out any longer, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to stop him from saying what he wanted to. If Dick wanted to say something, he would definitely say it. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat, urging him to get it over with.

“Those dance classes are making your ass look amazing.”

Her face fell, and Raven moved to pull back, but Dick caught her lips in a soft kiss and suddenly nothing else really mattered.  

#robrae #robrae week 2019 #raven #robin #robraeweek2019 #this is the last part of this story #so the rest of the week is going to be figuring out how they got from chapter one to here #thank you for putting up with me

[alphawave-writes]

Evil actions and good intentions Chapter 10: ‘I need a hero’

Synopsis: Harold and Sigma meet the rest of the newly reformed Overwatch and make some friends. Harold and Winston finally reunite and share a tender moment as father and son.

Read it here or find it on AO3. If you like Sigrold, join the Sigrold discord server. I’ll also be participating in #Sigroldweek. 

Once upon a time, Harold got a job offer at Overwatch. Back in its prime, they had been interested in his work on respirocytes. But Lucheng Interstellar gave him a better job, and the position was filled by someone else, though he still kept in contact just in case they still had a job for him when the Lunar Ops program was finished. In another life, he might have found a cushy job as a researcher with Overwatch, traveling the world, perhaps with Winston by his side. In another life, he might have proposed to Siebren, or even married him outright, and Winston will be with them, and the three of them will live together in a comfy home of their own. But life, or perhaps the universe, had other plans.

He doesn’t know why that’s the first thought to filter into his head when he exits the airship and takes in the sprawling Overwatch base. Buildings are carved into the rock, obscuring it from sight. Night time has fallen, making the base look desolate and abandoned, but as Tracer leads them through, he sees the slow trickle of life and habitation. An offering near the cliffside to a deity, leftover Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters, tracks on the gravel made from footsteps and tires.

Tracer is a far more eager guide compared to Satya, even if she often diverts on irrelevant tangents. She talks about the history of the place, her own past in this very base, as well as some humerous anecdotes about the other Overwatch agents. Every now and then she points out buildings that she thinks are important to note. The hangers where everybody’s rooms shall be, the communal kitchen, the washhouse with the ‘nice showers’, and of course Winston’s lab. Whenever she mentions Winston, she makes a point of glancing back to Harold with a knowing little smirk. She’s looking for a reaction. Harold has absolutely no idea if he’s giving the right one or not.

Satya is quiet at the back of the group, keen eyes taking careful notes of every little detail. She speaks up only to clarify on Tracer’s ramblings, confirming directions and instructions for her stay here. Sometime during the flight she’s somewhat accepted that she is now in need of refuge. Whether she wants to be a hero, that’s another thing entirely.

Siebren doesn’t speak at all during the tour. His gaze is up to the moon. Harold can’t help but let his eyes drift up to the celestial body hanging in the sky. The sky is clear and the light pollution is minimal, but the sparkling stars don’t hold a candle to the light of the moon. A wash of confusing emotions bubbles up to the surface as he stares at the lunar surface, gazing upon the lunar craters and moutains, many of which he’d personally explored.

“Do you miss it? The moon?” Siebren asks quietly when Tracer’s not paying attention.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t. It’s always up there, lighting the night sky. A reminder of my mistakes.”

Siebren frowns. “It’s not your fault, what happened. Your colleagues were idiots.”

“Sure. So am I.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Siebren says softly before straightening his posture. “You’re incredibly reckless. Nagging. Inappropriate at the worst of times—”

“—OK, I get it,” Harold laughs.

“—short-sighted, and far too trusting, but you’re not an idiot. Never have been in all the years I’ve known you.”

Harold smiles despite himself. It's an abysmal effort to cheer him up, but Siebren is trying his hardest, and he can't help but appreciate it. “I hope good-looking is on that list.”

Siebren smirks. “Do you really want to know?”

Harold punches Siebren lightly on the shoulder, shaking his head. The events of a few hours past feel so long ago, and Siebren is acting like nothing happened. Knowing how fragile Siebren is now, it should comfort Harold that he’s laughing and talking normally, and yet it doesn’t. There are words left unsaid, stories left untold. Siebren hides it well, but his jaw is set tight and his shoulders are tense. Mentally, he’s in control. Emotionally, that’s harder to say.

Harold waits for Tracer to begin talking before he makes his move. “That was a black hole earlier,” he says.

“Yes,” Siebren utters, looking uncomfortable.

“I heard the noises. The universe’s melody, as you called it.” He pauses before admitting, quieter, “It’s terrifying.”

Siebren grimaces. “I know.”

Harold frowns. “How many lives did you take?”

“Far too many to count,” Siebren says. “I’d rather not kill, but it's a necessary evil in my life now. I cannot have any regrets.”

Harold remembers the lifeless body of Tempest Williams stacked amongst the other guards and feels sick to his stomach. “I’m not like you then.”

“It gets easier over time, the killing. You learn to accept it. Death is inevitable and life can be cut short. Although,” Siebren ducks his head, “I was not necessarily in control when I first took a man’s life. Even now, it's easy to convince myself it's all for the sake of research.”

Harold has suspected this for some time. He isn’t surprised, but it doesn’t comfort him to know that Siebren has lost his mind before and that Talon manipulated him to kill when he was in that fragile state. It explains why all the Talon staff feared Siebren. In his mind’s eye he sees himself in that fateful moment last night when he lost control himself, eyes wild and crazed, his attacks bloodthirsty and savage like an animal. In a way, it’s worse than Siebren, because he doesn’t have an excuse to defend his actions. He let his emotions get the better of him, clouding his vision. He is the one who killed those people. He’s a murderer.

Siebren's hand goes up to his shoulder, rubbing small circles. Harold wants to lean his head onto Siebren’s shoulder and press his lips into his neck and forget about all the atrocities they have just committed, but he knows this is the extent of Siebren’s comfort. Siebren has a point, and he will not back down from it.

“I don’t want to get used to killing,” Harold whispers.

Siebren continues rubbing, his touch light. “I know you don’t. But you will. You’ll have to if you want to survive, and I know you can. You have gotten so far by yourself.”

Harold smiles bittersweetly. “Still, if only I can avoid it.”

“You’re a grown man, Harold. I won’t shield you from the world, but I will support you.” Then, with a smirk, “I’ll always be here for you.”

Harold feels a tap at his hip and sees Siebren’s knuckles grazing the fabric. He smiles softly to himself as his fingers entwine with Siebren’s, squeezing softly as they continue their walk.

Tracer leads them to an unassuming building a few stories high. Lights and noises can be seen from the tinted windows above. Harold holds his breath as Tracer goes through the main doors and blinks within. His eyes shut rapidly as a burst of light fills the large room.

Harold has to admit, of all the things he expected when first arriving at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, a party wasn’t one of them.

The place is a laboratory filled with tools, though they have all been shoved to the side away from view. There’s a long table full of foods and drinks, all with a little piece of paper to tell people what it is, who made it, as well as any allergy warnings. Music is playing from an old-fashioned radio. Many are partnered in twos and threes, conversing pleasantly to one another. Soon as they enter, all the people within turn their heads to them, smiles on their faces. To Harold’s disappointment, he doesn’t see Winston.

“Who are your friends?” A rather tall and muscular man with white hair asks with a teasing tone in his voice.

“New guys here to hang with us for a bit. Got into a bit of a scrap to save them.” Tracer turns towards them and grins. “Should’ve seen us, we were fighting Talon with the best of them.”

“Then they are comrades.” From the table behind, the tall muscular man grabs a jug of beer and lifts it up.

That’s enough to get the small crowd to approach them. In an instant the three of them are surrounded on all sides by friendly faces. Tracer giggles lightly to herself while she raids the buffet table.

The first to greet them is the large, muscular man, flanked on either side by an equally muscular young woman and a bearded dwarf. All three of their eyes glance down to Siebren’s feet, floating a foot off the ground. They don’t seem to be frightened. In fact, they seem more intrigued than anything.

“All sorts of fancy schmancy tech nowadays,” the dwarf scratches his head.

“What’s wrong, old friend? Have you lost your touch?”

“My ‘touch’ can make your armour break faster than a boiling frog in a cauldron!”

“It’s not ‘technology’,” Siebren utters. “I have just harnessed gravity.”

The two old friends look at each other incredulously and shrug. The bigger man is quick to put a hand out. “Reinhardt Wilhelm.”

“Torbjörn Lindholm,” the dwarf says, putting his own hand out.

Siebren stares at the hand for just a second before shaking both firmly. “Sigma,” he says.

“Dr. Siebren de Kuiper,” Harold corrects, turning to Siebren. “Talon used to call him Sigma. But you don’t have to use that name anymore.”

He looks like he’s about to object but Reinhardt has already clasped Siebren on the shoulder. “So they have enslaved you, but you escaped? How dreadful they must be, to strip a man of his identity.” His expression suddenly goes dark. “You were not the first to get pulled into their ranks. We lost one of our own that way.”

Harold almost thinks Siebren might set the record straight but instead he keeps his mouth shut. As if sensing Siebren’s discomfort, the two men launch into a variety of anecdotal stories about each other. Reinhardt was once a knight for the German Crusaders during the Omnic War, while Torbjörn was a member of the Ironclad Guild. He tries to play it off as a cool secret society, but Reinhardt clarifies that it was just a very ostentatious name for a group of ragtag engineers. The two had been best friends for a very long time, to the point that Reinhardt was given the honour of naming Torbjörn’s first child. At this, Brigitte, who reveals her identity as the eldest daughter, begins to pick holes at her father and godfather’s stories, correcting them on the more fantastical elements.

Harold watches as Siebren falls securely into conversation. He mentions his own work as an astrophysicist, his early life growing up and working in Den Haag and the very briefest account of the ISS accident that gave him his gravitic powers. He does not talk about his mental health or what he did in Talon, which is probably for the best. It will inevitably sour the party mood. Siebren joins in on the light teasing shared between the family, making fast friends with Reinhardt and Torbjörn and Brigitte. It’s the first time he’s looked at ease since their escape, Harold notices. After today’s events, he never thought he’d see that smile again. He’s glad he’s been proven wrong.

“You are a man of strong caliber, are you not?” Reinhardt asks Siebren.

“I should think so,” Siebren utters.

“Oh no,” Brigitte sighs.

“Then why not a friendly little challenge between friends? Brigitte, bring us some beer.”

“Not a drinking contest, Reinhardt.”

“It’s hard enough lugging you around, you big oaf, but I ain’t lugging the two of you,” Torbjörn mutters.

“What’s wrong?” Reinhardt smirks at Siebren. “You chicken?”

Harold silently groans as Siebren stiffens visibly. With the markings of a man who very much doesn’t like it when someone attacks his inflated ego, Siebren stretches his hand out and the two men shake.

“This is not going to end well, is it?” Brigitte murmurs under her breath.

“Nope,” Harold sighs. He knows from many a post-conference pub crawl that Siebren, despite his size, is a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Harold is a heavyweight when it comes to drinking, but he never liked the taste of alcohol enough to drink outside of special occasions. Certainly not enough to know how many drinks is his limit.

While everybody gets a table cleared for the drinking contest, Harold walks over to the buffet table and grabs a small plate. He fills it up with as much food as the small paper plate can hold. He’s got spring rolls and samosas and moon pies that look suspiciously similar to the ones he made back on Horizon, and is pleasantly surprised to find out that Winston made them himself. Food in hand, he finds a corner of the room and munches quietly, watching the small crowd. Tracer’s having a dance party with a shorter, tan man on rollerskates near the radio. On the second floor, near the staircase, Satya is watching the man with narrowed eyes. The look in her eyes is knowing and distrustful, and Harold thinks he sees the same look in the man’s eyes whenever their stares connect, but they don’t say a word to each other. A few minutes later, Brigitte breaks away from her father to chat with Satya. She hides it well, but Harold can see the relief flood Satya’s body.

It’s an organization, but it feels more than that, Harold thinks. These people from different walks of life move and talk to one another like they’re friends. Suddenly Winston’s comment that Overwatch is his family makes a lot more sense. They have all bonded over disaster and war, and those bonds are stronger than gravity.

Harold can only hope this family will accept him.

From the corner of his eye he spies a Chinese woman with glasses approach him. She looks familiar, but where from he cannot place. In her hand is a plate full of Chinese dumplings.

“You do look like the photos, Dr. Winston,” she comments.

“I’m sorry?”

“Winston, my friend. N-not you, Dr. Winston,” she stumbles. “He’s got a photo of him with you. The two of you are so cute!” Seeing his confusion, she smiles shyly. “Sorry. You may not know me. I’m Mei-ling Zhou, but you can call me Mei.”

“Oh, I remember. You were in the same team as Dr. Adams. Part of Overwatch’s Ecopoint project, right?”

Mei frowns deeply, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Harold knows that look. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

She nods quietly. “We got into a blizzard in Antarctica. The cryostasis machine malfunctioned for everybody except myself.”

Harold cannot help but grimace. He’s missed a lot about the world, it seems. He’d worked together with Julian Adams, right before he got the job with Lucheng Interstellar, a long while before he will meet Siebren. Silently, he gives a soft prayer for Adams and his family, wherever they may be.

Harold takes his time to stare at the crowd and the unfamiliar surroundings. After a few seconds, he says, “I don’t see Winston.”

“He’s a bit nervous about meeting you, so he left. I’m not sure why though, this party is to celebrate him and all he’s done for us.” She points at Tracer, who’s taken a break from dancing to commentate on the drinking contest. As Harold suspects, Siebren is losing badly. “Lena got into a really bad accident. She was like a literal ghost, all see-through, disappearing for months and then reappearing. ‘Chronally displaced’, they called it. But Winston made a device so she can be with us here in the present, and now she can zip through time. She’s so cool!”

So Winston’s an Overwatch agent and an inventor, Harold thinks. Another surge of pride fills his lungs. “I assume you know him through Overwatch?”

“No, we only met recently, but he is very lovely and very kind.” She giggles behind her hand. “You raised him well.”

Harold chuckles as he rubs the back of his head. “I suppose I did.”

"He misses you. Every time I see him, he’s always looking at a photo of you.” She gives a shy smile and adds, “He hasn’t said much, but I think he’s glad you’re safe.”

Harold stares at his surroundings, warm but unfamiliar, a fusion of the past and present and future. Winston’s stories make up the particles of these stony cliffs and worn workbenches Harold’s missed so many of them. He wants to learn them, one by one. He wants to make up for lost time. “You don’t…happen to know where he is?”

Mei just smiles and points at the main hangar doors. “Check the cliffs outside. He likes sitting there to think.”

Harold gives her a friendly goodbye, locates Siebren (who fortunately did not partake in Reinhardt’s challenge and is still sober) and together they head away from the party.

It’s hard to find out what Mei meant by the cliffs, because most of the area outside the HQ is made of steep cliffs. The cool evening wind whips at them, a stark contrast to the warm levity of the party. Harold's worried he might have to rely on the nanobots to see in the darkness, but the moon shines brightly above their heads, lighting the way.

They make their way down the stone steps and follow the path between the buildings. It’s there that they find Winston, sitting at the edge of the cliff between two smaller buildings, gazing forlornly at something in his hands. Harold pauses in his steps, his breath catching in his throat as he watches Winston’s silent form. Winston is here, looking exactly the same as he remembered, only more mature. The white bodysuit hides most of his fur,

He turns to Siebren, who only stares at him. Siebren offers his hand to Harold and he squeezes it lightly before finally approaching Winston. Harold sits beside him, not saying a word. Winston doesn’t appear to react, but Harold can feel those sunflower irises scan him, looking for any sign that he is an imposter or a ghost or a figment of his imagination. Something to prove he's not real.

Harold glances at the photo and recognizes it almost immediately. It’s one that Winston took when he was a child, the first one he ever took, albeit by accident. Harold was working in the lab with Hammond when Winston took the picture. Seeing his younger self smiling politely into the camera, seeing baby Winston play eagerly with his glasses, it sends a familiar ache of affection to his chest.

“Where’d you get that photo?” Harold whispers.

“The camera,” Winston replies, just as quiet. “I grabbed as many spare pictures I could find, and then I downloaded the rest from the camera before I came to Earth.” He smiles bittersweetly at the photo. “I was so young.”

“We both were.”

Winston blows air out of his large nostrils. “You were in your forties.”

“I’m still young, I was just even younger back then.”

Slowly, he grabs one end of the photo and pulls it towards him. He can feel Winston’s fur on his arm beneath the white bodysuit and the body heat radiating. For a second, Winston stiffens, and Harold worries if perhaps he’s gone too fast, but then there’s an arm wrapping around his back. He turns to see Winston’s eyes, as wide and beautiful as the moon in the sky.

“I miss you,” Harold admits. “Sorry I haven’t been here for you all these years.”

Winston shakes his head softly. “It’s fine. I had family to take care of me when you were gone.”

“Overwatch, huh?”

“Yeah,” Winston chuckles quietly for a few seconds. He stares at the photo and smiles. “I guess I’m lucky then,” Winston says, finally gazing upon Harold. “I’ve got two families now.”

Harold’s vision begins to blur and he realizes that tears are forming in his eyes. He huffs as he wipes them away with his arm, which he has only just realized is still red from when he was strapped to the bed. He’s not sure if it’s the sea wind or the new setting or the moon above his head, but Oasis already feels like a lifetime away. Winston’s gazing upon him with unspoken affection.

Before he can say anything, the air shifts as Siebren floats over.

Harold patted the ground next to him. “Join us,” he says.

“I shouldn’t,” Siebren starts, but Harold is already standing up and dragging him to the cliff edge. With a roll of his eyes and a smirk of his lips, Siebren waves his hand. Rocks from the cliff roll up and stack together to create a reclining chair for Siebren to lie down on.

“And you thought me seeing in the dark was special.”

“Off-target effects,” Siebren says in an annoyingly inaccurate representation of Harold’s voice.

Winston’s gaze lingers between the two older men, a soft look of understanding falling on his face. He chuckles deeply. “You two haven’t changed.”

Harold shares a look with Siebren. “We haven’t, have we?”

Siebren smiles bashfully but earnestly. “Speak for yourself.”

The three of them sit there and watch the stars as they glitter in the ebony expanse of space. They’re content to admire for afar, but old habits die hard, and soon Harold’s talking about the stories behind the constellations. Siebren joins in about the more scientific fact about star systems while Winston discusses the planets in great detail. For one brief moment, they’re just enjoying the present together, without fear or worry about the past or the present. They’re a family, reunited at last.

Harold doesn’t hear Siebren slip away, leaving him alone with Winston. His eyes are glued to the moon, pale and beautiful despite all the tragedy that bathes its surface. He wonders briefly if Chang’e, the goddess of the moon, saw the rebellion. Who would she mourn more? The humans who lost their lives, or the gorillas who endured so much suffering?

“You’re together with Dr. de Kuiper, right?” Winston asks suddenly.

Harold blushes despite himself. “Despite the universe being hellbent on keeping me buried in the ground? Yes.”

“But you were gone for a decade. Everybody thought you were dead. How did you find each other again?”

“Siebren found me. Or rather, Talon found me. I was called a lot of things while I was stuck on the moon. Jade Rabbit, Specimen: 31, a whole bunch of expletives, you name it.” He stares at the rushing waves far beneath his feet. “I joined Talon partly because Siebren was in their ranks, and partly because I didn’t know better. I think it’s the same with Siebren, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

“After all this time, you still loved each other?”

“I’m not sure if we still loved each other. I think we were relieved to have a familiar face at first. But then we fell into old habits.” Harold recalls the first fleeting kiss he pressed onto Siebren’s face after Tempest’s first attack and smiles. “Guess it’s more accurate to say an old flame got rekindled.”

Winston nods thoughtfully. “I know the feeling. Sounds similar to how I feel right now.”

Harold turns to Winston and frowns. “How do you feel about me being here?”

“I don’t know,” Winston admits. “A bit nervous, I suppose.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“About how I feel about our relationship. About the moon, and the others back on Horizon…and you.”

The waves beat against the rocky face of the cliff, reflecting the light of the night sky. Harold wonders right then and there what will happen if he jumps. From this height, the impact would normally kill him, but he’s not a normal man anymore. Will the nanobots protect him, or will it all be futile? Will Winston and Siebren cry over him if he dies for real this time?

Winston turns his head sharply away in embarrassment. “S-sorry. D-don’t take it the wrong way, I am happy that you’re here and that you’re alive. Heh. I’m…really glad you’re alive, actually, but…um…”

“It’s fine, champ. The past is the past. We choose whether or not we look back upon it for guidance.” Harold braves a small smile. “Whatever you want me to be, I’ll always be here to support you.”

Winston smiles bashfully to himself. He takes the glasses off his face and stares at them for a few seconds. Harold just looks at the frames, an identical copy to his previous pair, caressed in Winston’s gorilla hands like they’re the most precious thing in the world. He turns to Harold, smiles enigmatically, then slips them back on.

His words are quiet against the thundering waves and the howling winds, but to Harold, they’re crystal clear and perfect pitch.

“I really did miss you,” Winston whispers.

Harold wraps his arm around Winston’s shoulder and squeezes tightly. “So did I, buddy. So did I."

They stare at the ocean until they’re shivering from the cold. They stand up and walk together back to the party, side by side. There’s still nervous smiles shared, still a bit of fragile hesitation, but it feels like the walls between them have crumbled. They’ve become just a bit closer. He doesn’t even realise that his arm is still around Winston’s shoulder until he gets back to the party.

The light atmosphere is gone. The music has long stopped and there is no chatter or banter. Everyone’s attention is drawn up to a hologram, their faces unreadable. Harold stares at the hologram, where a news presenter, Olympia Shaw, stands in front of a very familiar building.

“We’re just outside Lucheng Interstellar’s headquarters here in Lijiang, where they have just made the announcement that Dr. Harold Winston is still up on Horizon One.”

At a press conference, the new director of Lucheng Interstellar stands amidst a small crowd of reporters. Harold doesn’t recognize the man, even when his name pops up. He smiles professionally into the camera.

“It’s absolutely gut-wrenching to lose one of our own, but now we have the chance to bring one of our scientists back home. If we are able to rescue Dr. Winston, not only will we know more about the tragic accident that cut communications with the lunar base, but we will also gain valuable data on human colonization in space. We might learn more about how humans will be able to adapt to live on Mars.”

Olympia Shaw shows the formal picture of Harold taken from his badge on the screen as she discusses Harold’s research and role on Horizon, as well as giving a vague generalization of the rebellion. It’s weird to hear someone talk about him like this, like he’s a celebrity of the utmost importance.

Tempest’s picture pops up briefly as the director discusses her ‘untimely’ death. The news claims it’s a sudden heart attack. Harold knows better.

The footage cuts back to the conference with the director, flanked on both sides by his investors. “We will be launching a shuttle as soon as possible. Our primary goal is to bring Dr. Winston back down to Earth safely and rehabilitate him if needed.”

He says more, but no one is concentrating on his words anymore. They’re all staring at the people flanked by his side. Moira and Sanjay stand a fair bit away from him, both dressed in sharp suits. He feels eyes latch onto his body, one by one. Suddenly his throat feels dry.

“Why are they saying you’re still on Horizon?” Tracer asks.

“My tracker should be on my old lab coat there, but that can’t be it. Dr. O’Deorain and Sanjay Korpal know I’m alive.”

Winston frowns gravely. “What are they planning?”

“The research,” Siebren utters, his expression dark. “Mr. Korpal was talking about Dr. Winston’s work with interest. The nanobots he has created can give a man temporary invulnerability. Talon hopes to use it to create the ultimate living weapon, an invincible machine of death.”

“We know Talon has already mastered mind control techniques, and if Dr. O’Deorain really is a member of Talon as our intel suggests, who knows what technology they have?” Winston shakes his head. “If it’s just technology and research they want, it still doesn’t explain why they’re saying he’s in space when he’s right here.”

“It’s blackmail,” Harold says grimly. He feels the eyes on his body once again but he tries to shake the feeling away. “They have part of my research, but not all of it. I’ve only wrote about improvements, not the actual design itself. And the original design is stored on Horizon’s computers. If they get their hands on it, combined with my notes, they can recreate it. Get the invincible soldiers they’ve always wanted.”

“It’s an excuse to go back up there,” Winston gasps. “If this means what I think it means, we have to stop them.”

“How?” Harold asks.

Winston smirks as he adjusts his glasses. “You just leave that to us.”

All around Harold, the Overwatch members rally together, faces bright and fierce in determination. They’ve huddled around Winston, looking up to him as their leader, but more than that they are united by a single cause. That’s the thing that unites these disparate people and personalities together, Harold realises. They all want to do good by the world. They are all heroes.

It’s always been Harold’s dream to change the world for the better, but so far he’s just sent it hurling faster into chaos and destruction. But with these people, this new Overwatch, maybe he finally has an opportunity to make amends. Maybe this is why he is here. To right his wrongs. To make a difference.

To be a hero.

He clasps Winston tightly on the shoulder. He closes his eyes for a second to compose himself, and when he opens them, he’s sure there’s fire and gold in his gaze. His voice is unwavering and strong. “Never accept the world as it appears to be. Dare to see it for what it could be.”

Winston’s eyes glitter. Small gasps escape from a few of the others around them. “Does that mean…? Are you…?”

Harold smiles. “I’m helping you out, hero. Wherever, however I can.”

#Overwatch #Sigma #Siebren de Kuiper #Harold Winston #Sigrold #Observant fans of mine will probably recognise those two lines at the end of the read-more as something I wrote in a previous tumblr post #This is definitely a breather chapter compared to the previous ones #Which is good because these space dads NEED to breathe #If you like it don't forget to reblog because that does help me out

[completeoveranalysis]

TRC Translation Notes Volume 20 Part 1 (Chapters 150 - 156)

Here we are again with some excellent translation notes about the first part of Volume 20, all from the wonderful @giniroangou.

Highlights Include: Tube mysteries solved!, Fai’s dramatics actually making sense, wonderful explanations of Fai’s lies, Yuuko Queen of sass, Watanuki will change the future!, a touching Lava Lamp moment, and oh god the Fai flashback gets worse?

Chapter 150

p.9 - Yuuko is still talking about a one-in-two chance here, not two-in-one. A couple of the speech bubbles are also swapped around - first she explains the body/soul separation, then the two worlds Sakura has gone to.

p.12 - Kurogane’s words to Fai are even more straight-forward in the original text. Just: “Don’t hurt anyone else with that sword. Including yourself.”

p.18 - Mokona and Yuuko aren’t talking about the store being different here, they’re saying that the inside of the tube is not in the same place as the store.

p.19 - An alternate translation for the dream world Sakura went to could be “The World of ‘Dreams’.” Once again for clarification, this is NOT in reference to Yuuko’s shop - the inside and outside of that tube are in different places.

p.20 - “My man Lantis” is BEAUTIFUL and I wouldn’t change a thing about it, but unfortunately it’s much less funny in Japanese. Eagle says “uchi no Lantis” which is basically like “our Lantis” - it’s an expression that indicates someone as part of the speaker’s in-group, so it can be used for a family member, a member of an organization, etc.

Lantis doesn’t actually say “I saw the future,” just “I had a dream,” though they would amount to the same thing.

p.24 - I would translate Fai’s line as, “Sakura-chan knew what I was lying about.” It’s not that she knew he was lying but that she knew the truth behind it.

Chapter 151

p.26 - This is a continuation of Fai’s final line from the previous chapter, so the lie Sakura knew about was that Fai knew one of her feathers was in Celes. Also, they dropped the honorific in the translation but Fai is still saying “Sakura-chan.”

p.28 - Fai is saying here that he found out at Yuuko’s shop that Sakura and Syaoran were searching for the feathers but he never told them about the one used to make Chii.

p.29 - It’s obvious from the flashback, but Syaoran is talking about what happened when they all arrived in the first world they were sent to (by Yuuko not Yukito.)

p.30 - Mokona isn’t talking in general terms, but saying specifically that from the moment she awoke at Yuuko’s shop she could sense a feather there but couldn’t tell who in the group had it.

Fai then says to Lava Lamp, “That’s why you kept your distance from me.”

Again, this is not really about Fai lying in general but about the specific lies people around him were already aware of. He’s basically saying to Yuuko, “You knew what some of my other lies were too, didn’t you?”

p.33 - Fai refers to his wish to go with the group as something that was devised/planned - it’s the same word they’ve used previously to talk about Fei Wang arranging for all of them to go on this journey, so I’d assume that’s what he’s referencing here.

p.34 - Kurogane asks why Sakura wanted to go into the tube, not why she’s living there.

p.39 - Slight adjustment: Fai’s saying he wouldn’t mind gouging out his eye if he could, but he can’t because losing all his magic along with both eyes would probably kill him and he can’t die yet.

Chapter 152

p.45 - In case it wasn’t clear, Kurogane is connecting his punch here with his line from the previous chapter about punching Sakura.

p.46 - Yuuko’s criticism of Kurogane after he says, “Hey, Witch,” is much more entertaining in the Japanese version. She says, “On top of being beyond rude, there isn’t a shred of taste in the way you address me.” Kurogane’s comeback is the ever-eloquent, “Shut up.”

p.47 - It’s not actually the meeting between Sakura and Watanuki that Yuuko says will trigger another change to the future, but Watanuki himself.

p.48 - I would change Yuuko’s line about Watanuki vanishing to, “Watanuki hasn’t vanished either” (presumably in addition to Sakura’s soul not having vanished.) Then she says that “for now” Watanuki’s identity has nothing to do with them. It’s an ongoing state that has the potential to change in the future.

p.50 - Lava Lamp says nothing about Fei Wang slicing out Sakura’s memories - he’s saying that Fei Wang wants her body with the dimensional memories etched into it. (This isn’t new information btw - Yuuko already explained it to the group back in Acid Tokyo.)

p.51 - We have another “Syaoran” with quotation marks from Mokona here.

p.52 - Let’s re-translate Lava Lamp’s lines here because they came out super awkward: “The reason I didn’t say anything despite what I knew was that Sakura… the Princess trusted you. Even if you’d lied, the Princess trusted you, lies and all.”

p.53 - Lava Lamp only speaks for himself here; he specifically says “I’m going to trust you too.”

p.57 - Again, we have “Syaoran” in quote marks, this time from Fei Wang. I’m sure everyone’s tired of me pointing these out, so just assume the quotation marks should be there from now on unless I say otherwise. And the translators are very inconsistent with this, but Lava Lamp’s relationship to Clow Reed has so far only ever been denoted with the word “chisuji”/血筋. He’s part of Clow’s lineage, but we don’t know anything beyond that.

Chapter 153

p.62 - Eagle specifically says that he’s offering the clothing as an apology for keeping silent.

p.63 - Kurogane could just be talking about Fei Wang watching them - he doesn’t specify whether it’s a single other person or multiple other people.

p.76 - More precisely, Eagle says here that Lantis lying would have come to nothing.

Yuuko says that the one Sakura saw being “stabbed” in her vision was Lava Lamp. The implication matches what Fei Wang was talking about in the previous chapter - that Sakura put herself in Lava Lamp’s place.

Chapter 154

p.84 - Lava Lamp refers to Sakura’s feathers as both her memories and her heart (“kokoro”), furthering the parallel with Syaoran.

Chapter 155

p.101 - This is actually a complete sentence in Japanese. It contains the same information as the translated version, but since pronouns aren’t necessary it stands on its own and can be assumed to mean, “You killed me.” It’s also written entirely in katakana, which can indicate stilted speech and here I think is meant to just drive home how horrific this is.

p.102-103 - I can see why the translator struggled a bit with these pages because a lot of the Valerian titles are unconventional. The twins’ father is the “teiou” written with the characters for “younger brother” and “king” (弟王), and the other ruler is the “kyouou” written with the characters for “older brother” and “king” (兄王). A little later it’s clarified that the “kyouou” is the country’s king/emperor - the reading of the word is “ou” meaning “king” but the kanji is 皇 meaning “emperor.” The twins’ mother is referred to as “okisaki,” (御妃) which can refer to an empress, a queen, or a princess consort. The twins themselves are called “koushi” (皇子), meaning “imperial prince(s).” It’s kind of hard to tell from all of this what the best representation of these terms would be in English, but I would guess that this is intended to be an imperial family, with either the younger brother next in line to inherit the throne if the older brother has no children or with dual rulers who were reduced to a single ruler once one of them died.

Whatever the case, as has already been explained, the twins’ parents both died and their fate was left in the hands of their uncle (their father’s older brother and the current ruler of the country.) Specific to the official translation, the “elder prince” refers to their uncle the kyouou, and “his majesty” who passed away is their father the teiou. The “royal consort” who killed herself is their mother.

I also want to point out that in this chapter we see the return of the term “fukou,” which we’ve seen Fai use in Acid Tokyo and Himawari use to discuss her effect on the people around her. The official translation often equates this word to unhappiness but as I’ve said before, I think it would be better represented as “misfortune.” Where this translation says that the twins’ mother committed suicide because “life held no joy anymore” I would interpret it as “because she’d brought such misfortune into the world.” Just keep in mind that generally when words like “unhappiness” and “sorrow” pop up in this part of the story, that’s what they’re translated from. Another word that gets used a few times in reference to the twins is “kyouchou” (凶兆), meaning “evil omen.”

p.104 - Though the implied concern here could be the twins taking the throne, the original text just refers to them one day surpassing their uncle’s power.

p.108 - “And the people shall be happy” isn’t necessarily saying that the people are going to be happy about this situation, just that the king believes enclosing the twins in a bubble of their own misery is going to allow the people to live happy/blessed lives. You could probably interpret the line either way though.

p.110 - The king doesn’t just say that one of the twins must die to get out of this situation, but that one must kill the other.

Chapter 156

p.136 - I had left a comment saying the king was telling the twins to pay for their sins rather than atone, but I’m taking that back! There are two words that sound the same when spoken (“aganau”), but depending on the kanji they’re written with one means “to pay for” (購う) and the other means “to atone for” (贖う). In this case, the one used is “atone.” Still horrific though!

That wraps it up for now. I am really regretting doing this by page numbers with all the black pages coming up, but otherwise thrilled to be back in the game! I hope all my babbling has been somewhat informative and as always, please remember that I can make mistakes too so I am always open to questions, suggestions, corrections, etc.

#the clarity is GOLDEN and I love every single one of these notes #but OH DEAR GOD the twins have to do what? #at least the mother's motivation makes more sense now too #goodness #giniroangou #who is the actual best #liveblogging the reservoir chronicle #tsubasa #vol 150 #vol 151 #vol 152 #vol 153 #vol 154 #vol 155 #vol 156

[iloveyoupittsburghpirates-blog]

You Have Lost Me, Pittsburgh Pirates

My Dearest Pittsburgh Pirates,

I should be much more upset right now. This week had the ability to be the worst one in recent memory until you escaped with a win yesterday. Before that, this was one of the most embarrassing weeks to be a Pirates’ fan. I went to all three games at Dodgers’ Stadium and I watched you get swept in a by an overall score of 31-8. That included a mind-numbing 17-1 loss on Monday. After that series, I didn’t think the week could really get worse. Then on Friday you managed to exceed my expectations. You gave up 17 runs AGAIN to the Philadelphia Phillies in a 17-5 loss. What the hell? I didn’t look up the stats on this because it’s too depressing, but I can’t remember any Pirates’ team giving up 17 runs twice in one week. I honestly can’t remember any team doing that ever, though I’m sure (hope) they have. That was followed by a 3-2 loss in a game that you led 2-0 going into the 7th inning and that we will discuss more later. You salvaged the series with a win yesterday, but you have looked terribly out-matched by any viable team over the past two months. You are currently 41-48, you’re 12 ½ games out of first place, and 9 games out of the Wildcard spot. Barring some amazing progression, you will miss the playoffs for the third straight year and the 26 of the last 29 seasons. Great job…

Clint Hurdle made another questionable decision that arguably cost you a game on Saturday. Jameson Taillon had been cruising with a 2-0 lead until the seventh inning. With one out, Taillon gave up an infield single. He got a force out to get the second out before a triple and a single tied the game. There were still two outs and he was only at 77 pitches, so I figured you would just leave him in. Instead, you went to your laughably awful bullpen with a man on first and two outs rather than stick with Taillon who had only made two bad pitches the whole afternoon. Edgar Santana, who has seemed to give up a run every outing over the last six weeks, was brought in and gave up an RBI double on the first pitch and you lost 3-2. Your argument was that Taillon’s numbers his third time through the order have not been good enough and I can agree with that. OPS 1st time through - .673, 2nd time through - .620, and 3rd time through - .837. I think sometimes you should look at how this particular game has progressed to determine a decision like that. My bigger issue is how unequivocally bad your bullpen has been recently. You don’t trust Taillon to go the third time through the order, but you do trust anyone in that bullpen not named Crick or Vasquez? Makes no sense. Santana, Glasnow, and Brault have all struggled as of late and you’ve had to resort to using guys like Neverauskas, Smoker, and Holmes, none of which should even be in the majors. I’ll say it again, Taillon was at 77 pitches. I don’t care if your trust is wavering. He arguably has the most talent in your rotation and your bullpen has been a joke. I’d keep him in the game every time.

(Wild pitch count add) Fun-da-mentals. I literally can’t say it enough. I know I harp on this but after this week if felt necessary to mention again. Case in point: Monday night against the Dodgers. I was there in person to watch Nick Kingham’s first start since returning to the majors for an injured Chad Kuhl. I like Kingham a lot and his performance yesterday was definitely an improvement, but his first inning on Monday was as bad as it gets. The inning led off with him dropping a ball thrown right to his chest while covering first, putting the runner at second. He balked to send the runner to third and then a dribbler single in front of home plate scored the run. After another single puts runners at first and third, I saw something I’ve never seen in a major league baseball game previously. After a pitch, Elias Diaz threw the ball back to Kingham on the mound. Kingham was a little off balance and the throw was far from perfect. It hit off the top of Kingham’s glove and rolled towards third base allowing a run to score. You barely ever see that in Little League games, let alone a high school or college game. Allowing it to happen in a major league game is beyond embarrassing. I was speechless. Whether it was JHay fumbling a ball in the first inning on Friday, or a pop up directly in the front of the plate on Saturday that four players stood around and watched fall in (fortunately they could still get the force play at second), or the major league leading 59 wild pitches you have uncorked this season, you are a nightmare when it comes to doing the little things correctly. I’m not even surprised anymore when these things happen. The blame goes from top to bottom in the organization. I apologize for harping on this issue so much but these type of botched plays are the difference between good teams and bad teams.

The older I get, the less I care about the All Star game. The fact that fans pick the starters has always been an issue for me because the most popular players get picked even when they aren’t having a great year, like Bryce Harper. But maybe that’s the whole spirit of the game. It’s just for fun anyway. Why shouldn’t the fans be able to pick their favorite players? In that case, the prestige of being named should take a hit, but that’s another conversation. All Star teams were announced yesterday and I honestly couldn’t think of who on your team was deserving. Cervelli has been one of the best catchers in baseball this year but, probably because of his recent DL stint, he just missed it. Felipe Vasquez will be your lone representative in the 2018 All Star game. His 3.38 ERA and 1.31 WHIP are far from dominant. He has struck out 51 batters in 37 1/3 innings and opponents are only hitting .218 off him with a .571 OPS against plus 18 saves in 22 opportunities. I believe he is the only player on this roster who actually has the ability to be a top five player at their position, maybe even top three. That alone could technically make him our All Star. I’m not vehemently opposed to this choice especially when the ERA leader in the American League didn’t make it. In a year where no one on your team is truly deserving, except for maybe Cervelli, makes me conclude once again that the respect given to the people who make this game should only hold so much weight.

Here comes yet another week with the potential to go terribly wrong. The wildly under-performing Washington Nationals, a game over .500 and five games out of first place and the final Wildcard spot, come to town after winning three out of four this weekend against Miami and scoring 14 and 18 runs in two of those games. With our pitching woes recently, it seems like this could be a bad matchup. After that, the first place Milwaukee Brewers, who currently hold the best record in the National League, come in for a rare five game series with a double header on Saturday. They have won 7 of their last 10 and are a legitimate contender to represent the NL in the World Series with how they have been playing. This week is your last chance. It’s the week before the All Star break and, barring some miraculous week, you will be selling at the deadline. It’s what you should do. Trade Cervelli, Nova, Dickerson, Mercer, Freese, and JHay to get whatever you can in return. It’s time. A small market team can’t afford to be middling. Either you’re all in or you’re rebuilding. That should be it. I always root for you and I just want what’s best for you. Selling your assets to see if these young guys actually have any potential is the right move. Have a good week and get ready for some much needed rest. I know I will. Love you!

                                                            Exasperated For The Foreseeable Future,

                                                                                               Brad

P.S. If you do trade JHay and Mercer, then your most likely scenario is bringing up Kevin Newman and Kevin Kramer. People aren’t very excited about them right now but there is upside. Newman has an OPS of .748 and hit only his second homer of the season yesterday. He is batting .307 with an OBP of .355 and, most importantly, has 21 stolen bases on the season. If he can bat close to .300, play solid shortstop, and steal 30-plus bases, I’m totally fine with him as my everyday shortstop. Kramer has 11 homers and currently holds an OPS of .818. He does strikeout too much and has been slumping as of late, but even he has 7 stolen bases. I don’t think these two will be superstars but they could be decent at two positions where you rarely expect much offense anyway.

[stompsite]

I Finally Played Resident Evil 4, You Monsters

Everyone has their pile of shame, those games that everyone expects you to have played but, for whatever reason, you haven’t. Other than computer game demos from Maximum PC or the occasional game at a friend’s house, I didn’t get to play video games, so I missed a lot of games, which means that for me, that pile of shame includes so many classics, like Final Fantasy VII and Super Mario Bros. 3 because I grew up without games. Until recently, it also included a little game called Resident Evil 4.

I know gaming article’s about one’s past aren’t that interesting; we all have a past, we all have a history with games, how we got to the game and why is often less interesting than the game itself. But… this time, it’s directly relevant.

One of the earliest debates about gaming I can recall being involved in was a debate about controls. Some friends argued that bad controls were designed intentionally and made the games better, because imprecise, awkward controls made games scarier. Other friends argued that if a game’s controls were what made it scary, then the game itself wasn’t that scary at all. Resident Evil games were frequently brought up in this discussion, and because they weren’t available at all on the only gaming platform I had the ability to play for years, I had no reason to try them.

It wasn’t that I intentionally tried to avoid them--I’m of the belief that you can learn something from every game, so I’ll play anything once--it was just that there were other games that appealed to me more, so when it came time to choose a game, the other game usually won out over Resident Evil games. Because I rarely jump into the middle of a series, I gave the original Resident Evil remake a try, but even with the shinier graphics, the controls just didn’t do it for me; I didn’t connect with the game at all.

It turns out that I’m one of the people who thinks bad controls prevent a game from being good. I grew up with PC games, which had much more intuitive control schemes than many console games. Those PC games were either designed for a mouse cursor, like Age of Empires and The Oregon Trail, or used a simple WASD key and mouselook aiming system, which is the ideal way to play shooters. Intuitive control schemes come almost naturally to the PC; once Quake and Marathon shipped with WASD, that was that. Everyone started using it.

Many of my console friends grew up with things like the bizarre, three-handled N64 controller, or the Playstation Controller, which didn’t have any joysticks. Heck, some of my friends even loved the weird Fisher Price-style monstrosity that is the Gamecube controller. In fact, they swear by it. Resident Evil 4 was designed for that controller.

But more on that later.

Having grown up on PC controls, I developed a specific taste in controls, which can be summarized like this: controls should be invisible.

That’s it.

In film, there’s this idea that editing should be invisible. Walter Murch, one of the world’s greatest film editors, argued that if you were paying attention to the edits, they weren’t doing their job. With the advent of non-linear editing software, it got a lot easier to edit movies, which meant that people started putting a lot more of them in their films because they could, which means you end up with disorienting scenes like this scene in Taken 3. What should be a simple shot or two of Liam Neeson jumping a fence becomes a disorienting mess.

Controls work the same way. They exist to take thought and turn it into action. When we walk, we don’t think about it; we just do it. Fine motor skills are a part of basic human biology; think ‘grab,’ and you grab. You don’t have to think about which neurons to fire, which muscles to pull, and so on; your hand simply grabs when you want it to. Video game controls work much the same way; if you have to think about how to move more than you might as a person, the experience often becomes a jumbled, frustrating mess.

(In the case of QWOP, that’s exactly the point.)

The human brain is great at filtering out unnecessary information, and it gets better as it ages. We don’t have to think about inhaling and exhaling or manually turn our eyeballs towards the source of a surprising sound; we just do it. Sometimes, our brains are too good at filtering out information; it’s why you might start idly looking for some milk in the refrigerator while thinking about bills, stare right at it, and miss it; your brain was filtering out the milk and focusing on the more prominent task.

Most video games exist to replicate some human behavior in a virtual environment. That experience might be extremely abstract, like The Oregon Trail, where players click a button to proceed and watch a little wagon trundle across the prairie, or it might be more simulation oriented, like Red Dead Redemption, where players have to steer horses by the reigns, getting them to slow down and speed up as necessary. Whatever the case may be, a game is always taking human behavior and simplifying it, boiling it down, to make sense on a controller. The closer a game gets to real-world actions, the less players want to have to think about it.

Intuitiveness becomes more relevant as fidelity increases.

Originally, I didn’t want to write an essay about Resident Evil 4 and the controls, because I’ve talked about it in conversations and on twitter and my Resident Evil 4 streams so much. Part of me wants to talk about how great the encounter variety and pacing are--and they are good--but Resident Evil 4 has been thoroughly surpassed in its encounter and enemy variety by games like Dead Space 2 and Gears of War 3, and neither one of those games are plagued by the frustrating quick time events, bizarrely-paced cutscenes, or nonsensical story of RE4. The boss fights in Resident Evil 4 are great, sure, but Binary Domain’s are the best, and I prefer some of Resident Evil 5’s boss fights in co-op to Resident Evil 4’s.

I keep coming back to RE4’s controls. Some friends have argued that Resident Evil 4 was designed to be played with its awkward control scheme, that it’s a great game because the control scheme was designed intentionally (name a game with unintentionally designed controls, please?), that they somehow ratchet up the tension because moving isn’t easy. The theory goes that all the tension of the game would be destroyed if the game were to have a more conventional control scheme.

I generally like to leave people to their opinions, but this time, I’m just gonna say it: these people are wrong. They are wrong in the strictest, most absolute sense of the word. They’re making excuses because they love the game and don’t want to admit that it could be even better than it is. But it could be. Oh boy, it could be. And I’m going to prove it.

Once upon a time, a company called Nintendo made video game consoles. Nintendo is great in a lot of ways, but they do one thing that I think is A Major Problem: they try to make every console ‘new’ in some way, usually in regards to control schemes.

I don’t think this makes for better games.

Nintendo’s whole deal is like, hey, they won’t make something unless they can do it in a new way; I think people who won’t do something unless they can do it Extremely Well make more interesting process. Nintendo is more about innovation for innovation’s sake. It’s one of the reasons we don’t have a new F-Zero; developers at Nintendo have said that they won’t make a new one unless they can revolutionize it. That approach is why the latest Starfox games have been terrible and we got Metroid: Other M.

Nintendo seems to think this is why they succeed, so, with every generation, they work on a new control interface and try to get people into their games, but, in all honesty, I don’t think this is why their games work. Take Super Mario Galaxy, for instance. There is nothing about that game that couldn’t be done with a traditional controller. You can play it on a gamepad in the Dolphin emulator if you want right now. Super Mario Galaxy is great because an extremely experienced team of developers made the game they’re the best at making; it’s not great because of the Wii’s controller.

Innovation for innovation’s sake is how you get pickle and telephone-flavored ice cream; it’s not great. It’s also how you wind up with things like the N64 controller, which also isn’t great.

“Okay, Doc, so what’s wrong with quirky controllers? Haven’t you seen the cool unique control games that show up at GDC every year?”

Well, the big thing is that quirky controllers tie games to hardware, and the problem with hardware is that it’s much more difficult to replicate than software. Once the hardware stops being manufactured, you lose the software. People can fix ancient games and make them work again on the PC, but a lot of stuff, like old light gun games, rely on technology that simply doesn’t exist anymore. It’s much harder to preserve those games.

At some point in the future, it’s going to be extremely hard to play old Nintendo DS games, because carts are failing and the dual-screen console only has X number of viable units made, and those units are going to decay over time. Emulators aren’t an ideal way to play DS games. Eventually, it’s going to be impossible to get a working DS and play a DS game, and so many wonderful games will be lost to time.

When you lock a game to hardware that isn’t standardized in some way, like your average 16-18 button controller, you run the risk of putting an expiration date on your game, which brings me to the GameCube.

Now, look, some people really like the GameCube controller. They do. I think they’re nuts, because most of the buttons are really mushy, especially the bumper, and that right stick is awful. The build quality on these things is terrible too; it took me forever to find a good, working GameCube controller because I kept finding busted ones.

The GameCube controller was great for the year of our lord 2002, when nobody but Bungie and Free Radical knew how to design 3D game control schemes for a controller (borrowing from the PC’s ‘left stick to move, right stick to aim’ with a hefty dose of auto-aim, natch!). If you go back and play a lot of old games, many of them, especially ones with free aim, don’t hold up. That’s why so many old console games had some form of z-targeting--nobody knew how to make it work, so they relied on a less interesting form of gameplay until people figured out how to make aiming work.

The standard control scheme sucks on a GameCube controller.

Like, it is the worst thing, mostly because that right stick isn’t great and the buttons are mushy as heck… which brings me to Resident Evil 4. Look, RE4’s fans are right when they say that the game was designed with its controls in mind, but they forget that those controls were designed with the GameCube controller in mind.

Resident Evil 4 was released on the GameCube in January 2005, came out on the PS2 in October 2005, was re-released on Windows in the spring of 2007, hit the Wii a few months later, hit Zeebo in like 2008, and finally hit ‘standard’ HD consoles in 2011. Resident Evil 4 is designed for the GameCube controller, or, put another way, it’s designed to take into account the limitations of the controller’s odd setup. One example of this is how the right stick goes mostly unused.

Like I said before, in a traditional game, the left stick moves you, and the right stick aims y ou. It’s one of those “this is so simple I’m surprised no one figured it out sooner” things, but I’m a PC gamer, and we’ve been doing this in games since…

A Mac game.

...wanna guess who developed the Mac game?

“Was it Bungie, the guys who developed the modern control scheme for shooters that makes Halo 1 feel so wonderfully ageless, even to this day?”

Yes.

Yes it was.

In 1994, Bungie created the first free-look game with marathon. Move with the keyboard, look with the mouse. Other games had some form of free-look, the earliest one probably being Ultima Underworld: The Stygian Abyss (by Looking Glass Studios, the most important developers of all time, back in 1992).

Anyways, this idea of keeping all movement on one input and all aiming on another input is something we take for granted now, but 11 years after Bungie figured it out, and 4 years after Bungie made it work on a console, Capcom wasn’t able to take advantage of it because the GameCube Controller is kind of Super Garbage.

In a modern game designed for an Xbox 360 or other standard layout controller, like Dead Space 2 or Gears of War 3, player movement is responsive; both games pretend to have bulky, slow characters through their animations, sounds, and particle systems (just try slamming Marcus into cover and watch how dust puffs off the wall in response), but the games both respond really quickly to player input. Think it and it happens.

More importantly, you can strafe.

This was a source of some confusion for my friends, so I want to be clear: strafing in video games is just sidestepping. In first person games, if you press the A or D keys, you step to the side. In third person games, some people take “strafing” to mean “sidestepping while aiming,” but in a first person game, you’re always aiming, so I don’t think that’s a requirement.

In Gears of War 3, if you push left on the stick, your character moves left. If you push right on the stick, he moves right. The camera itself stays looking the direction you were looking, and if you pull the left trigger to aim your gun, your aim will snap in that same direction. You aim with the right stick and you move with the left stick, handily dividing inputs in a way that makes perfect, intuitive sense for all players.

Modern third-person AAA shooters almost universally work this way, and it’s great, because it lets you focus on playing the game instead of managing the camera. This control scheme isn’t 1:1 human-perfect simulation, but it’s doing its best to feel like human movement even when it isn’t. We can turn much more quickly than a controller stick can turn our cameras, for instance.

But then there’s Resident Evil 4.

In Resident Evil 4, when you push the stick to the left, Leon doesn’t go anywhere, he just spins. The right stick moves the camera, but it snaps back to wherever Leon was facing. If you hold the right stick and then pull the trigger, Leon will snap aim in that direction, but you have to hold it down. And, again, no matter what, Leon won’t move from his spot unless you press forward or backward on the stick.

So, imagine that there is an enemy behind a pillar in front of you. He doesn’t know you’re there, so he hasn’t moved. In Gears of War 3, you simply hold left on the stick, move over a few inches, pull the left trigger to aim, and fire, getting a nice, juicy headshot.

In Resident Evil 4, you push the camera to the left, Leon turns to the left, making you lose sight of your target. Then you push the camera forward, then you turn Leon back, and you hope you moved far enough to be able to hit the guy. If you didn’t, you’re going to have to keep turning to the left, walking forward, and turning back to hit the guy. It’s a tedious process of micromanagement that never feels good to play.

Jerking the camera around decreases readability. Readability is everything in a video game. In 99% of all cases, a game can only get better the more readable it is. If you’re constantly needing to orient and reorient yourself for simple, small movements, you’re destroying readability, which means the game is suffering as a result. Clarity is always better. I’m sure someone will tell me about some little indie game that glitches words all over the screen in an unreadable mess or whatever, and that’s great if you’re trying to, say, show that a character has dyslexia or something, but you don’t want your entire game to be like that.

It’s interesting to me that a lot of RE4’s fans have developed a kind of Stockholm syndrome, arguing that Re4 makes positioning important because it prevents you from moving while aiming, but it’s abundantly clear that this isn’t why RE4 is designed this way. The fact is, if you could move while aiming while playing RE4, the camera would constantly be looking in directions you don’t want to look when you’re trying to fight, since the camera is tied to the left stick.

You stop moving to aim not because the game is better for doing so, but because the game would be literally unplayable--not in the meme joke sense, but in the strictest, most literal sense possible--if you didn’t. The decision to stop the player in order to keep the game’s readability cascades from the decision to put the camera on the stick, and I think the camera’s on the left stick because the right stick is the worst stick that has ever existed on any controller in the history of the world.

(...er, that I’ve tried. I’ve tried a lot of controllers and I’ve never used a worse stick than that one, which is why I don’t think many people use it in GameCube games)

If Resident Evil 4 had been developed first for, say, the Xbox One, where I’ve been playing Resident Evil 4 lately, I think that not only would the game play a lot better, but Capcom wouldn’t have locked players in place to aim.

It’s worth noting that Mikami didn’t stick with RE4’s controls; on The Evil Within, his next horror game, he used that traditional left-to-move, right-to-aim control scheme we’re all familiar with. If Resident Evil 4’s control scheme was so great, why would Mikami have shifted away from it?

(Some folks may argue that TEW is not as good, but this is entirely down to the game’s encounter design and pacing, which is a separate discussion from its control scheme)

Now, some folks will argue that locking yourself in place makes RE4 a better game. I don’t think it will, but I’m not going to argue that point. I suspect that if you let players strafe when not aiming, locked them into place when aiming, and kept the camera to the right stick only, everyone would like the game more, it would have broader appeal, and even me, a grumpy old curmudgeon, would love it too.

It doesn’t help that there’s a bug in the game where your camera can jerk really far to the left or right when you aim; this wouldn’t happen on a typical control scheme, because the bug is tied to the game’s current camera setup; in a different camera setup, it wouldn’t exist.

For proof that this works, check out Resident Evil 5, a game keeps the same kind of tension and horror as RE4, but utilizes a more modern control scheme. Or look at the upcoming Resident Evil 2 Remake, which lets you move while aiming, which lets Leon strafe like a normal person, and all that jazz, but looks way more tense than RE4.

Why might Resident Evil 2 be more tense than 4 while 5 is less tense? All four games are slow, methodical experiences, but 5 is framed as a big, wacky action co-op game. It predominantly takes place in a bright, outdoor environment with a happier sound design and goofy monsters. Resident Evil 4 takes place in a spooky castle or creepy village, largely at night.

Resident Evil 4’s controls never made it creepy; the game featured a giant robot statue that chased Leon through a corridor. Was that frightening because you had to pass quicktime events to successfully escape? No. Of course not. The fear of Leon being crushed is what made it scary.

Resident Evil 2 Remake’s controls look like they’ll be relatively invisible, but the game looks so much scarier than Resident Evil 4 because the context of the game is so much scarier. The demo for Resident Evil 2 Remake is set in the claustrophobic, impossibly dark corridors of a police station. In each situation, it’s the environment and the art that determines how scary a game is.

There are so many ways to make a game scary. Start with context: you’re trapped somewhere with something that wants to kill you. Then make it dark; humans are survival-oriented creatures who rely on knowledge to survive. Darkness limits our knowledge, and our lizard brains know to be fearful when we can’t see what’s out there watching us. If we know we’re being hunted but we don’t know where we’re being hunted from, we’re gonna start to get scared.

Once you’ve done that, give players a way to fight back; if all they can do is run, then they’ll stop worrying about how to fight it. Make sure the way to fight back comes with its own risks--guns are better than swords in a horror game. I was a lot happier playing RE4 when I realized how powerful the knife was than when I was dreading running low on ammo. Uncertainty is what makes horror work; if you know that you’re going to find the bullets you need, or that your attack won’t bring more enemies, or that you won’t miss your enemy, you won’t be scared. The more uncertainties you face, the scarier the game becomes.

Resident Evil 2 looks like it checks all these boxes. Controls never really factor into it; Resident Evil 4’s relative unreadability doesn’t make it a better game. Its greatness comes from that wonderful encounter variety. It comes from seeing a thing and going “ah, okay, I need another thing to pull this off.” Working out How To Complete An Encounter is what makes Resident Evil 4 fun. Having Mike fly in with a helicopter and destroy all the zombies is what makes Resident Evil 4 fun.

Unlocking Ashley’s giant suit of armor in Resident Evil 4 is hilarious and wonderful; this game is brilliant at things like that. Apparently, you can get certain rewards for completing encounters in specific ways, like clearing out the guard towers before Mike does. There’s a lot of cool stuff that you can unlock for playing the game or its side missions, and I really love that about Resident Evil 4.

When Capcom released Resident Evil 4 for the Wii, they put the game through a dramatic control rework so it could use the Wii’s unique motion controls. Some players consider this the definitive version of the game. As someone with chronic pain, motion controls really don’t work for me. But I do find myself wondering what would happen if Capcom reworked Resident Evil 4’s controls to be more like what RE2make’s appear to be. I suspect people would be surprised at how well it works.

Resident Evil 4’s brilliant level and encounter design makes it scary. Hearing the regenerators is scary. Running low on shotgun ammo or being flanked by guys you didn’t see because you were trying to save Ashley is scary. Turning the camera to the left and losing sight of the guy you want to shoot is not so scary.

I might write a second piece about the game, focusing on the specifics of its encounter design; I still prefer the actual pace and variety of Gears of War 3 and Dead Space 2, but there’s something unique that Resident Evil 4 does with its level structure that I haven’t quite figured out how to talk about.

Thank you to David and Dillon for making me finally get this game off my backlog. Next up, Metroid Prime.

[writingjusttowrite8]

Warmth

Hi friends! So, I wrote a little thing about Tom Hiddleston. I recently saw Thor: Ragnarok and that awoke the inter Hiddles-trash that I truly am. I like to keep my intensive fandom love away from my normal blog, so that’s why I’m posting it on this account instead.

This story just kinda came to mind and I couldn’t get it out of my head until I wrote it down, so enjoy! Any feedback is appreciated. 

You can also read this on AO3.

       The mechanical sound of the wheel’s being lowered alerted everyone on the plane that we were landing soon. I flipped over the newspaper I was reading, finishing the last paragraph on an article about space travel. 

“Did you know that none of the crew from Apollo 11 had life insurance before going to space? They took pictures and singed them for their family incase something were to go wrong. If they sold the pictures they’d probably get more money than life insurance any ways.” I shrugged, talking to no one in particular. 

My stylist, Elaina, looked at me quizzically; “Everyone knows you have a bachelors degree, you don’t need to constantly throw out random bits of information to remind everyone.”

           “I read an article!” I defended, throwing the paper at her. She picked it up from where it landed on her lap and set it on the side table. Elaina leaned closer to me and took a minute to see if anyone was listening. The plane cabin was private, so it was only my team and I on board. We were flying into Los Angles for a party later tonight; it was under the guise of honoring someone, but it was just a chance for the studios to show off all their people and get more attention. 

“You know, you don’t have to go tonight if you don’t want to. Everyone would understand if you just wanted to stay home.” Elaina’s look was empathetic. 

I laughed a little, “We flew all this way to go to the party; it wouldn’t make sense if I did go for at least a little while!”

           “Plus,” I added, “I’m not seven years old anymore. People say mean things about me; that’s the nature of this business. I can’t go crawling back into my shell every time someone isn’t as nice as they could be. I got a nice dress for tonight anyways.” I said, taking a sip of water from the glass beside me. 

“It wasn’t like someone yelled something nasty at you; a whole op-ed came out detailing how terrible of a person they think you are!”  She said. 

“It’s been nearly two months! The outpouring of support I got after it from my actual friends, made it easier. I got to move on.” I said.

           “You do know about the other thing, right? That You Know Who is going to be there?” Elaina said. 

I rolled my eyes, “His name is Tom, not Lord Voldemort; you shouldn’t be afraid to say it.” I looked down at my phone, quickly scanning through emails, trying not to let Elaina see my face. 

“It just pisses me off! In your time of need, he just abandons you! I mean, I know you weren’t dating or anything, but the two of you were so close! For a while it felt like you two were inseparable! And then he just goes off when things got too rough. Despicable.” She nearly spat. 

“You can’t blame him for not wanting to be involved with drama right now. He’s dealt with too much of it; the guy deserves a break.” And…That wasn’t even the reason he left I wanted to say, but Elaina’s hatred of Tom was already solidified, so there was really no point in making it worse. Elaina didn’t respond; she just looked at me with complete pity.

-

Three Days Before the Article is Released

             “You clean up nicely” I commented to Tom as he walked over to me. 

“I could say the same for you, but then again, you always look that good.” Cheeky little flirt he his. I smiled and turned my face, trying not to let him see the blush that crept up to my cheeks. 

“Have you seen the birthday boy yet?” I ask, changing the subject. 

Tom shakes his head; “No I got sucked into a conversation with Ken Branagh about his next project.” 

“Shakespeare, I assume?” I asked looking up at him. He just winked and ordered a whiskey from the bartender.  

           The club we were in was pretty packed, mostly with Hollywood elites and their teams. Everyone was there to celebrate Robert Downey Jr.’s birthday, however, the guest of honor had yet to arrive. That didn’t keep the merriment from stopping. Tom and I were seated at the bar towards the back, where there was a little more room to breath. I sipped on a vodka martini and Tom drank almost all of his whiskey in one gulp. 

“Long day?” I questioned him. 

“What’s wrong with loosing up a bit?” He retorted, faking offense. 

“I’ve never actually seen you sloppy drunk; I’d imagine it would be very entertaining.” I laughed gently at the idea of Tom being beside himself drunk; He’s so proper and put together that it didn’t really make sense. 

“I’ve seen you sloppy drunk on quite a few occasions.” He grinned. I rolled my eyes at him. 

“Twice! Only twice have you seen me drunk enough to even come close to being sloppy! Considering how long we’ve known each other, that’s pretty impressive.” I said.

           “Six months, and you’ve only been sloppy drunk three times, that I know about. If that’s impressive, then at what point in your life were you more of a party animal?” He questioned. 

“You didn’t know me in college.” I winked at him. He laughed at me, and I couldn’t help but stare at his face. The way he looked in the low lighting of the bar somehow made him even more attractive than regular. Or maybe it was how close he was sitting to me, so much so that our knees were practically stuck together and his arm was behind me resting on the bar. I tried not to show how excited our close proximity made me, but my eyes lingered on his a little too long. I snapped out of my daze just in time to see RDJ walking over towards us.

           “Look! It’s the second most beautiful person in the world… and Tom.” Robert said to us. I laughed and stood up to hug him. 

“Happy Birthday to the most beautiful person in the world!” I said wrapping my arms around him. 

“Thanks sweet cheeks. Thomas!” He said, moving to embrace Tom. “This old dude giving ya trouble over here?” Robert asked me. 

“A little,” I said while retaking my seat, “he says he’s seen me drunk more times than I’ve allowed him to see me drunk.”

           “Oh, you’re hilarious.” Tom said sarcastically. 

“Well tonight seems as good as any to even up the score, so why don’t we all take a few shots to get the night going, huh?” Robert said excitedly. I grimaced, giving Tom a warning glance. 

“I think that’s a fantastic idea, Robert. Bartender, six shots please!” Tom ordered. All I could do was laugh at the two ridiculous men I’d chosen to spend my night with.

             Nearly four hours later, many drinks, and far too many embarrassing moments on the dance floor, Tom and I got into a cab to head home.  He lived just around the corner from me, so we split a cab most times we went out; unless he drove me in his jaguar.

      “I didn’t!” I declared too loudly, making the driver look back at me in the rearview mirror. “Why would I request a song I hate?” I asked Tom, who was laughing at me. 

“Because you know I hate it too! It was retaliation for that third shot!” He said. 

I groaned and slapped his arm; “I’m not that petty. How do I know you didn’t request it, just because you knew I hate it, huh?” 

“Because darling,” He leaned in so close that the tuft of my bangs were almost brushing his face, “I’m chivalrous. I would never intentionally make a lady that uncomfortable.” Thank God for the drinks, or else I wouldn’t have an excuse as to why my face was so red. 

“How come I don’t believe you Hiddleston?” I said, keeping my eyes starting straight in his, so they wouldn’t linger down to his (very kissable) lips.

      The driver cleared his throat; “We’re here.” I immediately pulled back, laughing a little, and looking through my purse for a tip. Tom was quicker and handed him some cash before opening the door for us. He held out his hand for me to hold onto as I descended from the car, and I let my fingers hold onto his longer than necessary before pulling away. 

“Nightcap?” I asked. “[Y/N], we just got back from a bar!” He said. I looked away and gently laughed, trying to hide my embarrassment of rejection. I couldn’t help it that I didn’t want the night to end. 

“I’d love to.” Tom said, surprising me. I gently hit his chest with my clutch before heading up to the front door.

      I wasn’t entirely drunk, but I wasn’t entirely sober. The drinks came early enough in the night for both Tom and I to be coming down from our buzz. I fumbled around in my clutch for my keys while Tom leaned against my doorframe, looking god-like. 

“Having trouble?” He mocked. Almost immediately after he said that, I finally managed to pull out my keys and give Tom a smirk. He rolled his eyes at me while following me inside. He walked into the kitchen with me and sat at the bar while I looked in my cabinets for two glasses.

      “Your place is so cozy. I like it here.” He said, looking around. He’s been inside my place many times before, but says the same thing each time he’s here. 

“If you spent more time in your house, I bet it would feel cozier. You’re gone too much, Tom.” I said, trying not to let my voice get too sad. He was always working. A few days in L.A. or New York, meeting with studios, different read through; Tom was usually only in London a few hours at a time. I was lucky enough that when he was in town, he spent most of that time with me.

         “No, that’s not it. I think it’s a woman’s touch. Even when we’re together in different cities, your hotel rom seems… warmer.” He said. I passed him a glass of rum and coke and made one for me as well. 

“Have you ever considered that it’s me that’s warmer, and not the actual place we’re in?” I asked facetiously, before taking a drink. 

“I have.” He said, smiling at me before he took a drink. I smiled back at him, but then looked down an furrowed my eyebrows, trying to cover how much that made my heart jump. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

       I looked up replacing my look of distain with neutrality. “Nothing… it’s just too quiet. Want to put on a movie?” I asked, but before he could respond, I started towards the living room. I heard him quickly get up after me. I couldn’t face him just yet; I’d let my guard down for a second too long and he saw. I walked into the living room, Tom following me closely. I went over to the small side table where I usually keep the remote, but it wasn’t there. I turn around to look for it, but I almost slam face first into Tom. He was standing right behind me, so close that I had to put my hands to his chest to steady myself from bumping into him.

        “Tom… are you… is everything alright? “ I ask, so quietly that I barely hear myself. His hand reaches up to trace my jaw and brushes some hair behind my shoulder. My heart was pounding too hard in my chest, but my breathing was getting slower. 

“Of course you’re the reason I like your place better than mine.” He whispers. Our faces are getting closer to one another, and with his free hand he grabs mine and laces our fingers together. Instinctively, my other hand slowly starts to move up towards his face until it rests on his neck. Our breathing is heavy for a moment before he finally breaks the tension and gently places his lips on mine.

        I melt into the kiss, moving my mouth along with his and throwing my arms around his neck. I bring him as close as I possibly can, pressing my chest against his, and his arm wraps around my waist and hoist me on the side table. He stands between my legs and I open the to wrap them around his waist and pull him closer. Our lips are moving in sync and our hands are wandering all over; I feel him brush through my hair to put his hand on my neck and another to grip my thigh. I run my hands down his broad shoulder and down to his hips. We finally break away for a moment to get some much-needed oxygen and rest our foreheads against each other. We don’t say anything; just look into each other’s eyes before we start kissing again. This time, it isn’t gentle but forceful, like all pretenses have gone away.

         Suddenly, I don’t feel his lips on my anymore. I look up and see him standing about a foot away from me. He’s holding onto my hand still but the mood is completely different. His eyes are filled with something I can’t quite place… sadness or pity, or a combination of both. My breathing is heavy as I look at him impossibly confused and missing the feel of his body on mine. He parts his lips as to say something, but nothing comes out.

        After a moment too long of standing there, he finally speaks; “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” He says. I almost physically hear my heart crack. Before I could speak he says the words that finally break the spell we’ve been living under tonight. “I should go.”

         Before I could get a word in edgewise, he was gone. All of a sudden, I was just a girl, sitting on her side table, breathing heavily and with a shattered heart. What on earth just happened?

-

         By the time our plane touched down in L.A., it was almost 2 p.m. and we were already behind schedule. Paparazzi greeted us at the gate and my team did their best to shield me from their cameras, but nothing really stops them from getting the shots they want. We got to my small apartment that I keep in L.A. and immediately it became ''beautification central'. I stepped out of my shower to find that Emma Watson had texted me. 'Heard you were in L.A., mind if I stop by to see you? I miss your face. Xo' she wrote. I smiled and dialed her number.

        "[Y/N]!" She exclaimed, "Are you in town?" Emma asked. 

"Yes ma'am. Are you going to stop by to see me?" I ask. 

"I'm getting in my car as we speak." She said. Hearing her voice made me happy; she was one of the few friends that I felt genuinely cared for me. Through the whole process of staring in my first big role, to the flops I'd been in, Emma was with me no matter what. She didn't want to be near me for the attention or the money, we just like each other. Having a real friendship in this industry was rare, and I wanted to protect ours at all cost. "I'll see you soon!" I said. We exchanged goodbye's and hung up before I let my team make me into a version of myself that I didn't even recognize.

        30 minutes later I hear a knock on my door and open it to find Emma. Without saying a word, we hug each other tightly. "I missed you, Em." I said quietly. 

"I missed you too... how are you?" She questioned, pulling away from the hug. 

I shrugged, "I'm fine. I mean, I've been better, but that's life I guess." She gave me a small smile and followed me inside. My team was in my living room getting my dress out and pressing it while Elaina was setting up in the bathroom. I pulled Emma into my bedroom so we could have some privacy.

       "So what's really going on?" She asked. Emma knew that the article wasn't the real source of my sadness. 

I gave her a disparaging look; "Tom..." I said. She chuckled solemnly. 

"That much I know. What happened between you two. When I spoke to him the other day, it got super weird when he asked about you. Like he was nervous about something." She said. I looked down in my lap, unsure of whether or not I should tell Emma. Somehow, letting someone outside of Tom and myself know what really went on made it more real, and somehow, more hurtful.

        "What did he ask you?" I questioned. 

"He wanted to know how you were doing. I told him that you've been busy so I hadn't really heard from you. The way he asked though... it's almost as if he was afraid to say your name." She looked at me, waiting to explain what happened. 

"We kissed. It was a few days before the article broke. He kissed me and then he said 'I shouldn't have done that' and left." I sighed and looked away, letting Emma absorb the information.

         "You know the worst part is," I started, "I was doing a perfectly fine job of repressing my feelings before that! I know that it's unhealthy or whatever, but it's not like we would've worked out romantically anyways. I knew that for the sake of our friendship that I needed to keep those feelings to myself. And then he kisses me! I didn't ask for that! There wasn’t a neon sign above my head saying 'Please Break My Heart'. I did what I had to do to keep our friendship, and he had to go and mess it up."

       I figured I'd already revealed too much, so I told Emma all about that night. She sat back on my bed letting all that information sink in. 

"That... doesn’t sound like Tom." She said in disbelief. 

I shrugged, "It was him, though." Emma sighed and furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. 

"Was that it? He just left without an explanation?" She asked. 

I looked back up at her, feeling a little bit of guilt; "Not exactly...".  

"What do you mean?" She asked.

       "A few nights after the article was released, Tom came to my house again." I confessed. 

"What did he say?" She questioned. I told her everything.

-

        It was a rainy night in London, not unusual. I had Adele's album on in the background while I was facetiming with my dad on my laptop and sitting at the bar in my kitchen. 

"[Y/N], if you want your mother and I to come see you, we will. No questions asked. We'll be on the next plane out of here if we need to be." My dad said. I let out a small laugh. 

"You're sweet, but please, don't worry. It's a mean article. The person who wrote it got mad that my manager kept pushing back the interview date and he let his displeasure show. The really funny thing is the reason the interview was being pushed back was because our production schedule was behind and he wanted to interview me about the production! Even if we'd kept the regular date, the article would have been inaccurate. One guy doesn't like me, I don't have to lose my mind over it." I told him. The last sentence hurt to say, because it wasn't the vengeful interviewer who hurt me, but someone much more important.

       "Well, I'm proud of you [Y/N]. You're good about not letting these things get to you. How is everything else? Your friends?" My dad asked, in typical dad fashion.

 "Everyone is fine, dad." I said. 

"What about Tom? I have heard anything about him in a while. The movie was great! Did you tell him I thought the movie was great?" Hearing my dad ask about Tom stung more than I anticipated; I had to shift my head so he couldn’t see my face. 

I swallowed harshly before answering; "I told Tom, he said thank you. He's doing fine. Dad, I'm going to go get something to eat. I'll call you and mom tomorrow." I said, trying to get out of the only subject I really wanted to avoid. 

"Of course, sweetie. Your mother and I love you very much." Dad said, a little more emotionally than usual. I told him I loved him too, and closed my laptop.

       I ran my fingers through my hair and rested my elbows on the counter. I just had an article come out that basically said I was a spineless, talentless, slut, and the only thing I'm really sad over is Tom. It felt wrong, like I should be pissed at the author and I should be discrediting him. Instead, I was by myself drinking wine and forcing myself to stop feeling sad about a guy. He's just a guy, I reminded myself, this isn't the first time a guy has left me, and probably not the last.

        I just wish I knew why. Did he not like me enough to follow through with it? Was I a bad kisser? Did he suddenly realize he loved someone else? Maybe if I knew exactly why he stopped, it would make this easier. Sure, I could call him and ask him why, but that made me feel like I was defeated. I heard my phone go off from the living room, but I didn't feel like going to get it. So many people had called me today, wanting to know how I was, but I couldn’t tell any of them the truth; ignoring calls was really the best plan for me at this point. I took another sip from my wine glass and tried to resist the temptation of going online to look at comments. Online comments on articles like this can be a rabbit hole, and not one I was prepared to go down. A loud knock on my door made me jump in surprise. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself while I walked over to it. When I opened my door, I found Tom.

        His shirt clung to his torso, wet from the rain, and the expression on his face made it seem like he was surprised to see me. 

It took me a minute to adjust from the shock before I could speak to him; "What... why are you here?" I asked. Suddenly I realized he was still getting wet from the rain and I moved back to let him in my house. He came in, slowly, and ran his hands through his hair to get some of the rain droplets out. "Why are you here?" I repeated after we were inside. His expression of surprise changed to one of sadness. 

"I wanted to know if you were alright." He spoke. I looked down at the floor trying to avoid his eyes. 

"I'm fine." I said quietly. I started walking towards the kitchen and Tom followed me.

       "It's just... the article came out at a... bad time. I just wanted to make sure-" I cut him off. 

"Really Tom, I don't care about the article. Mean things are written about people all the time. I'm not the first, nor the last. And as for the timing... well, there really isn't much I could've done about that." I said, bitterness coloring my voice. Now, Tom is looking down at the floor, and all the emotions that I've been holding back are combining into one; anger. 

"I wanted to apologize for that night." He said, looking back up at me. I scoffed, "Which part? When you kissed me, or when you left without an explanation?" I didn't want to be mean, but I couldn’t help myself.

        "Both," Tom started, "I was wrong to do... that to you." I furrowed my eyebrows. 

"Then why? It's not like we were super drunk, it's not like I forced you into it, and it's not like I pulled away!" The anger was slipping through my voice. 

"[Y/N], I don't know why I kissed you, but I know I didn't want to hurt you!" He said, matching my louder voice. 

"Well you sure have a funny way of showing it! I mean... even if you don't know why you kissed me, why did you pull away? How would that keep you from hurting me?" I yelled, exasperatedly.

       "Because I need to protect you! The women who date me get slaughtered in the press. My past relationships will probably follow me around for the rest of my life because the press will not let it go. I don't want to put you through that. You deserve better than being dragged through the mud just because I've made mistakes." He said. Now, I was really furious. 

"You want to protect me? I don't know if you've been living under a rock for the past 48 hours, but I was put through the ringer, despite not dating anyone! So, your noble quest of protecting me was shot long before you had anything to do with it." My hands were in fist at my side; my eye's brimming with tears, but luckily, none spilled over. For a while, neither of us spoke. I didn't know if it was because he had said everything he had to say, or if he didn't know what to say next. The tension became too much for me and I had to speak.

       "I will understand if you don't like me like that and you believe kissing was a mistake, but please Tom, don't lie to me. If you wanted to protect me, you wouldn't have waited this long." I couldn't be angry at him anymore; I just felt sad. He looked at me with those blue eyes that could make anyone week in the knees and I felt my heart being squeezed, causing so much pain that I had to look away. He didn't say anything, which just made me feel worse. He has no right to stand there, looking as good as he does, being so sweet and comforting, and yet keeping me waiting. I wanted him so much, but I couldn't handle it anymore.

        "You should go...." I said, the words surprising even me. 

He raised his eyebrows in surprise; "what?" He questioned. 

"You've clearly said everything you needed to, and I can't handle this much longer." I finally looked back up to face him. "If you really don't want to hurt me anymore than you already have, please just... leave." My voice broke and the tears I held off for so long started to fall. Tom lifted his had up, as if to touch me the same way he had that night. I turned my head away, just slightly and he put his hand down. Taking the hint that I wasn't budging tonight, he finally left.

-

       I didn't feel bad about what I said to him that night, I just felt bad that I got so angry. He wanted to apologize, and no matter how hurt I was, he didn't deserve that anger. But in my heart, I know I did the right thing. I need to protect myself since I can't influence those around me. I can't rely on anyone, not even Tom, to protect me.

       Emma started at me blankly. "He really hurt you, didn't he?" Emma asked. 

I nodded; "This really is for the best, though. At least it didn't go too far, ya know? Ending this before it got to be too much is better for everyone." I said, partially trying to convince myself of that, too. 

"Are you sure? Is that really for the best?" She asked. 

I looked at her confused, "what do you mean?"

       "[Y/N], you like him, and he clearly likes you if he doesn't want to hurt you! Why would you need to end something that hasn't even begun? You're not giving yourself a fair shot. If you just give up now, before you even try to really make it work, you'll regret it." She said. I stood up and started pacing around my room. 

"Em, it's not like he came over to tell me he was sorry he stopped! He told me he was sorry for kissing me in the first place! He doesn't want me like that, I can accept that." I said, crossing my arms. 

"You didn’t tell him why it hurt you! You didn't tell him that you love him and that you didn't want the kiss to stop! You let him go! He isn't going to try to pursue you further if he thinks you're angry at him for kissing you to begin with! I guarantee you he wants you, but is worried that you don't want him. Because that sounds like Tom; he's not the type of man to leave like that, and he certainly isn't the type of man to push further if he thinks he's gone too far."

       Emma, was crazy, she had to be! He left me and then he came back to finish me off and couldn't do it! He's the wrong one here, right? I threw up my hands, fell onto my bead face first and groaned; a very mature way to react to this situation, I know. 

"Darling," Emma said, "you're beautiful, intelligent, hilarious, funny, and a whole other slew of things that I can't think of right now. But you are hopelessly dense when it comes to love. I still can't get over how you thought Henry Cavill was just 'being nice' when he sent over flowers after meeting you." She laughed, and played with my hair.

 I grumbled into the sheets "I mentioned I love flowers, and he sent flowers over the next day. It isn't so wrong to think he was just being... gentlemanly." I couldn't see her, but she probably rolled her eyes.

      I laughed to myself, thinking of the reaction Tom had to finding out Henry set me flowers; he got so worked up and wouldn't stop teasing me for days! Maybe Emma was right. Maybe it wasn't entirely his fault that things ended so poorly. I told him to leave the night he came to me. I just had such a clear view in my mind as to why he would have left. There's no way he could want me like that; he's Tom Hiddleston! It wouldn't have made sense, him and I together. But I guess that doesn't necessarily mean he wouldn't want it either.

      "Talk to him tonight, [Y/N]. Explain why it hurt you and give him a chance to explain as well. Even if things don't end the way you want them too, it will make you feel better if you get it off your chest." I sighed and rolled over to look at her. I needed to talk to him; that much was clear. 

"But... what if it hurts worse after. What if he says the exact thing I'm most afraid of him saying?" I say, quietly. 

She gave me a sorrowful look, "What are you most afraid of?" Emma asked. I sat up and looked out the window and pulled my knees into my chest. 

"That he never loved me like that... and that he never will." I whisper it so quietly, I'm not sure if she heard me.

      "He won't." She stated. I turn to look at her, trying my best to keep a brave face. A light knock on my door alerted both Emma and I just how late it had gotten. By now, my hair was dry and in desperate need of styling, and Elaina would be chomping at the bit to start on my makeup. "I should go." Emma said, standing up. I stood up to hug her goodbye. "It'll be fine, [Y/N]. Trust me." She said before pulling away. Emma exited the room and my team pounced on me as soon as she was out the door.

-

           Stop fidgeting, stop fidgeting, stop fidgeting I repeated to myself. Engage in the conversation that’s happening right in front of you; at least try to seem interested! Three movie producers were chatting in front of me, all trying to one up each other in terms of how much money the profited from movies they had nothing to do with. There was really no way to focus on the dude-fest going on with Tom across the room from me. It felt like his eyes were on me at all times, but every time I found the courage to glance over at him, he was talking to someone else.

           I suddenly felt a hand on my lower back and I jumped at the sensation. “Robert!” I said, realizing whom it was. I threw my arms around him and he did the same. 

“Hey there sweet cheeks. How’ve you been?” He asked. 

“Fine,” I lied, “I’ve been busy… working and… other stuff.” I tried my best to sound casual, but RDJ must have seen through me. 

“That’s good. A couple people around here we’re worried about you for a little while there, so it’s good to see you back on your feet.” He said.

 “We’re you one of those people?” I asked coyly.  

           “Nah,” He started, shaking his head, “my attention is on myself at all times. If I haven’t talked to you in the past… 8 minutes, chances are I don’t even realize you exist.” I laughed at him. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, Robert was truly a softie at heart. 

“It is good to see you back, though.” He said, sweetly. I smiled at him, the first time I truly smiled out of happiness in a while. 

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

           “Where’s Tom? Last time I saw you guys, you were stuck together like a barnacle to a boat.” I gently laughed at his choice of words, letting my smile fade. 

“Tom’s here? I didn’t even know. I really haven’t seen much of him lately.” I lied. He didn’t seem to recognize my bluff, but he didn’t fully understand it either. 

“Well you should say hi to him at some point; I’m sure he’d love to see you.” He said. 

“Well, you know what I would love? A drink. Do you want anything?” I asked, turning to go to the bar. 

“I wouldn’t kick a glass of champagne out of bed. I’ll be over there.” He said. I nodded and went to retrieve the much needed alcohol.

           I picked up two glasses of champagne and headed back towards Robert, who was deeply engaged in conversation with someone I couldn’t quite see. I called out his name and realized who he was talking to; Tom. 

“Ah, [Y/N],” He said, taking one of the glasses, “You know, I think I changed my mind about the drink. Tom, why don’t you take this one, and I’m going to get some bourbon.” Before Tom had time to protest, RDJ had handed him the champagne and was gone. I looked at Tom with wide eyes and cursed myself for not being able to anticipate this. His gaze nearly made my knees shake as he looked at me from head to toe. 

“You look… incredible.” He said. I smiled and blinked a few times before taking him in myself. 

“You do too.” I breathed. No matter my feelings towards Tom, his ability to wear a suit to absolute perfection still amazed me. His eyes bore into mine, and I couldn’t look away. Someone who I didn’t recognize bumped into Tom, pushing him closer towards me. I put out my free hand to steady him from running into me and it landed on his chest. When he finally was stead again, he grabbed my hand and kept it against his chest.

           “We should go somewhere to talk.” He whispered to me. 

I nodded before responding; “we should.” He laced our fingers together and started pulling me through the crowd. His tall frame prevented me from seeing where we were going, until we got to a small hallway, and Tom opened the door to a private restroom. I walked inside and set my glass on the skink counter, putting as much space between Tom and myself as possible.  His back faced me as he locked the door and he hesitated while turning around. We looked at each other for a few moments before I broke the silence. 

“How have you been?” I asked.

           Tom blinked a few times and set his glass next to mine. “Not great….” He trailed off. I gave him an empathetic smile. 

“Tom, I-“ He cut me off.

“Wait, I wanted to- may I … the last time I tried to apologize, I made everything worse, and I don’t want to do that again. So, if I may, I want to tell you everything I need to before you respond. Is that alright with you?” He asked. 

“Of course.” I said, my mind racing a mile a minute. He took a deep breath before running a hand through his hair.

           “I’ve made many regrettable mistakes in my life; not the least of which being the night I left you. My desire to protect you stems from the fact that my past indiscretions would follow you around and I didn’t want to put you through that, especially knowing how much people love you. I know it’s hard to see, but the way people see you is… they adore you. I didn’t want to ruin that for you; I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did. The reason I pulled away that night is because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself if I’d gone further.

           “[Y/N], you’re like the sun; your warmth encapsulates everyone around you and I find it so addicting. There are times that I can’t believe I was blessed enough to have met you, let alone be a part of your life. There is not an ounce of my soul that doesn’t wish to be near you at all times. But I was willing to ignore that to, what I thought would, protect you. I see now how stupid that was, because the second night I came over, I saw the pain and it broke me. I thought I didn’t deserve to be with you because of how much I hurt you, and there is a part of me that still believes that.  But I couldn’t live with myself without explaining why I did what I did, in hopes that one day you’d understand that I didn’t leave out of lacking desire; I did it because I love you and I don’t want to hurt you.

           “Now, if you tell me that you wish to never see me again, I will leave; I will do everything in my power to respect your wishes. But if you believe that there is a part of you that love me as much as I do you, you would make me the most undeservedly happy man in the world. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make you as happy as I possibly could, for as long as I possibly can. So please, [Y/N], tell me that you understand how much I love you.”

           I stood across from Tom in complete and utter shock. My mind was racing and my heart was beating so fast, I thought I might go into cardiac arrest. He… loves me? I was wrong, so unbelievably wrong about… everything. It wasn’t just me reading more into the quick glances and soft touches; we were on the same page and we didn’t even know it. And now we’re here, staring intensely at one another, holding onto the desire I was too afraid to express. He handed me his heart, and now it was my turn to hold onto it.

           After a few minutes, Tom looked down at his feet. He seemed to be hurt by my lack of words, but how could I possibly speak after all that. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I had to say something before he went away and another opportunity was lost. 

“Tom,” I said, his head snapping up and eyes looking into mine with anticipation. 

“Please don’t ever leave me again.”

-

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston imagine #imagine tom hiddleston #fanfic #Sorry it's long lol #my husband

[itsanerdlife]

Never Stop 3

Pairing: Eggsy Unwin x Reader

Warning: Swearing, Angsty, Faking Death, Murder, and Fluff.

A/N: This was for one of my good followers, who sent in a request for our mutual love Eggsy @roobierubyroobieruby So I got carried away, it ended up being three pieces long. My bad. But I’m not sorry, I had so much fun writing this!!

“Merlin sent this over.” Harry hands him a file. “Glasses.” Harry hands Eggsy his equipped glasses.

“The location.” Eggsy looks up at Harry. “I have to go.” Eggsy jumps off the sofa.

“Clean up first. You’re still a Kingsman, you have an image to uphold, even while getting revenge.” Harry tilts his head to the side quickly, before leaving the room.

“You took my only love from me, Bruv. It’s only fair.” Eggsy explains stabbing the pen tip into the mans exposed neck. “There is not happy ending now.” Eggsy shoves the man over, stepping over the body he moves on.

“And what happens if he kills them?” You pace around the small room.

“We allow you to call him.” Harry explains, waiting for Merlin’s call.

“And I say what Harry?! Oi babe it’s me. Back from the dead, wanna grab a bite?” You throw your hands up.

“He will understand.” Harry tries. You stop pacing looking at him. “He’ll get over it when he knows you’re alive.” Harry pulls nervously on his sleeves. His phone rings Harry quickly removes it from his pocket answering it. “Merlin?” Harry watches you intently.

“It’s done. He’s fine.” Merlin replies quickly.

“I’ll have her make the call.” Harry nods, hanging up. He spins his phone between his fingers, handing it to you. “You’re free to tell him everything.” Harry nods as your fingers quickly dial Eggsy’s number, trembling with fear, excitement, and the ache to hear his voice again. Pressing the phone to your ear, you wait.

“Harry.” Eggsy’s voice fills you like a warm bath, soothing every part of you.

“Eggs, Love? It’s me babe.” You press the phone hard to your ear, holding your breath, the other end silent.

“Y/N?” He voice is quiet, soft and shocked.

“I’ll be at the shop love, meet me.” Your face contorting at the thought of seeing him again.

“I’m on my way.” He hangs up.

“Let’s go.”  You hand the phone back to Harry, heading for the door.

Eggsy throws open the door to the parlor room, you jump out of your seat onto your feet, running a hand through your hair. Eggsy pauses, staring at you wide eyed, mouth popped open, his green eyes look nervous as if he thought you might disappear before his eyes.

“Love?” You look at him nervously.

“Is it really you?” He steps towards you.

“It’s me babe.” You nod, Eggsy rushes towards you. His arms wrap around, yanking you off your feet into his arms, against his chest, his face in your hair. “Eggs.” You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I missed you too.” You bury your face into his neck.

“I thought you were gone, you’ve been gone.” Eggsy pulls back looking you over, his hands on your arms.

“I know. I’m so sorry.” Your eyes well up, spilling down your cheeks.

“Don’t fucking do that again!” Eggsy shakes you slightly, his hands moving in your hair as he crashes his mouth into yours. After a moment or so, Harry clears his throat, Merlin shifts awkwardly as you pull apart.

“This would be my fault Eggsy.” Harry admits.

“Oi?” Eggsy lets you go, staring at Harry.

“It was necessary Eggsy. Someone was coming for the both you.” Harry defends his choice.

“Who do you think you is Harry?! Killing off – Faking the death of the woman I love!” Eggsy shouts at Harry, who stands unbothered.

“We needed them to think they had gotten the upper on you. That she was really gone. You were being watched.” Harry crosses his legs casually as if this was not an argument.

“You didn’t think I could play along?! So you killed my girl? That’s fucked Bruv and you know it!” Eggsy continues to shout.

“Eggsy we didn’t have a choice.” You step in between them your hands on his chest.

“You, you let me go on thinking you were dead??? Are you trying to kill me?? What do you not love me no more?!” Eggsy shouts at you, the tears filling your eyes again, you drop your face to your hands feeling guilty and horrible.

“I’m so sorry Eggs.” You sob.

“Alright love, alright. You’re really alive, that’s all that matters.” Eggsy’s voice is settled as he wraps you in his arms, allowing you to cry on his chest.

“You keep saying that.” You sniff looking up at him with wet eyes.

“I had a lot of dreams you went up in smoke in my arms.” Eggsy blinks sad green eyes down at you.

“I swear never again love.” You press your cheek to his chest, wrapping your arms around him, this was home to you.

“Y/N?” Eggsy pulls away looking at you, something in his green eyes you hadn’t seen before.

“Ya love?” You tilt your head watching him. God had you missed him.

“Marry me?” The words sound funny coming out of Eggsy’s mouth. You let out a small giggle, shaking your head.

“Eggs don’t be daff.” You smile at him, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not, if I learned one thing from this aside from to never trust Harry, it’s I can’t be without you. I fucking need you, without you I’d rip the world a part.” Eggsy steps close to you, his hands on the sides of your face.

“He’s not wrong, he did take down an entire chain of special ops in two weeks.” Merlin points out.

“I’d do it again. So marry me.” Eggsy stares down at you, bright green eyes shine at you.

“You’re daff.” You let out a soft laugh. “But I guess I’m daff too. Yes, I need you too Eggsy. I’ll marry you.” You grin, you pull the labels of Eggsy’s coat, pulling him down to you, pressing your lips to his. To the only man you wanted anymore, to the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with.

@to-pick-ourselves-up-7   @ilsawasanacrobat     @mo320    @our-chaoticwhispers   @barbrichards   @roobierubyroobieruby   @tgwltw   @magellan-88   @evansrogerskitten   @sweet-honey15   @mxlfoy-scorpixs    @1-fighting-dreamer     @unfoxs   @marveliskindacool     @strangerthingsimagine   @poetsheart   @lucifersnipnips   @palaiasaurus64     @bridgetlemonade   @shortiiqt16  

#Kingsman #Eggsy Unwin x Reader #Kingsman Fanfiction #Eggsy x Reader #Kingsman Series #Eggsy Series #Kingsman Master List #Eggsy Unwin Series #Eggsy Unwin Master List

[h-styles-babes]

No Control | Twenty-Nine

Summary: 

Micky Bennett: college student, loyal friend, aspiring nurse, One Direction fan, Harry Styles enthusiast. Her best friend, Trevor, wins tickets to a show in New Jersey with meet and greet passes. Micky expects a quick photo op with the boys and a great night at the concert with her best friend. What she gets a whole lot more than she bargained for.

To read previous chapters, you can go here.

*Please feel free to reblog and send feedback. It’s much appreciated :)*

*Gif is not mine.*

TWENTY-NINE

I sleep in the guest room in Harry’s home that night. It’s a bit of a strange feeling, considering the last time I was here, I was sleeping in his bed, intimately tangled with him, and having copious amounts of sex with him, any of those times which resulted in the conception of the child that now resides in my womb. Which is a weird thing to think about, because our lives could not be any different than back in August. 

Thankfully, Little Bean seems to have calmed down in time for me to go to sleep, which means I fall asleep faster and stay asleep longer than I had the night before. And while I feel more rested when I wake up in the morning, I’ve still got a weird feeling in my chest that things are not as they should be. I suppose my memories of the previous time that I’ve been in this home are making it a little difficult for me to reconcile the capacity in which I’m here now. It probably doesn’t help that my feelings for Harry haven’t really changed since the last time I was here. I can’t exactly act on those feelings anymore, though. 

So, I tiptoe around Harry as he makes some tea for the both of us and tells me that Grimmy wants to see us today. I’m a little surprised that Grimmy knows I’m here, too, considering he hadn’t told his family that I was coming yesterday, but then again, Nick is a little less affected by the pregnancy than his family. I briefly wonder if he’s told his old bandmates about what’s happening, but I figure that if he hasn’t told his manager yet, he’s keeping the information on a need-to-know basis for the time being. I know everyone’s going to be privy to this information eventually, but I’m quite enjoying the quietness of the whole thing so far. I know I have to brace myself for the time when the whole world knows, but I’ll take the peace while I can get it for now. 

As Harry gets some sort of breakfast ready, I head back up to the guest room to change out of my pyjamas. I pull on black leggings that fit comfortably over the bump and a red jumper that is cozy and warm and actually still fits me. I’ve been extremely reluctant to buy maternity clothes, just because I know it’s all going to be over soon enough. I’ve used the hair tie through the button hole trick as much as I can, and I’ve taken to wearing stretchy materials or baggier shirts in order to get through this without buying something new. I’ve also taken a new liking to dresses, since they all fit as long as the waistline isn’t too low and they don’t require me to wear bottoms. I have bought one pair of maternity shorts however, and that was only because the weight I gained in my hips made it impossible for me to wear the pairs that I already own. 

I have a grey poncho thing to go with the outfit if it’s necessary, but I leave it laid out on the bed for now, since it’s warm enough in Harry’s home to go without it. There’s a chime that sounds throughout the house, indicating that there’s someone requesting entry at the gate. Harry opens some app on his phone that allows him to view out onto the camera that’s at the gate, and a little smile quirks on his lips as he taps some button.

“Nick’s here,” he announces. He’s already dressed, as well, and I can smell something good in the kitchen. The griddle out on the stove top and the syrup on the counter tells me that he’s made pancakes, and my mouth waters a little.  

“Have you told him?” I ask as I grab a stack of plates out of the cupboard. I’m a little shocked by my own comfort in getting the dishes in his home, but I brush it off quickly. It may have been a while since the last time I was here, but we had spent a lot of time here, so I knew the lay out of the kitchen pretty well. I didn’t want to think too much into it.

“No, he just knows you’re here. Figured I’d tell him in person, otherwise he’d be yelling my ear off over the phone.”

“So you rather him yell your ear off in person? Where I now have to deal with him, too?” I ask over a chuckle. “At least you can hand up on him over the phone. Can’t do that when he’s in your house.”

Harry pauses as he hears his front door open. “You’re right. I didn’t think this through.”

I laugh as the door closes again, and the house is suddenly filled with Nick’s distinctive voice.

“Is that the lovely Micky I hear? Now that’s a laugh I’ve missed. Harry’s is so annoying. Your’s is like a delicate little chime. So beautiful.”

“Hey!” Harry protests, pouting at Nick as he rounds the corner into the kitchen space. “Made you breakfast and the first thing you do is insult my laugh. Not very nice. Don’t think you deserve pancakes, mate.”

“I’m just kidding, young Harold. Your laugh is adorable. Especially your little cackle,” Nick appeases, patting Harry’s cheek as he walks by. 

I giggle as I place two pancakes on my plate. Nick is approaching me fast for a greeting, and I’m somehow calm about him finding out about the pregnancy. There’s no pressure with him finding out, I suppose. With Gemma and Anne there’d been the anxiety about how they were going to react because they were directly affected by the news. They’re the baby’s aunt and gran, after all. Nick is just the equivalent of a goofy uncle that’s not actually related to anyone, though, so the pressure of telling him is minimal. I know he’s going to take it in stride, maybe rib Harry a little bit, and then go on about how the baby is going to be the most spoiled little thing with Harry as a dad and all his famous friends. Nick is easy, and it’s a relief after how yesterday went.

“Oh, Micky, how I’ve missed your pretty face,” Nick sighs. I’m partly hidden behind the counter, so he’s still grinning as he gets closer. “Look at you, all glowing and tan. What do they put in the water in California? I need me some of it if it makes you look this good.”

“What water?” I ask with a scoff, referencing the current drought the state is in. 

“Ooh, yeah, forgot about that,” he grimaces. “Sun is doing you good, though. Not that you’re not beautiful when you’re pale from dreary old England, but a tan is making you all golden. You tan even better than Styles does.”

“Thanks. Took me awhile to build up to this without burning right away,” I admit.  

“Well, you look amazing,” he decides. “Come give me a hug. Haven’t seen you in forever, babe.”

I see Harry behind Nick, his stance a little stiff at the request. For once, I’m not worried, though, so I round the corner of the island and smile at Grimmy, who’s mouth drops open when he looks me over. 

A startled laugh bursts from his mouth, and his hands automatically shoot up to clamp over it, stifling the sound. I can’t help but laugh at him and his reaction. “Fuck me,” he laughs, dropping his hands to lay them on my shoulders. “Holy shit. Look at you. Gonna be a mumma soon.” He pulls me into a hug, careful not to squish the tummy too much. “You did this, I’m assuming.” he asks, turning to peer over his shoulder at Harry. 

“You say that like I did it on purpose.”

“You shagged her on purpose, right?”

Harry scoffs. “Well, yeah, that wasn’t an accident.”

“Sex makes babies, Harold.”

Nick sounds like a mum, and I am living for it.

“I understand that, Nicholas,” Harry sighs like he’s exasperated, even though there’s a small smile pulling at his lips. No matter how much Nick teases him, I think the ribbing is making him feel a little better.

“This is why it’s easier to be gay. No unplanned pregnancies.” 

“Gay sex!” I exclaim like it’s just dawned on me. “Should’ve considered that sooner. Would have kept me out of trouble.”

“You enjoy cock too much to have gay sex,” Harry argues before realizing what it is he’s said. As soon as he processes the words, his hand slaps over his mouth and his eyes widen as he looks between me and Nick guiltily.

Nick bursts out laughing, leaning into my side. I can’t help but chuckle at Harry’s outburst too, not having expected it from him ever. The only time I have ever heard him utter the word ‘cock’ is in reference to his own and said cock was doing very pleasurable things to my body. Hearing it so casually fall from his mouth is quite humourous, even if he was taking the mick out on my sexuality. 

“You’re not wrong,” I admit with a shrug once Nick’s laughter has calmed to short little chortles. “I was quite partial to yours, as well.” That just sets Nick off on another cackling fit.

“I am so sorry,” Harry urges. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“You’re sexually frustrated, mate,” Nick insists. “Haven’t gotten laid in forever, now Mick’s here in your house, looking all fit and carrying your child. Don’t know if you two are fucking again, but you should be. Can’t imagine your hormones aren’t begging for it, too,” he adds, looking at me.

While he’s not wrong—my hormones have me constantly fired up and begging for some sort of sexual contact—I’m not about to tell Nick that in front of Harry. We may have had sex—amazing sex, at that—together once upon a time, but we’re not in that space anymore. Being pregnant and by myself was bad enough, but now being around the extremely attractive father of my unborn child regularly has made it even worse. The shower head at my flat has gotten a lot of work recently, and I’ve already gone through a new change of batteries on the vibrator I keep in my bedside drawer since Harry re-entered my life. 

“We are not having this conversation.” Harry shakes his head.

“He gets pissy when he’s horny,” Nick stage whispers to me, looking very pointedly at Harry.

Harry flushes a pink tinge as he huffs. “I do not get pissy,” he objects. “I just don’t think discussing our sex lives is great breakfast conversation.”

“It’s only not good breakfast conversation because you’re not getting laid,” Nick protests.

“Yeah, well neither are you!”

Nick opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off, desperately needing the back and forth to end. My stomach is growling with hunger and I really just want the pancakes and to enjoy my last day in London before flying back to LA. 

“Alright, alright. None of us are getting laid, which sucks, but such is life when you’re an international pop star, a gay man, and a pregnant woman. Now, can we please eat? The little girl is getting hungry, and when the little girl is hungry, mummy is hungry.”

Nick’s face softens as he peers down at me. “It’s a little girl?” he coos. I nod. “Aw, Harry, you’re gonna have a little girl to spoil! Gonna have daddy wrapped around your little finger, aren’t ya?” Nick cradles my stomach as he continues to coo in conversation to our unborn child.

When I look to Harry over Nick’s head, he’s grinning softly, a sort of awed expression on his face as his eyes graze over my stomach. I know how scared he’s been since finding out that he’s going to be a father, but in that moment I see the excitement and love he already has for his daughter, and my heart flutters a little at the thought.

His eyes flick up to mine and his smile widens. I smile back, bottom lip tucked between my teeth. No matter how tough navigating all this may be, I have a good feeling that we’ll be okay.

Nick somehow convinces us to go out and enjoy the relatively nice day in London. He assures both Harry and me that you can’t see my belly when I put on the poncho and keep it relatively closed in the front. So, with that little bit of persuasion, Harry drives us out to the center of the city where Nick wants to do some shopping, and even though Harry says he’s not going to buy anything, I already know he can’t pass up the opportunity if we’re in a Gucci store.

As soon as we’re out of the car and strolling down the street, a small group of girls and what appears to be their mum approach Harry and Grimmy, asking for photos. I offer to take the photo like I’m used to doing at this point, but the mum shrugs me off politely and takes it herself. I stand on the sidelines and watch as Harry and Nick talk to the girls and pose for photos, all smiles, peace signs and thumbs up. I see the girls eyes flick to me every once in a while, and I’m sure the news of Harry and I hanging out together in London will be on Twitter as soon as they walk away. 

We get to the Gucci store without anymore stops, and I have a good time watching Nick and Harry bicker back and forth about what items look good and what’s going to be big this summer, like they’re actually knowledgable and don’t just throw on whatever they think looks good. Nick teases Harry about some of the shirts he picks out, even though he then proceeds to grab ones that look shockingly similar. When I chuckle, they both throw playful glares at me, and I just shrug.

When we finally leave Gucci—Harry having bought five shirts after he very explicitly said he wasn’t going to buy anything—Nick spies a store front and quickly darts across the street.

“Where are you going?” Harry calls.

“Store!” he calls back. “You two stay over there! Go into Coach or something. Micky could use a new purse.”

“Hey!” I protest, looking at the purse hanging from my elbow. “This is Burberry. Trev bought it for me.”

“Fine, no purse! Just go do something!” He disappears into the store, and when I look up at the name of the shoppe, I realize why he doesn’t want Harry and I coming after him. It’s very obviously a baby store, one that is designer, I’m assuming.

Harry shakes his head and wraps an arm around my shoulder to usher me into a cafe. “Want some tea or something?” he asks.

“What tea doesn’t have caffeine in it?” I ask.

“Forgot that you’re not supposed to have caffeine,” he mutters. “Herbal teas. Chamomile and such.”

I nod. “Chamomile sounds good. Better get Grimmy something, too.”

“True. Such a damn drama queen,” he gripes with a fond smile. I go to grab a table while Harry orders, and when he comes to join me Nick walks through the door, an obscenely large green bag hanging on his arm with his just as large Gucci bag, a triumphant smile on his face.

“What have you done?” I ask as soon as he takes one of the vacant seats at the table.

“Figured since I probably won’t see you until after the baby is born, I’d be a proper uncle now,” he nodded once. 

“Buying the whole bloody store was necessary?” I ask, peering at how the bag is pretty much overflowing.

“Well, I had to get things in different sizes, Micky. Babies grow, ya know?”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter as Harry comes back to the table with our drinks. 

“What have you done?” he asks as he sees the large bag by Nick’s side.

Once Nick gives the same explanation that I received, we fall into comfortable conversation about what’s been happening lately. I ask Nick how everything’s going with BBC. I obviously don’t get the station in America, and the time difference is too big for me to stay up and live stream it when it airs. I get snippets of it from YouTube videos and on Twitter, but other than that, I’m pretty much out of the loop. 

He regales me with stories of different interviews and ridiculous things he’s seen over the last few months, and both Harry and I are laughing so hard we’re crying at one point. Nick is an amazing story-teller and makes everything ten times funnier just by his own reactions to things. I always knew he had an amazing personality, just from listening to the Breakfast Show and being a fan of Harry’s, but actually speaking to him and getting to know him is so much better than I could’ve imagined. 

I’m wiping away the last of my tears, still slightly giggling, when I look out the shoppe windows, and my laughter immediately stalls.

“Harry,” I mutter. 

He’s still chuckling slightly when he looks at me, a question in his eyes. I nod my head toward the window, urging him to look. When he sees the small crowd of paps waiting on the sidewalk, his face automatically drops into a scowl. “Fucking hell.”

Nick looks over his shoulder to where Harry and I are looking, and, in typical Nick fashion, comes back with a joke. “Jesus. Don’t know why they swarm places like this. I’m not even that famous. Need to get off my dick.”

I choke out a laugh, and Harry flashes a bit of a smile before pursing his lips. “Let me ask the owner if there’s a back way out.”

“There’s only a few of them, Haz,” Nick reasons. “Plus, it’s not like they can’t see you disappear into the back. Whole storefront is pieces of glass.”

“I just don’t want Micky to have to deal with this,” Harry sighs.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure. “Done it before, yeah?”

“Yeah, but you weren’t six months pregnant, then,” he grumbles. Nick gives him a withering look, and Harry groans. “Fine. But stay next to me. We’ll get to the car as fast as possible.”

“Try not to make headlines this time, yeah?” Nick suggests teasingly, referring to the last time Harry and I got caught in a crowd of paps. Harry yelling at the photographer after one had touched me while we were exiting Nick’s party back in August made news in just about every major gossip rag, and I even saw it on TMZ when I got back to the states. The media had let it go pretty quickly, but I wasn’t blind to the comments from fans about how they were freaking out that Harry had called me his girl and I had been spotted with him several times, both in London and in New York. I stopped paying attention, so I don’t know how long all that lasted, but it was sure to pick back up again now that Harry and I were being seen together again.

“Fuck off,” Harry bit out, a smirk softening his words. Nick just cackled a little as he grabbed his bags and helped me out of my chair.

“Stay between Harold and me, yeah? Try to keep you hidden a bit, babe.”

So, as we headed out, Harry walked out first, my hand clutched in his as Nick walked out behind me, hands on my shoulders to keep the paps away from us. They all shouted Harry’s and Nick’s names as we walked by, making comments to Harry about the band’s hiatus and asking who I was. I kept a hand clutched to the poncho I was wearing, keeping the front closed to keep the bump concealed, praying that they didn't get any photos where it was obvious that I was pregnant. I knew it would come out at some point, but I wanted there to be just a little more time before then.

The paparazzi presence isn’t as crazy in England as it is in America, which is one thing that I’m grateful for. There are only a handful of people wielding cameras outside the cafe, and Harry appeases them by asking how their days are and wishing them good ones when we get through them. When someone shouts to ask who I am, he very coldly remarks, “Don’t worry about it, mate,” not even turning to look at who asked. 

When we finally round a corner and get rid of the small swarm, Harry pulls me into his side, arm around my waist. Nick saddles up to my other side, seeming to still protect me even after we made it out of the mess. 

“You alright?” he asks, checking me over with his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m alright, Harry,” I confirm. “That was nothing compared to how they were in New York.”

My mention of the constant attention and harassment I was getting when I returned to New York after my time in England with Harry last time has him pursing his lips. I’m sure he saw how bad it was online and through videos I know got uploaded to YouTube and Twitter and the like. Not to mention, we’d talk about it back when we were still talking, and he had been particularly furious about it then, so I’m sure his feelings about it hadn’t changed. Like I said, paps in America are a lot more bold than they are in the UK.

“Come, on, let’s get home. We’ve got a flight in a few hours.”

THIRTY

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #one direction #No Control #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #dad!harry

[iabsolutelyresentthiswebsite]

Why Reylo Should DEFINITELY NOT Happen

Is this an unpopular opinion now?

Disclaimer: I am not anti-Kylo. I love Kylo Ren for the potential his character does have (view profile picture!). I do not excuse any of his actions, but I do understand that had he not been mentally fucked by Snoke as an impressionable adolescent and had he not pushed away everyone who cared about him and tried to help, he would not be in this mess. Very much Snoke’s fault, very much his own. I love Rey for the beautiful being and character she is. How strong she is, her emotionality, and her fierce and beautiful desires. I am a fan of both Rey and Kylo Ren, so please do not take this as me saying one is too good for the other. 

Well, everyone knows how very, very sure I am of myself when I say Rey is Rey Skywalker. This would make her Kylo’s first cousin, their parents being twins, so that is very, very fucked up to begin with. This is the MAJOR, and first, reason I was ever anti-Reylo. 

But let’s PRETEND she isn’t Rey Skywalker. Maybe she’s Rey Kenobi or Rey whatever. It doesn’t matter. Let’s PRETEND she’s not a Skywalker, even though that is so wildly unlikely. View the attached videos to the last few words to see why I say it is that.

Have you viewed the videos? No? Well, I suggest you do. But whatever…I don’t know your schedule nor your interest level in this. Anyway, moving on…

So I’m sure you’re wondering, “Why, if you love both of the characters and they weren’t related, would you not ship them together?”

Simple: Because it is insulting to their characters, detrimental to the character development they could potentially have, and ends Star Wars for good.

I can hear the jeering now, “Those are some WILD assertions. How can you prove this, OP?”

Dissertation:

We have only been just introduced to them as characters, so how would I truly understand their motivations and who they really are? Well, to tell you the truth, I am one of those people who knows who people are based on how they act and respond to situations. It’s easy for me to predict what you will want and how you will act later. If I am so confident after TFA that I am willing to put myself on the line for jeering and my opinion up to all criticism on this website littered with differing opinions, I must be pretty confident that I know what I’m talking about. Especially true because I avoid conflict at pretty much all cost. So here goes…

Kylo Ren is a child trapped in a man of 30′s body. He pushed everyone who loved him away and was brainwashed by someone who cared only about what he could do for them. Kylo Ren’s main desire is that he wants to be wanted, he wants someone to be proud of him. He is unstable, unpolished, and very, very frightened…of Snoke, of himself, and of what he feels inside him. He is not emotionally mature enough, at least at this point, to handle a romantic relationship…at least a healthy one, one that which Rey would hypothetically deserve. And even though Kylo is allegedly more “polished” in TLJ, deep-seated fears like those just don’t go away. 

Rey is a grown adult. She grew up alone by nothing more than circumstances brought on by her parents, of whom we don’t (but probably do) know. Rey is 19…probably 21 by this movie…and has dealt with way too much in her life. She is emotional, but strong. She is fiercely loyal and desires nothing greater than to belong somewhere and feel that she belongs. She has every capability to have a healthy romantic relationship, but she doesn’t seem to really push for that. She desires friends and companionship and belonging, but not…a romantic relationship. At some point may she? Probably, but she doesn’t seem like the type of person, in my opinion, to prioritize a romantic entanglement. She is just getting her footing in the new world outside of Jakku. 

Now, keep all that in mind while I explain why it’s insulting to their characters and the franchise itself!

I am writer myself. I am, admittedly, predominantly a songwriter. I have written screenplays and short stories and whatnot…you may have seen one of my screenplay ideas for Kylo Ren’s redemption because I did, at one point, post a few of them on Tumblr. However, not the point. 

I took a screenwriting class about 2 years ago in college. Stay with me here! There was one time, I remember, we had an assignment for a short screenplay. I was writing a story…I don’t remember about what exactly, but I remember how much trouble I was having in keeping it within the time limit and due date I had. Finally, I had 3 days left to hand it in and still was trying to think of a decent way to end it. I had ideas and ideas that I loved, but the only thing that fit within the page limit and that would allow me to hand it in on time was the ending I hated…but it was the only choice I had at this point. I did it. I had the main antagonist fall in love with the main protagonist. I hated myself for it and it dissected their characters and destroyed the story, but I did it. I handed that paper in on time and in the page limit I had. 

You see what I’m getting at, don’t you?

I used…a cop-out. 

And that’s what endgame Reylo is. 

A cop-out. 

A cop-out is, as I’m sure you all know, something you do when you have no other choice or can’t think of a way to bring about your next goal. You do it because you gotta do it to make what you want happen happen. In this case, making Reylo canon would bring about a natural close to the saga. 

But at what cost?!

Star Wars, as I’m sure we’re all aware, is littered with themes that extend back to the beginning time of storytelling. Good versus evil being the most notable theme, familial love, love in general. A lot of basic AF themes, but all good stories tend to have similar themes. We all know that because there are truly only 6-8 real stories in life and cinema. You can only have so many good things. 

Now, TROPES are a different monster all together. Redemption is a trope that Star Wars utilizes a lot and that’s okay because it makes sense and grounds their good versus evil theme. Also, the Star Wars universe is so expansive and well-designed that it’s even kind of difficult to identify the trope until you really step back and say…”…huh.” It’s fine to utilize some tropes in wonderful movies. Don’t get me wrong…

But not when it sacrifices your characters. 

The trope I will be talking about now is the one in which “the bad guy falls in love with the good girl and shirks his bad ways to make her happy and be with her”. We all know what I’m talking about. And we all know how played out it is. We’re all tired of it.

How many movies have we seen this year with the very same endgame trope? 12? more? I don’t know, I barely go to the movies anymore. 

Do you want Kylo Ren and Rey’s character identity as it stands and their potential character development to devolve, which that’s what it is, into a romantic endgame? 

That is my question for you. 

Kylo Ren has the potential to pull a Vader and decide for himself, with the help of the people whom he pushed away earlier and those new friends, that what he’s doing is wrong. Darth Vader decided that when his son’s life, whom believed steadfastly in his goodness, was threatened that what he was doing was wrong and changed because he wanted to. Luke did not coerce, did not guilt, did not even truly fully persuade Darth Vader to turn back. But having Rey profess her love or even Kylo admit he is in love as a method of change is such a disservice to both of their characters. You are eliminating the fact that Kylo Ren must take responsibility for what he’s done and make amends as necessary. 

To degrade Rey’s very presence in the series to a method to bring about change in her male counterpart is disgusting to me. Her potential to grow as a Force-user, her potential to be stronger than Luke, her potential to be her own person is GONE. We all know this to be true. Once she becomes the object of the male villain’s affections, she becomes a sex symbol, she becomes nothing more than an object, and she is now forever thought of as “Kylo Ren’s Girlfriend” and not “Rey”. She becomes his property in the thoughts and minds of fans and those not fans because she loses her own name when that happens because now all that matters is the relationship. 

To use a female of Rey’s caliber to FORCE CHANGE in a male such as Kylo is reprehensible because it negates his need for true redemption, for taking responsibility, for fighting back from the Darkness. We all know Kylo needs to show effort because of who he is. He is denying and fighting the light, so therefore, he needs to fight the Darkness even harder. But…

If they fall in love…we all know, that’s all that will be remembered. 

Not who Rey really is. Not what she could have been. Not Kylo’s struggle to turn back. Not his betrayal of Supreme Leader Snoke. 

It’s all just them falling in love now…

Do you want that for Star Wars?

Because you know that’s what would happen. “Search your feelings, you know it to be true.” 

I, personally, would not want that for this amazing franchise that has literally brought people joy for 40 years. 

Aside from that, if they did fall in love and potentially go on to have children, that would be the end of Star Wars. 

I know Return of the Jedi was kind of that way too. ROTJ was really a nicely tied bow on top of a Christmas present, sealing the whole Saga of 6 (yeah, I know ROTJ came out before the Prequels!)

TFA is really a second Christmas present for someone. 

Since X, XI, and XII are all confirmed, if Kylo and Rey get together in IX, I do not see where they could go from there, especially considering they’re probably intending to follow the formula from before where the first saga was Anakin and Luke’s story, this saga really couldn’t be Kylo and Rey’s. IX would feel too final for people to want to rehash and reopen the gift. They’d lose viewers. They’d lose revenue. They’d lose our trust. If something feels too final, people won’t want to come back to it. That’s the problem with older people not liking TFA and the new trilogies. ROTJ was too final. But now that we have this and I’m open-minded to the new story, I’m all in…but 

THEY HAVE TO DO IT RIGHT.

And Reylo is not the right way. 

It would bring everything to a natural close before its time. I don’t know if I’d want to come back to SW after that because I don’t see the potential for a future in the series with that as a trilogy-closer. 

Now, I’m done. I’m just trying to let you all see what I’m seeing here. The quote that Rian Johnson made in the NYT that “Rey and Kylo are really two sides of the same protagonist” is the truth, but it, in no way, alludes to Reylo becoming canon. If anything, it alludes to: 1) Kylo’s Redemption or 2) Rey’s Turn to the Dark Side. 

Now please understand…I’m not trying to make y’all feel anything if you ship Reylo. This is just how I feel and how a lot of others feel. I’m very Pro-Kylo and very Anti-Reylo and I admit that. But I have legitimate reasons and legitimate concerns for the future of the franchise if Reylo sets sail. 

#star wars #my views #virginia speaks #kylo ren #rey #rey skywalker #anti-reylo