#yes I did think it was important to edit the chess board in

[ginevralinton]

Have a very quick Chess-Husbands-Julian-POV-Ramble-Thing that I don't have the energy to think of a title for or to edit

(sorry for any mistakes in this)

No Getting Feelings had been part of the contract, right from the beginning. He’d set it out, clear and simple: No Feelings, No Commitment, and No Special Treatment.

He hadn’t been worried about himself, obviously. Let’s be honest, this was Julian Fawcett, former MP (disgraced), whose cold, decrepit heart had (literally) given up on him, getting it off with an actual caveman, who sometimes chased squirrels like a dog.

No Getting Feelings – perfectly easy for him, perhaps a bit harder for Robin who got attached to the moon and mice and various people who’d long been sucked off (perhaps in more than one way, Julian hadn’t got round to asking yet), but all in all, not too difficult because the caveman was, well, a caveman, who’d seen everything, lost most things, and dismissed Christmas, weddings, government, and  canapes as silly fads. (There really was no convincing him on the merits of bite-sized, caviar crostini or a devilled egg – would leave me starving – yes, that’s the point, all the more room for the wine-dinner – would rather eat bum – I’m sure you would).

Really, the whole thing had just been a formality, a little precaution – look, Julian had been caught out before. And yeah, he was dead, but that didn’t mean other dead people couldn’t make you after-life into hell – or, you know, a precursor to hell, if this was purgatory. He’d just said it, because that’s what you – he – did when anything like this started anyway. No Feelings, No Special Treatment, No Commitment – the big three – and sure, there were a few others (No Sleeping in My Bed – broken after two weeks; No Suggestive Looks in Company – dismissed after a month or so, because honestly, some people were dense) – but it was important to get those three in straight off.

And look, Julian had intended to keep to the contact – but, well, you know, it was like the Great British public always said, like what the BBC, and every journalist were always reminding everyone: never trust a word a politician says.

In his defence, he really hadn’t thought it would require any effort to stick to the rules. He really hadn’t considered that games of chess, finding the same things funny, doing some actual stargazing, and dipping into a few too many deep-tragic-conversations might actually dredge something up in him besides his basic need to get off.

Still, stranger things have happened – men on the moon, The Green Party getting seats, that time in Amsterdam with the contortionist – becoming a ghost. All of that to say, yes, it did come as a bit of a shock when half-way through some god-awful Music Club, Julian had found himself not wincing at Pat rendition of Fernando, but looking over at Robin, who was absolutely into the performance, like he was with most music, come to think of it, because let it be said, the caveman’s taste was anything that made a kind-of-vaguely-musical-sound, and yes, Julian was trying to refine this a bit, but back to the point. He was looking over at Robin, all in his element, and then, he was having this warm, gooey feeling, the kind of feeling that could only be compared to a menu trying to tempt you into getting the caramel brownie sundae over the cheese board or the expresso with a shot of whatever liquor was on offer – except, well, this time, Julian was swayed.

Alright, so it wasn’t that simple and he’d be doing some creative photoshopping of the truth if he was to suggest it was all mushy-lovey-dovey from that moment on. Yes, he had a good few oh-god-oh-god-oh-god moments, two months of trying to avoid Robin (easier than you’d think, living in the same house and all), a false declaration of being sick-to-death-or-whatever-the-already-dead-equivalent-was of chess, and then a simple demand of what is your big problem now?, a whole bunch of rambling and walking in literal and verbal circles, and an actual crackling of lightening, a clap of thunder, a moment of forgetting they were dead and seeking shelter in the old gatehouse – four-walls, a bed, dry at least, even though it didn’t matter anymore – a brief conversation and then it was all settled in their own way – and no, Julian would not be making any further comment at this time – because no, it wasn’t that kind of story, or that one – and look, if you were to fall into the after-life with a bottle of something decent – or even not, at this point – then he’d probably tell you.

All that to say this: this thing – him and the caveman – had not been part of the plan – had not been part of the deal at all, but he should have known better really, because say what you like about Julian Fawcett, former-MP (disgraced), but know, if you ever need someone without any scruples to break a contract, he’s your man.

#bbc ghosts #my writing #fanfic? #kind of #idk what this is really #chess husbands #julian fawcett #robin #possibly awful oh well have it anyway

[whinlatter]

Hi, You mentioned you liked the Tent scene in the DH movie which is very rare for Romione fans and book fans… and so I’m curious if there’s other things you like from the films? I would love to know

me fighting for my life in hinny/romione jail after saying i really like the tent scene

Ok just in defence of the tent scene, which I love for so many reasons in a film series I broadly feel ambivalent about... I love that how plays with the idea of the characters just being kids getting a moment to piss about in a tent with the radio on, while the war rages around them (the song is O Children for a reason, and the fact that the train imagery runs throughout the lyrics... chef's kiss). I think it's a thoughtful twist on that line from DH about them being "three teenagers in a tent whose only achievement was not, yet, to be dead", playing with the teenageness of it all. I also really like how it steps out of being a HP film and plays both with a change of pace but also different forms of media - like, if you're converting something from one form to another (in this case, from a book to a film), you can and should think about what you can do in movies that you can't do in books, and music is so important in that. And I actually really love at the end where movie!Harry and Hermione look at each other and something seems to hang in the balance - I think it works as a bit of a wink and a nod to the audience expectations, but I love that they both turn away from it, because to the two characters there’s nothing of that between them, just deep love and ease with another person that they treasure and are grateful for. And then the song ends, and it’s back to the worry, three minutes of forgetting and back to the hours and hours of waiting and worrying. And although I don't really think of the movie characters as the characters, I do think it works as a way to render a dynamic in book!Harry and Hermione’s relationship by DH, which does have this intimacy, tenderness, and these gorgeous little twinge moments of physical affection:

She hesitated, but recognised the dismissal. She picked up the book and then walked back past him into the tent, but as she did so, she brushed the top of his head lightly with her hand. He closed his eyes at her touch, and hated himself for wishing that what she said was true: that Dumbledore had really cared.

Overall, though, I really don't love the films. I absolutely enjoy rewatching them with friends as a nostalgic relic of my childhood, yes I will re-enact the PS/SS chess scene on request, but I don't think as a series they're very strong, either as an adaptation or as a standalone body of work. My favourite film is probably GoF, because I think it just gets the vibe right: it nails the series shift that happens in book four, in that it delivers boarding school caper vibes immaculately, but then also really nails the political/courtroom scenes (the Barty Crouch Jr trial scene holds up as iconic, oh my god!) and the truly terrifying graveyard scene and the tragedy/agony of the aftermath. But in general I don't think the films are hugely well done, and I think giving David Yates films five through eight was a huge mistake (the man just turns the lights down to show that everything is getting dark and miserable, and directs weak, mannered performances from his actors in scenes that are poorly cut and edited. I will die on this hill). If JKR weren't set to make bank that she's going to pump into toxic TERF lobbying in Scottish/UK politics I'd be excited for the HBO series. Since the films were made we've seen how long-form series television can really be a wonderful medium for delivering quality adaptations and is where some of the most exciting new IP has been coming out of for the past few years, so there's such rich creative energy in that space that could deliver a really quality adaptation. But she is... so I am not!

Other things I like from the films that aren't in the books, after a lot of thought lol:

Burning the Burrow scene — it happened in the wrong film (the Burrow probably was attacked during DH, after Ron is revealed to be travelling with Harry at Malfoy Manor), but I think it’s extremely atmospheric, really chilling and beautiful (the reeds! the water! obsessed) Also it’s basically the best/most bearable Hinny moment in the wasteland of film Hinny........ but I digress

The crackling radio scenes from DH 1 (borrowed these heavily for inspo for Beasts, I love them so much)

#justice for the tent scene #justice for the burrow burning scene #and injustice for everything else #thank you anon! #also thank you so much if you have sent me an ask this week #i have an irl deadline early next week so am behind on writing and replying but i promise to try and get to the asks as soon as i can!

[acourtofantumbra]

Where Have All the Dragons Gone?

☆ All SJM spoilers: ACOTAR, CC, and TOG ☆

It's been quite a while since I put my SJM tin foil hat... I've got the attention span of a squirrel and moved onto other things.

Anyway, over the past 3-4 months I decided to start my first true re-read of all of SJM's books while a bunch of my friends were beginning the series for the first time. This week I finished Crescent City (just in time for my insanely beautiful Fairyloot editions to show up 1/2 a year later) and plan on moving onto TOG this week... but I have so, so, so many scenes that have been bothering me that I fully skimmed over in my first reads.

This scene above from HOSAB, chapter 46, with Ariadne has been fueling my intrusive thoughts lately. On my first read of CC2 I was so distracted by that insane ending that I could probably sum up my thoughts about Ariadne as "Well, that felt like a waste of time?" But upon further review (and now having read TOG in its entirety as well)... I'm starting to feel like she might be one of the most easter egg laden chess pieces placed on the board.

Per usual, I don't really have answers as much as I have some glaring parallels that feel important... But ultimately I think our "long, lost dragons" are not so lost and have been waiting patiently to enter the chat.

Ok, let's go back to the (extended) scene from HOSAB:

“Exactly,” Flynn said, as if the Fae lord weren’t taunting a dragon. A fucking dragon. A Lower, yes, but … fuck. They weren’t true shifters, switching between humanoid and animal bodies at will. They were more like the mer, if anything. There was a biological or magical difference to explain it—Ithan vaguely remembered learning about it in school, though he’d promptly forgotten the details.  It didn’t matter now, he supposed. The dragon could navigate two forms. He’d be a fool to underestimate her in this one.  The dragon stared Flynn down. He gave her a charming smile back. Her chin lifted. “Ariadne.” Flynn arched a brow. “A dragon named Ariadne?”  “I suppose you have a better name for me?” she shot back.  “Skull-Crusher, Winged Doom, Light-Eater.” Flynn ticked them off on his fingers.  She snorted, and the hint of amusement had Ithan realizing that the dragon was … beautiful. Utterly lethal and defiant, but—well, damn. From the gleam in Flynn’s eyes, Ithan could tell the Fae lord was thinking the same. Ariadne said, “Such names are for the old ones who dwell in their mountain caves and sleep the long slumber of true immortals.” “But you’re not one of them?” Ithan asked.   “My kin are more … modern.” Her gaze sharpened on Flynn. “Hence Ariadne.”  Flynn winked. She scowled.  “How did all of you”—Declan cut in, motioning to Ariadne, her body similar to that of a Fae female’s—“fit into that tiny ring?”  “We were bespelled by the Astronomer,” Sasa whispered. “He’s an ancient sorcerer—don’t let him deceive you with that feeble act. He bought us all, and shoved us into those rings to light the way when he descends into Hel. Though Ariadne got put into the ring by …” She trailed off when the dragon cut her a scathing, warning look. HOSAB, Chapter 46

It needs to be said, the difference between magical beings feels like it has only barely scraped the surface at the end of CC2 and I have not one clue how Sarah is finally gonna break all that shit down for us. But during my reread I finally got really into the Mer plot for this exact reason as well... clearly quite a bit going on there. Also... with the sprites magic not being first light-based??? Ok, back to the task at hand.

So Ariadne is identified as a dragon, which according to the front of both Crescent City books, is part of the House of Flame and Shadow. Perhaps our most controversial collection of beings in the CC world, our Slytherin house lol.

But, according to Ariadne herself, there is a difference between the kind of dragon shifter she is and a dragon that is a true immortal... and allegedly sleeping in a cave somewhere?! —> remember this. Ok, so what is a true immortal? Aren't the Vanir and fae immortal for the most part?

Well, we've been getting corrections through SJM's series that there is a difference between long-lived, which is what the fae and Vanir are, and true immortals.

Particularly in the ACOTAR series we've had Death Gods explain the difference between their true immortality aka "[they have] no death awaiting them." And suspiciously, the Bone Carver claims that his sister, the Weaver, is not only truly immortal, but she's found a way to "eat life itself" so that's remains youthful. Interesting... can think of around 6 folks allegedly able to do that in Crescent City, but I digress.

So true dragons — the ancient ones — seem to be true immortals as well. There is "no death waiting for them." Interesting considering we've had references in both TOG and CC that dragons are either no more or MIA. We actually get references at least once to dragons in each of SJM's series. Let's dig in a little more.

So TOG is our series with the most obvious inclusion of, at the very least, dragon-like creatures (we love you Abraxos) aka Wyverns. Wyverns we learn were made by the king - in a process Manon claims to not know much about... but happens in a mountain. But let's not skip ahead.

We've known since early on in TOG that dragons once existed in Erilea, but wyverns remain and are even the symbol represented on Ardalan's royal seal.

Celeana is surprised to see dragons depicted on the doors to the palace's library - because of course... libraries are at this point one of our most consistent, important, and often lost/destroyed, settings/plot points across worlds. Followed up with her feeling "a shot of lightning" about this dragon-adorned library... my spidey senses are tingling, how about you? Have dragons been associated with lightning in mythology? Yes. Yes they have.

First, what is the difference between a dragon and a wyvern? In fact lets take a look at all the varietals, some of the names might be familiar.

Who could forget the Wyrm from ACOTAR? Characters (amren) have been referred to as drakes, and I think we can argue that we've encountered a couple others from this list (perhaps sent from Hel?).

Anyway, what happened to the dragons of Erilea? It seems that they were defeated during a conflict and people largely believe them to be gone and whole societies (the mycenians) lost hope and fight once the last dragon disappeared/was killed.

But it's Maeve who gives us the clearest picture as to what happened to the dragons.

Glass is obviously significant in Throne of Glass and brings new meaning to the now destroyed glass castle, which I now assume was made from dragon glass.

But Maeve having "ensured" dragons were eradicated is particularly interesting knowing what we know about dragon fire from CC2 (we'll get to that). What this "ancient and bloody conflict" was we can guess at, but much like ACOTAR and CC we've got a wealth of wars to choose some and some we have more information about than others... anyone else suspicious about the sprite rebellion?

But Maeve mentioning Aelin's own "fire-breathing heritage" gave me pause... is she suggesting Aelin has any relation to dragons? Especially when Aelin starts to feel pangs of empathy for reasons she can't explain (a lightbulb moment in any SJM book - she uses this easter egg tactic a lot), her overwhelming sorrow while she's actively being tortured feels notable. Especially mentioning dragons "would never again been on this earth." Perhaps they can be found on another?

But Maeve destroying dragons is important because Bryce learns from Jesiba in CC2 that the strongest weapon against a Prince of Hel is in fact... dragon fire. Seems like an important tool to have in the arsenal... and why mention it if there are no dragons left anyway?

It contained an analysis of dragon fire, dating back five thousand years. It was in a language Bryce didn’t know, but a translation had been included. Jesiba had scribbled Good luck at the top. 

Well, now she knew why the Astronomer kept Ariadne in a ring. Not for light—but for protection. 

Among its many uses, the ancient scholar had written, dragon fire is one of the few substances proven to harm the Princes of Hel. It can burn even the Prince of the Pit’s dark hide. 

Yeah, Ariadne was valuable. And if Apollion was readying his armies … Bryce had no intention of letting the dragon return to the Astronomer’s clutches. HOSAB, Chapter 50

Granted, this alludes to there being a few substances that can harm a Prince of Hel, but with the introduction of Ariadne and "the ancient ones"... dragons have just shot to the top of my personal list of "things that are probably coming for us in CC3 and beyond" especially in this fight against the Big Bads.

Granted we learned when Bryce breaks into the Dawn room at the Crystal Palace (dragon glass too???) that the warring factions of Hel united to oust the Asteri and Thanatos is only now saying he doesn't give an f about his brothers' plans... maybe we don't want to roast Apollion, but just some of his brothers? And maybe dragon fire has some ability to take down an Asteri too? Who can say?

But that brings me back to Ariadne's conversation about the difference between the kind of dragon she is an the kind of dragons that have allegedly gone missing... she doesn't say they're gone.

“Skull-Crusher, Winged Doom, Light-Eater.” Flynn ticked them off on his fingers.  She snorted, and the hint of amusement had Ithan realizing that the dragon was … beautiful. Utterly lethal and defiant, but—well, damn. From the gleam in Flynn’s eyes, Ithan could tell the Fae lord was thinking the same. Ariadne said, “Such names are for the old ones who dwell in their mountain caves and sleep the long slumber of true immortals.”

Hm... sleeping in mountain caves? We've definitely had some not super subtle hints about some giant presence slumbering below mountains — in both TOG and ACOTAR. And while TOG has clearly mentioned their missing dragons... ACOTAR explicitly references dragons one time.

When Lucien gives Feyre a cloak UTM she notes Amarantha's coat of arms isn't just a dragon... but a sleeping dragon. Can I fully say I understand all the implications here? Certainly not. But it was an "oh damn" moment when I saw it. Especially considering how convinced I am that Hybern was possessed by a Valg. And if Maeve (Valg) and Princes of Hel (??) fear dragon fire... that... is an intriguing parallel.

But ok, so we've got a coat of arms with a sleeping dragon... what else has been referenced as a massive sleeping force?

Cassian wondered if his brother had ever told her what dwelled in these mountains. Most had been slain by the Illyrians, or sent fleeing to those Steppes. But the most cunning of them, the most ancient … they had found ways to hide. To emerge on moonless nights to feed. Even five centuries of training couldn’t stop the chill that skittered down his spine as Cassian surveyed the empty, quiet mountains below and wondered what slept beneath the snow...

Cassian soared toward it, unable to resist Ramiel’s ancient summons. Different—the mountain was so different from the barren, terrible presence of the lone peak in the center of Prythian. Ramiel had always felt alive, somehow. Awake and watchful....

Ramiel rose higher still, a shard of stone piercing the gray sky. Beautiful and lonely. Eternal and ageless.  ACOFAS, Chapter 3

Now I'm not saying I'm 100% confident a dragon is sleeping beneath Ramiel... but I am saying I feel confident we've gotta find dragons sleeping somewhere and the planet that's retained the most magic seems like an obvious first place to look.

I also wonder how much connection there could be between lost ancient dragons and the rare thunderbird line — a CC plot point that has been breaking my brain even more the second time around (all thoughts, no real conclusions). But with the inclusion of lightning + dragons (Aelin at the library, the Great Rite, etc.)... thunderbirds are looking even more suspicious in my eyes. Even more suspicious is our dear Hunt Athalar... lightning wielder of our dreams...

Her teeth shone, her canines long enough to shred flesh. “Did Bryce Quinlan tell you what occurred when she stood in this chamber twelve years ago?” His blood turned to ice. “That’s Quinlan’s business.” That smile didn’t falter. “You do not wish to know what I saw for her, either?” “No.” He spoke from his heart. “It’s her business,” he repeated. His lightning rose within him, rallying against a foe he could not slay. The Oracle blinked, a slow bob of those thick lashes. “You remind me of that which was lost long ago,” she said quietly. “I had not realized it might ever appear again.” HOEAB, Chapter 33

That's all I got for now... stay tuned for a potential descent into madness about Thunderbirds. We'll see.

#sjm multiverse #sjmaas #acotar #kingdom of ash #cc3 #throne of glass #cc2 spoilers #hoeab spoilers #hosab theory #sjm theory #acosf #acowar #maeve #aelin galythinius #bryce quinlan #hunt alathar #thunderbird #dragons #ariadne #sjm spoilers #cassian #amarantha #asteri #princes of hel #dragon fire #ramiel

[dilf-phoenix-rights]

#ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #athena cykes #apollo justice #klavier gavin #pearl fey #simon blackquill #nahyuta sahdmadhi #dahlia hawthorne #kristoph gavin #my aa memes #yes I did think it was important to edit the chess board in

[findingjoynweirdstuff]

Okay since I’m not satisfied reblogging the recap as is since the older ones weren’t as good, I’ll just paste it here but with some edits to include more direct quotes and stuff

This is one of my favorite days for Quackity’s character

---

RECAP: December 6, 2020

- HBomb hosts Niki and Wilbur’s L’Cast

- Fundy continues work on the chess board

- Ranboo is leaving a book with messages to communicate with Tommy

- Fundy and Ranboo visit Tommy and help him through the Nether to find blaze rods. Fundy fills Tommy in on the fact that Dream is officially recognizing L’manburg as a country.

- Tommy falls in lava and loses all his stuff

- Then he burns to death

- Then he falls in lava and loses all his stuff again

- He FINALLY gets an ender chest

- Lazar asks him for help since he’d fallen in lava and needed help getting out. As Tommy does so, Lazar questions why Tommy hasn’t turned against L’manburg. Tommy says it’s because Tubbo is there, but Lazar points out that Tubbo was the one who exiled him.

- Ghostbur comes on and says he has a gift.

- Tommy attempts to rescue Lazar from the depths of the lava pit. Techno starts arguing with him.

- Tommy falls in lava and loses all his stuff again. He gives up on helping Lazar, who is understandably annoyed at him.

- Philza joins the call wondering wtf is happening and why Tommy keeps dying, but Tommy just ends stream

- Psyche! Ghostbur asks Tommy to return to Logstedshire so he dies in lava to fast-travel back. Ghostbur gives Tommy a lodestone compass named “Your Tubbo” that points back to L’manburg at all times. Tommy puts the compass in his ender chest right next to the discs, saying he’ll keep it close to his heart.

- Thunder’s frustrated that Tommy got exiled exiled because the Prank War he was setting up between Dream and Tommy can no longer happen and Thunder’s great villain arc has been cancelled - he is no longer a villain now.

- Now, he wants to do the clay prank to George instead to try and get Dream and George to turn on each other as revenge for Dream burning his house.

- Puffy builds Tommy a second Christmas Tree.

- Quackity declares war on the Dream SMP from Mexican L’manburg. He gets George, Sapnap and Karl on to help. He’s rigged TNT under Eret’s castle bridge and wants to invoke the same ideas as the Mexican Revolution. He wants to put M.L. on the map by staging an assassination and using George’s dethronement as an excuse to start a political movement.

- Sapnap wants to take on Technoblade but Quackity tells him that they have to take things step by step and that it’s an extremely bad idea to do it now.

- Eret asks Hbomb to be one of his knights. HBomb agrees.

- George wants his kingship back

The explosion goes to plan with H and Puffy as witnesses.

— —

CANON DEATH: KARL

Cause: Death by explosion and falling

— —

- George distracts Eret while Quackity, Sapnap and Karl steal his throne. Punz joins Eret’s side as one of his other knights.

- The M.L. side reconvenes in L’manburg and drink invisibility potions. Dream is in Mexican L’manburg. He is tearing the dirt to shreds. Meanwhile, Eret gives a speech to his Knights as they head to Party Island. Dream, alone, is invisible in Boomerville.

- Sapnap gets Dream to log (he says it’s lag). The Dream SMP faction blows up M.L. with TNT. The Mexican L’manburgians kill Puffy.

- They want to head to the Holy Land. Dream says he wants to talk. They collect at the Church.

- They argue. Dream threatens to kill Quackity permanently and make sure Mexican L’manburg can never rise again. 

- Sapnap tells George that he thinks Dream has completely turned against them, and that they’re better off disowning him.

— [Including some more direct quotes here] ---

Quackity: “Listen...this should be between Eret and me, I don’t know why you are getting involved...we will give back the throne, but what we want-”

Dream: “- Mexican L’manburg is not...existing. Ever again...if you wanna destroy and grief the kingdom, then that is called being a terrorist! Listen, Karl, I don’t give a crap if you died, that’s your fault. You died griefing and being a terrorist...”

...

Quackity: “Is that what we’re going off of now? That the entire server can be run by one goddamn person? We’re not even allowed to voice our opinions now? What’s going on? As far as I remember, you’ve been taking all the shots, and anything, nobody has free speech anymore!”

...

Dream: “I think you forget that I designated this as the holy land.”

...

Dream: “I have no problem with Tubbo, who’s leading his country gracefully. You are a terrorist.”

...

Quackity: “What is it that you want from us? We were doing peaceful protest, that’s all we were doing.”

Dream: “Quackity...you’re not doing ‘peaceful protest’ when all I hear is ‘hey, the Dream SMP castle has been sieged.’ ...Look, I...You’re trying to paint me as this tyrant when I’m just trying to maintain peace...if you think Eret’s being too political, come and talk to me! Don’t go and raid my castle and my throne.”

Karl: “YOUR castle? YOUR throne?”

Dream: “Yes!”

Karl: “Dream’s an absolute TYRANT!”

...

Dream: “The only reason it’s a no-kill policy in the first place is because I wanted it to be that way, and it’s enforced by me.”

Karl: “That sounds like a tyrant!”

Dream: “It’s not a tyrant! I’m a humanitarian if anything! It’s not for my agenda...listen, my agenda always, since the beginning, has always been for the SMP to thrive. That has been my agenda, so if you’re saying for my agenda, it makes me a tyrant - no, it doesn’t, it makes me wanting the server to thrive and everyone to be peaceful.”

...

Dream: “In my mind, Mexican L’manburg does not exist as anything whatsoever and you know what? I’ll talk to Tubbo about it and make sure he sees it doesn’t either.”

Karl: “Dream said the same thing about L’manburg back in the day--”

Dream: “No I didn’t!”

...

Dream: “You don’t get a country recognized by being a terrorist, Quackity.”

...

Dream: “I did NOTHING! At all! Until you decided to attack my nation...you know what someone has to do to be recognized? A country that is established has to have a fair, and just, and logical ruler, and you are NONE of those things. Tubbo is all of those things, and that’s why L’manburg is recognized. 

When Tommy was head of state, and Tommy was vice president, you’re right, L’manburg had no right to be recognized...it was the fact that Tommy, a dumbass, was exiled and is no longer in charge of their land anymore...Tubbo would never...never in a million years do what you just did.”

“You know who would? Jschlatt. You know who would? Wilbur. You know who would? Tommy.”

...

Dream: “The king is a figurehead! He knows that!”

Quackity: “So that’s what you are? That’s what you are, Eret? A puppet?”

Dream: “YES!” -- No he’s not a puppet --”

---

M.L. argues that putting a human life above a few blocks of gold is more important.

He says that Quackity is causing the most problems, the number one “enemy” of the SMP right now.

—

- Quackity decides to dissolve Mexican L’manburg for a clean slate and call it something else. He wants the server to have a precedent of establishing new countries without having to go to Dream for recognition every time.

- Eret agrees to recognize Quackity’s new country if they apologize and return the throne.

- Sapnap declares that he no longer wants to fight Techno but Dream instead. He says he wants to slay Dream in front of everyone.

- Overall, Dream and Eret declare it a “failed coup” and say that the destruction is just a consequence of “what happens when you don’t plan anything” but Quackity is satisfied that his new country has been “put on the map.”

- Quackity declares the country to be named “El Rapids” in honor of Cedar Rapids.

- Punz no longer wants to be an official Knight.

- Quackity misses Ghostbur and wants to speak with him. He tells Ghostbur about the war. Ghostbur asks if it was a revolution - Quackity says yes! Ghostbur also informs Quackity that he burnt the sacred texts - How to Sex 2 - in lava.

- Karl streams with the intention of rebuilding and preparing for Pokimane’s visit

- Karl steals Eret’s Museum Llamas and gets caught in the act. Fortunately this doesn’t spark up the war again. They take a llama to Party Island.

- They get into trouble at Boomerville and Lazar joins.

- Dream comes online and asks Sam about the prison’s progress. Bad gets annoyed at Sam for destroying the beachfront property value, and he didn’t authorize the seizure of the land. Dream is there helping to shovel but Bad wants him to stop. Bad is angry about the prison being built and starts shouting at Sam.

- Bad tries to negotiate with Dream. Dream refers to the prison as containing a “prisoner.” Singular. And that the prisoner would have nothing, and Bad would be in charge of helping to guard it. There are going to be multiple “layers.”

- The prison will be in the middle of the ocean bit, and Bad would have a terraformed beachfront property. All of the land would be considered property of the Badlands - including the prison.

- People are going to have to go through portals to escape the prison.

- Bad starts to come around to the prison idea. Dream tells Sam he thinks they need more hands to help, potentially Ant and Eret.

- A strange, giant red “egg” has appeared in the corner of Bad’s statue room. He feels a strange aura coming from it, and he’s unable to bring himself to break it.

- Dream says Eret can’t help with the prison but he can help make the beach nicer. Bad says he might want to put Tommy in the prison but Dream says no, Tommy’s already exiled. So the prison isn’t for Tommy.

- Once the prisoner is in there, Dream says they would only be able to be let out “by the server.” It’s got certain secrets that only Dream and Sam know about. Sam says that he could potentially escape from it, but it will be so impenetrable that even if you know the secrets it would still be difficult to escape from.

- Bad shows Dream the Egg. Dream gets creeped out by it.

- Another Red Corruption has appeared near Hutt’s Pizza, and another at the Mansion. Everyone swears that it wasn’t there before, and there wasn’t enough time for someone to place all of it manually in the time that they were down there.

- Bad stabs Dream for trying to “hurt it.” He likes it for some reason.

- Bad asks Dream about who the prison’s for. Dream says “if you can’t kill somebody, you need to lock them up.” He mentions that it’s one of the more powerful people on the server, someone who either provides a threat now or in the future. He has someone in mind.

— —

Dream explains to Bad and Sam that the reason he switched sides in the Manberg-Pogtopia War was because Schlatt gave him something.

And that thing is “a card up his sleeve” until he needs it.

A book of great value.

It puts Dream in danger if people know of it, but also gives Dream power.

The “most valuable thing on the server.”

Something pertaining to the prison.

Something where they wouldn’t believe Dream if he told them what he was given.

— —

- The corruption grows AGAIN despite Dream, Sam and Bad all being in the middle of the ocean

- Another corruption appears on Tommy’s Power Tower

- The water level in New L’manburg has risen again, covering George and Quackity’s mushroom house

- The prison is going to be as tall as a MOUNTAIN

- Dream proposes the idea of Bad giving him the disc to piss off Tommy. Bad says that Skeppy has it so he’ll have to ask some other time. He might trade some information about Schlatt’s book in return for the disc.

- Bad says he likes the name a dono came up with for the corruption – “Blood Vines”

- Dream and Sam removed the Blood Vines on the Mansion to Bad’s dismay. Sam burns the Vines and Bad goes on a murderous rampage against him.

- Technoblade got a “Bee our guest” achievement

- Dream burns down the Eiffel Tower again.

- The prison will be reinforced with 15 layers of obsidian, and the guards will have Ender Pearl Stasis Chambers that are alarm-activated.

- The Blood Vines have sprouted up from Schlatt’s Grave.

The prison’s unofficial name as of right now is “Pandora’s Vault,” but it is subject to change.

---

(You can tell this was written a while ago lmao)

#long posts

[khunfounded]

Got Me In Check

[This was done for the wonderful @tower-of-chess collab!]

It was the late afternoon, sunshine pouring in through the dorm’s cloudy windows, and Khun was pretending to pay attention to his online probabilistic graphic models lecture while actually watching BEST 2 HOUR LONG FUNNY CAT COMPILATION  in another browser. It didn’t matter anyways, he was already ahead in all of his work, and he could answer the professor’s questions without even paying attention.

Cats were a much more important endeavor anyways.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and his roommate, Bam, came racing towards him. His golden eyes were filled with desperation, and he was panting as if he had just run a marathon. It was unfair how Bam could pull off the hot and sweaty look (with emphasis on the hot) whilst Khun was stuck with frizzy hair and blotchy cheeks anytime he went sprinting across campus.

“Khun, I’m in trouble!” Bam wailed, hands gripping the armrests of his roommate’s chair, “I need your help”.

Khun’s eyes widened with concern, “Are you okay? What’s wrong? What can I do?”

If this was another Rachel problem, Khun swore to god he was actually going to stab her this time. He couldn’t put up with how easily she manipulated his friend, leading him around by the ear. Bam insisted that she was a good person, but her actions showed the exact opposite. What kind of person constantly gaslit and negged their friends? Khun knew the answer. An absolute asshole, that’s who.

But instead of what he expected, what came out of his friend’s mouth was, “I need you to teach me how to play chess!”

What.

“What?” Khun asked incredulously. 

Bam must have realized how he sounded, because he pulled away and tilted his head down to hide a prominent blush. He bit his lip and mumbled something incoherent.

As adorable as that was, it really wasn’t helping Khun’s confusion, “I didn’t quite catch that”.

Bam looked back up and his face got even more red, the blush spreading to the tips of his ears. He fidgeted with the loose strand of his t-shirt and cleared his throat.

“You know how I’ve been wanting to make more friends?” Bam hedged.

Khun did. Bam was a social butterfly, he needed friends to thrive, but ever since they moved away for college, he had been having trouble making them. Khun’s heart ached whenever he saw Bam looking longingly at groups of people messing around and laughing on the campus green. He and Bam were best friends, and they spent almost all of their free time together, but Khun knew that that wasn’t enough. He had no idea why Bam wasn’t surrounded by people at all times, honestly. His natural charisma could fell even the most stoic man. Though maybe he was a little biased.

“Yeah?” He asked.

“And you know how you suggested that I join some clubs to meet people?” Bam didn’t stop to let him answer, voice going a mile a minute like it did whenever he was emotional, “Well I met a really cool group of people, and their club president invited me to join and I said yes”.

Khun could guess where this was going.

“But?”

Bam covered his face with his hands and groaned before answering, “I said yes without realizing that it was the chess club. I don’t know how to play chess! But I already agreed and I don’t wanna flake out and I really, really want to be friends with them”.

Bam lifted up his head and grabbed Khun’s hands, pulling them to his chest. Khun’s heart rate tripled. That probably wasn’t good. But, hey, he wasn’t a physio major, what would he know?

“I had no idea what to do but then I remembered that I know the smartest person ever, and if anyone would be able to help me it would be him”.

“You’re just saying that to butter me up,” Khun chuckled.

“Please?” Bam pouted, “For me?”

Oh god, how could he say no to that? Curse Bam for knowing that he was Khun’s ultimate weakness. He sighed.

“You’re lucky that I used to play chess with Ran, otherwise you’d be screwed”.

Bam let go of his hands, doing a fist pump in excitement, “Yes! Thank you so much!”

“But next time we go get pho, you’re footing the bill”.

They decided to get started later that evening, borrowing a chess board from the desk assistant and bringing it to their floor’s rec room. Luckily, the only other people there were Wangnan and Quaetro, who were busy trying to murder each other in Mario Kart, and Hwaryun, who was working on her laptop. Khun assumed that she was editing a video for her terrifyingly popular conspiracy theory youtube channel. He and Bam sat on the floor in the corner of the room, far enough away that Quaetro’s evil laughter was a bearable volume.

Khun took out the pieces and placed them on the chess board, explaining each of them as he went. Bam was looking at him intently, eyes full of interest. Khun had to avert his gaze just so he could be able to focus and not turn into an incoherent mess. He fondly reminisced about the days long past when he was able to pull off being aloof and cool. Bam had left his reputation in ruins.

When he got to the Queen, he said, “She can move in any straight direction as far as possible as long as she does not move through any of her own pieces. She is the most powerful piece of the game, so use her wisely”.

“So she’s like Khun!” Bam grinned brightly.

“What do you mean?” Khun asked, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the Black Queen.

Bam reached out and took the White Queen, cradling it in his palm and smiling softly, “You’re the most important, too”.

Khun felt his cheeks heat up. Was this flirting? Was Bam flirting with him? No, of course not, that wouldn’t make any sense. There was no way it could be possible, but how the hell else could he interpret that?

Khun had long accepted the fact that his crush on his best friend was hopeless and would never be reciprocated, but lately things kept happening that made it impossible for him to not get his hopes up. Bam had always been affectionate, but it had increased ten fold in the last few months. When they sat on Khun’s bed (which Bam always claimed was far superior to his own) and binged youtube videos together, Bam would cuddle right up against him like a content cat.

Once, when Bam had had a particularly long day at work, he had walked straight into Khun’s arms and just held him for several minutes, tears of exhaustion seeping into Khun’s shirt. Afterwards, they had sat close together on the dorm room floor and Bam spilled out all his frustration and anxiety, fidgeting with Khun’s hand the whole time.

Sometimes, when they were walking downtown together, Bam would just take Khun’s hand and intertwine their fingers, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He wouldn’t even stop his excited rambling, just continuing on as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened between them, and Khun needed to find out what or he was going to go insane.

And in this moment, he decided that, fuck it, two could play at that game.

“So does that mean you’re my King?” He asked, smiling when Bam’s eyes widened and he ducked his head.

“If you’ll have me,” Bam murmured, biting his lip.

Were they still talking about chess? Khun wasn’t sure.

“How could I say no to that?” He said just as softly, before clearing his throat and picking up the White King, “Anyways, the King can only move one square in any direction, and he can never move himself into check”.

The moment was successfully derailed, but the electric charge of something was still in the air, even as Khun led Bam through some easy strategies.

“Now, you should make sure that you focus on the center four squares of the board,” he guided Bam, “Whoever dominates those dominates the game”.

Bam’s eyebrows scrunched up, and Jesus, why was he so cute? It should be illegal. Put him away for life.

“Okay,” he told Bam, “When you can get into a draw with me, that’s when you’re ready”.

And so began Bam’s week-long training, which he said was more intense than anything he’d ever done at Jinsung’s dojo. It was also much harder on Khun’s side, to hold himself back from absolutely decimating his friend in three moves, which Bam made sure to make fun of him for.

“I think it’s cute!” he said, “You’re trying so hard just to help me”.

“I’m not cute,” he grumbled as he took Bam’s Rook out of spite.

The entire thing was a learning experience for both of them. Bam was learning how to play chess, and Khun was learning that Bam had absolutely terrifying game rage. His eyes practically crackled with electricity and Khun heard him cuss more times in those few days than he had in his entire time of knowing him. Baby Khun would be distraught, but Adult Khun was kind of into it.

“Fuck!” Bam cursed when Khun got him in check, startling the sleeping burrito Laure, and making Khun burst out laughing. Bam stuck his tongue out and flicked Khun’s Queen, toppling her over. 

Khun moved the chess pieces back a few moves, and guided Bam’s hand to moving the Knight in a way that would have trapped him.

“This is where you went wrong,” he said, “Your instinct is good for your dancing, but you need to plan ahead with chess”.

But Bam didn’t seem to be paying attention. In fact, his eyes were glued to where their hands were touching. Khun jolted back when he realized what he had done, but Bam took his hand before he could move away, shifting so he was holding it. Khun died a little, but he was pretty sure he didn’t let it show. Relatively sure. Kind of.

They managed to play with their hands together, but Khun’s brain was mush. That was when Bam finally got a draw. Khun would have protested, but that would mean admitting why he was distracted.

As Bam was cheering and texting Isu that he was coming to the next meeting, Khun put away their pieces, trying not to feel loss. Bam didn’t need him anymore, at least not for this. He had always known it wasn’t permanent, but a part of him had hoped it would last a little longer. Khun bit his lip.

“Hey, Khun?” Bam said, voice still brimming with excitement.

“Yeah?” his voice sounded hollow. Damnit.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come, too? I just thought, you’re really good at it, and I think you’d like everyone there, and I want you to be friends with my friends”.

Khun blinked. He blurted out his answer before he could even think.

“Yeah. Yes, I would love that”.

Bam grinned, face lit up like the sun.

He reached over, hands gently cupping Khun’s face, and brought him in close. So close they were breathing the same air. Bam’s smile turned soft and he nuzzled their noses together before his sunshine eyes flickered down to Khun’s lips.

Oh god, was this happening? It was happening. Oh god. Khun’s brain stuttered and broke down. There was never a time in his short, short life where he thought that this would ever be possible, that Bam would ever think of him in this way. But Khun had always been a selfish person, he wasn’t going to take this gift for granted.

He leaned in, bridging the gap, and then they were kissing over the chess board and it was everything. Bam hummed into it, pecking Khun’s lips once, twice, three times. Khun tugged him in and kissed him for all he was worth, knocking the chess pieces over in the process. After one last kiss, Bam pulled away, giggling.

“You’re the best boyfriend ever, Khun!”

#tog #tower of god #khunbam #khun aguero agnis #the 25th bam #togchesscollab

[janeofcakes]

Keep Your Friends Close..: Chapter 11

Hello, my friends! I’ve been working off and on all day to get this one out because I’ll be stupid busy tomorrow with it being mother’s day and all. As it is, I have to keep stopping for long periods of time when all I really want to do is post this and work on my bedazzling project. Gah. And I thought week days were exasperating. It’s so hard to tell the difference now anyway. Oh, shit. I need to do the laundry. 

Well, here you go. It’s a pretty good chapter, if I do say so myself. I was breathless when I finished editing. Enjoy!

----

Sorry if I'm speaking out of line, but I don't want this night to be over. I don't want it to end. 'Cause it seems like when our worlds collide, it just don't feel right not to hold ya. It's getting hard to be friends.

Do you feel what I feel the closer that we get? It’s almost like there’s a force that we can’t resist.

Baby, tell me why, why you wanna stop what’s happening inside. It’s bigger than you and me. It’s like we’re fighting gravity.                                                                                          --NKOTB, Fighting Gravity

For the next three weeks, the three men watch everything at bouts as closely as they can. Whether home or away, Greg and John are always stationed in locations where, between them,  they can see every inch of the track and every member of both teams. Sherlock does his best to help while still coaching Rock City. But nothing happens. There are no suspicious injuries or accidents, nothing but the usual rough and tumble of a bout.

Similarly, there are no further attempts on John’s life, or Molly’s. Mycroft continues to keep an eye on her through PT and in her room. Sherlock has even walked in on the two of them in the throws of a ruthless chess game. Mycroft has also proved useful in obscuring John’s whereabouts. After picking up enough clothing to last a couple of weeks, along with a few other items, John drove to a hotel and made it look as though he had checked in while actually leaving for Sherlock’s condo. John repeated this every two or three days so he appeared to be moving around. 

Unfortunately, Mycroft agreed with Greg that they do not have enough evidence to prove anything and that it would be useless to go to the police. Plus, that would only alert Moriarty to their suspicions. Instead, Mycroft enlisted the help of a few friends on the force who could look into Moriarty’s activities without being noticed. There had been no news thus far and with no further attempts on anyone, Sherlock and the others must simply maintain the holding pattern. Something will happen soon enough and they must all be ready for it, but the frustration of waiting becomes more and more evident, especially in his new roommate. 

“God, I’m so tired of doing this every night,” John had said one evening, just after walking in the door. “I wish I could just come straight home and relax.”

Sherlock had meant to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. Home, John had said. Just come home and he had meant Sherlock’s condo. With Sherlock. At least that is what Sherlock wants to believe.

He never did find his voice before John continued speaking. John did not think better of saying the word and Sherlock never brought it up, not wanting to hear John correct himself. Sherlock knows he should forget it, assume it was a slip of the tongue and not pin any hopes on it. His conversation with Greg weeks ago has still not motivated him to say a word to John for fear of what the doctor will say. For the time being, he would still rather live in ignorance and misguided hope than know John does not think of him in that way.

Sherlock pushes open the door to his hotel room, key card in his mouth, a bag in one hand and a garment bag flung over his shoulder. His dark curls are all askew and one falls onto his forehead, nearly into his eye as he stumbles his way into the suite. He blows it off his face only to have it drop right back down and barges head-long into the bedroom.

Dropping his bags onto the bed unceremoniously, Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and sighs. They boarded Mrs. Hudson’s charter plane that morning, destined for Baltimore and a bout against the Rolling Ravens. With the bout on the following day, they loaded a bus and went straight from the airport to the practice facility to get some footwork and scrimmaging in. It is now around 5:30 and, having just arrived at the Sussex, they are all dropping bags in their rooms and meeting back on the bus for dinner.

Sherlock walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light. He turns on the water and splashes some on his face. Once, twice. He buries his face in a soft, plush towel and holds it for a moment. Sherlock is exhausted. He always is after a flight. He does not like flying and every muscle in his body tenses to remind him of it. He can never rest his mind either, scenario after scenario rushing from room to room of his mind palace, giving him not a moment’s peace. John tried to sit next to him the first flight of the season, but Sherlock did not want him to witness his quiet panic so he convinced him to sit elsewhere. He told John he liked having time to himself when, in truth, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to have John by his side forever. After that, John did not try sitting by Sherlock again.

Sherlock pulls the towel from his face and opens his eyes, brow furrowed. He presses his lips together, shaking his head and hanging up the towel. He is still so far gone on John Watson, despite his efforts to stop himself. All of which have been fruitless, he might add. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips and gives his reflection a very unamused look. 

“You are so screwed,” he mumbles to himself. He studies his features for a moment and scowls. Walking into the suite’s living room, Sherlock diverges and heads for the kitchenette to pull a bottle of water from the small fridge. His phone pings with a text as he snags a bottle. He opens it and takes a drink while pulling the phone from his pocket. He knows exactly who it is. He has given him a particular ping. Greg, the bastard, noticed right away and has teased him whenever they are alone ever since. In spite of all protestations to the contrary, Greg is truly the big brother Sherlock never had.

*Coming down to dinner, yeah? Waiting on you and The Woman.*

Sherlock cocks a brow and replies.

*On my way. I’ll swing by her room*

*No need. She just turned up. Only you now.*

Sherlock smirks and caps the water bottle, carrying it with him when he walks to the door. He should take a minute and hang his suits for the bouts, but they will be fine. He can always steam them while he showers if they wrinkle.

He runs through tomorrow’s plan while the elevator takes him to the lobby. He has plenty of time as it stops on nearly every floor to pick up what always seems to be a parent with children bound for the hotel swimming pool. He rolls his eyes and tries to concentrate over the din. The bout starts at seven, the ladies have all afternoon to do weights on their own with warm-ups starting around 5:30. Since they put in a long practice today, on top of the flight, tomorrow morning is free for sight-seeing and relaxation. Sherlock has heard some of the ladies making plans, mostly involving spas and massages. For his money, there are several historic sites to choose from, not the least of which is the home of Edgar Allan Poe.

The elevator doors finally open at the lobby and all of its occupants exit. Sherlock follows the crowd without much thought until he catches the eye of a tall blonde looking his way. It is only a glance and Sherlock thinks nothing of it for a few steps. Then the feeling of cold realization hits him and he stops. It’s a threat, danger. Sherlock’s sharp eyes shoot back to the man, but he is gone. He looks around and sees nothing. Slowly, he makes his way to the hotel’s revolving doors, wishing for the first time that Greg had been able to come with them. Sherlock and John must keep an eye on the proceedings alone and Sherlock definitely has an uneasy feeling now.

Sherlock sees the Rock City bus as soon as he steps away from the hotel, right where he left it. As he walks toward it, he once again considers how he and John can best watch everything they need to throughout the bout. He has been to the stadium many times before, but John has never seen its track and Sherlock plans to discuss it with him at dinner. Ironically, the doctor is the very person he meets as he climbs up the bus’ three steps.

“There you are,” John beams. “They were about to send out a search party and believe me when I say they would’ve carried you out here kicking and screaming. It was all I could do to hold them back.”

“A Herculean feet indeed,” Sherlock snarks.

“Christ, Coach, where have you been?” HardOn cries upon catching sight of him. “We’re starving!”

“You should know by now not to keep us waiting,” Hella teases, standing at her seat with a knee resting on its cushions.

“No man should ever make a lady wait,” The Woman lifts a seductive brow and clicks her teeth. “Even I am ravenous.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sally snorts. “Where the hell were you?”

“I was tending to something very important.”

“What’s her name?”

Irene gives Sally a very sly, knowing look and the two dissolve into snickers.

“All right, ladies,” Sherlock announces. “Everyone sit down and behave yourselves.”

“Yes, papa,” HardOn quips as heads begin to drop, the skaters finding their seats. She casts a glance at John and jokes. “Don’t let him tell you what to do, Ph.D. Keep him in line.”

“I’ll do my best,” John laughs from his own seat in the front.

Sherlock counts heads, making sure to see the face of every skater and support staffer before turning to the driver who sits directly in front of his seat.

“Lawrence, we’re all here. Shall we go to our usual haunt?”

“The diner awaits,” the man replies with a kind smile.

Sherlock thanks him and sits down. He looks back at the skaters again and then gazes across the aisle at John. He has a curious expression on his face. His lips turned up on one side in that crooked smile Sherlock loves so much. His stomach flips, even as he affects nonchalance.

“What?” he asks, grinning almost like a fool.

“This is a hired bus and yet, you know the driver?” John replies, making no effort to hide his smile.

“We always use the same company,” Sherlock answers, “and we always request Lawrence. He chauffeured us around my first time here and every one since.”

“Ah, I see,” John says fondly. “You get attached to people, don’t you?

“I most certainly do not!” Sherlock raises his chin, straightening his long neck. He looks down his nose at John. “I merely appreciate a job well done.”

“Right, right,” John replies. The expression on his face just as fond as his tone. He also looks very amused. Sherlock’s cheeks grow pink and his stomach flips again. He put that look on John’s face.

They arrive at Krispin’s Diner nearly an hour later, colonially themed and larger than one normally expects a diner to be. Perfect for their over-sized group. They are able to get tables fairly close together, in spite of the busy night. The evening passes nicely enough as they all eat, joke and laugh. Unfortunately, the opportunity to talk through the bout does not arise, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. However, there is a restaurant in the hotel and he intends to speak with John once they are there. It might be better to do it alone anyway. 

Two hours after they arrived, they are all climbing into the bus again. Sherlock grabs John’s elbow lightly before the man gets a foot on the first step. He pulls the doctor aside and speaks to him quietly as skaters continue disappearing into the vehicle.

“Would you join me in the hotel restaurant? We need to talk about tomorrow.”

John gives him a very serious nod. 

Upon reaching the Sussex, Sherlock ushers the skaters to the elevators while telling them all to a good night’s sleep. He knows full well none of them will. About half will sneak out and the other will behave as though at a college slumber party. His and John’s only hope is that they not play any pranks on them in the night. Either way, none will get to sleep before 1am and will likely waste the morning sleeping in. Although, John has made an effort to have everyone up by nine for a team breakfast at all the away bouts thus far. To Sherlock’s surprise, the skaters have embraced the idea and most are up to join him.

When the last of the ladies have entered the elevators and the doors have closed, Sherlock turns to see John leaning against the wall in wait. Sherlock walks to him and nods in the direction of the restaurant entrance. John nods in return and follows. Soon they are seated at a quiet table in the corner, each with a drink. Sherlock watches John take a sip of his scotch and then look at the liquid with approval. He turns his eyes to the coach after placing the glass on the table.

“So, the stadium,” John begins, “you’ve been there before.”

“Many times,” Sherlock grabs a napkin and fishes a pen from his breast pocket. He starts to draw a diagram of the track and team boxes, the spectator areas, every detail he can think of. He looks up to John when finished to see him already studying the diagram closely.

“Since it’s just the two of us, I think you should watch the bout from here. It’s close enough to our box if needed and you will be able to see anything I can’t,” Sherlock tells him while pointing at different locations on the map.

“Looks good,” John nods. They discuss the logistics a bit more and then both sip their forgotten drinks, satisfied with the plan. That is until John gives Sherlock that look. It’s the look John wears when he knows there is something else on Sherlock’s mind. His ability to know Sherlock so well is infuriating, especially when John himself remains a mystery so much of the time.

“So.”

“So?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve already told you. We’ve discussed it. It’s done.”

“There’s something else.”

“There’s nothing else.”

“Look, Sherlock, you’re good at hiding things from people,” John pauses, pursing his lips while Sherlock gives him a smile of smug satisfaction, “but not from me.”

Sherlock’s face quickly morphs into one of indignation.

“Don’t give me that look. Something is bothering you. It’s obvious. Now what is it?”

Sherlock studies John closely. He doesn’t know why he hesitates, but still does. He can trust John with his concerns. He trusts him with his life, for god sake, but this is different. This is a feeling not backed by logic. Ordinarily, he would tell no one and dismiss it as an absurd lack of concentration. Sentiment. But John. He will understand and still Sherlock watches him, unsure. He soon finds himself looking intently at every aspect of John’s expression, getting lost in his eyes. The crinkles around them, the way his brows punctuate every expression, and his mouth… God, his mouth.

Sherlock licks his lips and begins to imagine what it would feel like to touch John’s lips. What must they taste like and how would they feel against his own? Or on his collarbone, his shoulder. Sherlock stutters back, staring at John with wide eyes. He absolutely was not doing that and will not do it again in the future. He has already gone over this in his mind palace enough times to know he cannot act on these feelings. It is too great a risk.

Brushing the thoughts from his mind, he looks at John again and hopes he did not notice the hungry look in his eyes, but knows he must have. He watches for any trace of reaction on the doctor’s face, but there is none. John opens his mouth to speak and his words are not at all what Sherlock expects.

“We’re in this together, yeah?” he says simply, leaning across the table. He looks at Sherlock so intently that Sherlock tips his head to the side, almost in wonder. “You, Greg, me, we’re working together to pull this off and protect the team. Now it’s just the two of us and I can’t help if I don’t have all the pieces. I know something is bothering you and I’m sure it’s to do with the accidents. What is it, Sherlock?”

“The two of us,” Sherlock repeats. His chest and cheeks feel warm as his feelings, so soundly stifled, bubble to the surface again. “Against the world.”

It is a foolish, romantic notion and Sherlock would normally berate anyone for such nonsense, but John is smiling that beautiful smile that shines in his eyes and Sherlock wants him never to stop.

“Yeah,” John replies with not just a little affection in his voice. “Something like that. Can you trust me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. His eyes must be dilating and he cannot stop them from giving him away.

“Do you trust me?” John asks slowly, voice rife with hesitation.

“Yes,” he answers without stopping to consider it. He has no need. He trusts John implicitly and he knows the feeling is mutual. There is no reason to delay any longer. There never was. “I have no real evidence of my suspicions.”

“Okay,” John’s tongue darts across his lips and it is all Sherlock can do not to look at them, not to even glance. “What suspicions?”

“I have...an uneasy feeling,” Sherlock pauses and swallows. He should feel like an idiot, citing anything as irrational as sentiment as a basis for suspicion, but it is a feeling he cannot shake. Something is not right in Baltimore.

“There was a man. When I stepped out of the elevator before dinner. He was watching me. I’m sure of it, and he was gone when I looked back.”

A moment of silence follows and Sherlock feels suddenly compelled to convince John he has not lost his mind. He leans forward and grasps the hand that lies idly on the table between them.

“I know how it sounds, John. I don’t put any stock into gut feelings, emotions or sentiment, but something is not right here. We have to be prepared for anything,” Sherlock tells him in a low, serious tone. 

There it is. His intuition laid out on the table with no basis in logic, just a notion that something is off. He expects John to scoff, tell him he is a weak-minded fool and walk away.

But he does not.

“I believe you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks. He cannot believe his ears. Trying to keep the surprise from his face, he concentrates on John’s features. Honesty and curiosity are the primary emotions he sees and they make him love John that much more. Flip.

Goddammit.

“I trust gut feelings. It’s what helped lead me to you. The team,” he corrects quickly when Sherlock’s eyes meet his and this time they are startled. “This man, what did he look like?”

“My height, blonde, brown eyes and fair skin. He was wearing a black turtleneck and sport coat. I couldn’t see anything else through all the people. He had this look in his eye, like he knew something about me or someone I hold dear. And smirking, but more of a sneer. He’s dangerous, John. I don’t know how, but he is involved in all of this.”

“So we’ll watch for him at the bout and around the hotel. If we see him, we’ll get a hold of him and find out what the hell he’s doing here,” John tells him. Sherlock nods, unable to keep the smile from forming and John follows suit. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… You’re usually so polite and charming, but now…” Sherlock looks away coyly, but then snaps his gaze back to John and continues in a firm tone because he was absolutely not being flirtatious. Jesus Christ. “Now you’re quite the opposite.”

“More kick ass and take names? I believe that’s what you Americans say.”

“Yes, something like that,” Sherlock chuckles and, before he knows it, John has joined in his revelry. John continues talking a moment later, taking on a more serious tone. 

“It’s where we’re similar. You see, I haven’t been here long, but I’ve grown quite fond of the ladies. I’ll do whatever I need to protect them. And you.”

Those two words catch Sherlock completely off guard and his gaze locks in on John. They share the most sincere of looks across the table. John’s deep blue eyes sparkle, even in the low light of the restaurant. A scheme by hotel managers to appeal to couples who want a romantic evening away from prying eyes. Even those who do not seek out the experience find themselves caught up in the atmosphere. As he continues to gaze into those amazingly expressive, gorgeous blue eyes, Sherlock decides he rather likes it himself.

Then he realizes his own hand still rests on John’s, warm and soft, and for much longer than is normal for friends. He grins uncharacteristically foolishly, hoping it will distract John while he slowly slides it off. The doctor just chuckles quietly and says nothing. Sherlock chastises himself in his mind for being such an idiot. Is this what love does to him? He clenches his jaw irritably. No. He was never like this with Victor. This is what John does to him.

“Hey,” John’s hand is suddenly on his. He looks at him from under long lashes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers after a few seconds of thought and John smiles. 

They spend another hour or so in easy conversation before bidding one another good night and going to their rooms. 

Back in the living room of his suite, Sherlock hangs his long coat and scarf in the closet by the door. He pulls off his suit coat as he goes to the kitchen, tossing it on the bar that separates the kitchenette from the rest of the room. He removes a small bottle of wine from the fridge and takes a glass from the cabinet. Sherlock likes a good white wine and only if it is colder than what most think is appropriate. This wine is acceptable, he concludes after a sip.

Sherlock toes out of his shoes and pads into the bedroom where his bags still sit on the bed. He should shower after the day of traveling and practice, but it is late enough that he cannot bring himself to do it. His only desires are to change and fall into the covers. However, there is one thing he wants to do more. Sherlock sets the wine glass on a side table and unzips his rather large bag. He slips his violin case from it carefully and runs a hand over its smooth surface. Playing helps him relax, clears his mind of most things, like flights. He places it on the bed and turns his attention to the garment bag next to it. He takes out the suits and hangs them in the wardrobe. They are a bit wrinkled, but it is nothing his morning shower won’t fix. He has another sip of wine while changing into dark blue pajamas and then pulls on his favorite dressing gown of cobalt blue satin. The color actually reminds him of John’s eyes. He quickly shakes his head to free himself of that thought. Jesus, he’s like a lovesick adolescent. 

Sherlock picks up the violin case, the wine glass in his other hand, and goes into the living room. He sets both items down on the coffee table and looks out the large window for a moment before closing the curtains. Finally, he bends down and lifts the beloved violin from its case, plucking up the bow as he does. After a moment of preparation, he begins to play. He closes his eyes reverently and sways ever so slightly. He plays and plays, careful not to be too loud in the quiet hotel. So consumed by his playing is he that Sherlock almost misses the gentle knocks on his door.

His grey eyes pop open and immediately focus on the door to his suite. He stills the bow, but does not move it from where it hovers over the strings. He waits a beat or two as if there were rests in the piece and then hears it again. Two quiet knocks on his door. Sherlock glances at the clock by the flatscreen. Midnight.

Sherlock places the instrument and bow back in the case and moves toward the door, but pauses mid-step when there is another soft knock. He rolls his eyes and places his hands on his hips. This has happened before. There’s only one person it could be and Sherlock is beyond ticked off. He stomps the last few steps, releases the deadbolt in one swift movement and jerks the door open.

“Harry, if you’ve flooded your room again, I will not be responsible for my ac...tions,” Sherlock loses the vehemence in his last word as soon as he sees the figure at his door.

“What?” John asks, bewildered. “Has Harry flooded her room?”

“No. No, not this time,” Sherlock fumbles. “She did when we were here last year.”

“She does get up to things, doesn’t she?” John snickers.

“Don’t I know it.”

“I bet Clara was pissed off.”

“Oh, she was, believe me. They didn’t share a room for nine aways after that.”

“Nine? Seems rather arbitrary.”

“One for every year they’ve been together.”

“Oh,” the word sounds like a sigh and John’s eyes are soft. “That’s so sweet.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock’s tone is dismissive and John gives him a look. “After Victor, I determined that sentiment is a defect on the losing side.”

“And yet, you keep winning,” John replies with a cheeky smile, “and you love Molly.”

“Like a sister. It’s different.”

“It’s still sentiment.”

Sherlock looks past John for a moment, feeling himself being pulled down a rabbit hole to a place he would rather not go. He fixes his gaze on John once more, a more critical gaze this time.

“Did you have some reason for coming to my room at this hour?” he asks in a clipped and rude tone he immediately regrets. He blows out a frustrated breath as John’s playful grin fades into startled dejection. Sherlock rushes to put it right. “John…”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry,” the doctor interrupts, taking a step away from the door. “I apologize for the hour, but I just got a message from Mike.”

Sherlock freezes. Molly’s recovery has gone perfectly by anyone’s measure, but the brotherly and ultimately, irrational part of his mind jumps to frightening conclusions. The logical, and thankfully, larger part of his mind quells the worry before it can be seen on his face. Still, John continues quickly and though he can see it all as clear as day. Damn it, he knows Sherlock too well.

“Everything looks good and she’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he rushes to say. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s body relaxes and he lets out the breath he was holding. “Thank you. Please, come in.”

He stands aside and John walks in hesitantly with a ta. In moments, they are seated on the couch, sipping from water bottles. There is an air of discomfort and awkwardness between them that crushes Sherlock’s heart. He has never felt this way with John in the whole of their association. Even when they met and he attacked him with accusations and suspicion, John was completely at ease. Irritated, yes, but not uncomfortable. Sherlock’s mind works fast for a way to fix this.

“There’s no need to worry about getting her home,” John says suddenly. “Mycroft is going to help her. He’s already arranged it and he’ll help her get settled at home. Since you’re out of town and all. Apparently, he’s taken quite a shine to her.”

“Has he?” Sherlock asks with a lopsided smile. John gives him that cheeky grin and they descend into laughter. Sherlock leans back on the couch, rests his hand on his belly and looks at John. The doctor wears an almost wistful expression. A slow smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes before his lips turn down into a frown. “Mike called you at midnight?”

“What?” John asks and then raises his brows in understanding. “Oh, no, no. He phoned just after I got back to my room, but I didn’t hear it in the shower. Then I fell asleep watching crap telly as soon as my ass hit the sofa. I woke up just a little while ago and saw the message.”

John pauses. Sherlock meets his gaze and then lets his eyes drop down to John’s lips when the tip of his tongue darts out to wet them. Sherlock swallows hard.

“I came to tell you straight away. I thought you’d want to know,” he pauses to look at the coach with laughing eyes, “like I was saying.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again in a smooth tone. He notices a shiver ripple through John’s body and narrows his eyes. “I do. Thank you, John.”

Before he realizes what he is doing, Sherlock is patting John’s knee lightly. It is warm and welcoming, the denim of his jeans softer than it has any right to be. Sherlock pulls his hand away, even though every instinct in his mind screams to stop and just rest his hand on that knee.

“You’re welcome,” John clears his throat, speaking quietly.

Sherlock tilts his head because the man sitting on the couch next to him is absolutely the most amazing sight he has ever seen. He places his water bottle on the coffee table, drawing John’s attention to the violin and bow.

“That was you playing?” he says incredulously. “You play the violin.”

“Since I was five,” Sherlock replies. “And Molly plays the cello. Our parents had us take lessons together.”

“You really are two of a kind.”

“Oh, no, John,” Sherlock corrects him. “We are very different, trust me.”

A goofy grin appears on John’s face. He glances at his own knee where Sherlock’s had just been and a soft look comes over his features. He turns on the couch, folding one leg in front of his body. One arm rests on the back and he cups his own cheek in his hand, but he says nothing.

Sherlock turns to mirror his position. Draping his left arm across the top of the back, his fingers are close enough for him to touch John’s elbow with his fingertips. A soft brush of affection, of love. Sherlock wiggles his fingers slowly, but does not get close enough to actually touch John. Oh, how he longs to.

“You’re going to visit Molly as soon as we get back?” John’s voice is quiet and gentle. Sherlock gazes at him and they slowly become the only two people on earth. The hotel room falls away. In fact, the whole hotel full of people no longer exists as Sherlock finds and catalogs every hue of blue in John’s eyes. And a fleck of dark brown in only the left one.

“You’re very lucky to have each other,” John says and Sherlock realizes he must have answered yes. He zooms out a bit to see a somewhat distant and sad expression on John’s face. “It’s a precious thing.”

“Do you have a friend like that?” Sherlock asks and then wonders if it was wise when John looks at him with shining eyes.

“I did once,” John replies in a choked voice. He clears his throat and seems to collect himself. Watching the struggle to reign in his emotions, Sherlock desperately wants to take his hand or even take the man into his arms. His body aches with the urge to comfort John in any way he is capable.

“Bill Murray,” John says louder, sounding more like himself. “Met him when I was thirteen. He was fifteen and had just moved next door. He was an only child like me and really into tech repair. He’d fix anything, tear anything apart to see how it works and always got it back together again, usually in better condition than it started. He appreciated my capacity to learn quickly and extrapolate. It helped him with his work.”

He pauses a moment and mirrors Sherlock’s warm smile. Maybe it is the wine he drank earlier, although he did not have nearly enough for this, but Sherlock feels pliant and cozy. The soft oranges and yellows from the lamp lights in the room make the deep red of John’s shirt look even softer. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl further and he allows his middle finger to just barely graze John’s elbow.

“Right about the time I went to uni, he graduated and joined the army. We were in contact all through med school and basic training. We found weekends to meet up here and there. I could tell him anything,” John smiles wistfully, but it fades from his face and Sherlock finds himself dreading John’s next words. “I thought about joining up once I was done with school. Figured they’d be happy to have a ‘brilliant’ army doctor.”

Sherlock studies John’s face carefully, gleaning it all from his features. He knows what happened next, but there is no way in hell he is going to let on. He straightens his middle finger again and touches John’s elbow gently. Instead of pulling away again after contact, Sherlock lets his fingertip remain against John’s arm, wishing the doctor had worn a short-sleeved shirt.

“Did you?” Sherlock asks, not failing to notice John has not moved his elbow. The doctor raises his eyes and looks at him sadly. “No, I didn’t. There was more opportunity in civilian life, in England. Bill had shipped out to Afghanistan,” a determined look comes over John’s face and his elbow presses into Sherlock’s fingertip as if he needs to ground himself with the touch. “I thought I could do more, help more people, make more of a difference working in London. Women, children, young and old…”

“I’m sure you did,” Sherlock assures him when he trails off. His index finger joins his middle one, touching John’s elbow gently. “You must have saved countless lives over your career.”

“I couldn’t save the one that mattered most,” John whispers. He turns his head away, casting his eyes at the floor below the flat screen as though he cannot face Sherlock. He can still see the shine of tears in John’s eyes in spite of it. “I’m sorry. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Sherlock touches with his ring finger now too.

“It’s human,” his voice is quiet and sympathetic. He strokes with his middle finger, trying to comfort the wondrous man before him. John still won’t look at him. “Bill?”

John nods and blinks slowly.

“They were hit on patrol and pinned down for hours,” he sounds distant and still stares straight ahead. He looks as though he can somehow visualize the scene, like he was the lone witness who could do nothing. Sherlock inhales sharply when John’s elbow leans into his touch with all its weight. He can feel John’s pain as acutely as if it is his own. John finally looks at him with watery eyes haunted by sorrow and guilt.

“He got shot,” John says flatly. “In the shoulder. The medics couldn’t get to him for the gunfire and he bled out. Didn’t have a chance. His parents told me. Came to my flat to give me a few of Bill’s things. He’d wanted me to have them.”

As he stares at Sherlock, a tinge of anger sneaks onto his face and his voice has an edge when he speaks.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” John huffs, “if I’d been there... If I had joined up I could have saved him. If I’d just been there. I’ve...I’ve never been able to shake that.”

“What makes you think you could have made it to him?” Sherlock asks. His tone is firm, but empathetic and John gazes back with uncertainty written all over his face. He looks lost and yet, ready to hear what Sherlock has to say, ready to believe. It hits Sherlock all at once that John has never spoken to anyone about this before. He has never been able to put voice to his pain. He has never trusted anyone enough to share it. Sherlock takes a moment to let the weight of that realization wash over him before he speaks.

“You said the gunfire held them down. You would’ve been shot if you tried to get to him. Even if you had been right next to him, you may not have been able to control the bleeding. He may have still bled out.”

Sherlock leans closer. The two gaze at one another with the kind of trust and bond typically earned only after years of friendship.

“You can’t blame yourself, John,” he tells him in a gentle voice. “Bill wouldn’t want that.”

He watches in silence as John’s dark and stormy eyes slowly begin to clear. He may have heard words like Sherlock’s before, possibly from his parents, but he had never dared to believe. He could never find any peace in his heart or mind. So he bottled his feelings and carried the weight of his guilt. John clearly never spoke of it at any time, in any relationship and the fact that he would trust Sherlock with it opens Sherlock’s eyes. He sees for the first time how much their friendship truly means to John.

Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s elbow and fixes him with an earnest gaze. The next words out of his mouth are nearly ‘I love you’ and thank god, he doesn’t say them. Nothing in the world would be more awkward and John would have bolted like a frightened rabbit.

“I have no doubt that Bill treasured your friendship and never had any expectation that you would serve together. He left his things to you as a remembrance of what you shared, not to make you feel guilty or that you’d failed him. You haven’t, John.”

The doctor says nothing. He just looks at Sherlock, unblinking.

“You’re right,” he breathes, a tear slipping from his eye and trickling down his cheek. “I know you’re right. But it’s so hard.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock places his free hand comfortingly on John’s knee. “Bill’s death was a tragedy to be sure. But if you hadn’t been in London for the people you have saved before and after it, that would have been a tragedy. And I think Bill would agree.”

There is a long silence. Sherlock is just beginning to think he should have kept his mouth shut when John’s lips turn up at the ends. It is a subtle movement, one he almost did not detect, but it is there nonetheless. John places his hand over Sherlock’s where it still rests on his knee. Sherlock’s stomach flips and his brows bounce up to reach the curls on his forehead. 

“Thanks,” John says, his thumb lightly feathering up and down over Sherlock’s thumb to the back of his hand. “I know that wasn’t easy to say. Certainly not what I thought we’d be talking about when I walked here.”

“I would do anything for you, John,” he replies after a few seconds. John looks at him, that ghost of a smile still on his face. He pulls away the elbow Sherlock has been touching throughout the conversation and extends it until his hand is resting on the coach’s bicep. A shiver surges through Sherlock’s body and he is sure John feels it too because his smile widens slightly.

“So,” John begins as Sherlock feels a burst of lightheadedness when he gives his arm a squeeze and then gestures to the empty water bottle on the coffee table, “any chance I could get another? Or was that wine I saw on the counter?”

***

Two hours later and they are still on the couch, giggling and snorting merrily. Not drunk, as each has only had one glass of wine, but certainly very jovial. Sherlock has a twinkle in his eye as he looks at John because a laughing John Watson is truly a sight to behold. The coach is leaning back on the couch again with his legs stretched out on the coffee table. His head is turned to face John, who still sits sideways with his arm resting on the back of the couch. They are close enough that John’s fingers touch Sherlock’s bicep and his damned stomach flips periodically with the knowledge of it. While Sherlock still finds it frustrating, he knows for an absolute fact that he would love to feel that touch again and again, every day and night. He wishes that touch meant what he wants it to mean.

Goddamn, he is so fucked.

“We turned and skated as fast as we could,” Sherlock laughs, “covered with paint and cotton candy.”

“Oh my god,” John snorts, rocking back and forth. “I can’t believe you and Molly got away with that! Did he ever show up at your house and tell your parents?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, sobering, “but he appeared in the playground after school the next day and extorted us.”

John freezes on the spot, his eyes wide with shock. His jaw drops open and all trace of humor drains away.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs.

Sherlock stares back at him with a grim expression. However, a grin he cannot hide lurks beneath. The corners of his mouth begin turning up and he bites his lip to hold it in. John raises a brow in confusion as Sherlock’s head tilts up and laughter bursts from his mouth. His head falls back on the couch as he laughs and laughs, a sound from deep in his belly and he clutches at his stomach.

“You should see your face,” he struggles to say, his body tilting slightly from side to side with laughter. Realization quickly dawns on John’s face and he shoves at Sherlock’s arm, mumbling something that sounds like prat. He wears a smile of genuine amusement only a moment later and laughs with the coach.

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” he gasps out between two rather undignified snorts. “Bastard.”

He shoves at Sherlock’s arm again, watching fondly as Sherlock tries to reign in his merriment. When he has finally collected himself again, he looks at John with a more serious expression. It does not last as he starts to giggle and then quickly descends into laughter again. John shoves at him a third time, making both laugh even harder.

Suddenly John lunges at him and Sherlock yelps. They topple over on the couch in a mess of limbs and giggles.

“Ass,” John accuses playfully from atop Sherlock’s chest. The coach wriggles beneath his body to no avail. He places his hands on John’s hips and then slides them a few inches up John’s sides. Sherlock’s breath hitches and he blinks once. His nerves are somewhere between disbelief and sheer panic. If they keep this up his body is going to react in a way he cannot easily hide from John. He must end this here and now before he gives away everything.

Sherlock delivers two quick but light pinches to John’s sides, just under his ribs. The doctor yelps and twists fiercely.

“Shit! Stop. Stop!”

John flounders and then jerks hard to one side. Unfortunately, he tips right over the edge of the couch and brings Sherlock with him. His back thuds onto the floor loudly, the taller man thumping down on top of him. 

“Oh,” John groans. His head lays back on the floor and his hands fall to his sides. With the air knocked free from his lungs, he cannot answer Sherlock right away.

“Fuck! Are you all right?” Sherlock straddles his hips and rests on all fours above him, his hands on either side of John’s head. “John. John! Just try to relax, okay? That’s it. Take deep, slow breaths.”

John’s breathing normalizes within a minute and Sherlock should really get off of him. He knows he should. He absolutely cannot take advantage of their close proximity and position, but a war rages in his mind, each side battling for control. 

Jesus, John smells so good. Stop it. Stop it!

He had not meant for this to happen and, while part of him wants to stay this way forever, another part tells him he can’t possibly do that and keep his friendship with John intact. 

“I’m fine,” John chokes in a quiet voice. “Just need to catch my breath.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters and makes to move off the doctor, but warm hands on his sides stop him.

“Don’t,” John whispers.

They stare at one another. Sherlock sees both fear and desire in John’s eyes? It is only then that he begins to notice other tells that he should have seen long ago. An elevated heart rate, flush blooming up John’s neck and onto his cheeks, and his pupils have grown tenfold. Sherlock is shocked to the core and his breath hitches again when he sees those gorgeous, perfect eyes with only a sliver of blue left flick down to his own lips. In fact, his whole brain screeches to a halt in stunning realization.

John wants him.

John wants him?

No.

Yes?

“John?”

“Yes?” he breathes.

But Sherlock has no words. He has no idea what to say or do. He knows John is nothing like Victor, but the risk...the pain seems inevitable. Sentiment. He should ignore it, douse out the flame. 

“Sherlock?” John whispers, bringing the man back to himself. John looks worried, his pupils already shrinking. “Are you okay?”

Unacceptable.

Without a word or thought, Sherlock lowers his head. His eyes slip closed and he just brushes his lips against John’s. The slightest touch, light as a feather and completely surreal. Sherlock’s entire body tingles with just that one touch. It starts at their lips and spreads through his chest, down his arms and legs to fingertips and toes. It. Is. Amazing. Glorious. Perfect.

Sherlock feels like he is floating. He lets out a long, smooth sigh and then opens his eyes to find John staring back with an unreadable look on his face. The doctor blows out a quiet breath, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. His body is full to the brim with tension.

“I…” he begins in a hushed tone. “I should go.”

Sherlock bites his lip. It is too much. He lifts himself, putting more space between them and adopting an air of nonchalance that grips his heart and squeezes.

“Of course.”

Minutes later, they stand at the door to Sherlock’s suite. Neither has said a word and Sherlock feels like a complete idiot. Why the hell did he think that was a good idea? After all he had told himself about getting hurt, of John not feeling the same way? But why had he said don’t when Sherlock tried to get up? God, he must find some way to salvage this. He cannot bear to lose their friendship. He cannot lose John. It would be like… No, it would be nothing like losing Victor. It would be exponentially worse. A piece of his own heart ripped from his chest, never to return, and what a piss poor job he has done protecting it. 

Sherlock feels numb. He watches John reach for the doorknob and then something in his mind explodes. His hand juts out abruptly and he touches John’s arm.

“John, wait,” he prides himself on the fact that his voice sounds steady.

John turns to face him with an expectant look and Sherlock has a sudden flash of unadulterated panic, but he pushes it aside before he shows. At least, he hopes so.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply. His big brain cannot come up with anything better or more eloquent than the truth. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Please let us still be friends. Please don’t turn away.

John’s brows raise and he looks at Sherlock with a hint of surprise on his face.

“Is that what you…” he stops and shakes his head ever so slightly. His brows lower into a thoughtful crease. His features become deadly serious, but soft and understanding as well. “Don’t apologize, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but no words come out and he ends up staring at John like a lovelorn fool. Don’t apologize. What the hell does that mean? Surely not what he wants them to. Why is this man so damn murky in a world that is otherwise, clear as glass? Everything and everyone so obvious and Sherlock likes it that way, but John Watson is an anomaly, an enigma he cannot quite piece together. It is absolutely infuriating and yet, everything Sherlock has ever wanted.

Sherlock stares at John without blinking, unsure of what to say or do. Don’t apologize could simply mean that John takes no offense and does not want to dwell on it. Several internal dialogues rapidly play out in his mind and Sherlock ignores them all to concentrate on a decent response instead. He begins to speak, but is not beyond John’s name before he is being manhandled towards the door. His back thuds against the wall with a curse and John’s body is against his, pinning him there. John’s face hovers in front of Sherlock’s, looking uncertain and a little scared, but heated and full of want. Without a word, he presses his lips against Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s mind goes blank.

-----

AHHHH! Omg, we finally made it! They finally got there. Can you even believe it? Eleven chapters in and slowest of slow burn, but YIKES, how exciting! When I got to the end, even I was thinking NO! YOU CAN’T STOP THERE! And now you all have to wait a week to see what happens next. Oops. And truly, with me, you just never know. Will one of the ladies knock on the door because someone’s trying to take down another lady? Or Mycroft phones with some news? Or Greg suddenly turns up to help with the bout? You just never know.

I wish you all a good weekend, a Happy Mother’s Day and an excellent upcoming week. I usually say I hope this brought you some solace, but this time I hope it continues to distract you all week long. Mwahahahaha! 

Love, Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @toooldforthissh-stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa @thetranslucentwallaby @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @francj96

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby #sherlock au

[prorevenge]

Greedy Landlord went one step too far.

So my first post here. Sorry it is long, but I think it has just the right detail to follow.

My story appears to match many here in that a person in the wrong breaking the law continues to take bolder actions to the point where it is in such excess that it causes the whole situation to blow up in his face.

Background:

College student living in a college city. Lived in the dorms first year, then in an apartment in the next years. In our college town/city you had to pay a “finder’s fee” to the current tenant to move in. This was essentially paying them their deposit when you moved in, as there was not any formal rental contract. There were literally flyers up listing apartments with rent and the “finder’s fee” on campus. So this was standard practice.

Anyway, a buddy and I moved into ONE apartment middle of our 2nd year, in a triplex where 2 of the 3 roommates had moved (all 3 in one of the apartments). The 3rd guy had been living there for a number of years (had done undergrad and grad school there) and was the contact point for the landlord. We paid him and he paid the full rent. Note that this was not a sublet, just that we paid in total in one check (this is important).

So our 3rd roommate moves (graduates) and hands over the utilities, landlord info, etc. to me to handle before the start of summer. He had gone through a few landlords over this time and has not had a new lease/contract for years. So I take over and pay the bills during the summer. I became the POC, utilities in my name (important later for legal standing) and I was paying the rent (also important). Note you were stuck paying summer rent to keep a good apartment close to campus.

So we paid for the apartment for the summer.

Start of the Chess Match:

So Fall hits and school starts. We get a call for the landlord. He says he didn’t know anything about us and wanted us out. If we pay more rent, we can stay. So our rent goes up from $750 to $900 with 10 days verbal notice.

So we suck it up since we can’t move now (too late) and we paid all summer just to have the place. And the extra was not that bad. Keep in mind this was when minimum was $3.25/hr, so $150 is still a hit for 3 poor college students. Yes this is from a while ago.

So then as the semester gets to an end the landlord then decides he wants to raise the rent to like $1,500 or $2,000 or he will evict us. He gives us 30 days notice to get out over Christmas break if we will not pay. None of us could cover that amount, 2X - 3X where we started – we were all on financial aid.

Well, after talking to some people, we find out we should look into the Rent Control Laws.

Check:

Well, guess who has not properly registered or followed any rent control laws? Yep, this landlord. So we spend $500 on a lawyer and end up going to “Rent Control Court”.

Guess what the Rent Control Board hates. Yep, greedy landlords that clearly break all the laws.

Coming out of this hearing, we win BIG. Due to the rent check/utility billing, we are found to be tenants even though we do not have a written contract (that was our biggest worry on our claim). Landlord is punished for not being registered or in compliance for years (well really at all). So our rent is reduced to the ORIGINAL rent control amount. And, it is RETROACTIVE. So our rent becomes $300 from the day we moved in. Oh, and we cannot be evicted just because the landlord feels like it.

So doing the math, he owed us $6K in over charges for the past year, and would only collect 30% of the current rate going forward. And of course he also had a bunch of fines to pay the board. I don’t remember but I think it was more than what he owed us.

So our new rent of $300 gets paid into an escrow account. It will get released once he pays the fines and us our $6K. Well like 6 months go by and I don’t think he paid the fines. He did not pay us. And he is not collecting rent.

Finger still on the King:

But he is not done yet. Obviously renting any of the other units will be a problem for him rent wise. So he then decides to play “by the rules” and serve an eviction notice for us based on one of the permissible rules (He is moving into the unit/taking it off the market).

We know it is total BS, but it’s in the rules. We can call him on it, but then we will start spending $s on a lawyer battle he can outlast us on. He has money and is losing money every day we are there. So we propose a compromise.

And the King Falls:

We “settle out of court”. He agrees to a one year lease with us at $300/month. We will move out in a year (end of school/graduation for all 3 of us). He also signs over the escrow account to us and waives all owed rent to date.

In the end, we saved $16K. It was glorious. And we got 100% of our deposit (“finder’s fee”) as part of our settlement agreement. And we stayed until graduation.

Oh, and he did not rent out the other unit during this time, so he was out an additional $10K - $15K.

Keep in mind this was an investment property, so I assume the property value dropped for the reduced income.

Edit: Just looked up property history on Zillow, and 3 years after this occurred the tri-plex sold for $300K. So the rent collected from the units would have covered a mortgage so he just wanted to print money.

TL;DR: Greedy landlord tried to screw poor college students on rent. Instead not only do students come out $16K ahead, landlord loses $30K due to Rent Control Violations.

(source) (story by 1Deerintheheadlights)

#prorevenge #by 1Deerintheheadlights #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #revenge story #last10

[mooneyedandglowing]

x3.0

i had this photograph of you, or not you, of your limbs that i took on accident. that final night as you played a chess move on the board by yourself. to see if it worked. + then i found it. just now. just moments before writing this. looking for photographs to edit. a surprise. a joy within the memory. i soften slightly as i did always when you were around. you’d probably laugh or shake your head in disbelief (or both who am i to say what anyone is to do you may do nothing as that is always an option for any of us) to hear how you felt safe to me, familiar, + how it was that very safety itself that sent me reeling. i could say something to you to maybe get a laugh or two out of one of us but it feels a bit pointless. it’s a running joke i have with friends, ah, yes, i completely cease to be of any interest after 5 pm. a true friendship indeed. i say. we laugh. what i would say is that i turned that deck of cards you made me into a tarot deck. because i think that is funny. i had to get some use of it somehow. even if it is a few cards short. it was one of those days. or it was one of those two days. days + days where i resolve to be correct in my knowledge of something about everyone else. i bridget jones diaried it last night. or tried to. dancing while watching love actually + drinking a great big glass of wine. i don’t care about love enough to sustain this. i won’t cry all by myself because i quite want to be all by myself most of the time. i wanted to be all by myself then. i think the greatness of you was how i could still be alone but not alone oh you know what i mean + even if you don’t it isn’t of some grand importance because you don’t care which leaves me to not care by proxy as that is how i work. even if i felt darker rather than happy i can’t secure any trope. couldn’t single white female myself into some pit of fire. no. i was sick of everyone. is that just what i am to be sometimes. sick of it all? so sick of what is predictable + vapid + concerned with mindless little pleasure things + what are people if they are not predictable + sometimes vapid + swept up entirely in the need to be distracted + seduced + seductive + so i get sick of them. anyway, what a pointless story where i err too far into griping which never takes the way things are + shapes them into the way i’d like. so, yes, after fifteen minutes i turned on some crime drama + i went to sleep after an episode because it was as boring + self-absorbed as people can be, including myself (lord knows i am not excluded from any of it). + then everyone who tried to speak to me today was met with some animal with teeth. no. no. no. no expectations today. no obligations. i am not to be turned on. i am not to perform. i am not to try for hungry hearts that swell because of my trying + my giving + i am not to give to what doesn’t give. i am bored of it all. i am bored + i am tired + perhaps i am even mean. i shake my head at that. i don’t believe i was ever too mean. i don’t usually even mean anything personally unless i address someone specifically + in private. i’m just done with the lot of it all. is all. tomorrow will surely be lived with a different thought. it’s just been a couple of those days. you know the ones. am i too honest. am i terrifying. all i really like to do is laugh.

#vent #personal #journal #diary #prose

[elfstuck]

War in the Chessfields

I have realized that, no matter how busy my life gets (guys, guuuuuyzzz, it’s Night of the Nocturne right now and I could be searching for Strange Chests that might contain the new Smirch gene!), I really need to get farther along in Homestuck because it’s starting to creep into mainstream politics. (He was told about Homestuck, and then he started reading it.) Also, Chibipaw says there is “good stuff’ coming up soon (that’s as much detail as my anti-spoiler policy allows) and I need to hurry up and get to it.

So... where did I leave off? Oh yeah. NinjaJade had taken out the wearer of my future cosplay project, but had missed PM sailing off into the sunset (moonset? Prospitset? Do they even have a sun on these planet-things?), so she’ll have to get the ring back to her later. To expediate that, Jade marries herself.

Oh wait. The four dots. Agh. I mean, aside from being equally spaced in a way that would make them endlessly annoying to wear, they... they may signify the four fingers. Homestuckians have four-fingered hands. I’m not sure if I’ve noticed this before.

Jade is immediately overwhelmed with the Spirit of the Ring: she gains wings, a tri-pointy hat with horns, tentacles, and a fake through-the-body sword. So... an amalgam of all the sprite encodings so far.

Next panel, turns out she was only thinking that happened. It doesn’t work that way on humans.

Elsewhere (dammit, I should’ve stuck with the last post a few more panels so the POV shift happened at the beginning) we have yet another WV. This one is WARWEARY VILLEIN who is either an animated stick-man, or is waving a stick on a banner: crossed beams, ragged red-and-purple robes and a white sash. He/it has a bucket on its head with the familiar Sburb spirograph.

Next up (aagh) is something with flash and sound. This is probably the Cool Thing Coming Up Soon that Chibi told me about. eep. Flash takes forever.

WV is being told to “Rise Up,” which is probably not supposed to make me think of Hamilton as this was written several years ago. But those words are gonna be attached to that song for a long time.

I click to the next screen. I am faced with this:

And I remember two things: (1) Firefox always thinks Flash is out of date, because every time Firefox updates ANYTHING, it decides Flash is out of date. My Firefox is a couple of editions behind (I’m not “updating” to Quantum that will kill several of my beloved extensions), so I’m going to see this A LOT. Sigh.

And (2) aaaaagh my laptop does not have a “print screen” button. It had a “print screen” macro that stopped working. (I have an Alienware laptop. WHODAFUK decided that a gaming laptop didn’t need a “print screen” button? Like, is that now an obscure and rare function? I STILL HAVE A CAPSLOCK BUTTON. I DO NOT NEED A CAPSLOCK BUTTON; CAN I REPLACE IT WITH PRTSCRN? (I typed that without using the capslock button, because remembering to un-capslock is always worse than just holding the shift button with my left pinky and using the wrong finger for “A”, and I guess “q” and “z” but those don’t come up as often.)

Quick check to the Alien “TactX” command center... huh. Print Screen is working now. It wasn’t last week. Yay, I guess? (Someday, I will once again have a boyfriend who speaks fluent Linux, and this time, I will get him to TEACH IT TO ME and I will defenestrate my laptop.) Anyway. Here we go.

3x3 chessboard; the kings move a bit, and then run into each other and the whole thing turns white silhouette. This means this is a meta-story-thing, related to the previous Grand Chessboard event, which I have mostly forgotten. (I have the link saved, though, so I can watch it again anytime. It’s on my schedule. “1. Run out of Stucky and Stony fanfic. 2. Rewatch Homestuck chess scene.” Blame dsudis for the delay.)

Clownsprite image appears. Chess pieces keep moving in the background. I have to screencap several times to get a good picture of the chess pieces (sometimes there’s only one visible) and the sprite with the pretty shade of aqua in the middle instead of white. I’m sure you’re all thrilled that I’m focused on the important parts of the story.

Next, he flickers and I fail to s’cap the transition between that and the full-layout chess set.

Please, someone tell me that someone makes these chess sets. That several people make these chess sets. Tell me the are sold with the label, “This Is A Chess Set, Not A Collection Of Marital Aids. We Promise.”

Birdsprite appears. (At least, I think that’s birdsprite.) Oh wait, no, that’s catsprite in the princess outfit. It is lavender, Rose’s color. Or one of them. Does that mean the davesprite will be red? (Do I really need to screencap all of these? Probably not, but this is as much for my entertainment as anything else. Also, I want to be able to reread them and figure out what I was thinking.) I considered re-trying to catch one with a darker purple circle or other higher contrast, and decided not to bother.

The music seems nice enough, what I can hear of it before I hit stop so I can screencap. (If you’re new - various suggestions have been made on how to deal with the Flash bits in ways that aren’t “stop & screengrab every couple of seconds.” I have nixed all of them. I enjoy doing this one fragmented piece at a time.)

And then the scene changes: the board is replaced with a WHOLE PLANET BOARD.

Rose and John’s sprites are in the upper corners, starting with top right and moving widdershins. Widdershins is a destructive direction; they are unmaking the world. (Erm. As obscure as Hussie gets sometimes, I have doubts that that particular bit of symbolism applies here.)

Aaaand here comes the davebirdswordsprite. Orange, not red.

 Davesprite tucks away into the bottom left corner, continuing widdershins, and the cubeworld backs off or is replaced by a round world, very bright and faint, with VERY BRIGHT FLASHING blue lines around it. (Same blue lines as above. They just got brighter.) Then the planet darkens (this is what happens when you stop the Flash every second or two; you wind up  giving far too much import to transition scenes.)

Imma make a prediction: Jadesprite is due to make an appearance. (Does Jade have a sprite yet? Something with a pumpkin?)

BUT NO! The world gets bigger, moves closer, until it FILLS THE WHOLE SCREEN! Then it fades out to white, and gradually (well, gradually if you’re stopping every time something moves or flickers), we get a new scene:

Aww, the rolling hills of Chesslandia, with its famed pixeltrees. We float over the landscape until we reach the castle. (Or maybe, “a castle.” I dunno. Maybe there are hundreds of castles in Chesslandia.) The pixelgrass fields bring color to the landscape, and a couple of pixelfolk play hide-and-seek in the tall grass near the aqua river.

Well, it’s got a turret and banners, and that kinda says “castle,” along with the whole, y’know, chess kings & queens motif, but that looks kinda small for a castle. Also rather isolated. Why build a castle if there’s nothing near it to defend? I see that there are people, but no town. Is the castle all that remains? Am I looking upon the desolate post-apocalyptic wasteland of Chesslandia?

We pass the people and zoom in, seeing the yellow banner waving madly in the gale-force breezes near the castle turret. This is, apparently, to introduce the army of Chesslandia, because the scene whites out again, and then switches to the marching hordes.

I am probably not supposed to think their little ± symbol reminds me of a leviathan cross, a.k.a. the Satanic cross. (Hey, if I make a CD cosplay outfit, can I have a purple banner with a pentagonal ± symbol on it? Or is he not part of this army?)

Then we pull back to see the huge crowd of them, and they fade, and a different banner fades in: this one is purple - and behind it is a yellow-clad army.

AAAH! The yellow flag is for Prospit, and that’s the Dersian army marching on it. And the purple banner here is Derse, and the Prospit army - complete with the same ± symbol - is marching. Here, have some Prospit army:

This isn’t because you need the picture, but because I captured the flash at that point so I can watch them marching and waving weapons, with the sky flickering in the background. It’s very soothing. Wish I could capture it as a gif.

And then... FIGHT! Armies meet on the battlefield! Sparks fly from their blades, which are apparently made from different metals. They both wear stripey shirts and chessboard tabards, of different color combos.

Guys. Gals. Whatever. Readers. I have been cheated. I thought Homestuck cosplay was limited to “t-shirts with a zodiac symbol + horns & weird sunglasses,” or “one of these four kids (also t-shirt with symbol).” There is AWESOME cosplay opportunities in this series. Nobody told me.

I mean, they told me about the tentibulges, because my friends know where my interests lie (or squirm, as the case may be), but even the friends who knew I’d done 6+ years of RenFaire didn’t bother telling me, “omg you should see the amazing costume options, and also, they wouldn’t be impossible to make!”

(I mean, I’ve looked into WV’s costume, but it looks difficult and too hot to wear at most conventions.) (See how I focus on the important parts of the story?)

Spaceship takedown attempt. Or maybe this is a drop ship. Looks like there are many such ships. Anyway, we see battles, and it pulls back to show the larger scene, and the horrors of war:

Well, the horrors of neon, purple-vs-yellow war. ... Is that a giant horse shadow with tentacles on its back?

Why, yes it is. Knight vs... King? Queen? We’re back to the chessboard, with only a tiny hint of a pixeltree in the corner to let you know this is the large-scale war happening above the ground. Then we get this:

I’m not sure what’s going on here, but they’re too cute to pass up. There are 9 little fellows, so they’re not “pawns.” Then a giant black chesspiece stomps into the center of them and they fall aside, scattering (I didn’t catch that picture), and then... the WV banner thingie is raised again.

That makes it seem like we’re wrapping up this storything, because that’s the image that we started on. It slowly pulls back to show an empty Chesslandia with a flower stand, waving a red banner.

The pixelgrass has return to the fields, although the pixeltrees have not. Or maybe they just don’t grow here.

AAuugghhh nooo... that was a picture of the past. Now, the lovely flowerstand is in ruins; fire everywhere, and a lone derseling wanders the war-ravaged fields of Chesslandia. :( We pull in tight to his grief-stricken, bleak expression (don’t ask how I can identify that from two white dots on a black circle; I just can) and then he (or she) oversees the huge battle on the fields below.

Woe. Woe has come to Chesslandia. Woe, and fire. Woe, and fire, and pixels.

Zir face is shadowed by woe and fire and pixels.

Zie is not looking nearly as woeful in this image. Hrrm. Then we see the Black Queen rise...

Then we zoom in again, this time to the scepter, which is full of clouds and the spirography thing:

This is all getting a little too “Men in Black,” with the world in a marble and all that. Are we going to zoom into the scepter again, to the center of the spirography symbol, and find ourselves moving into John’s balcony?

Well, no. We do zoom in, into the world and the cubeworld and such, but we get a black-and-white image of something shadowy flying over Chesslandia.

We zoom in again, and we see... not Spades Slick, despite the cut on the eye. That other character with the same appearance.

It flies with malice (don’t ask me how I can identify malice from that), but is faced with a lone Dersian defender:

We cut back to the war on the ground, the clashing swords and all that, but the combatants move aside. And this had better wrap up pretty quickly, because my printscreen macro just stopped working. (WTF? If anyone knows how to give advice on this, plz contact me.) Anyway. They move aside, and then snap into line.

Our lone Dersite with the tattered red banner leads them through the pixeltrees toward a set of checkered ruins.

Elsewhere, PM lands, and notices the missing ring. White Queen is not happy. There’s another huge scepter waving. White Queen flashes white all over, and shrinks - and hands the scepter to PM.

Looks like PM is in line to be the new WQ. However, the handoff is spotted by someone who is Definitely Not A Member Of The Midnight Crew.

Meanwhile, the Dersite hordes march to confront the Black Queen. Our purple-robed hero(ine) glares, and then looks upward, sees the flying not-a-bird person overhead. The Spadesy-person waves a swords and slices through the black scepter.

(I think I figured out the screencap problem. It won’t work if I have the Flash selected. Which is stupid. Really stupid.)

Black queen, missing her scepter and its four spinny baubles, also shrinks.

Heartsy spy leaps out and attacks the new white queen. (Gonna knock her into next week. This is a problem, because next week is a massive international holiday and it’ll be hard to find time to liveblog.) White scepter goes flying over a waterfall.

We see, inside the white scepter, the purple-robed defender, and it pulls back to see the world, and then the scepter itself, which lands by the banks of the aqua river surrounded by pixelgrass.

(That picture’s superfluous; it’s not relevant to the story. It’s here becaue I think it’s pretty.)

Aaand now I should watch it again and get a sense of the whole story instead of stopping every two seconds to ponder the meaning of each cut scene.

***

Two minutes and 15 seconds of flash that takes me an hour and a half to write about, all the while worrying that Tumblr’s going to have some weird hiccup and lose the whole thing.

So: back queen dead; white queen deposed by losing her marbles; new manager of each; war possibly stopped at the moment. White scepter maybe recoverable and could be combined with Jade’s ring to fix it. Black scepter broken; would need something else to fix. (Superglue?)

Jade has not yet entered the chessgame at the macro level. Jade needs to install Sburb and get into the game.

#homestuck #homestuck liveblog #prospit v derse #white queen #black queen #elf meets trolls #act 4

[tackyink]

Fifth part, and longest one yet. Some of it was written with the first batch, some today. Includes a personal bit at the start.

As always, badly edited, blah blah blah, I’m going to crawl into bed right now. Hope you enjoy it.

I used to be the tight one The perfect fit Funny how those compliments can Make you feel so full of it

I had seen the box a few times and asked about it.

It was a late winter evening of 1992 and my father had arrived home from work. He went to the small room where he stored his tools and radio materials, took out the blue cardboard box with a checkered pattern, and placed it on the living room’s table, right by the curtained windows.

“Do you want me to teach you?” He asked.

I wanted to learn everything at that age, so I ran up to the table and took a chair in front of him as he took out from the box a thick, sturdy board that folded in the middle. He opened it with a click, revealing two sets of wood chess pieces encased between foam. He took them out one by one, and I watched with fascination as he put them on the open board, listened intently while he told me their names and what they did.

They had magnets on the base, and they stuck to the squares with a satisfactory ‘clack.’

When the preliminary explanations were done, he put the white pieces in front of me and said, “You begin.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because white always goes first.”

“But why?”

“It’s how it is.”

I didn’t think it was fair, because back then I still thought in terms of fair and unfair.

“Black can never go first?”

“No, it’s always white.”

I thought in less impolite words that that was bollocks, but kept it to myself. The white pieces looked like white chocolate, but the dark ones were much prettier. It just wasn’t fair.

But getting hung up on that wasn’t going to help me change the rules of the world or the game, so I moved a pawn with resignation.

We played a few matches in the next hours. I lost a lot, and eventually forced a draw. My mother looked every now and then from her reading spot on the armchair, leaving us to our own.

I remember being completely absorbed in my own thoughts, off in my little world, where only a chessboard existed, and unaware of the time as only kids can be. I remember moving one last piece thinking that surely he’d find a way to escape from it, because he always did. But after my move, he stayed quiet for a few seconds looking at the board, then looked at me and said, “You have to say ‘checkmate.’”

I didn’t realize what he meant, even though I had heard it a few times the previous hours. “Why?”

“I can’t move my king anywhere.” He signaled over the board all the paths available, and how I could take his piece no matter what he did. “You win.”

I thought that that wasn’t fair either, because maybe I wouldn’t have seen the opportunity to take his king. Maybe when my turn came I would have been distracted and done something silly and let the king escape.

A wave of disappointment washed over me, too, when I realized that if I had won, it hadn’t been playing seriously.

But I didn’t say any of that. I repeated, “Checkmate,” feeling down and absolutely convinced that he had let me win.

My mother looked up from her magazine and at my father, and the two shared a long look in silence. I was dejected and didn’t pay them any mind. I just had wanted to win fair and square, and if it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be.

Twenty years later, I found out through my mother that my father had, in fact, not gone easy on me.

This, along with my absolute ineptitude to make friends my age, was one of the catalysts that made the director of my preschool suggest my parents that they transferred me to a place more suited for me. They refused. But in turn, that director made sure that two years later I got admitted to the best school in the vicinity.

I wondered for many years what might have happened if they had transferred me, even held some resentment towards them that I was stuck in a place where I did not belong for so many years.

But when I found a place to belong, only curiosity remained.

Japan did not have schools for gifted children. In fact, the teachers tried very hard not to single out students in order to instill a sense of community. The group was prioritized above individual needs, and while that worked for many, it did not for Yu.

This translated to a very bored kid during class, and a very busy one in the afternoons, when he took private lessons that did grab his interest. Yu had very little free time, and that only added to his sense of superiority regarding his classmates, because he had more ~important~ things to do than hanging out after school or playing video games.

But he was still a kid, and he was personable with the people he trusted. He could have had friends if he hadn’t been a smug little shit that looked down on everybody he didn’t respect.

Sometime during my first year of school in this world, prompted by one of his extracurricular teachers, Yu had penned an essay on the influence of Chinese poetry in Japanese literature and submitted it to a contest. It won. And when word came out that it was the work of an eleven year old kid, everybody doubted him. There was much questioning and prodding, because that had to be the doing of an adult, surely his parents or a teacher had helped him, surely he had copied it from some publication.

Yu coped with these accusations as any kid would: badly and with a wounded pride.

He was sitting at the desk in his room, alone, when I happened to pass by, and in a fit of rage he tore off a bunch of papers from his notebook, crumpled them, and violently threw both pages and notebook into a trashcan with a frustrated groan.

“Yu?” I asked quietly.

He turned around slowly and beet red at being caught acting like that.

“W-what?”

“Are you—” No, I wasn’t going to ask a stupid question that was sure to tick him off. “You are not okay,” I said.

The fact that he didn’t praise my observational skills to get under my skin was as telling as a verbal reply.

I crossed my arms and leaned my shoulder against the doorframe, waiting for him to say something else.

The embarrassment diminished just enough to reply, “Is there even a point to this?”

“A point to what?”

“A point to—” He gestured towards the desk, the trashcan. “Why do my best when nobody will believe it’s my work?!”

I had never heard him raise his voice in the time I’d known him. I didn’t think anybody at home had.

But the rumor mill had been at work for a few weeks already. It wasn’t like him to react that way and so late. There had to be something else. “Did something happen?”

“Mother said a variety show was interested in interviewing me.” He huffed and pushed up his glasses as he started to pace around, a way of burning energy that threatened to come out of his mouth instead. “A variety show,” he repeated with disgust. “They are not interested in my work at all. They just want to show the child prodigy, cast more doubt on me in front of a camera, then cast me aside in favor of the next shiny thing.”

“Well, yeah,” I replied. “But is that so bad for you?”

Yu stopped moving and looked at me like I had grown a second head. “Do you want me to get embarrassed on national TV?”

“But you don’t know if that will happen.”

He contemplated what I said for a few seconds.

“I can’t know that it won’t, either.”

“You could take it as a chance to make yourself known. Talk to them like you talk to father when you discuss philosophy. It’s not the general public you need to charm, it’s the scholars.” I shrugged. “Know your target audience.”

He stared hard at me, but he didn’t seem completely unreceptive to the idea. “When did you become a marketing expert, sister?”

Little did he know that I had spent four years working at a marketing company.

“It’s just an idea,” I said. “Anyway, can’t you say you don’t want to go?”

“Mother already accepted.” He shook his head. “But it is like you said. I should be looking at this from another angle.” A pause. “Do you honestly think I’ll do well?”

“I do,” I answered sincerely. “And I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you, not mother.”

I smiled a little at that. “That’s me. Always pointing out uncomfortable truths when no one else would.”

It seems that this had also been a trait of Satori’s, so I was safe from suspicion on that account.

“I appreciate your support,” he said, looking calmer and walking to the trashcan to fish out the notebook. The crumpled papers remained there, though. “Yes, I think I will be able to do this.” He said more for his benefit than mine. “Thank you, Satori.”

My smile faltered a little upon hearing the name.

“Anytime, baby bro.”

He returned the pet name with a glare. “Hush. Close the door on your way out. I don’t want any interruptions.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, slipping out and almost closing the door before he stopped me.

“Satori.” He did not lift his eyes from his writing, and he spoke in a monotone, as if wanting to detach himself from what he was saying. “Do you ever feel like everybody takes your accomplishments for granted? That you don’t have any margin for error?”

He was detaching himself from the questions because Yu was a rational person, and as such, feelings ought not to be paid any attention. They were irrelevant, and yet they were eating at him.

Something sank in the pit of my stomach as I processed what he had said; a very familiar fear that had accompanied me for many years and I’d never been able to shake off.

It’s not fair, I found myself thinking again, that a kid had to endure this kind of pressure.

And any words of consolation would be cheap, and Yu was far too smart not to see through a weak attempt at comfort.

“All too often,” I said, and then I remembered a conversation shared a year ago. “But what matters is that you are satisfied with what you do. If others think less of you because of it it’s their problem, not yours. Easier said than done, I know.”

It didn’t feel like a conversation I should have been having with a middle school kid, but then again, few with him did.

He looked up for a moment, and, apparently satisfied, nodded and went back to work.

I understood then that Satori hadn’t been the only lonely kid in the family.

A month later, when I looked at the new school uniform lying on my bed, I still had trouble believing what was happening.

I also had trouble believing that somebody had thought it was a good idea to dress students in clothes these eye-searing, but I took consolation in knowing that it was better than the boy’s uniform. One thing was for sure: Meiou had to be a damn good school, because nobody was choosing it for the uniforms.

The next day, when I first went to school, I felt like a cosplayer dressed in a mix of crimson-rose red with yellow accents and black knee-high socks. I hated those socks. They kept slipping down, and I’ve never been a fan of showing my knees.

My parents hurried me into getting ready, and we took the train to the neighboring city while my little brother made a smartass comment about being abandoned in favor of the older child. I was the mature one, so I stuck my tongue out at him when no one else was looking.

The commute from home to Meiou took an hour. I saw some other students in the car with their parents, but they kept to themselves, and I spent that time dealing with my mother’s attempts to tame my hair, and trying not to think too much of what waited for me at school. As Hagiri had so eloquently put during our first meeting, during middle school I was the girl who lost her memory. Here, my reputation didn’t precede me, although, to be fair, I was the odd kid that was starting high school at fifteen instead of fourteen.

I remembered my high school years. The last two were much better than the previous years, but that was because I transferred. Some say those are the best years of one’s life. You couldn’t pay me enough to go back.

I was not a teenager anymore, though, so my outlook was not quite as dramatic as it had been back then, and I took my situation with a mix of resignation and curiosity at what I’d face.

The nagging thoughts that I had spent nearly two years in this world and made no progress regarding my situation chose that moment to resurface, and I stomped on them as hard as I could because this was decidedly not the time to sulk. There was plenty when I was by my lonesome.

The school grounds of Meiou were something from another world for me, an uncultured swine who in my previous life had only gone to schools in the bad parts of town. Even as a semi-private school kid, the facilities I’d seen had never even come close to these. I parted ways with my parents at the entrance, where they were led to the school gym, while older students showed us newbies the way to our classrooms.

In our homeroom, we were seated in alphabetical order. It landed me on the second row, not before my name got called wrong and I was confused for a boy. The teacher made an annotation on his list and proceeded to mangle the names of several more students with imaginative parents.

After that, the rest of the day was spent in a school-wide assembly where we went back to our parents and the director made some generic speech about the value of hard work and group unity, and honestly, I stopped paying attention halfway and entertained myself watching the other families. Judging by other students’ faces, I was not alone in my boredom, but the parents seemed to be unanimously ecstatic. There were a lot of pictures, a lot of speeches, and I think I saw a few parents cry, to the dismay of their children. I don’t think I fully realized until that day how important it was to get into a good high school.

Then the day was over, and we went back home. While my mother went with Yu to ask him how his day had been, my father called me aside.

“Satori, can you come here a moment?”

“Yes?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of his request.

In the time we had been living together, I had learned that he wasn’t a very open person, and the longer I’d heard him talk was when he was taking job calls or when discussing with Yu a topic of interest. He was a knowledgeable, stoic man, and though he wasn’t the most affectionate parent, he gave off a vibe of silent protector of the family. That was why his words surprised me so much, and why to this day I can’t forget how much they got to me.

“I know these years have been very hard on you, but I want you to know that your mother and I are very proud of what you’ve accomplished today. I must confess that we were worried about your attitude, but the way you’ve worked these past two years… your studies, your behavior at home…” He made a pause, looking worried, trying to find the proper words. “I’m sorry that we were so hard on you. When you were in that accident, your mother and I nearly lost our world.”

I swallowed a knot in my throat. “You’d still have Yu.”

“Both of you are our world. It can’t be as long as one of you isn’t in it.”

I knew these words weren’t for me. And maybe because of it, or despite it, my eyes began to water.

“I always knew you had this fight in you. No parent could ask for a better daughter.”

And with a light pat and a squeeze of my upper arm, he gave me a reassuring smile and left the room.

Left me thinking that, even if he had told me something that I’d needed to hear all my life, the one who needed to hear those words the most wasn’t here, and nobody but me knew.

I took out the chessboard Yu and I used sometimes and set to arrange the pieces in their squares, something mechanical to keep my mind from drifting to places where I did not want it to be, and a habit from my childhood that I had nearly forgotten.

The board wasn’t magnetized, so the satisfying ‘clack’ sound that meant everything was locked in its rightful place was missing.

The next day, class began for real, and to be honest, the routine was pretty much the same as in middle school. The biggest differences for me were the length of the commute and that I didn’t know anybody, but neither bothered me. I actually enjoyed having some time to myself every morning to think and read. As for the second part, well, I wasn’t a very social person. Acquaintances would come in time, perhaps.

And one of the first steps towards that was joining a club. It wasn’t mandatory, but not participating in any extracurricular activities was frowned upon, and this time I did want to start on a good note with the faculty.

If my old middle school had only had a handful clubs, Meiou was the exact opposite. When the bell rang and I headed outside, the clubs had set up tables near the entrance and its members were recruiting in full force, jumping every freshman they spotted.

It was easy to pick us out. We all had the same lost faces and did the same double take when we saw the amount of clubs to choose from. I counted at least seven sport clubs (soccer, baseball, track, basketball, swimming, judo, kendo and freaking archery, and even I felt tempted to join one of the last three because they looked so cool and girls we allowed to be something else than managers), brass band, shogi, chemistry, calligraphy, biology, hanafuda, art… I had no clue how they maintained a decent membership to stay open, but then it clicked that this was probably why the recruiters were so aggressive.

And I, like a dumbass, got caught in the crossfire.

A very spirited student stepped in front of me as I approached the table of the gardening club, because I had figured that I should stick to what I began two years ago. She wore her hair in two long pigtails and had a blindingly white smile that could put a car seller to shame.

“You look like a girl who can sew!” She said.

“Ah, yes, but I was going to—”

“Here, why don’t you take a look at this?” She shoved a pink and blue pamphlet on my nose. A teddy bear in a filly dress smiled at me. “We’re the handicrafts club! Here we meet to sew cute things and clothes! Have you ever sewed you own clothes? It’s—”

“Emi, stop intercepting every girl you see, she was coming to us!”

One of the guys from the gardening club had stood up, seething, and slammed his hands on the table.

“Aw, do you seriously want such a cute girl to be lifting dung bags every day after school?”

“It’s fertilizer.”

While the flattery was appreciated, that was exactly what I had planned to do. “I was in the gardening club in middle school, too.”

“See? She’s ours!”

“Shut up, Yasu!” Emi spat at him, and the turned to me with a complete shift in demeanor. “All the more reason to try something different! Widen your array of skills! You already know how to water a plant, so why not learn how to sew plushies? Knit a fluffy scarf?”

She made a great case. I liked sewing, and a decade of making my own cosplays had helped me learn, not that I was going to say that to her. My cosplaying hobby was to stay firmly locked up in my past, where no one could ask which characters I had cosplayed. Awkward.

But gardening. My cacti. My thorny bushes. My newfound skill of not murdering unsuspecting greenery. What was I going to do without them?

“Hey, do you like anime?” Another student shouted at me from a different table. “Come watch and discuss with us!”

The girl’s tone shifted again. “Go away, this is between Yasu and I!”

“Yeah, find someone else to convert to your cult!” Yasu looked at me in the eye. I looked away because I found it very uncomfortable. He didn’t reek of charisma like his competitor did, but he sounded passionate, if slightly constipated when he spoke. “Come to us! We’ve got a greenhouse and we’ve been promised a corner of the school grounds—”

“The greenhouse is shared with biology and botany and home economics, and you aren’t going to get any—”

“Well you don’t have a club room either, you share with hana—”

“Don’t tell her, you twit!”

I watched the exchange in silence, with the pamphlet of the smiley bear in my right hand, wondering if it was too late to turn around and learn about flower arrangements instead. My blank face must have been indicative of my thoughts, because they hurried to reassure me to stay, and suddenly neither of them looked so confident. I noticed that there were another boy and girl, respectively, sitting behind their club tables with second-hand embarrassment.

“Please!” Emi suddenly, begged, bowing and putting her hands together in a praying gesture. “There are only two of us! The guys from the hanafuda club will kick us out of the room if we don’t get more members!”

“Don’t try to guilt-trip her! We’re only three and you don’t see us doing the same!”

Ouch.

“Look! We only meet on Mondays and Fridays! The gardening guys can have you the rest of the time! It’s okay if you skip meetings too! I’m begging you!”

Yasu was taken aback by her outburst. “E-Emi—”

Mirroring Yasu’s earlier actions, she slammed a hand on her own table, making the other girl jump. “Don’t you want to keep your club alive by any means? Then this is how you fight for it!”

He seemed to have a revelation in that instant.

All this intensity made me think I had stepped into a shonen manga.

…Wait.

“You’re… You’re right.” He said quietly. “There’s nothing more important than the club. Hanging onto my foolish pride won’t get me anywhere!”

“President…” Said the boy beside him in awe.

This was not happening.

“I’m begging you too!” Yasu told me. “We meet on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, but there’s usually someone around every day anyway. Feel free to come anytime you please!”

He held out an inscription sheet at me. Emi followed his example and did the same.

“We’ll be in your debt forever!” Emi insisted.

I was weak, and it’s really difficult to say no to a begging kid, let alone two who had teamed up.

In a rare outburst, my father laughed when I told him what had happened, but Yu and my mother didn’t take it so well. Being in more than one club wasn’t encouraged usually – commitment to one is what looked best on college applications. I didn’t want to think about college yet, though. One step at a time. Just knowing I’d have to go through high school and entrance exams again, and that I’d signed away my life for three years with these many commitments was overwhelming enough.

Besides, there was always the possibility that I’d go back to my old life as spontaneously as I’d come into this one, but I didn’t count on it, and I certainly didn’t want to replicate the circumstances to try. My best bet to get info at the moment was killing myself to be picked up and shipped to the Spirit World, and for obvious reasons, I discarded it.

It would be a long time before I had a chance to come in contact with people who could help, so for the time being, I needed to be patient and try not to mess up any more lives. I was confident that my appearance in this world was so marginal to the main plot that it wouldn’t have much relevance when all was said and done.

I was also aware that my confidence was didn’t have a very solid foundation, but I didn’t want to stress test it yet, in case it crumbled. I had other things to look forward to, in the meantime.

#yyh crappy indulgent SI

[madlori]

Hockey, the FAQ edition

As a follow-up to my Hockey Quick and Dirty post, I present this, a list of questions I have been asked by friends and family members and random people on the interwebs.

1. Why doesn’t Canada have its own hockey league?

They do. The NHL is really the North American hockey league. Seven of the 31 teams are Canadian teams. The reason there are more American teams is just...well, we have more cities large enough to support a team, although there’s perpetual talk of a team returning to Hamilton, ON, which used to have a team but hasn’t in forever, or to Quebec City. Hockey was invented in Montreal and traces its origins to 1917 when four teams came together, including the Montreal Canadiens, the longest continuously-existing team in the league (the Ottawa Senators were also there in 1917 but they went away and then came back). The Boston Bruins were the first US team. There was lots of flux until 1942 when the league settled into a 25 year stretch of what is now called the Original Six teams: the Montreal Canadiens, Toronto Maple Leafs, Boston Bruins, Chicago Blackhawks, Detroit Red Wings, and New York Rangers. Those were the only teams in the league until 1967 when a massive expansion happened and they added 6 new teams. More teams were added over the years to get us to our current 31. The most recent (completed) expansion was in 2000 when the Minnesota Wild and the Columbus Blue Jackets were added, and in 2011 the Atlanta Thrashers were moved to Winnipeg to reinvent the Jets. Now there’s the new Vegas team, too.

Which is probably more information than you wanted.

I might point out that there is such a thing as the Canadian Hockey League - but that's a major junior hockey league, for players ages 16-20 (or until they're drafted or go to college or whatever). The CHL is an umbrella organization with three member leagues, the WHL (Western Hockey League), the OHL (Ontario Hockey League) and most famously the QMJHL (the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League). This last is ubiquitous enough that it's simply referred to as "The Q" (as in "Yeah, we played in the Q together."). The US doesn't really have an analagous organization, but it is also much more common for American players to go to college. The CHL leagues are major feeders for the NHL draft. The CHL leagues are, in fact, professional leagues - the players are paid. Not much, but they're paid. If you read "Check, Please!" this is a point of inaccuracy which Ngozi freely admits to screwing up - Jack Zimmermann played in the Q, but since it's a professional league, he would not have then been eligible to play NCAA hockey at Samwell. Oh well.

2. Why haven’t any modern players beaten Wayne Gretzky’s records? Lame.

Heh. Gretzky’s records will probably never be broken, but it’s not because the players now suck. It’s because changes to the game over the last 20 years, and especially since 2005, have made it all but impossible. Overall, scoring in the league has decreased about 20% since Wayne and Mario were playing. This is a combination of training (the players have a much higher level of training and experience now, making it harder to get past them and score), goalie equipment, and the salary cap (which is an entirely other topic).  It is worth noting that even with adjustments for era (there’s math that can be done to correct for this effect) both Gretzky and Mario Lemieux were freakishly good.

3. Have any teams never won the Cup?

Oh yes, tons of teams have never won it. In fact of the 30 current NHL teams, a whopping 12 have never won the Cup. And then there’s the Maple Leafs, who haven’t won it in 48 years. But the team that everyone talks about on this topic is the Washington Capitals, who have been...well, at this point I’m just gonna say cursed. They’ve won the President’s Trophy (that’s for having the highest point total in the regular season) three times in the salary cap era, their captain, Alex Ovechkin, has won the goal-scoring title a totally ridiculous six times (out of the 13 years he’s played in the NHL), they tend to dominate in the regular season and then...can’t quite get there. In fact they haven’t even made it to the Stanley Cup Finals since 1998. Nobody knows how this keeps happening. The Penguins are a bit of a nemesis for them. They cannot seem to beat them in the postseason. And since they’re in the same division, the Caps will always have to go through the Penguins to get to the final, in any year that both teams qualify for the postseason.

4. What happens to the ice between games?

I LOVE THIS QUESTION because I weirdly find logistics fascinating because I am a giant nerd. 

Answer: nothing! It’s still there. Arenas where hockey is played host other events as well. Many hockey teams share their arena with an NBA team - both the Rangers and the Knicks play at Madison Square Garden, and the Kings and the Lakers both play at the Staples Center. In addition, most of these arenas frequently host concerts, speeches, conventions, stuff like that. Coordinating all these schedules must be a nightmare and I'm glad I don't have to do it. I mean, the Knicks and the Rangers can't have a home game on the same night so does the NHL and the NBA work together on the schedule? I don't know. A lot of spreadsheets must be involved.

Obviously the ice surface is the most difficult to establish and maintain. They can't possibly destroy and re-make the ice between every game. So once the ice surface is created for the season, it remains there until the hockey season is over. If you've ever been to a concert or another sporting event at an arena that also hosts hockey, during the hockey season? The ice was there, just covered up. Some arenas leave the boards up, depending on what's coming in next. The nets, glass, player benches and penalty boxes are removed and seats are moved in. The ice itself is covered first with insulating rubber, then with flooring, then with whatever surface is required for the next event on the schedule. If it's an NBA game, a basketball court is smaller than a hockey rink so the court surface is brought in and the courtside seating is set up. Arena crews do this overnight superfast. They're really good at it. There are some fascinating time-lapse videos on YouTube of arena crews doing this changeover.

Here’s one of my favorites: a time-lapse video of 72 hours at Nationwide Arena (Columbus’s arena) showing them transitioning from hockey, to a concert, to basketball, and back to hockey:

https://youtu.be/sjpoTokyvVs

Once the hockey season is over, the ice surface is chiseled up and disposed of till next season. The Penguins did a cute thing this year where they let fans come in and paint messages and pictures onto the ice before it's taken up.

5. Why is Sidney Crosby considered the greatest hockey player in the world? He doesn't seem like all that.

Yeah, I know he might not, but he is. If you ask 100 hockey pros (writers, players, coaches) who the greatest player is, you'll probably get about 90% agreement, if not more. The thing about Sid is that he's great in ways that aren't casually apparent. He's not flashy (well, he can be - if he goes to one knee to shoot say your prayers - but usually not so much) and some of his most important skills aren't exciting except to other people who either play hockey or spend all their time watching it and thinking/writing about it. He's not out there doing trick shots or scoring on huge slappers. Not a lot of people are going to get all hot and bothered over puck protection skills, but that's the kind of stuff that wins games.

Sid isn't primarily a goal-scorer, although he's more than capable of scoring (he won the goal-scoring title this year, and has done it once before). He's a guy who creates offense. People who've played with him or coached him talk about his near-spooky ability to "see the ice" - hockey talk for playing chess in your head with the puck. He can see what's going to happen and know where to place himself and the puck to enable a goal to be scored, whether it's by him or one of his wingers. He's somewhat notorious for having trouble finding wingers who can play with him, and this is why - his wingers need to be good at this, too, to keep up with him, and it's not a universal skill.

Other players also talk about how difficult he is to defend because he's near impossible to knock off the puck. Part of this is...okay, let's just put it out there, it's genetics. You know how Michael Phelps is an amazing swimmer partly because he lucked into the perfect body shape for it? Sid lucked into the ideal hockey body. He has a ginormous ass and thighs like flying buttresses, plus he's short and has a low center of gravity. There are amusing YouTube compilations of defensemen trying to check him and just sort of...bouncing off. Sorry, thanks for playing.

So it's not always obvious why he's great. On the other hand, sometimes he'll do some insane shit like score by bouncing a puck off the goalie's back, passing to a teammate between his legs behind his back without looking, or streaking up the ice half off his balance and score off a one-handed backhand shot and you're like...okay yeah, I get it now.

If you want some numbers, here you go. One of the most important player stats is points per game, which is a straight-up measurement of a player's offensive power. Sidney Crosby ranks FIFTH in points per game...ALL-TIME. The only players ahead of him are Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, Mike Bossy and Bobby Orr, and those four guys are basically the Mt. Rushmore of hockey. And that's WITHOUT any corrections for era (see the answer above about Gretzky's records).

Just for a little point of comparison, three current NHL players hit the 1000 point mark this season (that's a big deal). The first was Henrik Sedin. It took him 1213 games to reach that milestone. The second was Sid's main rival in the "greatest player" thing, Alex Ovechkin. It took him 880 games to hit 1000 points. Sid did it in 757 games. Only 11 players in NHL history have done it faster.

6. So...fighting is really and truly just...allowed?

For certain values of “allowed.” It happens, the refs know it’s gonna happen, a real fight is almost always somewhat planned. Players get into minor scuffles, pushy-pushy, sweary-sweary all the time - those aren’t fights. Capital-F Fights are when the gloves come off, punches are thrown, the players keep each other from piling on, the refs just sort of let them fight it out. When they’re done they’ll usually both get a penalty of some kind, either fighting or roughing. 

7. Who the hell are the Habs? That...isn’t a team.

The Montreal Canadiens are called the “Habs” colloquially (it’s short for Les Habitants, the French-Canadian term for Canadiens). Several teams have nicknames. The Tampa Bay Lightning are often called the Bolts - in fact, that nickname is on their third jersey. The other teams’ nicknames are usually just the shortened form of their actual name (the Caps, the Sens, the Hawks, the Pens, etc).

8. What’s this points stuff? Why aren’t standings by W/L?

Because hockey is special and wants you to know about it. Team standings in hockey are not determined by win/loss record, but by total points. You get two points for a win, zero points for a regulation loss, but -- and here’s the difference -- you get one point for a loss in overtime. This is sometimes called the “loser point” and it’s relatively new. It’s like getting partial credit for a tie. A team’s total points is the sum of wins + OT losses. A team can have fewer wins but more points than another team if that first team had a lot of OT losses. Ties are pretty common in hockey, being generally low-scoring, and it’s well worth the effort to try and tie up the game (resulting in heart-taxing strategies like pulling the goalie) because not only could you then go on to win in OT but you’ll at least get one point just for ending regulation in a tie.

9. What’s with the tape on their socks?

Hockey gear is complicated. The players wear chest/shoulder pads, elbow pads, helmets, hockey pants (which have built-in kidney protectors), shin guards, and skates. Hockey socks are actually hip-high - they go way up underneath the pants. Here’s an image for you - pro hockey players actually wear garter belts under their pants. The socks clip to the belts to keep them up. But players also use clear tape wrapped around their shins to keep their socks in place over the top of their shinpads (which are underneath the socks). Each player has their own special way of taping their socks. And taping their sticks. And putting on their gear. And breathing, probably.

10. Hey, the goalie's buggered off again, but it's like the middle of the second period. You said that happens at the end of games.

I did say that, yeah.

So WTF?

What you're seeing is the result of a delayed penalty. That's...a whole thing.

Hit me with the thing.

Okay, you asked for it. So here's the scenario. Let's imagine a game between...oh, let's say the Capitals and the Sharks. The Capitals have the puck, they're charging toward the goal to score. But oh no, one of the Sharks trips a Capitals defenseman! Penalty! The penalty will benefit the Capitals, but they would really rather keep possession of the puck and complete their scoring opportunity. To get the power play they are now owed, they'd have to stop, change lines, have another faceoff - and sacrifice the puck possession and scoring opportunity they already have. So the penalty is delayed until the Capitals lose possession or score.

Well, that means...what, exactly? It means that the second one of the Sharks takes possession of the puck, play will be stopped and the penalty will go into effect. So the Capitals are in absolutely zero danger of being scored on right now. Play will be stopped the second they lose puck possession. So they might as well pull their goalie and put another skater on the ice, and give themselves a better chance to score, right?  So that's what usually happens. A delayed penalty is like getting a little bit extra on that power play you're about to have, except you get a brief period of 6-on-5 before your 5-on-4.

You might think this happens all the time, but it really doesn't. Definitely not every game.

Well, this concludes this edition of Hockey FAQ with Lori the Hockey Noob. I welcome your questions if you have them. If I don't know the answer I'll find out.

[Support my original writing on Patreon!]

#hockey #lori talks about hockey #nhl #hockey faq #hockey info

[stonefreeak]

So! I have spent the last 24 hours reading every scrap of SC!Obi you have and let me tell you it's perfect (and exactly what I needed with this crazy f'ed up month). I know you're in the middle of assassination attempt three and FINALLY having Anakin and OBI-Wan talking, but THE CLONES!! What's happening with the chips, are they being removed, deactivated, investigated??? Will they be ok?? Also love you and this format to bits!!!! Thanks once again!

Anonymous said:For the SC!verse is Palpatine aware of how much Obi Wan has discovered already? I mean Anakin clearly tried his best to lie to him but given Palpatine’s long term manipulation is he able to tell that something more is going on? 

So we have quite a bit of stuff going on in this ficlet! It is, in fact, about 4.3k words long so… Yeah. I wanted to post this like a week ago because it was supposed to be short, but then I kept adding thing after thing after thing because apparently that’s a thing, occasionally.

So here we go, updates about the Inhibitor Chips, more about what Palpatine does and does not know, Obi-Wan being Tired™ and needing a damn nap, and Anakin and Ahsoka having a good time and discussing the Order as it is and once were. Enjoy!

Palpatine absently swirls the deep red wine in his glass with a calm expression on his face. He’s gone through his datapads, his messages, his flimsi, and every report he still has; every bit of information he’s managed to keep away from the nosy corruption investigators.

There is something missing. He knows there was one report from Kamino that references the inhibitor chips inside the clones. No details, of course not, but the mere reference… He grits his teeth and just barely refrains from snarling. It must have been at his office, which means Kenobi has most likely found it.

Is that why he went looking in the systems?

Unfortunately, Palpatine cannot see what file triggered the virus fail-safe, nor who neutralised it. So perhaps it was the mention of the chips that sent Kenobi into sensitive data looking for more clues.

If so, it’s a potential disaster in the making. There is nothing overt in the Senate systems and reports—it would have been the height of sloppiness to allow such a thing—but there is just enough information to send Kenobi to Kamino to find out more. If he gets a spy to the Kaminoans who goes through their systems… Well, he’d find out that there is more to the chips than “regulating clone personalities”.

Palpatine takes a deep breath and calms the burning rage by imagining many new ways for Kenobi to suffer—imagines him living just long enough to see the fall of the entire Order. How lovely the anguish on his face would be. Palpatine allows himself to idly ponder how the assassin will set up Kenobi’s death… He hopes it will be painful. He hopes Kenobi suffers in his last moments. Ah, what a sight it would make.

Calmer, he turns his attention back to his dilemma. Has Kenobi found information about the clone chips? Or… He glances at the pile of information idly. He had been going over mission reports, just before the whole debacle went down. There were reports he did not finish altering.

Has Kenobi found those? Did he go looking in the system to try and find other reports that have been changed?

Palpatine takes a sip from his glass. Not good, but preferable. Even if Kenobi and his fellow Jedi find out that missions across the decades have… changed, just slightly, between the Senate setting them up and them being sent over to the Jedi… well. There’s not much they can do about it, is there?

Systems have been unsettled as planned, the most important missions have failed as needed, and key Jedi players have already been taken out—though Kenobi has proven frustratingly incapable of dying as he is supposed to.  There’s nothing specific linking Palpatine to the edits, so he has little to fear in that area. He didn’t do it on his own terminals, he didn’t do it with his own log-in for the Senate systems, and even if he did attach notes to those particular files which were still unchanged in his office… well, that’s no real proof.

It’s an easy spin.

“Oh, I just thought Master Kenobi would be a good fit for the mission, I was merely planning to take it up with the Council when discussing the mission with them.”

Plausible deniability.

He cannot move too hastily, or he risks setting all his plans aflame himself. No, he must stay calm. Kenobi will be dealt with, the investigation will not find enough to send Palpatine to prison or anything even close to that. At most it will be a fine. After all, Palpatine smirks, he ensured that most of the truly illegal things were dealt with by Mas Amedda.

So easily led, weaklings who hunger for power are. Those who seek it without truly understanding was real power is… so easily swayed, so easily moved across the Corellian chess board that is this galaxy.

Kenobi has proven himself to be a far better player than Palpatine had anticipated, holding a keener mind than Palpatine would have assumed, all things considered. No wonder Dooku, the Dagobah slime worm, always spoke highly of him.

Soon enough, however, Kenobi’s skills and sharp mind will not matter. Palpatine has made his move and Kenobi will not see the knife before it meets its target. And then…

Game over.

~~~~

Obi-Wan rubs his eyes, staring blankly at the datapad before him without really seeing it. Exhaustion is creeping up on him and he knows he needs to stop for now. Stop, go back to the Temple, catch up on some sleep, and start over tomorrow. He won’t make any progress if he’s too tired to think straight anyway.

He puts the pad down on his desk and leans back in his chair, sighing deeply.

He’s used every free moment he’s had to go through Palpatine’s papers, documents, notes… anything he can gain access too, to find more information about those “inhibitor chips” mentioned in a correspondence with Kamino. Despite weeks of looking, he has come up empty.

There is nothing in the files at all. Or, if there is, it’s well hidden and beyond his skill to find them.

He pushes away from the desk and stands up. He needs sleep. He’s not at his best right now; perhaps he’s missing something, perhaps there is some sort of clue that he’s just not seeing right now.

Shaking his head he moves away from the desk, heading toward the security room. He’ll let the troops know he’s going back to the Temple for the night. It’s possible one of them will demand to see him back to the Temple, likely citing Commander’s orders or something.

He opens the door and steps inside, mind made up. The troopers look up at him, and as soon as Obi-Wan is sure he has all of their attention he says, “I’ll be going to the Temple for the night. I won’t be back in the office until tomorrow morning.”

“Understood, General. I will accompany you to the Temple then,” Blast—head of the night shift—says with a nod. He glances to the rest of the troopers, who all nod in understanding, before he gets up and leaves his station, running one hand over his mohawk as he moves to Obi-Wan’s side.

“Very good, Captain.” The prospect of sleep is too tantalising, and Obi-Wan’s simply too wrung out to even consider arguing. He might as well take Blast up on the offer, he won’t have to fly the speeder if he does. Of course, Obi-Wan giving in so easily makes Blast and the other troops on the night shift look suspiciously at him.

He pays it no heed and simply makes his way out of the office, Blast just half a step behind him.

The fresh air, as fresh as it ever gets on Coruscant, is soothing. The coolness of the night washes over Obi-Wan as he steps outside and heads to the speeders.

Still… There’s a feeling of disquiet that refuses to leave. A constant small humming, like an electric charge in the air, disturbing his thoughts and any chance of a lasting sense of peace.

Something is coming. Something very important. Something that, depending on its outcome and the actions taken, will determine the fate of the galaxy. Obi-Wan can feel it in his very bones, his prescience all but screaming it at him.

Any time he reaches for the feeling in the Force, however, it slips away like a dartha eel. The Force is still too muddled, too… darkened for him to truly be able to See clearly.

The feeling of hurtling ever closer to a crash without being able to see what he will crash into is disconcerting; it disturbs his sleep and throws him off balance. Oh, what a tempting thing sleep is right now, but Obi-Wan knows it will continue to elude him. At the very least until this feeling abates.

He gets into the passenger seat and relaxes as Blast starts the motor and flies off, heading towards the Temple immediately. Obi-Wan allows himself a few minutes of closed eyes without thought, before he opens his eyes and takes his commlink out of his pocket.

He stares idly at it and ponders. Should he?

“We should reach the Temple in three minutes, General,” Blast says, never taking his eyes off the flight lanes despite the late hour and the mild traffic. Well, mild for Coruscant, anyway. The core city never truly sleeps after all.

“Thank you, Blast.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before punching in a number sequence he’s known by heart for years. It’s late, he knows as much, but perhaps—

“Yoda, this is.” Of course Master Yoda isn’t asleep yet, Obi-Wan had expected—hoped?—as much.

“Master Yoda, it’s Obi-Wan. I’m heading back to the Temple for the night.” He pauses, biting his lip, and considers once more if he should really… Yes. “I was wondering if perhaps you’d join me for a cup of tea once I arrive.”

Yoda lets out a dismissive snorting noise, almost grating with its loudness.

“Tea, you do not need. Sleep, you do,” Master Yoda grumbles, his words punctuated with the sound of his gimer stick rapping against the floor.

“I… Yes, Master, but—” Obi-Wan starts. He knows he needs sleep, but it’s frustratingly out of his reach. He hoped that perhaps a cup of tea with Yoda could have soothed his nerves, but if Master Yoda isn’t willing, then…

Before he can finish his sentence, however, Master Yoda interrupts him, “Meet in your chambers, we will. Tea, I will bring. Share it, we will. And then sleep, you will.”

Obi-Wan only barely chokes down the relieved laugh bubbling in his chest.

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

They say their goodbyes—Obi-Wan is certain he hears Master Yoda mutter something about unruly crèchelings—and close the connection. Obi-Wan opens his eyes and stares ahead. In the corner of his eyes Obi-Wan can see Blast glance at him, and the Force around him seems almost pleased.

Obi-Wan allows himself a small smile, and relaxes into his seat.

The rest of the trip back to the Temple passes swiftly. Blast is a far better flier than Anakin—far less speeding and acrobatics that make Obi-Wan’s stomach turn.

Obi-Wan says his goodbyes to Blast at the Temple entrance, but he’s very aware that the speeder doesn’t take off again until he’s inside the Temple itself. He huffs and smiles slightly, shaking his head. If nothing else, it’s good to know that there are people who will have his back.

He stops once he’s inside, just for the briefest of moments. There’s a special feeling inside the Temple, perhaps owing to generation upon generation of Force sensitives walking its halls, living within them. It is home in a way no other place in the galaxy could possibly be.

It’s late, so there are few Jedi still awake. The younglings will be asleep in the crèche, draped on top of each other in piles, the knights and masters in their rooms, either in bed or preparing for it. Still, he passes a few Jedi still awake—the Temple, much like Coruscant, never truly sleeps.

He smiles as he passes by the gates to the gardens; there is something in the very essence of them that speaks of joy. Many happy childhood memories are made there, Obi-Wan knows that for a fact, and that joy lives on in the leaves of every plant and in every single blade of grass.

It’s amazing what can be retained in the Force, even without an active attempt to do so.

Were he to be forced to leave this place behind, Obi-Wan knows he would miss it dearly. He would accept its loss, for embracing change is the way of the Jedi, but he would miss it for the rest of his life nevertheless.

It’s a silly thought, one most likely brought on by exhaustion and stress coupled with his current situation—what reason could there possibly be that would force him to leave the Temple behind?

Obi-Wan shakes his head at his own line of thinking. He may be Supreme Chancellor, but it’s only temporary. He will not become a full time politician. Beyond Obi-Wan deciding to leave the Order on his own, there really is little chance he would be forced from its halls.

He continues through familiar hallways and turbolifts until he finally reaches his rooms. Once he places his hand on the scanner panel, the door slides open, and the scent of wallian tea washes over him like a fragrant wave. He smiles at the nostalgia of it all, and steps inside to greet Master Yoda.

~~~~

Sleep well, Yoda’s great-grandpadawan still does not. See it, Yoda can. Something on Obi-Wan’s mind there must be, if help he asks for.

Sit down he does with a smile.

“I haven’t had wallian tea since I left the crèche, Master Yoda,” says Obi-Wan. Takes the cup, he still does. Grew up too soon, this little one did. Carried the galaxy on his shoulders he has always.

“Help sleep, this tea does. Help prescient younglings does it. Need it, I think you do,” says Yoda and own tea sips on.

Nothing Obi-Wan says and his tea sips he. Speak first Yoda will not, let Obi-Wan gather his thoughts he must. Uncomfortable, silence is not; lived long enough to not be bothered by it Yoda has.

“Something is coming, Master. The outcome of which will determine the fate of the Galaxy. I feel it in every atom, and yet I cannot glean anything more detailed.” A long drink, he takes. “I don’t know how, I don’t know what, I don’t know when. I just know it’s coming. It’s a constant buzzing in the back of my head, and it disturbs my sleep and ability to concentrate.” A pause. “I’m worried.”

If worried he admits to, afraid he likely is, Yoda concludes. A burden, prescience can be—without or with visions.

“Feel it, I do,” murmurs Yoda. “Meditated on it much have I, but found answers, I have not.” Similar, their situations are.

Spread, silence does again. Gather their thoughts, they do.

“Remain vigilant, we must. But fear it, we must not. Sleep and rest, we must. Your sleep I will guard tonight. Like when a crècheling you were.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Later it is, sitting next to his finally sleeping great-grandpadawan, that Yoda allows the worries to come to the forefront of his mind.

Right, young Obi-Wan is. Coming, something is. If two who have noticed they are, then warn others they must. Speak with the Council tomorrow, Yoda will.

Clouded, the Force is. See clearly, he cannot. The Sith, it likely involves. How, Yoda cannot say. Vigilant they must be, but fear it they must not—or lost they already have.

A meditative trance, Yoda enters. In the shroud of the Force, the night passes.

~~~~

The buzzing sound of lightsabers moving through the air and clashing together, coupled with panting breaths and two sets of footsteps, are the only things that can be heard in the emptied mess hall. The troops were more than willing to help move the tables out of the way to create a large enough empty space for Anakin and Ahsoka to duel. Now they watch in fascination as the two Jedi move around each other, parrying blows and avoiding strikes.

Anakin grins widely as they spar, pride like a burning flame in his chest. Ahsoka is getting good. Where two blades sets Anakin slightly off balance, leaving one arm awkwardly swinging without proper aim or real intent, two blades give Ahsoka extra balance and a sharpness to her technique she lacked before.

Her twirls are tighter with fewer openings and both blades become extensions of her arms. She’s not quite there yet with her technique and her moveset is still too limited to use in real battle, but he can see the skill she’ll one day have.

One day… one day she might even overtake him and Obi-Wan both.

But not yet.

With one swift moment he breaks her guard and stops his blade at her chest, arm still bent and able to thrust forward. Had he been an enemy, her chest would be pierced now.

“Solah,” she says through panting breaths and retracts her blades; Anakin follows suit and settles into a relaxed stance. There is some scattered applause from the gathered troopers, but Anakin deliberately puts it out of his mind.

“You’re getting good, Snips.”

“Thank you, Master!” Her grin is wide and infectious, and together they head to one of the tables to sit down for a bit.

The water is blessedly cool as it slides down his parched throat.

“Ugh, I want a nap,” Ahsoka grumbles into her glass of water, prompting a snort from Rex.

“Aren’t you a little old for that, Commander?” Rex looks like bantha butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but Anakin can see the spark of mischief in his eyes. Considering Ahsoka’s put out look, she can too.

“I haven’t taken naps since I was in the crèche, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost the appreciation for a good nap, Captain.” And theeere’s the snippiness in Ahsoka that had Anakin dub her Snips in the first place.

Rex, of course, only rolls his eyes with a smile.

Naps in the crèche, huh…

“Obi-Wan mentioned that when he was in the crèche, they used to sleep in piles. Did you do that too?” Anakin asks, thinking back to when he and Obi-Wan, uh, cleared the air between them, while looking at Ahsoka. She blinks in surprise.

“Oh, yeah, we did. I kinda miss it. Sleeping in one big cuddle pile was pretty great, actually,” she says with a nod. She looks a bit far away and nostalgic, perhaps remembering some nice naps.

“You and your agemates didn’t sleep in piles, General?” Fives asks, picking up on some of what Anakin isn’t saying.

Feeling everyone’s eyes on him Anakin scratches the back of his head a bit, self conscious.

“Well, actually, I was never in the crèche at all.” He was prepared for the surprised looks, but it still makes him feel slightly awkward.

“You weren’t in the crèche, Master?” Ahsoka says, her eyes huge. Consider the occasional rumours going through the Temple, Anakin would actually have assumed that she knew that, but apparently not.

“No, I came to the Temple late under… uh… unusual circumstances. So I actually became Obi-Wan’s in-Temple Padawan immediately, rather than go to the crèche first.” Anakin pauses and thinks back to those early days. Sometimes he missed them, though he had never liked that Obi-Wan was gone so much. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he continues, “So I either stayed with Master in our rooms or in the Initiate dorms.”

“Wait, so what’s the difference between the crèche and the Initiate dorms?” Jesse asks, scratching his bald head. Anakin glances at Ahsoka and gives her a small nod, she’d know way better than he would.

“Oh, uh, well,” she begins, “The crèche is where all the younglings live; they’re the youngest of the Jedi order. There are several small ‘clans’ as we call them—groupings of younglings who take classes together and such. They usually sleep on these big soft mats with lots of pillows and blankets… and usually really close together, so almost in piles, like I said.” She pauses. “You don’t have to sleep in the piles, of course, the mats are really big so some tend to gravitate to the edges because they like sleeping more solitarily. Also, there are younglings whose species require slightly different room humidity or temperature to be fully healthy—like Mon Calamari or Nautolans—usually they all sleep together, regardless of what clans they belong to.”

Huh, yeah, that makes sense. Master used to say that Bant was his crèchemate, but her rooms were always much… uh… wetter? Than the ones he shared with Obi-Wan at the time.

“The Initiate dorm though, that’s more like… Well, several rooms with bunk beds, really,” Anakin says, recalling his time in the dorms. “They’re large enough that a few people can share them if they want to though, but it’s not quite conducive to pile sleeping.”

“I assume they don’t want you to go straight from constant closeness to being completely shut off from physical contact?” Kix remarks, just now looking up from the datapad he was writing something on.

“Yeah, I think so! Some species need physical contact to thrive, so… At least that’s what Créche Master An-harang used to say,” Ahsoka says between gulps of water.

Scattered mumbles of ‘yeah, makes sense’ and ‘sounds about right’ fill the room for a moment, and Anakin relaxes. They’ll probably leave the topic behind now.

Just as Anakin thinks this, however, Ahsoka speaks up again, “Master… what’s an in-Temple Padawan? I mean, how does it differ from a regular Padawan?”

Oh. Right. Anakin leans his head on his fist, elbow on the table, and considers it. Ahsoka is probably too young to remember. After all, there never were many, and ever since the war, the Order has been forced to change things around to be able to spread as thinly as they’ve had to.

He sees the troopers’ confusion. Considering that it’s a Jedi thing, they probably expected her to know too.

“Right, I… I guess you’re too young to know, huh. They’re… not really a thing anymore because of the war and they were never especially common even before it.”

Ugh, Obi-Wan would probably explain this so much better. Theoretical explanations aren’t really Anakin’s forte—unless it’s about mechanics and electronics—since he’s more of a hands on type of guy.

“So what is it, General?”

“Well, uh… The age-limit to become a padawan used to be fifteen before the war. That’s why I questioned you if you were really old enough back on Christophsis, Ahsoka.” Anakin scratches the back of his head. “Sometimes though there could be circumstances that made someone younger than fifteen become a Padawan, but since they’d be too young, they wouldn’t really leave the Temple. So when their Masters were in the Temple—and they would usually stay for long stretches of time because of their Temple-bound Padawan—the in-Temple Padawan would live with their Master but go to classes with the Initiates. When their Master was on missions they couldn’t go on, they’d stay in the Initiate dorms. It’s not really a complicated concept; it was to keep the young members of the Order safe, you know?”

Anakin squirms in the silence that started spreading the more he talked. And yeah, he knows it sucks that kids are on the front lines now. It sucks a lot but he doesn’t really know what they can do about it, short of just… stop being commanders and Generals. And they can’t do that, can they?

Ugh, he’ll have to ask Obi-Wan about that, or someone else on the Council. Though Obi-Wan is probably a safer bet if he wants a straightforward answer.

“So uh… they didn’t go on missions?” Ahsoka looks like she can’t quite wrap her head around the thought. Considering how her own Padawanship has gone, that probably isn’t weird.

“I mean, I started being allowed to go on missions with no expected danger when I was twelve. And yeah, sometimes unforseen circumstances would mean we’d end up in some danger anyway, but that was usually not the point. I mean, my first mission was to… uhh… I don’t remember the name, but it was some planet that holds a fertility festival every five years.”

“What?” someone hisses through coughs, as if their drink went down wrong.

Anakin looks around to see huge eyes and slack jaws. Wait, what are they—?

“No—! Not like sexual fertility! Plant fertility! They had a festival with a ritual to have good crops! They wouldn’t have let me go near it if it was a sex thing!” The words start tumbling out of Anakin’s mouth as fast as he can make them because by the Force, the mental images. Going to a sexual fertility festival with his Master when he was twelve would’ve been a straight up nightmare of awkward.

“Oh. Uhm. Right.” Ahsoka squirms a bit in her seat, looking at bit like she’s choking down giggles; Anakin probably looks about as awkward as he feels. “So what was the mission?”

“Oh, uh. The ritual was like really old, and contains having someone use the Force to lift a cup from a pedestal, hold it in the air for a few minutes while some shaman chants, and then set it down again. So the Jedi have been doing that for centuries. Like I said, it wasn’t a dangerous mission. That was mostly the kind of mission any in-Temple Padawan was allowed to go on.”

“Oh… That’s… different,” Ahsoka says with a wince.

“It was boring,” Anakin says and laughs when Ahsoka gives him a sheepish smile. Yeah, there was no hiding how boring that mission was. The planet itself was pretty and all, and the locals were really nice, but the mission? Ugh.

“So you don’t do in-Temple Padawans anymore?” There’s a sharp look in Rex’s eyes.

Anakin shakes his head. “No. With how spread thin we are, we need all the hands on deck we can get. You used to become Padawan at fifteen and have a Padawanship for about eight to ten years, but with how everything is now, we get put out in the field earlier and subsequently get more experience quicker and Knighted earlier.”

Anakin takes a long drink of water.

“If you asked Obi-Wan he could probably tell you even more traditions and way of doing things that we’ve lost since the war. He knows better than I do.”

No one says it, but Anakin is pretty sure they’re all thinking the same thing: Obi-Wan isn’t really around to be asked these days.

Another thing they’ve lost to the war.

—

(Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi masterpost)

#Supreme Chancellor Obi Wan Kenobi #my writing #star wars #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #obi wan kenobi #tcw #Palpatine is a creep #no one likes him #finally an update #I got an ask! #Anonymous

[writernotwaiting]

Fallen Angels -- ch. 21

Chapter 21 – After: Emotional reinforcements

Chapter Summary: In which Loki and Sigyn have some unexpected visitors. This chapter picks up right after chapter 20 (oh my heavens – continuity for once!). Rating: E for the story overall. If you are under 18, go read something else! Characters: Loki, Sigyn, Thor, Anna (ofc), Balder (might-as-well-be-omc), Amora (a might-as-well-be ofc), Odin, Elli (a stone giantess and might-as-well-be-ofc), Cyril (omc) Story Description: a post-apocalyptic, MCU-Norse mythos mash-up; science fiction/fantasy

I will re-blog with the tags.  I would be glad to add to or remove from the tag list at your request.

Thank you again and again (and again), @icybluepenguin , for your help and encouragement and editing. You are an angel. Thank you also to @pedeka for being an unfailingly patient sounding board and for listening to my whiny writer complaints.

Ch. 1: Walking with unblest feet

 Ch. 20: Up from the Bottom of a Well Ch. 22: Never say that I was false at heart

[I borrowed this image from an actual rectory in Pembrokeshire that is now a B&B -- pretty, isn’t it?]

Unfortunately, Sigyn’s initial giddiness didn’t last. All her life, as long as she had remained ignorant, it had been easy to construct romantic fantasies about her parents — dreams of a persecuted race, or tales of forbidden love. The reality was decidedly less romantic, and much more baffling. Immaculate conception, apparently. An asexual creation from blood fished out of a well, and magically implanted into the womb of some unsuspecting (or complicit? The book was frustratingly silent on this point) fire giantess, who had then been hounded out of her realm by a fiery father — pun intended, thank you very much.

And why?

Certainly, it wasn’t because the Norns had suddenly gotten a maternal urge to cuddle a baby, sing lullabies, and change diapers, because they sure as Hel hadn’t done that. They created her, and then abandoned her. More than abandoned her — placed her precisely in harm’s way by leaving her mother vulnerable to the wrath of Surt, lord of all fire giants and first-class grump. Then they failed to intervene when she was dumped on Asgard, orphaned, with no hint of who her father was. It made no sense, and she felt more alone than ever, to think the Norns had created her, watched her grow, carved the runes that hinted at her fate just as they would for any other soul, re-arranged those runes as Sigyn had taken control over those the pieces of her destiny that she could — yet they had never touched her, never reached out to soothe, or forewarn.

Was she a chess piece?

An experiment?

An instrument of spite?

If it were the latter, she had certainly had success there, at least.

But why?

Sigyn lay awake night after night trying to understand it. Failing utterly.

Loki pulled himself out of his own distraction to try and push Sigyn through hers. Working on the theory that inertia would either be their greatest asset or their worst enemy, he scheduled her days — a body in motion will stay in motion. He invented seidr exercises, concocted ways for her to practice her fire magic, sparred with her — fire against ice. For this, they quickly discovered that they needed to reinforce the walls of their attic practice room. It turns out that the action of super-heated air on ice is, well, explosive.

On the other hand, it was also cathartic. Sometimes, you really just need to blow something up.

Late one afternoon as they sat in the bedroom nursing a few wounds from their latest session, Sigyn finally felt ready to talk pragmatically about everything. She dabbed a salve on Loki’s neck where he’d been burned. “I’m sorry, dearest. I let that one get away from me.”

“No, it’s my own fault. I got distracted when I saw your frostbite. I let my guard down.”

She snorted. “We are a pair, aren’t we? It’s a wonder we don’t simply cancel each other out in a great chaotic conflagration.”

“At this rate, we may yet manage it.” He reached around to caress her rear. “But it will be a glorious end.”

She sniggered but kept her focus on the wound while she talked. “I suppose we should tell Thor, eventually.”

“If we expect his help, yes.”

“And we shall probably have to do that sooner, rather than later.”

“Yes. We will need his help in speaking with the old bastard, and we need to take care of that soon if we are to get rid of that stone properly.”

Sigyn straightened briefly so she could look her husband in the eye. “Do you think Odin ever suspected what I was? Do you think he knew?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, honestly. It might explain his unreasonable hostility. Of all the bastards he fathered, you are the only one sired without his consent. They stole something from him when they created you. I can see where he would resent it, and resent you as a reminder of it.”

She turned to begin putting away her supplies. “I wonder if the Norns planned for him to take me in, and that somehow Odin sidestepped the path they had written for him.”

“That would be like him. He likes only the rules he imposes himself.”

She snorted. “Like father, like daughter!”

“That’s the spirit.” And he caught her around the waist to pull her into his lap.

They were startled then by a sharp banging on the kitchen door. They knew exactly who it was — “Elli.” Loki braced himself for a confrontation as they went downstairs.

When they opened the door, though, Elli just barely stepped inside before insisting they come out. “You must come and meet someone” was all she would say.

“Can they not come here?” Sigyn asked suspiciously.

“He is here, little one, but he cannot come into the house.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he’s too hulking big to fit through the door, girl, and bless his heart, he’s never mastered shapeshifting, just a bit of camouflage. Come on, Loki. This is important!”

The couple found their boots and Sigyn her coat before they followed Elli around the side of the house. There they came face to knee with one of the oddest giants they had ever seen. He was 15 to 20 feet high at least, and looked as though he were carved out of solid rock, rounded smooth at the edges, and he sat with his knees drawn up practically to his chest while he peered at a tiny bird on the side of a spruce trunk, sunlight glinting off the golden rims of round spectacles that perched on his earnest face.

Elli led them right up next to him and gently tapped his shin. “Cyril.” And when this failed to elicit a response she raised he voice, “Cyril! Here he is!”

The giant scrunched up his surprisingly expressive face in frustration as the nuthatch flew off.

“Elli, you scared her off!”

“Cyril, he’s here. Can you do the bird thing later?”

He immediately looked chagrined, and turning toward the couple, rushed to apologize, “So sorry. I just . . . their lives are so very short. I feel as though I have to get to know them as best I can when I see them, because there is so little time . . .” He turned to face them fully, blushing slightly. “You understand, don’t you?” and a look passed over his face that seemed to plead for comprehension while fully expecting rejection.

“Um . . .” Neither Loki nor Sigyn quite knew how to respond, and they turned to Elli in search of an explanation.

An awkward moment or two passed, before Elli looked back up at the giant. “I apologize, Cyril. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to forewarn them of our coming.”

“So, they don’t know . . .” And he was clearly a bit embarrassed by this news. Elli shook her head. “Ah. I see.”

He seemed to buck himself up a bit, and straightened his shoulders. “Well then, we should get on with the introductions, shouldn’t we?”

“Yes.” And here Elli turned back to the waiting couple. “Loki . . . Sigyn? This is Cyril. Cyril, this is Loki and his wife, Sigyn.”

Cyril bobbed his head a bit as he replied, “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Nice to meet you, as well,” Sigyn replied.

Another awkward pause followed. Cyril seemed unable to speak, but just stared intently at Loki, eyes darting over every detail of his face, his brow sinking further and further into melancholy the longer he looked. Eventually, Loki broke the silence. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of his visit?”

The question clearly left Cyril flustered once again. His brow scrunched with emotion as he turned a set of pleading eyes on Elli. “Could you, Elli?” as a little tear gathered at the corner of his eye. “I’m not sure I will be able to explain — he looks so much like her.” And here he produced an enormous pocket square out of who-knows-where, dabbing at his eye before blowing his nose in distress.

Elli sighed with a strange mixture of frustration and affection. “Loki, before your mother was contracted to Laufey, she was a bit of a romantic.” Cyril sighed and became intensely interested in his shoes. “She and Cyril apparently carried on a very long correspondence. They were, may I say it, Cyril?” He nodded sadly, another tear trickling down his cheek. “They were very much in love.”

Cyril heaved another great sigh, turning his gaze onto Loki once more. “She was so beautiful, like river stones washed in the rushing water of spring. Her laugh was like listening to smooth pebbles being poured into a clean clay dish — hair as dark as the deepest cavern, eyes as green as bright moss on the mountain.” He blew his nose once more and Elli took up the tale again.

“For years, their correspondence remained secret, because they knew they would never be allowed to marry — her parents preferred to play politics, and Cyril never showed any talent in that area.”

“Alas, no.” He managed a melancholy laugh.

“So, when the contract was drawn up, they were forced to part. When the war started, Cyril did his part, but he proved to be as poor a soldier as he had a politician, though he did show some talent at reconnaissance.”

“Yes, that seemed to be my only useful talent.”

“Reconnaissance?” Sigyn couldn’t help but snigger as she took in the giant’s enormous frame. “How is that possible? You would be spotted immediately.”

Cyril looked offended. “I’ll have you know, I was considered a top notch intelligence agent, young lady — and my eyesight is still particularly keen, even without these glasses.”

Elli intervened. “Cyril can, indeed, give a stunning impression of a boulder — it’s amazing what people overlook when they have fixed expectations. Despite this skill, however, the warrior’s life was never one he was suited for, and at the conclusion of the war, Cyril preferred to remain here — away from politics, and away from any reminders of . . . other things.”

“I see.” Loki nodded, more than a little effected.

“At any rate, Loki, I thought, perhaps, you should like to talk to Cyril a bit. He knew your mother better than anyone, including myself, and maybe you would like to hear a bit about her from someone who cared for her as she deserved.”

Loki looked slowly from Elli, up to Cyril, down at Elli once more and up to Cyril again, mouth open like a netted salmon. When he once more looked up at Cyril, the giant pulled a packet of papers from somewhere (do giants have pockets? Where was he keeping those handkerchiefs?) “Would you like to see a picture of her? To look at you — there is no question at all whose son you are. No one could doubt.”

Elli tugged at Sigyn’s sleeve to pull her back toward the house. The younger woman hesitated, however. “Elli, what about The Watcher? Heimdall can see everything outside of the house. He will tell Thor that Cyril in on Midgard.”

“The time for hiding is over, little one. We cannot defend you and stay in the shadows both. Let the Aesir come. We are not afraid.”

Sigyn slowly brushed her hand down Loki’s arm in question, but he barely registered her touch, swallowing hard and staring wide eyed at Cyril’s packet, his head barely moving as he nodded agreement, signaling both to Sigyn that he was ok, and to Cyril that, yes, he very much wanted to see what was in that packet. Sigyn let her hand fall and turned to walk back to the house with Elli.

Inside, the two women remained silent for a long while, keeping busy, but hardly registering what it was they did —just waiting and listening. Occasionally the murmuring of the men’s voices outside would be punctuated by a percussive sound when Cyril felt the need for another of his endless supply of handkerchiefs, otherwise nothing, until the women ran out of busywork, and sat together staring into the fire, Sigyn playing cat’s cradle with a seidr thread while Elli dozed.

“Elli, I found out what I am.”

The older woman raised her eyebrow at that. “Have you now? I’ve had my own theories for ages, but nothing sure. What did you find out?”

“As it turns out, my grandfather is Surt.”

Elli chuckled at that. “Well that certainly explains a great deal. I wondered about the fires.”

“It does make a lot of sense, doesn’t it?”

“And what of the other side of the family?”

“That part is a little more difficult to explain. There seems to have been a bit of deus ex machina involved.”

“Oh — someone was messing with the fabric of things?”

“On one of his quests for knowledge, Odin traveled to the Well of Urd. He made a blood sacrifice of himself. Afterward, the Norns pulled his blood from the water and did something. And then gave the seed to the youngest of Surt’s daughters.”

“You are Odin’s child?” Elli clapped her hands and cackled wildly. “Oh my great goddess! How beautiful! The symmetry is perfect!” She actually stood and whooped with glee. “We must celebrate the irony of the universe, little one! How glorious! Oh I shall take such joy in hearing every detail of your next encounter with old one-eye! It is too sweet! Bastard that he is — you know he’s half giant himself, the execrable hypocrite!”

Sigyn smiled at Elli’s antics at first, but gradually grew more sober until the giantess finally settled a bit. Elli stopped celebrating and turned to face Sigyn directly with an empathetic look.

“Oh but, little one, it can’t have been easy for you to discover this, was it? I’m sorry. I will calm myself.” She took a deep breath and sat down once more. Then her eyes crinkled once more and she sniggered again before she finally contained herself, and put a hand on Sigyn’s knee. “Are you ok, little one?” Sigyn nodded. “And Loki? How did he take the news that he has been married to his sister all these years.”

“Elli!”

She snorted. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shall stop. It’s all as the Norns would have it, I’m sure, at least mostly. It never is exact, is it? We are always mucking about with their work.” Elli finally sobered. “But are you ok? It is much to take in, I’m sure.”

Sigyn shrugged. “I’m getting better. It’s hard not to be angry that he has any claim to any part of me. I don’t want him to be my father, thank you very much. But there you are. We control some things, and others we do not.”

“And Loki?”

“He seems to have taken the news better than I, actually. He has gleefully concocted a dozen ways to tell Thor that I’m his sister — all of which involve embarrassing references to Thor’s attempts to flirt with me when we were young.”

“I would love to see that!”

Just then, a sharp rap came at the front door.

“Who the Hel uses the front door?” Mumbled Sigyn as she peered carefully through the casement trying to see who it was before she answered.

“Elli!” came a voice from without. “Are you there, Elli! Goat’s piss, I’m sure she said this was the place. Elli?”

“I’m coming, Logi, keep your shoes on.”

Elli opened the door to her young cousin while Sigyn peered over her shoulder. But Logi didn’t bother trying to fit through the door. Instead, he delivered his message from the porch. “Elli, we have to know the plan. The dolls are moving and there are more of them than we thought. They will be here in a week at most.”

“Oh great goddess’s tits!” cried the old woman. “Sigyn, go out back and tell your husband.”

They were interrupted just then, however, by the great BOOM of the Bifrost opening up. Sigyn ran to the window just as the shouting started out back.

“Odin’s balls!” and she turned to run out the door. “It’s Thor! Piss. Did he have to show up just right now?!?

#fan fiction #Fallen Angels #Loki #Sigyn #logyn #MCU #Norse mythos #AU #stone giants can be big softies #who knew?

[storyteller0311]

So, Pandora has to be related to Prometheus, right?

Ok, maybe the writers are just on a mythology kick...but that might be too much of a coincidence, right?

In Greek mythology, Prometheus steals fire from Zeus and pisses him off. So, in retaliation, Zeus chains Prometheus to a rock and sets up a situation where Prometheus is tortured every night, magically healed in the morning, rinse, repeat.

But Zeus is still pissed, so he decides to wreak havoc on mankind by...you guessed it...having Hephaestus create a woman named Pandora. Sexist pigs. Ugh. So, then, Zeus gives Pandora a jar of stuff – bad stuff – and has Pandora married off to Prometheus’ brother Epimetheus. 

Pandora can’t resist opening the box, so she does what Zeus tells her not to do, and she opens the box. 

And all the bad stuff flies out. But there’s one thing left in the box.

Hope. 

Hope is what’s in the box.

Okay. So what does this all mean? 

Let’s face it. Despite my comment about coincidences above, there’s a really good chance that these are just surface nods to mythology and (what I’ll comment on in a moment) comic canon. But, where’s the fun in writing off possibilities? We need some spec!

Prometheus means forethought. And, boy, do we know that Prometheus has been planning his crusade for a while. He wants Oliver to suffer and he has put all the chess pieces in place to make that happen. He wants Oliver to wish he was dead. He wants to force Oliver into a corner where he’ll have to watch as Prometheus picks every other piece off the board.

He corrupted Evelyn (or really took an already corrupted Evelyn and gave her a new outlet).

He nearly killed Curtis and was the final nail in the (hopefully temporary) death of his marriage.

He put Diggle back in prison.

He got Felicity’s boyfriend killed, devastating Felicity and placing Oliver in a horrible position.

And, finally, he “resurrected” Laurel to the great...um...pain...of the team.

So. While Oliver and Company are off in Hub City because fake-Laurel’s return has lit a weak fire under Oliver’s ass to replace BC, Felicity is feeling nostalgic and looking to go old school hacker in hopes of breaking Dig out of prison. 

[EDIT: @almondblossomme reminded me that it was actually Adrian that first introduced the idea of hacking into secret intel to help acquit Dig. I forgot to add this – and it’s important because it ties in to the end of this post.]

So Felicity goes to hacking and boom someone contacts her. Random hacker person wants to know if she's really Ghost Fox Goddess. They claim they can help. They want to meet in real life.

So, Felicity goes. She take Rory as backup. (At least she hasn’t totally lost her mind...yet.) And who shows up? A fangirl. Well...a weirdly judgmental fangirl who insults Felicity more than she praises her and ends up goading her into re-evaluating whether or not Felicity the hacktivist is really, truly retired. 

But who is this girl? Well, she’s from a hacker group named Helix and they stolen a bunch of state secrets that have been collected into a file called Pandora and they want Felicity to leak the information – not just about John’s no-good general – but all of it.

This whole storyline is interesting. We know from 5x10 that Felicity is building towards some reckless behavior. She got her feet wet with Black Siren, but unfortunately, Prometheus escaped. Felicity, much like Tina/Dinah/BC 2.0 (3.0?), wants revenge. And, so, she’s got blinders on a little bit. She dives headfirst into meeting this person, because she wants to help John – at any cost – and then the thrill comes back and she doesn’t pause. She goes for it. For Felicity, the question is what happens next. How deep is she going to dive?

And, let’s not forget that this also ties directly into the theme of legacy. In many ways, this group is a product of Felicity’s actions just as Prometheus is a product of Oliver’s. So how does this effect Felicity’s journey? Is this more about Felicity going dark? Or about her actions of the past coming back to haunt her? 

Those are questions I can’t answer. But there are some clues here to the overall story.

SIDE NOTE: Were we just supposed to suspend our disbelief because it’s TV and all, or are we supposed to be suspicious about how in the hell hacker fangirl knows who Felicity is. Like really knows who she is. Knows her hacker name, knows her real name, knows she worked at Palmer Tech and got fired...

First I want to briefly discuss Felicity’s old handle hacker handle Ghost Fox Goddess. There is a character in DC Comic canon called Ghost Fox Killer...and guess whose super suit her outfit looks eerily similar to?

Yes. You called it. 

Green Arrow.  

If that doesn’t prove that Olicity is ENDGAME, I don’t know what is.

And then...goddess? (I mean, I’m all for the term goddess. My colleague calls me her marketing goddess.) But it’s interesting with all the Greek gods and mythology we’re throwing around here...

Speaking of which...

There are two clues in the name of the group Helix. First, there is a random group of supervilains in DC canon that call themselves Helix. But, probably more important and interesting, is the fact that Helix is a Greek word. And it means twisted. 

And, this situation – and the possibility that it all tracks back to Prometheus – sure is twisted, isn’t it?

Then there’s the gift that Helix gives to Felicity. Pandora. 

I find it suspicious that out of the blue sky Helix shows up with just the information Felicity needs and that their “gift” is named Pandora. Now, sure it could just be a reference to the story of Pandora’s box. But the stories of Pandora and Prometheus are interrelated in Greek mythology. It makes so much sense that Prometheus is still moving those chess pieces, still finding ways to influence those in Oliver’s life towards a place where Oliver will wish he was dead. And what better way to do that than by driving Felicity towards the darkness that Oliver has tried so hard to escape?

But, in all of this Prometheus/Pandora talk, something is niggling at my brain. 

Prometheus isn’t the person who creates Pandora, and he isn’t the one who givers her the jar (box). It’s Zeus.

So, here’s a thought. What if Prometheus isn’t working alone?

Maybe it’s the overload of Greek mythology. Maybe I’m bonkers. But as much as I LOVED the flashbacks tonight and I LOVED Talia...

I’m suspicious of her.

If Talia existed in a vacuum of the flashbacks it would be a different story. But it doesn’t because Talia, as we’ve been led to believe, is the person who trained Prometheus. 

This is Talia’s story as much as it is Oliver’s. Oliver believes that he created Prometheus. But we now know that Talia created the Hood/Arrow/Green Arrow as much as Oliver and his experiences did. She gave him the push he needed, she focused his mission, and she gave him an identity. 

But most importantly, she gave him a split identity.

Even though Oliver has struggled with it for years, Talia taught Oliver to become someone else as the vigilante – to separate the Hood from Oliver Queen.

Presumably, Talia would have taught the exact same thing to Prometheus. Taught him to separate the monster from the man.

So, what does this mean?

Well, first off...even though I already knew this deep in my soul (despite my best wishes in spite of common sense), I’m now utterly convinced that Tommy (sigh) is not Prometheus.

But I am now convinced that Prometheus is not a monster all the time. He’s not an unhinged lunatic looming in the shadows. 

If Talia’s training succeeded Prometheus will be able to separate the man from the monster and exist in the light of day as someone else...as something else.

The question is who?

Right now, my money is on Adrian Chase.

And how, do you ask, does this all tie back into the question of Greek mythology?

Well. 

If Prometheus is, well, Prometheus and Felicity is Pandora then Oliver is Epimetheus. 

But I don’t think that Prometheus and Oliver have to be brothers for this to work. Because they’re brothers, blood or not. 

Talia created them. Just like Zeus.

And let’s not forget who gave Pandora her box...

@almondblossomme @callistawolf @jbuffyangel @olicityandsteroline @scu11y22 @charlinert @hope-for-olicity @dust2dust34 @dettiot @geniewithwifi

@geneshaven @klarolicityswan @nalla-madness @ohmypreciousgirl @supersillyanddorky06

#arrow #arrow spoilers #arrow spec #arrow speculation #arrow 5x11 #arrow 5x11 spoilers #olicity #olicity spoilers #olicity speculation

[starlingsrps]

sarah dorsey.

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: sarah jean dorsey

REASONING: not especially

NICKNAME(S): spooky sarah. yes, she knows.

PREFERRED NAME(S): sarah is fine

BIRTH DATE: january 15, 1986

AGE: thirty four

ZODIAC: capricorn

GENDER: female

PRONOUNS: she/her

SEXUAL/ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: heterosexual/romantic

NATIONALITY: american

ETHNICITY: caucausian

CURRENT LOCATION: washington, d.c. - georgetown technically but it's just easier to say d.c.

LIVING CONDITIONS: tidy clutter. sarah knows where everything is at all times, even if it doesn't always look like it. she has not moved since she moved into this apartment to start her master's. it's been twelve years. she will die here.

BACKGROUND

BIRTH PLACE: eureka, ca

HOMETOWN: same

SOCIAL CLASS: middle

EDUCATION LEVEL: b.a. psychology, yale; masters in psychology from georgetown; quantico

FATHER: rick dorsey, 63, radio dj

MOTHER: ellen dorsey, 60, hair stylist

SIBLING(S): maggie, presumed dead; aaron, 27

BIRTH ORDER: oldest

CHILDREN: sweet jesus christ no.

PET: does her ficus count?

OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: her grandmother; various aunts/uncles/cousins

RELATIONSHIP WITH FAMILY: like, she's got people but she's awful at keeping in touch. time flies and suddenly it's been a month since she called her mother. maggie, her sister, was her closet familial relationship - they were only a year apart in age. she disappeared when sarah was a sophomore at yale and was declared legally dead a year later, a fact sarah still can't really accept because it can't be as simple as that she disappeared, it just can't be.

PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: like yeah but it's.....it's easier to say that it's been awhile.

CURRENT RELATIONSHIP: no.

O

CCUPATION & INCOME

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: fbi agent

CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB?: 95% of the time. 5% of the time, someone's fucking with her stuff or she wants to live alone in a cabin somewhere where no one will fuck with her stuff.

PAST JOB(S): i mean, she's been in different departments but if it wasn't academic or babysitting, she's not done a whole lot.

SPENDING HABITS: reasonable - she spends a bit more on clothes than she'd like but she's tiny and she's gotta tailor a lot of pants.

SKILLS & ABILITIES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: she's sturdy and can move because her job demands so but she's not pumping iron by any means.

SPEED: surprisingly fast - she sprinted in high school and college and can be hella quick.

INTELLIGENCE: yeah, little bit.

ACCURACY: dead on

AGILITY: p good

STAMINA: endless

TEAMWORK: good! she's not Fantastic at taking the lead and kind of has to be nudged into it when necessary. her voice shakes a little bit and it takes her a second but she is capable of leadership positions - she's just forgotten a tiny bit how to.

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: fluently? english and spanish. not-so fluently would be arabic and mandarin. she also knows elvish but that's classified.

DRIVE?: legally, technically? sure and did happily until she moved to washington. one time on the beltway though and she refused to ever drive again.

JUMP-STAR A CAR?: nope

CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: nope

RIDE A BICYCLE?: yes

SWIM?: yes

PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: she grew up playing flute but fuck her if she knows where it is in the bottomless pit that is her apartment.

PLAY CHESS?: yes

BRAID HAIR?: yep

TIE A TIE?: yes

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

FACE CLAIM: anna kendrick

EYE COLOR: blue

HAIR COLOR: brown

HAIR TYPE/STYLE: long, sort of wavy. she cuts it herself.

GLASSES/CONTACTS?: reading glasses

DOMINANT HAND: left

HEIGHT: 5'2

BUILD: petite. bird shoulders, just negative shoulders.

EXERCISE HABITS: three times a week, mostly just to make sure she can pass the physical portion of her job.

SKIN TONE: fair

TATTOOS: nah

PIERCINGS: ears

MARKS/SCARS: freckled in the summer, a crescent moon on her left knee from a massive bike wipeout when she was a kid. she saw BONE.

NOTABLE FEATURES: sharp chin, expressive face. she's not good at hiding her emotions at all.

USUAL EXPRESSION: the opposite of a poker face. catch peter looking stoic af and sarah like o.O

CLOTHING STYLE: suits and blazers and professional lady things for work. leggings and a giant shirt otherwise. comfort is key.

JEWELRY: a watch is about it.

ALLERGIES: almonds

DIET: reasonable, prone to eating many snacks instead of eating an actual meal.

PSYCHOLOGY

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good

TEMPERAMENT: melancholic

MBTI: INFP

MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: like a sprinkle of ocd. she's not crazy, contrary to popular belief.

SOCIABILITY: introvert

EMOTIONAL STABILITY: she gets in her feelings real quick.

PHOBIA(S): drowning and horses

ADDICTION(S): nah

DRUG USE: ehhhh nah

ALCOHOL USE: sure

PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: not at all - she really doesn’t like that she has to carry a gun.

MANNERISMS

SPEECH STYLE: bubbly, a little higher than she'd like naturally. she lowers it a dab when speaking to people she needs to impress.

ACCENT: not really?

HOBBIES: research can be a hobby.

NERVOUS TICKS: oh boy. A Lot. she's always fussing with her fingernails and tugging at her cuffs. she wrinkles her nose a lot while thinking and needs to have a snack on her at all times.

DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: The Truth.

POSITIVE TRAITS: open minded, caring, creative, organized, generous,

NEGATIVE TRAITS: impractical, suspicious, stubborn, easily stressed, obsessive

SENSE OF HUMOR: sly - little sarcastic. she’ll drag a bitch for a country mile.

DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: when she probably shouldn't

FAVORITES

ACTIVITY: going to the movies, google spirals

ANIMAL: foxes

BEVERAGE: coffee

BOOK: a people's history of the united states, anything that involves a lot of lists of things. mostly lord of the rings. it's her life's blood.

MOVIE: lord of the rings, extended editions only.

COLOR: green

FOOD: cereal

FLOWER: daisies

GEM: diamond

HOLIDAY: halloween

MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: being driven

MUSICAL ARTIST: ehhh whatever and whoever is okay fine - music's kind of background noise and she'd rather a movie.

SONG: eh.

SCENERY: a well organized bulletin board

SCENT: books

SPORT: surprisingly into basketball - she likes numbers and data.

SPORTS TEAM: whoever the underdog is

TELEVISION SHOW: nope. movie.

WEATHER: winter just because

VACATION DESTINATION: that assumes she doesn't have to be forcibly removed from her office for any kind of time off.

ATTITUDES

GREATEST DREAM: finding her sister, proving the existence of aliens, being responsible enough to get a cat.

GREATEST FEAR: that her sister really isn't out there somewhere

MOST AT EASE WHEN: when she's being heard and understood; watching lord of the rings

LEAST AT EASE WHEN: she really doesn't like being called spooky sarah at all. she can be very self conscious at times.

BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: her degrees - she's very proud of her academic career and now and then wishes she hadn't heard the song of justice and the bureau.

BIGGEST REGRET: the bureau, once in awhile.

TOP PRIORITIES: truth, justice, and cleaning her bathroom.

#c: sarah dorsey