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brandyllyn · 3 years

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War makes thieves, and peace hangs them (pt9)

Told from POV of Triple Frontier characters and while it’s an OFC she is never described. Her “name” is a radio handle.

Chapter 9: Frankie and Wildcat have a heart to heart on a recon.

(Frankie Morales)

Other chapters... My Masterlist

Word count: 1500. Read it on AO3.

Rating: R (mature) language. talking about sex

Frankie listens to the casual bickering between Ben and Wildcat with half an ear, staring out at the lush greenery sweeping past the windows as they drive. His face hurt, and he can see in his reflection that the shiner from yesterday had deepened into a brilliant purple. He touches the skin gingerly, cursing quietly to himself at the tenderness of the area.

When they finally reach their entry point Frankie is grateful to be out of the car. Getting out and stretching his legs, his hands up to the sky. He grabs his vest from the back seat and buckles it on as he listens to Santi go over the plan for at least the fourth time that day.

"Benny you’ll check out the gate. Ironhead, you’re on perimeter. Frankie and Wildcat you’re scoping the ingress point. Comms up you guys."

"Yes sir," Frankie mumbles sarcastically.

"Yes sir," he sees Wildcat whisper into Santi’s ear, sees a moment pass over the other man’s face. Sees him swallow.

Huh. Interesting. Not surprising, but interesting.

Frankie waits for Wildcat to catch up and then pushes his way into the jungle, crouching low to avoid disturbing as much as possible.

"So, you gonna tell me what happened to your face?" she asks the question as soon as they are out of earshot of the others and Frankie groans.

"Wasn’t planning on it."

"Oh come on," she cajoles. "I thought we had a connection, you and I."

He stops and raises an eyebrow at her, "Really?"

She grins in return. "I mean, I have worn your hat."

"Fuck this hat," he mumbles, forcing his way through the undergrowth. "Nothing but fucking trouble."

"Oh," she skips up next to him, eyes bright, "you have to tell me now."

He remains tight-lipped but she continues to shoot little comments his way until they reach the top of an embankment near the back of the property. They both drop to their stomachs at the same moment, looking over the edge at the yard below. He listens for a break in the radio chatter and then calls it in. Waits for Santi’s acknowledgement.

"Ok, so you said yesterday someone wanted to fight you and popped you in the eye. So what was it? Did he not like your parking job?"

"Fuck off," Frankie mutters, eyeing the fence line as they quietly slide down the embankment and into the stream bed.

"Did he ask you on a date and you said no?"

"What," he turns on her, grabbing her arm to keep her from slipping past.

She grins, "You’re cute, Frankie. No shame in that."

"No," he bites off and lets her go.

"You are cute," she whispers as she moves past him. "Teresa and I both think so." He must have growled something because she turns back to him. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"No, that was something. Did something happen with…"

Frankie grabs her wrist, jerking her into a patch of ferns under the fence. "She has a fucking husband is what happened."

"Oh shit," Wildcat gasps. "Oh fuck man, I didn’t know."

"Yeah, well, he did. And he wasn’t happy about it."

"Oh fuck," she sighs, patting his arm. "Sorry I gave you a hard time. She wasn’t a good fit for you, but that still sucks."

Wildcat moves out of the bushes and Frankie follows her down the stream silently, keeping an eye out for ground sensors. Wildcat occasionally pauses and pokes around in the ferns before moving on. After five minutes of silence Frankie finally gives in. "What do you mean she wasn’t a good fit for me?"

"Oh, just that she wasn’t, uh, bossy enough."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Frankie," she turns back to him, eyebrow raised. "You’re what, forty years old, you have to know by now that…" she trails off when she sees his expression and then shrugs. "Never mind. Maybe I’m wrong."

"What the fuck are you going on about," he growls as she moves away from him, poking into the bushes again.

"Just that you like taking orders."

"I’m a fucking Ranger, of course I know how to take orders."

"Yeah, but you like taking orders. It’s different." She jerks at a leaf and then tucks it into the fern next to her. "Have you ever had anyone tie you up? I think you’d like it."

"What the hell? No."

"Ever had some girl pretend to be your drill sergeant?"

Frankie feels a rush of heat down his spine but he bites his next words off anyway. "No. I haven’t. I’m not interested in that shit."

She pauses what she’s doing and spins towards him from her crouched position. "Frankie. If nothing else comes of our time together. If this whole thing ends up being an absolute bust, I want you to take one thing away from this." She reaches out a hand and solemnly lays it on his shoulder, "You would love letting someone else take control of you in the bedroom. Trust me on this."

He gapes at her and she turns back to the underbrush and pushes aside the greenery to show a drainage pipe. "Found it."

Frankie looks at it then at her. "That can’t be more than two feet wide."

"Men," she mutters, reaching down to her radio. "Always over-estimating things. Pope Pope, Wildcat."

-Wildcat go for Pope.-

She leans her head into the pipe and Frankie can hear a slight echo. -I’m at the drainage tunnel and it’s, uh, it’s gonna be a tight fit.-

-How tight?-

Wildcat sighs, sitting back on her haunches and tilting her head at the pipe. -Really fucking tight.- "Here hold this," she says to him and the next thing he knows he’s got her flak jacket and she’s tucking the radio into the top of her shirt.

-Can you make it?- Frankie watches in fascination as she moves into the pipe. Her ass is in the air for a moment and there’s no harm in noting the tight curve of it is there? He watches it flex, can see how slow her movements are as she gets herself into the pipe. -Wildcat, Pope. I said can you make it?-

-Standby Pope.- Frankie calls back, seeing her feet disappear. -She’s gone in.-

-What do you mean she’s fucking gone in?-

Frankie grins at Pope’s incredulous tone, squatting down to see her progress. She’s a lot further along than he expected. He’s not sure he’d be able to touch her foot without crawling in himself and he there was no fucking way he was going to do that. -I mean she’s shimmied her ass into the drain pipe and I’m pretty sure she can’t move her arms to get on comms.-

-Lies.- Wildcat’s voice comes through in his ear. -I can, uh, fuck, mmph, yeah this is gonna be tight. Doable, but fuck this is tight.-

-Sounds familiar.-

Frankie freezes. Silence, then Ben’s voice in his ear. -Did I just fucking hear that right? Did Pope just make a joke during an op?-

So he hadn’t imagined it. He can hear Wildcat’s laugh as her boots reappear and she slowly slides back out of the pipe.

-Don’t get used to it.- Pope’s voice in his headset.

Wildcat runs a hand down her front, grimacing at the slime that comes off, and then reaches out for her flak jacket. "What the fuck did you do to Pope?"

"What do you mean?" She asks as she buckles the vest back on.

"That, that little…" he trails off. "Pope doesn’t do that shit during a mission."

She shrugs and motions with her chin. "I dunno, but I think it’s time we got out of here."

Frankie follows her, waiting until they’re well into the jungle before commenting, "That must be some grade A pussy you’re packing."

She laughs, "I’ve got moves. As you well know."

He grunts and follows beside her. If she could have that effect on Santi… maybe she was right about him.

"So, how does a guy find a… you know… what are they called? A dominatrix."

She laughs so hard she has to stop, bending over and clutching her middle. "Frankie oh my god. Do not go looking for a dom back stateside. Please promise me that won’t be the first thing you do."

"I thought you said," he starts but she cuts him off with a smile and a pat on his cheek.

"You need a girl who will boss you around a little. Give you orders. Tell you exactly what she wants and wants you to do. Removes any decision-making ability from you." She gives him a fond look and then continues back through the jungle. "The word you’re looking for is 'top' not dominatrix."

Frankie mulls her words over as they make their way back. Someone telling him what to do. What they want. Someone to take control of him…

He has to admit, it does sound like a hell of a lot of fun.

Pt10

#frankie morales #writing #triple frontier

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builder051 · 7 years

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It’s the final countdown...

We done did it! 22 stories for 22 asks from the 100 Prompts List!!!

@summerblosoms requested #91 (yay for the only DIY pick). They said,

“If you could make Spencer have something along the lines of appendicitis and be really sick that would be great. Like have him faint at work or something from being so sick.”

Your wish is my command! This is probably slightly medically inaccurate. I’m basing it on what I think I know about Harry Houdini (which is not a lot).

Bear with me; it’s a bit long.

___

“Are you sure you’re ok?” JJ asks.

Spencer pauses as he slides into the backseat of the black SUV, trying not to wince as the change in position agitates his stomach.

“You took a hard hit back there. I wish you would’ve let the paramedics check you out.” JJ holds the car door open and watches Spencer shakily fasten his seatbelt.

“I’m ok,” he says. He’s been saying it for hours now. After the unsub had punched him in the gut, to the police and firefighters surrounding the scene, and a thousand times on the flight back home to Quantico. “I just need to wait for it to bruise and start healing.”

JJ sighs and gives him a sad smile. “At least come by my desk and get some Aleve. You…look like you’re having a hard enough time.”

“Yeah, ok,” Spencer replies. He waits for JJ to shut the door and climb into the SUV’s front seat, then leans back and shuts his eyes. The pink inflamed skin on the right side of his abdomen is tender to the touch of anything from his fingers to his shirt, and the dazed nausea that follows such a hard hit still lingers. He’s sure nothing’s damaged, though. The pain he feels isn’t the sharpness of a fracture in his rib or hip bone. Just generalized discomfort. That’s currently making him feel like he needs to vomit. But he’s fine.

The ride from the airstrip back to the office is short, made to feel shorter by the sleepy darkness outside. It’s after 11 at night, and while the agents are used to odd hours, it doesn’t make the prospect of sleepy paperwork any more inviting.

“Just do the minimum,” Hotch says when everyone piles out of the elevator and heads to their desks. “Only the most important paperwork. Get things written down while they’re fresh in your mind. Then go home.” He makes eye contact with each team member to ensure understanding. “And sleep in tomorrow. I’ll call if another case drops.”

Spencer trudges to his chair and opens a drawer of files. He selects blank case report forms and a pen, then sighs and bends over the desktop. The position forces his ribcage to put pressure on his stomach, and exterior pain and interior nausea combine in swirling uneasiness.

He works on the papers for a few minutes. He’s forcibly reminded of being a child in school, scribbling out answers on worksheets while trying to hide an upset stomach lest he be sent to the nurse’s office. He’d been eight years old. And he’d thrown up all over his math workbook.

But that’s not the situation now. Spencer’s an adult. Case reports are immensely more important than arithmetic problems, and he should be focusing. So what if he’s hurting a little bit? He can’t let small things distract him. It doesn’t even hurt that much. He’s fine.

“Spence?” JJ’s at his shoulder with a bottle of pills and a Styrofoam cup of metallic-tasting tap water. “Here.” She portions out a dose of naproxen sodium and hands it over. Her soft fingers linger for a moment on Spencer’s clammy palm. He draws back and tosses the pill down his throat, mostly dry-swallowing it before gulping down the water as a chaser.

“It’s ok if you’re hurting, you know,” JJ murmurs.

“I’m ok.” Spencer really wishes he has something else to say.

One by one, the agents take their leave. Garcia promises donuts and lattes in the morning to make up for the late night. Hotch tells her to stop spending her own money on the team, but the blithe tech analyst just whips out a pom-pom topped pen and scribbles down everyone’s usual Starbucks order.

“Americano with way too many sugars?” she asks when she makes her round to Spencer’s desk.

It is his usual favorite, but right now it sounds revolting. Spencer tries not to let it show in his voice when he says, “Yeah. Sure.”

“What’s wrong?” Garcia asks immediately, her mouth turning down in an expression of concern.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Spencer lies again.

“Hey, but, no, no you’re not.” Garcia puts a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “You feeling ok? I heard you got beat up…”

“Yeah, I’m just kind of tired,” Spencer says.

“Then get out of here.” Hotch approaches on Spencer’s other side. He has his briefcase in hand and his coat over his arm as if he’s on the way out the door himself. “Really, with a memory like yours, you can work all your forms in the morning.”

Normally, Spencer would humbly agree. It’s usually not a challenge to recall past events with a good degree of exactitude. Now, though, everything seems fuzzy. Except for the memory of the gloved fist coming into slow-motion contact with Spencer’s side before he’d had the opportunity to don a bulletproof vest or draw a weapon.

“I will,” Spencer says. “In just a minute. I really want to get this first page done…” He looks down at his sloppy scribbles and the two or three blank spaces still remaining on the sheet.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Hotch says, giving Spencer a serious nod. “If I find out you’ve stayed here halfway through the night, we’ll have to talk about you working yourself too hard.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer articulates.

“I’ll get you an extra-special donut,” Garcia promises. Worry flickers in her eyes for a second, but Spencer pulls a pained smile that seems to placate her enough to take her leave.

Finally all the other agents are gone. Spencer lowers his head to his desk, ignoring the greasy forehead print he’s leaving on the case file. He should go home. He wants more than anything to sleep. But his gut is brewing a queasy feeling that ricochets off the pain in his stomach and shoots up to his skull. Because a headache to match his stomachache is exactly what he needs right now.

Standing up and walking and sitting and driving and walking and lying down all seem like hassles Spencer’s not equipped to deal with in his current state of misery. Maybe the painkiller JJ gave him will kick in soon and relieve some of the awful, swirling stress. He’ll shut his eyes, just for a moment…

Spencer starts awake and sits up abruptly. He’s still in his office chair, and papers and files leave creases in his clammy cheek. Dizziness assaults him as soon as he’s upright. The lamp on his desk is on, but all other lights in the bullpen are extinguished.

The lighted dial on his watch tells Spencer it’s a bit after 4 in the morning. He’s slept some, but in an uncomfortable position. He’s still less than rested. Spencer scrubs his hands over his face, his fingertips tingling as they drag over stubble on their way up to his hairline. His whole body feels sweaty and just shy of disgusting. A feverish ache thrums in his temples, and pain lances up and out from his stomach.

It’s too late to go home. But it’s also too early to do anything else. On a normal day, agents generally start filing in around 7. But after yesterday’s late night and the promise of a less-than-early start, Spencer doubts he’ll see anyone before 8:30. So really, he does have time to go home, shower, sleep, and come back. He abandons the idea when the motion to stand up has him swallowing down bile.

There’s still a clean shirt in his go-bag, so Spencer digs it out and heads for the bathroom to change. He’ll take every precaution if it means he can avoid his fellow agents knowing that he’s spent the night here. Spencer uses his shoulder to open the heavy washroom door, and the motion-detected light snaps on as soon as he’s crossed the threshold.

He squints against the brightness, but Spencer can clearly see that he looks awful. He slips out of his cardigan and unbuttons his white oxford shirt. He sheds his undershirt, wads up the fabric, and uses it to dab oiliness and sweat from his face. Then he turns his attention to the patch of blushed purple spreading over the right side of his abdomen.

The skin isn’t broken, but it’s inflamed with the slight puffiness that surrounds healing cuts. Blood has seeped under the skin to show up as a reddish-violet shadow that’s sure to darken to all colors of black and blue and green as it heals. Spencer dabs at the injury, and searing heat follows the touch of his fingers. His skin hurts on the outside, and something definitely hurts on the inside. Spencer’s stomach clenches, and he wonders if he’s going to throw up as he stands there, clutching the counter with one hand and praying he doesn’t fall over.

Pain signals often redirect to nausea. It’s unfortunate, but not uncommon. But Spencer feels sick too. Not just to his stomach, but all over. Tender aches creep into his lower back and up and down to the joints of his arms and legs. His head’s wanging. But that might be from dehydration. Besides the sip of water Spencer took along with the painkillers last night, he doesn’t know when he last drank. Or ate. But he feels so far from hunger it’s almost comical.

Spencer scoops water from the bathroom faucet and splashes it over his face. He uses a couple paper towels to dry off and wipe perspiration from under his arms. Satisfied that he’s as clean as he’s going to get, he shakes the wrinkles out of his fresh shirt and buttons it over his bare chest, cringing as the starched fabric brushes his injury.

He exits the bathroom and drops his dirty clothes in his go-bag. Then Spencer glances around for something to keep him occupied for the next few hours. He considers going back to the case file, but too much work done on it will arouse suspicion and potentially alert his co-workers to the fact that he’s been here all night. Spencer’s eyes alight on the coffeemaker, and though the idea of putting anything in his stomach is still revolting, at least sipping will be something to do. And perhaps the caffeine will get him feeling back like himself. Or at least make a dent in the headache.

He returns to his desk once he has a steaming foam cup in his trembling hand. The first sip feels energizing as Spencer swallows it, but it doesn’t taste good. More sweat breaks out across his moustache, and the heat of his bruise flares as the liquid drips into his stomach.

Heaving a deep sigh, Spencer opens his desk drawer and paws around for anything worth passing time with. He pulls out one of Rossi’s books and stares down at the face of his friend and fellow agent on the dust jacket. Spencer’s read it before, and he recalls most of the main points, but he opens it anyway and begins to read. He goes intentionally slowly, hearing Rossi’s voice in each word. Spencer’s used to reading for content alone, and he has to admit that the hours passed moving his gaze at a snail’s pace across the page is a welcome change. Or at least it is until his eyes start to lose focus and nausea begins creeping up on him again.

Overly sweet and coffee-flavored spit floods Spencer’s mouth. He sets the book on the desktop where it flops shut, losing his page. He brings both hands up to cover his nose and lips and sucks in a long breath that does little to soothe the bubbling tumult in his stomach. Heat flashes over Spencer’s skin, and his hands and feet feel unnaturally cold and damp.

He stumbles up and trips toward the bathroom as his liquid stomach contents start to make a reappearance at the back of his throat. Spencer sprints past the row of sinks and throws himself head-first into the lonely stall. He retches as soon as his knees hit the ground. His abdominals contract, igniting lines of lightning-hot pain across his bruised stomach. Spencer moans into the echoing toilet bowl and spits out strings of mucous.

The fact that there’s little to purge doesn’t stop Spencer’s stomach from turning itself inside out. He’s empty and aching after a few decent heaves, but dry retching quickly sets in, bringing more pain with each spine-arching contraction. He wraps his long fingers around the toilet seat and watches his knuckles go white from the bone-crushing pressure. He’s still so seasick he can barely move.

When the heaves dissolve into hiccups, Spencer shakily pulls himself to his feet, using the toilet paper dispenser for support. His eyeballs feel like they’re vibrating in their sockets, giving him the overall feeling that the earth is jittering beneath his feet. He crosses to the counter of sinks and splashes his face again, bringing a handful up to his lips to rinse the disgusting taste of caffeinated bile from his tongue.

After pressing a paper towel to his ashen skin, Spencer exits the bathroom. His loose plan is to head back for his desk and curl inward; just standing upright stretches the skin of his stomach and invites the roiling throb to escalate.

All ideas are dashed, though, when he opens the door to see the back of a blonde head and pink-sweatered shoulders bobbing around the desks in the bullpen.

Spencer lets go of the bathroom door without realizing what he’s doing, and the resulting slam jars him as much as it does Garcia.

“Oh my god!” the tech analyst shrieks, dropping the box of donuts in her arms and sending them bouncing across the floor and under Morgan’s desk. She whips around and looks for the source of the noise. Her eyes widen behind her brightly colored glasses when she sees Spencer. “Oh my god,” she repeats.

Garcia’s high heels clack as she rushes to Spencer’s side, but the sound grows fuzzy on its way up to his ears. Stars start to blink at the corners of his visual field, and Spencer’s head feels heavy and lopsided. Without warning, the world tips sickeningly, and the ceiling swaps places with the bullpen’s eastern wall. He blinks hard to see if the illusion will clear. But it doesn’t, and the back of his head smack against something hard.

“Reid! Oh, god, sweetheart…” Warm hands find Spencer’s shoulders, then move up to cup his cheeks. He forces his eyes open to see Penelope’s blurry face, then doubles instinctively onto his side as a rush of nausea forces itself up and out.

“Ok, you’re ok,” Garcia murmurs, patting Spencer on the back as he throws up spit and air. Then she changes tact, the panic in her voice escalating. “You’re not ok. You’re really sick.” She palms Spencer’s sweaty forehead. “You’re really, really sick.”

Spencer coughs and clutches his stomach, grunting in pain when he presses too hard on the wound dominating his right side.

“Your stomach?” Garcia asks. She reaches down and lifts the tails of Spencer’s untucked shirt to expose the bare skin underneath. “Oh my…” she trails off when she sees the spread of bruising. “You’re—Reid, I don’t…I’m gonna call an ambulance, ok?” She lightly palpates the discolored area on his stomach, and Spencer lets out an involuntary cry when her fingers rebound.

“Oh god, that’s right where your appendix is,” she worries. “If you got hit and it’s all infected…” Penelope trails off and yanks her neon-encased cell phone from her pocket. “I’m calling right now. You’re gonna be ok.”

Spencer hears the phone ringing out a couple times before an operator picks up. And over the tone, he can hear Garcia whispering, “You’ll be ok. You have to be ok.”

The ambulance ride and everything after is a blur. The next thing Spencer knows, he’s in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. He’s groggy, and every inch of his body hurts. He can see a nasal cannula in his peripheral vision, dispensing oxygen into his tired lungs. A glance to one side shows an IV stand and heart monitor. In the other direction is a chair. Garcia’s slumped against the wall, her eyes closed and mouth open in the posture of uncomfortable upright sleep.

“Garcia?” Spencer wheezes.

“Huh?” Penelope snaps up, wiping drool from her lip with the back of her hand. “I said you’d be ok, right?” she says sleepily.

“Yeah.” Spencer nods. “Yeah, I think you did.”

#criminal minds #fanfic #fanfiction #sickfic #injury #appendicitis #emeto #emetophilia #spencer reid #reid whump #penelope garcia #jj #jennifer jereau #hotch #aaron hotchner

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otp-bumbleby · 7 years

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Do you hear that? Bzz bzz. It’s the sound of another Bumbleby reasoning post! I’m focusing on coincidences, similarities, and links. And a whole lot of everything. Bonus points for being a bee shipper true and true.

I’m warning you now, this is like over three fuckin thousand words long plus pictures. Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, go!

Okay so look

Is this purely coincidence?

Their outfit’s accent colours yes I count a robotic arm and makeup as accent colour ok:

Are each other’s eye colours:

Right, right. Everyone knew that!

So…

“Yang has two eye colours!” I hear from the back.

Well my friend, what colour is that? Red you say? What colour was Blake’s ex-partner’s accent colour? OH THAT’S RIGHT, red!

Her ex-partner? Argued to be the beast to Blake’s beauty in her Beauty and the Beast story.

Except: Blake has definitively left him behind. Before the show even begins, she abandons him after realising that he had become somebody she didn’t recognise. She said it herself in ‘Mountain Glenn’:

“When I realised my oldest partner had become a monster, I ran.”

So, Blake’s a lone beauty. Hold up! Not really.

Enter Yang!

In the Yellow trailer, we see Yang using her good looks and charm to mess with Junior. Yet underneath this exterior, we see a raging monster burning with rage. Literally. She’s on fire.

Hell is unleased upon Junior’s henchmen, the Malachite twins, and his club.

Then, Yang loses it when Junior pulls out some of her hair; her eyes turn red, she finishes him off with a devastating right hook to his face and he flies out the window like a chump.

Did I mention she was a raging beast? That’s how Yang fights. Her semblance allows for this. Energy-absorption; which she stores and uses against opponents. It is a little unclear the details of it, as she often just becomes angry and her eyes turn red and boom.

Like at initiation, where an Ursa cuts a little bit of her hair – she goes on a one-woman rampage before Blake cuts in and finishes the fight off.

And it feels like nay a moment passes before she’s angry again; with Nora riding in on an Ursa and Pyrrha running towards them with a Deathstalker on her tail. Yang wants two seconds of peace before something crazy happens again but ya know, that’s impossible.

Or when RWBY fights the Paladin that contains Roman; Yang is smashed through a highway pillar, comes out strong enough to stop the giant robot hitting her in its tracks, and executes a one punch hit that destroys it (with Blake’s help of course).

Let’s not forget the well-discussed scene in ‘Burning the Candle’; she is angry outside of battle when Blake is running herself into the ground over the dangers of the White Fang and Torchwick. Blake refuses to listen to her, and she even goes as far as physically shoving Blake to get the point across that she’s too far gone. Also, “coming out” is mentioned.

And in ‘Never Miss a Beat’ we have Neon Katt aggravating Yang by taunting her with jabs at her obvious bust size and boiling rage as a consequence. Here, Weiss and Yang had trouble with the opponents they faced off against. Weiss was defeated by Flynt, and Yang couldn’t hit Neon. Yang trumped Flynt (get it? That’s not a Trump joke, by the way), and Neon literally tripped up to give Yang the easy win.

Then things start to go wrong, big time. In ‘Fall’, it looks like Yang’s finally shown how much of a Beast she can be. In the 1v1 versus Mercury, she taps into her semblance at a very low aura level (16!) after he unleashes some sort of super barrage of bullets. She punches her way to a win – even though we can’t be sure if Mercury deliberately lost, or went into the fight not expecting he would lose without throwing the match. But he loses, as is crucial to Cinder’s plans.

And in typical Yang fashion, she hits Mercury first, and asks questions later, when she sees - what is Emerald’s illusion – him trying to attack her after the fight is finished. The whole world watching sees Yang break an innocent kid’s leg, after she defeated him.

Those watching thinks that she is a ruthless, violent, monster. An interesting parallel to say the least. Blake, a Faunus, judged because of something she cannot change. Yang, judged because she was tricked.

They share a sad truth – the world doesn't like them.

Not to mention, once again, Blake’s partner has become what she fears most.

(If only she had seen Cinder, Mercury and Emerald when they visited Adam while she was still with him; this might have been avoided! But, plot)

But we have Yang trying to convince her team she saw Mercury attack first – Ruby and Weiss easily believe her. Blake has trouble because, “this is all just very familiar”.

“But you’re not him.”

So, Blake chooses to trust Yang. She does not see her as the Beast.

Thus far, Yang has won almost every fight we’ve seen using her semblance. Her semblance is dangerous. She takes hits and deals them back at twice the power. But to take hits, is to take damage. She’s not invincible.

Yeah, let’s touch on the even more discussed scene in ‘Heroes and Monsters’.

After dealing out some physical abuse to Blake, Adam Taurus, mister Blake’s ex-partner, delivers this chilling threat:

“I will make it my mission to destroy everything you love,”

“starting with her.”

Aaaaaaaaaand Adam stabs Blake to bait Yang, Blake pleads to deaf ears for Yang to not do the thing; Yang charges in eyes red fists blazing and does the thing anyway (say that to the tune of Vanessa Carlton’s ‘A Thousand Miles’) and her arm is dismembered for her effort. Blake knew she’d do that, and she knew Adam would hurt Yang just to punish her.

Suddenly, Yang has become the victim, and she’s become the victim because of Blake’s past betrayal of Adam. Not to say it’s Blake’s fault – it’s not – but it is to say that Blake believes it’s her fault and she totally feels guilty.

No longer is Blake Beauty; she’s become the Beast that has brought this misfortune upon her friend.

What’s my point in all this? That they fit together in the basis of Beauty and the Beast. Not just that Blake is Beauty, and Yang is the Beast, but they both fit both roles.

This one’s a bit more symbolic:

The song ‘Red Like Roses’, which plays during the Red trailer, describes each colour (and thus also each member) of team RWBY.

Red ‘like roses’; White ‘is cold and always yearning’. Ruby’s surname is Rose; Weiss comes across as cold, but obviously has deeper reasons for this.

But the point lies in the next two lines.

Black ‘the beast descends from shadows’; Yellow ‘beauty burns gold’.

So, Black is the beast here. During the Black trailer, the song ‘From Shadows’ plays, which is the ‘theme song’.

Blake is Black – the beast descending from shadows.

Yang’s colour is Yellow (or, gold, same thing yo).

Yellow Beauty burns gold – the song that plays during the Yellow trailer is ‘I Burn’ - well, the remix. Which consists of excerpts of ‘Red Like Roses’, ‘Mirror Mirror’, ‘From Shadows’, and finishes with ‘I Burn’. But it’s still ‘I Burn’.

The text that prefaces the Yellow trailer reads:

A spark becomes a flame in most cases, and again we have the motif of burning fire and beauty associated with Yang.

Because let’s face it. Typically, Yang is beautiful. I don’t have to explain this one. Her symbol is a burning heart. Hot and…hot. Two kinds of hot.

Blake is her beast, the Faunus that the world thinks ill of. The Faunus that was part of the White Fang. The Faunus once partnered with the dude that cut off her arm.

I feel like I’ve made the Beauty and the Beast argument here, not to mention it’s been made a lot already. These are all details; big and small; obvious and subtle, that surely cannot be coincidental. (SURELY????)

Now, I gotta take a small thing from the Yellow trailer’s preface text, this discussion’s not really that significant, but I had to do it anyway.

“Scathing eyes ask that we be symmetrical” and “misshapen spark”.

The public wants symmetry – but we have Yang, that shows off anything but symmetry. She must be that misshapen spark. (FORESHADOWING!! WHY MONTY?!)

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO LET’S PLAY!: spot the asymmetries!

Obviously, Yang’s arms are technically are asymmetrical now. That one’s a given!

But, let’s take a look at Yang’s original outfit, y’all:

Her symbol is on her left breast; it is a heart after all!

That belt, girl! Satchels on the left, a bit of fabric over the top on the right. Burning heart on the right, as well. Even a bit of fabric that I don’t know what to call that tapers off to one side only.

Then you got them socks. The left one is above the knee, and the right is below. And a piece of purple fabric peeking outta the left boot for good measure.

Then we have the Hunter outfit featured in ‘Painting the Town’:

It’s a little less prominent in this outfit, but we have an overcoat that crosses over the torso, rather than doing up right in the centre. This one even tapers off to her left hip at the hem!

She’s also got another belt with a satchel just on her left side.

Then that piece of purple whatever the heck it is attached to her left hip. This one’s all left (insert arm joke here).

A little observation of her ‘don’t give a shit’ outfit:

Ya gotta notice the sleeves being different lengths accommodating the loss of her right forearm.

The left sleeve bears her father’s emblem.

There is an extra pocket on her right thigh, above her emblem. A little Grimm patch is on her right hip too.

Her current outfit which debuted in ‘No Safe Haven’ combines a little of everything to me. It’s hard to get a good look at every angle with what little we’ve been given, though:

Ditching the scarf, Yang’s now got a collar that buckles up on the right.

It looks like her overcoat/vest zips up on her right side, that opens across her chest diagonally. It’s not in the center to me, at least.

I can see her belt has brown fabric attached to it, and on her left hip the fabric folds over the belt and reaches around to the back.

The purple fabric is back at it again on her left knee!

Never symmetrical.

Who else has got some asymmetries in their outfits? (EVERYBODY, I HEAR YOU SAY?)

Yeah, there’s something odd in everyone’s outfits. But if we look at team RWBY, it’s most prominent in Yang’s, and then Blake’s.

Blake’s original outfit:

She’s only got one asymmetry, which is fairly obvious. There is a long black sleeve she wears on her left arm.

The ribbons on each wrist only differ slightly, and I mean slightly, I barely count that.

Her intruder outfit, that’s almost completely symmetrical:

There’s one oddity on her belt – a satchel on the left hip.

The belt itself is a little lopsided.

There’s also a similarity here though, one of those fabric skirt things that I still don’t have a name for!

Blake’s current outfit has a little more asymmetry than the rest:

There’s a strap that she uses to carry Gambol Shroud. This goes over her right shoulder, rather than the pack she used to have on her back.

Then her belt, yet again, has a satchel on the left hip.

And on her boots (the longest boots probably in existence or they’re just accessories I really can’t tell I’ve tried to see if they’re not actually all boots and still am undecided), there’s another strap on her left thigh.

And I also note here that Blake’s got some major coattails going on too. Another similarity!

I hear you though, “THAT AIN’T SHIT”

Yeah, you right, the outfits aren’t such a big overlap. But that’s where they fit in the flow of this post; I still find that the outfits play a part, however small, in all this.

There are a lot less asymmetrical features in Ruby’s and Weiss’s outfits overall. Combat skirts, y’all!

But I suppose we need a bigger link between these two for this to seem worth it. I’ve seen plenty of arguments against why these two shouldn’t be together.

Recently, I saw something that went along the lines of the main character’s stories don’t have to focus on romance; a sub-plot is okay, but to say that their stories are so definitively focused on a romance between them isn’t right (okay that’s probably really inaccurate but it’s close enough to the point).

Except I think that’s kind of a lame argument. I don’t think this story focuses on romance between them. It focuses on all the things that are similar, or are a link between them, or how they balance each other out enough for it to seem part of the story without taking away from it.

Blake’s main flaw is that she runs away. She ran from her parents when her father stepped down as leader of the White Fang. She ran off with Adam to try and fight for the Faunus’ cause, but eventually she ran away from him when she couldn’t face what he had become. When Blake let slip she was a Faunus, she ran because she didn’t know how to deal with the reaction from her team. When Adam cut off Yang’s arm, Blake ran in fear that he’d come back to finish the job and then some if she stayed.

Her semblance, as Blake so eloquently described:

“I was born with the ability to leave behind a shadow of myself, an empty copy that takes the hit while I run away.”

I felt the way she says this makes it seem that she’s almost ashamed of this, like she’s enabling herself and this is a defect that allows cowardice.

In her face-off with Adam in ‘Heroes and Monsters’, he begins by criticising this as she looks fearful at the sight of him,

“Running away again? Is that what you’ve become my love? A coward?”

Blake fends him off a wounded student, angrily stating,

“I’m not running!”

His response,

“You will.”

And she does.

This fault of character is “coincidentally” what Yang has the biggest issue with in life!

Yang’s birth mother, Raven, abandoning her – she left without giving Yang a chance to stop her. Yang was a baby; she couldn’t stop her as a newborn infant, but she’s still asking the question of why.

Summer Rose, however unintentionally, left her as well.

Her father was devastated by this, and so he mentally checked out of life for a while and the parental role in her own and Ruby’s life fell to Yang.

Yet Yang’s search for Raven is the purpose of her visit to Junior in the Yellow trailer. She’s still searching for answers as the show progresses.

Yang explains to Blake the story of Summer Rose’s and her real mother’s disappearances, she describes that when she was a young child, she almost got herself and Ruby killed trying to follow a clue,

“My stubbornness should have gotten us killed that night.”

In the moment, that line is to reason that Blake is exhausting herself to the point where, if she had to fight, she would die. Just like Yang did as a child searching for her mother.

Yet it looks like it could have been more foreshadowing. Yang’s stubbornness is a part of why she relies on her semblance in fights. That’s just the way she does it.

When Adam cut her arm off, he was going to kill her. She was defenseless! Her stubbornness should have gotten her killed. But once again, someone swoops in to save her – this time, it’s Blake.

Yes, she wouldn’t have been in that situation if it weren't for wanting to help Blake. But she wouldn’t have been in that situation as well if she tactfully approached fights. (ADAM WOULD HAVE SLAYED HER ANYWAY. PROBS.)

Blake knows Yang has an issue with abandonment. Yang knows Blake tends to run. And here they run into an issue, because Blake runs from Yang, and Yang is angry that she ran. It’s like star-crossed lovers or some shit!

In ‘End of the Beginning’, Ruby and Yang have a little catch up when Ruby wakes up. Yang tells her that Blake ran, and Ruby questions why.

You hear how devastated Yang sounds when she says,

“I don’t know,”.

She looks like she’s about to cry, actually. Remember the last time she cried? When she was afraid Blake didn’t trust her? Yeah…

Anyway, Yang then stops herself. She becomes bitter and claims,

“and I don’t care.”

Poor, innocent, sweet, naïve Ruby says there has to be a reason why Blake left.

“No there doesn’t. Sometimes bad things just happen, Ruby.”

Yang’s resigned herself to be somebody people just leave. For no reason. And she’s upset.

I mean, we’re all like 1000% sure that Yang totally cares why Blake left. She just can’t admit that she cares that she’s been abandoned. Again. Did you hear ‘Armed and Ready’? I think Yang cares. (I’ve written care so much it doesn’t look like a real word anymore)

IS THIS ALL JUST A COINCIDENCE? (IS THIS THE REAL LIFE, IS THIS JUST FANTASY? CAUGHT IN A LANDSLIDE, NO ESCAPE FROM REALITY, OPEN YOUR EYES, LOOK UP TO THE SKIES AND SEE. I’M JUST A POOR BEE, I NEED NO SYMPATHY.)

Is it just a fucking coincidence that Blake runs and Yang is run from? (Better fuckin not be)

This isn’t a focus on building a romance story between them. It is crucial to their character building. This is building the foundations for the fuckin plot. The core of their characters, yada yada.

Their team is split apart. How will they become team RWBY again if they don’t sort this out? They’re going to have to sooner or later. The show is literally called RWBY.

They’re gonna have to address the Goliath in the room. Yang lost her arm to protect Blake. I think there’s gonna have to be some “you leaving hurt me more that losing a stupid arm” talk. Sun already said the whole, “you pushing us out hurts more than anything the bad guys could ever do to us” line, and he makes a lot of sense! Blake seemed to have a good reaction to that. And Yang’s talked sense into Blake before, and I can see that happening again, since Blake’s all guilty about her.

She hopes that her team hates her for leaving, so that she has an excuse to stay away, even though she misses them. That��s guilt.

She wants to deal with the consequences of her choices, apparently. Sun tells her she can’t make the choices for her friends.

Because that’s the exact same way that Raven left Yang. Without giving her a choice. Blake left before Yang even had the chance to ask her to stay! I bet Yang’s sick of that, huh?

Remember when Blake said,

“They were my friends. I loved them like I never thought I could love anybody.”

(Cue the tears. Arryn did such a good job VA in V4).

Blake’s gonna go back to them. It’s just a matter of time.

Ahhhh. What was my point again? I’m so caught up (USHER!) in all this analysis of things that my brain is just overloading. Every day, I think of something else. I really tried to consolidate my thoughts on the topic for real, just so I could get a new perspective and see if I make any sense.

There’s been so many sneaky hints in this show. So many.

Which is why we all kind of freaked out when Yang left Patch and went on that fuckin boat:

THAT. FUCKIN. GAY. BOAT.

Because it had to be the same boat Blake traveled on, didn’t it?

TELL ME IT’S NOT (BUT DON’T. I KNOW IT’S THE SAME BOAT. THIS ISN’T SOME TITANIC CONSPIRACY THEORY).

YOU HAD TO DO THIS TO US, DIDN’T YOU, CRWBY?

This post is a mess and so am I!

After all this talking, I gotta leave my real opinion here.

I just happen to think that this all makes a pretty good reason for a realistic situation where they realise that Blake found someone she does not want to run from, and Yang has someone that she really doesn’t want to lose.

Then you factor in things like they level each other out; Blake is mellow and Yang is boisterous; Blake is reserved and Yang is an open book (thank you Arryn for pointing that one out [RWBY ladies podcast from yonder years ago]); Blake’s dry sarcasm and Yang’s bad jokes; black and yellow is a good colour combination; “I love it when you’re feisty!”; *insert your favourite bee moments here*; etc.

Maybe it won’t turn into a romantic relationship, but the possibility is there.

I mean, you don’t have to want it, but you don’t need to be negative about it. If you don’t like a ship, just ignore us that do. I ignore all those people that argue for a ship I don’t see happening, because who am I to go there and crush all the things they believe in? Did we notice how I did nothing but talk about Bumbleby here? No other mention of any other ship. No hate. Just love.

People write these posts to give insight as to why they enjoy and choose a ship. Not so they can be pulled down and ridiculed; I don’t come on here trying to find common ground with people and celebrating a possibility that two badass chicks might be a little bit gay for each other.

You celebrate your ships, I’ll celebrate mine. And we can all bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone can eat and be happy, no matter what happens.

I just have a lot of feelings.

(Okay, go home.)

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