#you could have easily done it differently but this way you sidestepped the hint of a vibe based problem three scenes down the line'

[creature-once-removed]

.

#once in english class we watched A Study in Pink and had to take notes on the filmmaking details we noticed #I think about that specific day pretty often because I so suddenly discovered I had so much fun noticing all of this stuff #and there was a lot to notice #minute details where you can't be sure if they're there or if the curtains are just blue #like light and dark in a frame foreshadowing the morality of people in that position in the next frame and the like #stuff where you can't tell if it's intentional but even if it's not it's still doing something #and that so quickly and clearly nailed it for me what I myself like in visual storytelling in films and would love to do myself someday #and come to think of it that's exactly why Lucky Number Slevin is my favorite movie #(one of the reasons) #because it's on a whole different level #it's chock full of details that on the surface are just pretty #then below that they have a pretty solid function that's not too hard to make out #and then below that there's a fucking world of 'look what this is also doing' that makes my heart race when I spot a new one #there's load bearing convoluted wallpaper for fucks sake. And that's by far the most obvious #I still notice new stuff about this movie that leaves me sitting there like 'shit that's so smart' #not in a 'this is genius' way most of the time but a very solid #'yeah this was a good choice; #you could have easily done it differently but this way you sidestepped the hint of a vibe based problem three scenes down the line' #and I freaking LOVE that #anyway I just found out. same fucking director. #somehow... this keeps happening #yes I'm currently watching it again. fourth or fifth time this month I don't remember exactly

[mtreebeardiles]

1 for the kiss prompt thing, if you want 🙏 (for evvy & k?)

Hi there! Thanks so much for the prompt request! I believe this one was "Small kisses littered across the other's face" and it fit in with an idea I had for the Shore Leave fic (though this chapter is not rated E, btw)

Hope you enjoy these two dorks! :)

Also over on AO3!

Sparring with Evvy always reminded Kaidan of just how fast the other man could move. 

Soft grass underfoot and they'd done their stretching beforehand, setting the terms and conditions of the round: hand to hand, first to get a pin wins. 

Kaidan rolled his neck as he got into position opposite his partner, the Commander already in place. It was always odd seeing Everett this way, on this side of the equation -- face smoothed of any real indication as to what he may have been thinking, and Kaidan knew from past experience that the Commander didn't make unnecessary movements. Masking his intent, motions hard to track, and there was something wonderfully fluid about it. 

Even more so out of the armor, getting to see that play of muscle, to appreciate without obstruction the grace of his light-footed body. 

Kaidan wasn't particularly heavy himself, but he was bigger than Everett. Broader in the shoulders, more muscled, and next to Everett's lean form he almost came across stocky. Felt like it, too, if he was being honest, and it was moments like this one where Kaidan really remembered that they had not grown up under similar circumstances. Difficult histories, sure, but different -- so much of Everett's conditioning focused on surviving a variety of things. The foster system, the streets, the Reds, N-School. 

Everett may have been lighter, but his was a body that knew how to take a hit. More importantly, it was a body that knew how to punish in return. 

Kaidan squared off with him, a determined set to his jaw. Not gonna let you lay me out on the ground so easily this time, Nerd. 

A slight twitch of Everett's lips, a hint of the smile behind it, and Kaidan swore under his breath once he recognized it for the distraction it was -- too late, Everett closing the distance between them and putting the older man immediately on the defensive. 

Oh, so this is how you want to play today. 

Kaidan blocked, arms stinging from the contact of Evvy's blows, and he managed to put some distance back between them, buying some time to reassess. It wasn't often Everett launched onto the offensive first; a cautious fighter on the field, Everett was known for moving quietly through a space, ascertaining weaknesses and advantages, directing his people to exploitable points as best he could. A sharpshot at a distance, but this wasn't Everett the Commander on the battlefield -- this was Everett, off-duty, unarmed, and full of surprises -- including getting up close and personal. 

Just because I don't like fighting in CQC doesn't mean I can't, he'd told Wrex once when the Krogan had complained back during the Saren mission. 

He was an N-7, after all. 

Another dash to close the distance between them but Kaidan was prepared for it this time. He sidestepped, dodging Everett's strikes and grabbing the commander's wrist, using his own momentum to send him flying over Kaidan's hip. A soft huff was all this earned, Everett rolling to absorb the shock of landing, and he was on his feet and blocking before Kaidan had the chance to move in for the pin. 

"Someone's feeling feisty today," Kaidan remarked. The mask of Everett's concentration slipped, those lips twitching upwards ever so slightly, and there was a telltale glint in the other man's eye that Kaidan knew promised mischief. 

"Just thought I'd keep you on your toes, Alenko," the commander retorted as they set to circling one another again. Kaidan snorted. 

"You don't do that on a daily basis already?"

A smirk this time, and maybe Kaidan wouldn't know which of them would come out of this match victorious but having gotten Everett to smile at all, to be any sort of comfortable doing this, was a solid win in his book. 

"I know it's stupid," words murmured in the quiet of the cargo bay after everyone else had left, "holding on to it like this but… I don't know. I don't think I'll ever be okay doing PT with others, you know?" 

"But you do," Kaidan had pointed out, surprised. "You're even here early."

"I do, but I don't like it. I…fight a little different. Dirty, I guess, or at least that's what I've been told." A shrug, a furrow between his eyebrows that Kaidan had itched to soothe away. "Like I said, it's stupid. I just don't like reminding people that I'm… where I came from, I guess. Extra stupid, since everyone already knows, but…"

But there was a little kernel of pride hidden under all that shame, Kaidan had discovered. A relief in movements familiar, of taking something that had meant life or death and expanding it to so much more -- translating to protecting not only himself, but others, too. A sliver of truth, that maybe a no-name thief could make the sort of differences he'd like to sometimes, and Kaidan reveled in getting to see that sliver brought to the forefront. No judgment between them, no side-eyed looks and contempt, nothing beyond a mutual respect for what the other was capable of doing. An appreciation, really, and it had warmed Kaidan in ways he hadn't expected to learn that it went both ways. 

"Want to make things a little more interesting?"

Kaidan raised his eyebrows, keeping his attention on Evvy's chest, watching for the next move. It didn't come as they circled, and Everett was clearly waiting for a response. Kaidan's eyes flicked up to meet his. 

"How interesting?"

Everett grinned outright, just before his body was limned in blue. 

And Kaidan couldn't help it -- he laughed, catching Everett in his own biotics as the man closed with him again. The nature of their spar altered, the buzz of dark energy increasing in frequency as their fields intersected and Kaidan let himself enjoy it. Enjoy them, enjoy that this moment could happen at all, between a man who'd vowed to never use his abilities on living things and another so terrified of them that he'd hidden them away for over a decade. Fears set aside, calmed, and Kaidan grinned when he snagged Evvy by the ankle and Lifted him. Smiled wider as he dangled upside down before him, Everett laughing by now, and what could Kaidan do but kiss him? 

"I don't -- mmmm --  I don’t think this -- god -- I don't think this counts as a pin, Nerdlet." Everett inhaled deeply as Kaidan turned him right-side up but still hovering above the ground. Everett grinned at him. "Seeing as I'm floating and all."

"Mmm, that's a good point," Kaidan mused. His heart was racing with more than their antics, caught up in the open trust on the other man's face. There was no fear there, not anymore, Everett as comfortable in the grasp of Kaidan's biotics as he was in Kaidan's arms. "Maybe we should alter the terms a bit."

Everett cocked an eyebrow, that familiar playful glint in his eye. 

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Kaidan murmured, drawing him closer. He rested his hands on Evvy's hips, leaning in to just brush his lips to his. "What if I just kiss you a whole lot instead?"

Everett leaned in a touch, not quite kissing but sending a shiver down Kaidan's spine anyway. 

"Depends," he murmured. "You gonna include it in my progress report?"

"Nah," Kaidan replied, and he could feel Evvy's lips curve into a smile. "This sort of activity gets logged on a separate report."

Everett snorted. "Uh-huh? And what's that report measure?"

"Resilience."

And Everett fought against his biotic hold, laughing, even as Kaidan began littering his face with tiny kisses. Not really wanting to break away, clinging all the tighter to Kaidan once the stasis field dropped, and Kaidan had to readjust to account for the new weight in his arms as Evvy wrapped around him, giving back as good as he got. Too late did Kaidan realize the trap, the way Everett's leg moved, hooking behind his own knee until they tumbled to the grass below. A flash of blue and maybe Evvy still struggled a lot with Lift but his Nudge was enough to pillow their fall. Kaidan was panting, staring up at him as Everett straddled his hips. Dropped his eyes to Evvy's lips as he smirked down at him, tongue flicking to wet his own as Everett took his hands and pressed them to the grass on either side of his head. 

"And there's the pin," Everett whispered, so tantalizingly close. Kaidan shivered as he nuzzled against him, the rasp of his stubble a welcome sensation on his cheek. A nip to his earlobe earned a gasp and he gave their joined hands a squeeze as Evvy whispered in his ear, giving it a little nip, 

"I told you I fight dirty."

#my writing #prompt fill #mshenko #Everett Shepard #Kaidan Alenko #Everett x Kaidan #Shore Leave #Post-ME1 pre-ME2

[wintersweetbou]

Decorum

Fandom: FFXV/ Kingsglaive. Warnings: Cussing, creepers getting their just desserts. Characters: Tredd Furia, Luche Lazarus, Crowe Altius, Pelna Khara, Crowe’s Mages. 

Summary: Not much can stop Tredd Furia in his tracks. But a black mage smashing into him does. Especially if she asks for help involving an adventure to the arcade. He agrees, if Luche goes too. 

Few things stopped Tredd Furia in his tracks. Very few. But a black mage slamming into him on the way home from work was one of them. Especially when said mage- Mira- squeaked, then proceeded to hide herself behind him. Tredd stood there, confused, yet docile. Best not to mess with or question Crowe’s mages- those who did often ended up on fire. Pedestrians flowed around them on the packed sidewalk. She tugged his weapon belts, urging him to turn his back to the wall, facing him to the slow-moving crowd. Tredd turned easily and stopped at the sharp tug to the back of his jacket. 

The redhead felt her tap his shoulder blade, and he looked over to see her hand flashing over said shoulder. Enemy. Hold position. 11 o’clock. The larger glaive stiffened at that, searching the crowd. What could faze a black mage? This deep in Insomnia? Regular commuters and revelers making their way to their haunts this fine Friday night. Normal movement- there. 

A man across the street, clearly looking for something, trying to be subtle, and obviously failing at both. Awkward movements, no target, clearly not armed in any capacity. Limp, receding hair. Sleazy businessman? Tredd raised an eyebrow. The double tap to his back confirmed the target. He leaned forward, reserve blade in his boot…

Mira tugged his belt. Hold position. The man glanced about, eyes lighting on Tredd. The glaive couldn’t help the vicious show of his teeth. The man flinched, eyes darting to the ground. He then sagged in seeming defeat and turned to trudge back the other direction in time with the crowd. 

Mira leaned forward, pressing her head against the solid plane of Tredd’s back. 

“Thanks. Stalker.” 

“Stalker? Don’t you guys normally like your stalkers well done?” 

“Drautos said if we torch any more we would be reassigned. Too much trouble to deal with. You think the fire would be enough of a hint.” 

Tredd nodded, turning to face her. She sidestepped, neatly sliding into his side, pulling his arm to rest around her shoulders. He blinked and pulled her in closer to avoid the increasing foot traffic.

“Now they know that we won’t immediately use magic, they have grown bolder. Getting closer, taking pics...I hate it.” Tredd did admit to himself that the girls had it the worst. Plenty of citizens thought nothing of expressing their disdain towards immigrants, but especially to the women. Not only dirty Galahdians, but also female- the horror! 

“Hey! What are you doing tonight?” 

“Err...not much....” 

“Please! Come with us! Please, please, please!” Mira’s puppy eyes, complete with fluttering eyelashes, may or may not have sealed the deal. 

“Only if Luche comes with.” 

Luche woke with a start to insistent rapping on his apartment window. The window which held a sturdy herb planter, six stories above the ground. He groaned, tossing his tablet and blanket aside, reaching to fumble with the latch. In tumbled Tredd, breathless and excited. All Luche wanted was a quiet weekend to sleep in and read. His expression clearly stated such, and Tredd was quick to explain nothing. 

“We are going on an adventure.” 

“What?”

“Adventure.” 

Tredd manhandled a baffled Luche into jeans and a Kingsglaive hoodie- fuzzy jamma pants are not proper adventure attire, Luche!- and herded him out the door, down the elevator, and into the back of Mira’s van with a grinning Pelna Khara waiting for them. 

"You guys ready for tonight? I'm not sure how much detail Mira went into." Pelna murmured, leaning back further into his seat as the van started to move.

Tredd nodded, throwing an arm around the shoulders of the increasingly confused looking blonde. 

"We are making sure no creeps ruin mage night out!" Tredd flexed, earning a chuckle from Pelna and a facepalm from Luche. 

"Was it really that hard to say? Just text me, call me, or hell, knock on the door like a normal person.  But no. That is not what I got. Do you know what this"- he shook the snickering redhead- "goblin decided to do?"

"What did Tredd do?"

"The man warps up six stories to get his stupid feet all over my rosemary! I'm napping, hear a racket, and look over to see this freak in my planter like a deranged pigeon!" Luche groaned. Pelna cackled. 

"I said adventure, and now here we are." Tredd grinned.

"What even is your friendship?" Pelna giggled.. 

"I don't even know." Luche mumbled. 

Mira pulled into a parking spot smoothly, grabbing her jacket and hopping out. The boys quickly followed, glancing about. 

"Most of the night is gonna just be us blowing our change on stupidly rigged claw games. Juno's always wanted the big axolotl squish, so by Ramuh, we are gonna get her that squish." 

"And our job is to keep an eye out for douchebags?" Tredd asked, slipping on his studded knuckle gloves. 

            "Then what? Politely asking them to leave them alone? Or are we getting more...enthusiastic in our message?" Luche looked to Mira. 

             "Use your best judgement, vice captain." 

 Bass and flashing lights trickled out of the wide doors into the twilight air, where a group of familiar figures waited. Mira dashed forward, giving the girls hugs, with Kari, Juno, and Sabine gushing about what prizes they wanted. Luche and Tredd fell into step with the mages, watching their surroundings. Pelna slid in next to Crowe, slinging one arm around her shoulders casually. 

“So I see you did manage to get the cavalry.” Crowe smirked, wrapping an arm around Pelna’s waist. 

“Course I did. Gotta make sure Juno gets that Axolotl.” 

Tredd had no idea that these stupid claw machines were so expensive. And very, very, rigged against the player. But the mages were addicted to the plushes inside, claiming that there was nothing softer or cuter. So he watched from his perch on a bench as they poured the day’s wages into the machines, slowly inching their chosen prizes closer to the surface-squealing with delight and disappointment at each catch and subsequent failure of grip. 

The readhead glanced around, noting that nobody was paying attention to the glaives and that Juno was very close to wiggling that fat pink amphibian free. Its little eyes seemed to bulge when the claw gripped its head, and they plush lifted free for just a second, then dropped into a puddle of the machine floor. Juno hissed and hurriedly swiped her card. The other mages cheered her on, eagerly pressing against the sides of the machine, watching as the claw descended and finally delivered the chosen prize to an elated Juno. She popped it out of the prize door and immediately buried her face into the doughy surface, twisting back and forth in obvious delight. Tredd met Luche’s gaze and rolled his eyes. The blonde huffed in amusement and smiled as the mages returned, gushing about what prizes they were going to go after now that Juno had her squish. 

“I dub him Bubbles the Eternal!” Juno giggled, alighting next to Tredd, pressing into his side to make room for the others. 

“Bubbles the eternal?” Tredd scoffed. Juno squawked in outrage at the notion of an ounce of disrespect to her prize, immediately shoving the plush in Tredd’s face, the malleable plush easily squooshing around him. 

Tredd froze, dumbstruck by the sensation. The squishiness. By the six, what was this thing made of? Dough? He had never felt anything like it. There was no resistance from “Bubbles”, even as Juno squished it back and forth along Tredd’s face. It moved like a liquid, and yet was just a plush. The mages cackled at his bewildered expression once Juno was done with the squish face noogie. 

“What is that thing made of?” 

“Clouds and capitalism, my dude.” 

Mira found a machine a row over that held different colorations of hamster squishes, thus beginning another quest of rigged games and wasted wages. Tredd leaned against a pillar, watching Juno press her face into the glass, making silly faces. Trying to break Mira’s concentration. The claw descended on a white and orange hamster clinging to a sunflower seed. The prize lifted, to Juno’s dismay, and dropped cleanly into the slot, first try. Tredd didn’t notice the soft smile creep over his features. Mira clutched her squish close, happily bragging about her skill. Juno growled playfully, before giving her a noogie with her axolotl. Tredd felt warmth wrap his heart over their giggles. 

Until he noticed the man standing behind the claw game several machines over, clearly ogling the mages, with a cell phone obviously at the ready for pics. No shame whatsoever. THe entitlement on this asshole.The glaive’s blood started to boil. He watched, hands balling into fists, as this entitled asshole slithered forward. 

The readhead crossed the distance to the celebrating mages. He scooped Mira up, crushing her to his chest. She, still too elated on her win to care about the uncharacteristic affection, happily hugged back. 

Tredd stared at the other man over her head, daring him to come closer. A clear challenge. The creep sneered, taking a step forward, believing that all of the glaives had been muzzled. Tredd released Mira and squared up. 

“Looking for something?” 

“Aren’t we all, buddy.” 

“How’s about you back off before I tear you apart.”

“Stand down like a good dog. Go on.” Tredd snarled and the lights flashed with a loud pop. 

“Would you look at that. All of the security cameras are fried. Must have been an electrical surge.” Luche smirked, lightning dancing around his fingers. “Would be a shame if something were to happen when the cameras were off…” 

“You c-can’t touch me!” 

“I beg to differ.” Tredd snorted, cleanly sweeping his legs out from under him. Luche sighed and stomped down hard on the writhing man’s back, forcing the air from his lungs. 

They turned back to the mages, gesturing to the wheezing lump, wordlessly asking if anyone wanted to get a kick in before he got up. The mages shook their heads and turned away, leaving the creep to scrape himself off the garish industrial carpet. 

The group ambled to the next aisle, laughing and complementing Luche’s aim with the lightning magic. Tredd chuckled at Luche’s shy smile, complete with reddening cheeks. Crowe pounced, calling him cute, trying to get his blush deeper. Mira waited until the group was distracted by Luche’s squeaks to make her move.

“Thank you.” Tredd looked down to see Mira slipping an arm around his waist.  

“Anytime.” He hugged back, pausing when she tugged, urging him forward. 

“Which one is the cutest?” 

“Er...the seal? ...The grey one?”  She pulled him forward, tucking her head under his chin, swiping her card and putting his hand on the joystick. 

“The trick isn’t luck. Add a little bit of juice through your hand while touching the button, the sides are metal to the shitty wiring connections. Just enough. Let a tiny bit bleed through…” He breathed out slowly, letting a tiny spark through his palms...the claw gripped the seal tight all the way to the prize chute. 

He couldn’t believe it. How long had Mira known this cheat? Did she invent it herself, or...? 

It was so damned soft. Tredd could not handle the soft, squeezing that fat little seal.  Neither could Luche, when Mira pulled him aside moments later, winning him the white seal that had sat next to his grey. They rejoined the group, wordlessly marvelling at the texture. Pelna nodded sagely, flashing him a pic of his collection of shark squishes. The mages cackled, and continued on. 

Mages, Tredd decided, were indeed chaotic forces to not be messed with, but were definitely fun to hang around.

#squishy #ffxv #KINGSGLAIVE #tredd furia #luche lazarus #crowe altius #pelna khara #Crowe's assorted mages #Creepers be creepin #But are also flammable #Soft glaives #The squishy claw machine prizes are the best #my fic

[dailyusuk]

Red Line: Chapter 3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335624/chapters/72675669

“Hanako?” Alfred cried, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, Alfred,” Hanako replied, her eyes glinting in the late afternoon light. “I came here expecting that I’d encounter mages from American blood lineages, but I did not expect I’d see you specifically. How unpleasant that you have intruded on a sacred ritual with your interloper of a Servant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alfred waved his hands around. “The Gallofields have a right to the leylines in the area! I live here! And Rider isn’t an interloper, whatever that means!”

“Well, I never suspected that you had the potential to summon a Servant, much less a National Spirit of Rider’s caliber,” Hanako said. She covered her mouth with her sleeve and giggled. “I suppose the Grail works in mysterious ways. Doesn’t it, Saber?”

“I am well aware,” Saber said mildly. He adjusted his grip on his katana. “The Einzbern ritual in Fuyuki some years ago is one example of that. The presence of other National Spirits in this current Grail War is another.” 

“Alfred, be careful,” Arthur hissed just loud enough for him to hear. “Don’t let your past feelings distract you from the threat she and her Servant pose to our victory.” 

The solidified gold nuggets in Alfred’s sweatshirt pockets melted and snaked up his arms, forming a thick layer of Volumen Hydrachrysauem around his forearms and hands. He stepped forward and balled his hands into fists, ignoring the expression of dismay on Arthur’s face.

“Hanako, you’re a better person than this! I know you are! Don’t you remember our time together at the Clock Tower? We knew each other, right? We trusted each other, right? So why can’t we work together?”

Hanako laughed like the tinkle of wind chimes. “Oh, you poor boy. You think that I’m not your Hanako because I’m not the pleasant young girl from the Astromancy department. No, this is who I’ve always been, and you were simply too short-sighted to see me for who I am.” 

She pressed her fingers to her lips and smirked. “And working together? There’s nothing I would gain from allying with you that I wouldn’t gain by getting rid of you instead.”

“Don’t call me a boy!” Alfred snapped. He stomped his foot. “And I’m not pitiful! You’re pitiful! How can you talk to me like this? I thought we were friends!”

“Alfred,” Arthur hissed. “There are more important matters to attend to than your sore ego.”

Hanako slid an iron folding fan out of her sleeve and flipped it open, fanning herself delicately. “Rider understands! Oh, what a sensible man you have here, Alfred. You should listen to him.”

Arthur pointed his cutlass at Hanako. “No more small talk. What reason did you have to blindly attack my Master?” he snarled. “You do not seem like a woman who would act on impulse.”

If Hanako felt threatened by the provocation, she didn’t show it on her porcelain-perfect face. “Because removing your Master would also remove you from the Holy Grail War, no?” she said. “Every obstacle in our path to the Grail is a troublesome anomaly. You two are no exception.”

She flipped her iron folding fan closed and pointed it at Arthur. “Saber, go forth. Dispatch Rider now.”

“Yes, Master,” Saber confirmed. Without hesitation, he launched himself at Arthur and slashed downward. 

Arthur blocked his strike with his cutlass. Sparks flew from metal meeting metal.

“Why are you doing this, Saber?” Arthur asked, parrying another slash with the flat edge of his cutlass. “You died in peace without a wish for the Grail. What is in this bloodshed for you?”

“You know my motivations already, just as I already know of yours,” Saber said, deflecting Arthur’s return jab with the edge of his blade. “I fight for my people’s everlasting prosperity, while your wish for the Grail is entirely selfish. Is that not why you fight at his side?”

Arthur drew his lips back. “Why, you…!”

An upward slash of Saber’s blade disarmed Arthur with a resounding clang. His cutlass flew into the air in an arc and clattered to the ground several meters away. 

Before Arthur could lunge for his weapon or summon a new one, he narrowly dodged a slash that otherwise would’ve cleaved his midsection in two. 

He darted forward again but was thwarted by an onslaught of stabs and slashes that kept him at a distance from Saber.

“Your loyalty to him is your greatest weakness,” Saber said between attacks. “And yet, you fight while wearing that weakness on your sleeve. You’re no different from the man I once knew.”

“Arthur isn’t weak!” Alfred cried. “If anything, he’s really strong!”

Saber’s eyes flickered from Arthur to Alfred. He readjusted his grip on his katana and rushed forward.

“I won’t let you hurt him!” Arthur shouted, sliding on his heels in front of Alfred. 

Saber’s katana sliced into Arthur’s shoulder and then pulled back in a smooth motion, bringing forth a spray of blood. Dark stains dripped and bloomed from the wound. 

Arthur grunted and jumped backward, now slightly unsteady. With a twirl of his fingers, he summoned a pair of flintlock pistols in his hands and fired them at Saber. 

Saber blocked one shot with his katana but winced as the other grazed his shoulder. 

“Heh,” Arthur said. “You underestimate me, Saber. It’s been a long time since our alliance, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Saber agreed, readjusting his grip on his katana. “But the past means little in this world. I humbly suggest that you remember that.”

This time Arthur lunged forward with his pistols blazing before jumping back a step when Saber swung his katana between them. With each approach, Arthur slowly backed Saber towards a heap of trash and an overhang. As soon as he was in position, he dashed forward and bounded up onto the rooftops with Saber following in pursuit.

The increasingly distant sounds of Arthur and Saber’s rooftop clash jolted Alfred out of his shock. He turned to meet Hanako’s steady gaze. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Hanako,” Alfred pleaded. “It’s not too late yet. Tell Saber to stop fighting already!”

Hanako tapped her finger to her chin as if she were thinking about Alfred’s offer. “I will only do that if you agree to hand over your Command Spells and Servant, thereby forfeiting your right to fight in the Grail War.”

“No!” Alfred shouted. “Then you are as good as dead to me,” Hanako said, taking a measured step forward across the alleyway. The dull blue-green of her eyes intensified into electric blue as her Mystic Eyes activated.

Alfred held his arms up in a shaky defensive position, uncertainty churning in his gut. Since when did Hanako have Mystic Eyes?

Before he could make another move, Hanako materialized in front of him as if she’d been standing in front of him all along.

Alfred grunted in surprise and tried to throw a punch, but Hanako sidestepped easily. With a graceful twirl, she jabbed him in the side with the butt of her iron folding fan. The blow carried so much force that Alfred lurched backward and choked on his own saliva. 

Before Alfred could recover, Hanako grabbed him around the neck with a single hand and pinned him to the wall with an impossible amount of strength.

“How...?” Alfred gasped, weakly kicking his legs back and forth in midair.

“First of all, I possess the Mystic Eyes named Connection,” Hanako explained. “With this power, I can cross any amount of distance as long as I can visualize my destination in my eyes.”

“Let me go…!” Alfred hardened the molten gold enveloping his fists and punched at the hand secured around his throat to no avail.

Hanako dug her fingers into Alfred’s neck, drawing beads of blood to the surface with her sharp nails. “Struggling like a half-dead hare won’t work against me, I’m afraid.”

The sudden jabs of pain from Hanako’s nails broke Alfred’s focus. Without a constant flow of mana, the solid gold reinforcements on his hands liquified. His arms fell limply to his sides.

“That’s not the only power I concealed,” Hanako continued. “This strength comes from the Eastern martial arts that you Western maguses see as beneath your kind. That ignorance will be your downfall.” 

She dragged her iron folding fan along the length of Alfred’s forearm, easily parting the molten gold coating his skin. “Not even a strength-enhancing Mystic Code like your Volumen Hydrachrysaeum can compare to a body trained in Breathing and Walking.”

Hanako’s Mystic Eyes gleamed and flashed. 

Before Alfred knew what was happening, the narrow alleyway melted around them into an indecipherable rush of iridescent colors. 

With another flash of Hanako’s eyes, the colors solidified into a grassy field somewhere outside the town. The din of gunfire and metal hitting metal became soft and distant. 

Now that there was no longer a wall at Alfred’s back, Hanako held him aloft by the neck without showing even a hint of exertion.

“You are very inexperienced, Alfred,” Hanako said breezily. “A Servant as powerful as Rider is a waste in your hands. Rest assured that I will sever your contract with him as painlessly as possible. That is the one mercy I will grant you.”

Alfred grit his teeth. “I still… want… to save you,” he managed. “I don’t… want… your dumb… mercy.”

Hanako curled her lips upward into a wide, thin smile. “No matter what you think of my mercy now, you will beg for it once I’m done with you.” 

She then raised her iron folding fan in the air and unfurled it, displaying a red sun that glinted in the sunlight. “Saber, come to me!”

Pale smoke from some kind of smoke bomb poured into the open field, concealing the nearby buildings and foliage from view until all Alfred could see was a small patch of ground around him and Hanako. 

Alfred strained against Hanako’s grasp as he turned his head towards the noises he could hear growing closer and closer.

Somewhere in the smoke, yellow and orange gunfire popped and crackled from Arthur’s flintlock pistols. A blade -- Saber’s katana -- hummed and whistled through the air, dispelling smoke around it.

Then, silence. 

Alfred unconsciously held his breath. Had Arthur won?

His heart sank when he heard soft footsteps rapidly approaching. 

Saber emerged unscathed from the smoke with his back to Hanako and his katana raised in an attacking position.

Arthur followed close after, emerging from the smoke with his flintlock pistols pointed at Saber’s head. His breathing was heavy and labored as the bloodstain on his shoulder crept down his arm and torso.

“Watch,” Hanako commanded. “With a Master as weak as you at the helm, Rider is no match for my Saber.”

Hanako tightened her grip around Alfred’s neck, holding him steady. With her other hand, she flipped her iron folding fan between her fingers and jabbed Alfred in the side of his body forcefully enough to pierce flesh.

The sudden searing hot burst of pain made Alfred shriek with pain. Blood spurted from the stab wound and soaked through his torn sweatshirt, turning the iron folding fan red and slick.

As if pulled by an invisible string, Arthur wheeled around toward Alfred and cried out in anguish.

“Alfred!”

Saber’s katana hummed through the air. With an artful slash, he sliced a line of blood across Arthur’s chest, then another, and another. 

Arthur dropped his pistols and staggered backwards in shock. Blotches of crimson seeped through his wool uniform joining the stain around his bleeding shoulder. 

As Arthur gripped at the deep wounds marking his torso, Saber lunged forward with his katana raised to deliver the final blow.

“Arthur!” Alfred screamed, thrashing within Hanako’s grip. 

Alfred desperately shut his eyes and visualized the flow of mana through the Command Spells engraved on his right arm. 

Please, don’t die! Stay by my side! 

With a flash of red light piercing through molten gold, the stripes faded from Alfred’s arm. 

Saber’s katana sliced through empty air where Arthur once stood. 

Arthur, now bathed in a red glow from the power of Alfred’s Command Spell, manifested next to Alfred. He kicked Hanako square in the gut with his heel, knocking her backward with enough force to break her grip on Alfred’s neck. 

Suddenly freed, Alfred fell to his knees and coughed blood onto the ground. He could feel his mind slowly refocusing on his surroundings as he continued taking deep breaths. After one more inhale, he unsteadily got to his feet.

“Alfred!” Arthur cried, his body firmly planted between Alfred and Hanako. “Give me as much mana as you can!”

Without any hesitation or fear, Alfred placed his gold-coated hands on Arthur’s back. The mere contact filled Alfred’s body with burning heat, an impossible amount, as mana flooded through Volumen Hydrachrysaeum like a flood bursting through a dam. Blue-green Magic Circuits crackled to life across Arthur’s body emanating outward from Alfred’s hands. 

As Arthur raised his hand in the air, the atmosphere thickened with golden light and mana, dispelling the pale smoke shrouding the field.

“The ocean is my strength, my royal domain, my very blood,” he chanted.

“No!” Hanako hissed, but a blast of pressure emanating from Arthur’s feet knocked her back before she could use her Mystic Eyes. 

Saber immediately leapt to her side and wrapped an arm around her while holding his katana in a defensive position. Despite his firm stance and defiant gaze, there was visible fear in his eyes.

“All the treasures that lay on the Earth's surface will one day rest in my hands.”

A cool, pungent sea breeze filled Alfred’s nostrils. He watched in awe as an array of cannons manifested from the light that enveloped him and Arthur. He recognized from the pages of maritime history books the cannons of the HMS Dreadnought, the Golden Hind, the HMS Victory, and many others.

“I call upon the brothers-in-arms whose essence has returned to my soil. The glorious sun shall never set on our conquests.”

The cannons glowed with a gold luster as they accumulated mana from the atmosphere. The sea wind intensified.

Arthur pointed his outstretched hand at Saber. 

“Rule Britannia!” Arthur cried.

Rays of concentrated mana exploded forth from the cannons in a deafening series of blasts. Saber leaped into the air with Hanako cradled under his arm and broke into a run across the open field. 

Each cannon blast sent a shockwave through the earth wherever they struck, sparks and smoke flying forth. 

Saber narrowly dodged each impact as he zig-zagged between fiery explosions and the resulting craters.

Then, one of the mana blasts grazed Saber’s back. Flames and smoke engulfed his blue-green haori. He stumbled from the shock, leaving himself vulnerable to the oncoming onslaught.

“Saber!” Hanako screamed. The red light of a Command Spell flashed through the smoke and dust. “Shield me and remain manifested in this world!”

“Rho Aias!” Saber shouted. A four-petaled pink flower unfurled from his hand, forming a defensive shield between him and the barrage of cannon fire. 

Mana blasts pummelled the shield in pink and gold explosions. Each impact sent Saber and Hanako backward several yards, but the shield held steady. 

Still, the shield wouldn’t hold forever. An especially powerful blast smashed into the shield, shattering one of the petals into dust. 

Another blast hit, and another, and another. Two more petals shattered under the strain.

After one more blast, the last petal of Saber’s shield shattered. Golden light and flames instantly swallowed him and Hanako where they stood.

“That’s enough,” Arthur muttered under his breath. “I won’t drain any more mana from you, Alfred. Your body isn’t trained for this yet.”

Arthur stepped away from Alfred, breaking the flow of mana between them. The vast array of cannons constituting Arthur’s Noble Phantasm faded away into nothingness, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and a crater in an empty field. 

Volumen Hydrachrysaeum shrunk and solidified back into a gold nugget in Alfred’s palm. Without mana flowing through it, it felt cold to the touch as he slipped it into his pocket.

With the connection between him and Arthur now broken, Alfred felt kickback reverberate through his body from temporary mana loss. He stumbled and only found his footing when Arthur silently wrapped an arm around him, keeping him upright. 

For a long moment, the only sounds Alfred could hear were his heavy breathing and a persistent ringing in his ears. The heavy smoke from the impact of Arthur’s Noble Phantasm obscured his view of the crater. 

When the smoke finally cleared, Saber was kneeling in the center of the crater while supporting his weight on his broken katana. His haori and sections of his kimono had been completely burned off his body by the cannon blasts, making him look far smaller than he had seemed in the alleyway. Blood dripped from shrapnel wounds across his face and hands.

Next to Saber, Hanako got to her knees, her resplendent kimono in tatters. Her eyes were their natural blue-green without her Mystic Eyes activated. 

“This isn’t the end of this, Jones,” she spat, then turned toward Saber. “We’re making a strategic retreat, Saber!”

“Yes, Master,” Saber affirmed. He dissipated into his spirit form with a burst of pale smoke.

In a flash, Hanako’s Mystic Eyes reactivated. This time, she looked at a point beyond the decimated open field and blinked into nothingness, leaving behind nothing but the crater and tattered scraps of silk.

“Arthur, we won!” Alfred shouted. He pumped his fists in the air. “Arth--”

A frigid breeze swept over the open field. Snow and ice pelted the ground as a sudden bank of thick fog rolled in. 

Arthur’s face suddenly morphed from relief to barely concealed fear. “Alfred, get in my arms,” Arthur said, his voice measured and even. “I’m getting you out of here. This isn’t a fight we can win right now.”

“A-alright,” Alfred stammered, nervously placing his hands on the sides of Arthur’s body. He could feel his body heat up when Arthur lifted him into his arms in a bridal carry. 

Several hundred yards away, a dark wraith clad in Soviet military robes materialized from the gathered fog. It towered over the distant treetops, resembling a Phantasmal Beast more than an actual humanoid.

At the sight of the wraith, Alfred clung closer to Arthur’s bloodsoaked body and shivered with fear that settled deep into his bones. Frost began to gather at the tips of Arthur’s coat and Alfred’s sweatshirt.

“Russia,” Arthur growled. “You’re certainly not a sight for sore eyes.”

“Long time no see, England,” a soft yet distinctly masculine voice called from somewhere within the frigid fog. “You have grown soft in old age, no? In our day, you would have turned poor Japan into a speck of dust without a second thought. Now, look at you. Your strength isn’t what it used to be after the world ended. How pitiful.”

The dark wraith turned its glowing eyes towards Alfred and Arthur.

“I am more impressed by your little Master over there. He is very strong for a small one, yes? But strong is still not strong enough.” 

A smile spread across the dark wraith’s face.

“Remember this next time you come running into town with your little Servant, human. General Winter will be watching.”

A million thoughts raced through Alfred’s head. Russia? The country? Was every Servant in this Grail War a National Spirit? And who the fuck was General Winter? Whoever he was, Alfred wanted to fight him. 

But more urgently, exhaustion was rapidly setting into Alfred’s body as the adrenaline rush from seeing Arthur’s Noble Phantasm in action faded away. Dark spots encroached on his vision.

The blizzard suddenly intensified. A wall of snow obscured the dark wraith from sight, with only the wraith’s distant glowing eyes piercing through the void. 

“Don’t worry,” Arthur said. “I’ll keep you safe. We’ll retreat and face this threat when we’re stronger, A…”

Arthur’s lips moved for a few more seconds and then curved into a soft smile. His words had been drowned out by the howling of the winter winds. Then, he burst into a run, easily carrying Alfred in his arms through frozen fields and forest cover.

As Alfred’s head lolled against Arthur’s lean chest and strong arms, he weakly tried to blink the fog out of his eyes. In his half-conscious haze, he saw Arthur with blood caked on his face, eyes determined, Arthur wrapped in deep crimson, then in strange green khaki, then in unfamiliar dark leather, then in thin threadbare wool, then Arthur looking at him with an unreadable expression, Arthur...

“Arthur!” 

Alfred jolted upright with a cry of his Servant’s name before bending over into a coughing fit. Blankets and what felt like a hot water bottle weighed down on his legs as he dry heaved. 

When he finally inhaled a deep breath, he felt a hand on his chest holding him steady.

“Arthur…?” Alfred whispered, turning to look into bright green eyes. 

“Everything’s alright, Alfred,” Arthur murmured soothingly, rubbing circles into Alfred’s sternum. “You’re in your bed after you slept through the night recovering from that battle. We’re safe behind your estate’s defensive barriers. I tended to your wounds with the help of your maids and watched over you. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I dreamed of you, Arthur…” Alfred said. Arthur suddenly grew very still. “I saw you. You were wearing some kinda green khaki uniform, and then you were looking at me really intensely, and…”

Arthur coughed. “Ah, well, occasionally Masters may dream of their Servants’ past lives. Seeing as our connection is practically soul-deep, as you might say, there’s little wonder that you may have glimpsed flashes of who I was in another time. I do say that green was a fine color on myself, though I’m still quite fond of the brown uniform I wear in this form.”

Alfred frowned and turned to look at Arthur, wondering if there was something Arthur wasn’t telling him.

At the very least, he could see that Arthur’s wounds had all healed after Alfred had cast his first Command Spell to strengthen him. Having evidently cleaned himself up while Alfred was unconscious, Arthur now wore a simple outfit of a white shirt and jeans that he somehow managed to look rather handsome in.

“I’ll let you sit up,” Arthur said, gingerly removing his fingers from Alfred’s chest. He turned around and rifled through the top drawer of Alfred’s stout little nightstand before holding up a spoon containing a questionable liquid. “Here’s a medicinal mixture that will aid your healing. Drink up.”

The stench of the medicine made Alfred wrinkle his nose with disgust, but he trusted that Arthur had good intentions and wouldn’t poison him with weird British medicine. 

Probably. 

Alfred closed his eyes, leaned forward, and let Arthur tip the medicine into his mouth. As the bitter-tasting liquid slid down his throat, he felt his memories of the altercation with Hanako, Saber, and the mysterious evil Servant come back to him in an intense rush.

“What was that?” Alfred asked once he finished swallowing. He waved his hand around in a vague circle. “You know, all the cool shit you did once I gave you some mana.”

“That was one of my Noble Phantasms, Rule Britannia,” Arthur explained. “While it didn’t quite finish off Saber, a lesser Heroic or National Spirit would stand no chance of survival against the combined might of my Royal Navy. I was only able to summon a Rule Britannia of that caliber because of the mana infusion you gave me through your Mystic Code as well as the Command Spell you cast on me.”

Alfred nodded. “And how come you and Saber knew each other? I thought Servant identities were supposed to be these whole secret identity things, but you guys recognized each other, like, on the spot.”

“Yes, that is the case usually. But this clearly isn’t a usual Grail War.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Japan -- or, rather, Saber -- was someone I knew during my lifetime. While he manifested in a form earlier than the one I befriended, he still remembered enough about me to exploit my weaknesses. That is the danger of fighting an enemy who knows your True Name.” 

Arthur pursed his lips. “And if my current suspicion that this is a Grail War of National Spirits is correct… every Servant we’ll face in this Grail War will know my True Name.”

“So every fight will be like that,” Alfred said flatly. He bunched the bedsheets up between his fingers. “Arthur, I--I think I’m a burden on you. You should do this without me. I’m not strong, or smart, or capable, or…”

Arthur placed his hands on Alfred’s shoulders. “Alfred. Listen to me.”

Alfred made an undignified noise when he felt the warmth and softness emanating from Arthur’s hands. Still, he looked up and maintained eye contact with Arthur’s determined gaze.

“I swore an oath that I’d protect you as your Servant. I recognize you, and only you, as my Master. My strength is your strength, and your strength is also mine. Understand?”

“Y-yeah, but--” “That means that I have one request for you: don’t place yourself in harm’s way for my sake ever again.” Arthur tightened his grip on Alfred’s shoulders. “I am your sword and shield. A weapon should protect his master, not the other way around.”

“But that’s not true!” No matter how Alfred felt about himself, he didn’t want Arthur to speak about himself like he was an object and not a beautiful, strong man. “If we’re each other’s strength, then we should protect each other! We beat Saber when I gave you mana, right? Then I just need to keep giving you mana in battle! And since knowing someone’s identity gives you an advantage, and you and Saber knew each other, we’ll be on equal terms with any National Spirit we run into!”

Arthur smiled gently. “You are right about that. Your optimism is rather admirable. As you said, I will also know the True Name of every National Spirit we encounter. And not all of them will know of your own capabilities, which is why we must train your Magecraft as quickly as possible.”

“Yeah!” Alfred agreed, moving to get out of bed. But as he did, he felt a jolt of pain deep in his gut. “Agh!”

“Careful there, lad,” Arthur immediately pressed Alfred back into a reclining position in the bed. “You’re not fully recovered yet.”

“I-- yeah, yeah, right,” Alfred agreed. His face was warm from the skin-to-skin contact. “I’ll be careful. Very careful.”

Arthur patted Alfred’s chest. “That’s a good lad. If there is anything this day has taught us, lad, it is that this is not a normal Grail War. Whoever wins a Grail filled with defeated National Spirits will undoubtedly possess enough mana to remake the entire world in their image. It is up to us to put a stop to that and take the Grail for ourselves.”

Alfred didn’t respond, transfixed by the faint light glowing in Arthur’s impossibly green eyes. Had Arthur been this handsome the whole time?

“But before we do that,” Arthur continued. “I’ll head downstairs and help Layetta in the kitchen. Kitchen work is perfectly dignified work for a gentleman such as myself, before you say anything to the contrary.”

“Wasn’t gonna say anything,” Alfred chirped innocently. 

Arthur smirked. “I do hope you weren’t. My punishment for dishonesty aboard my ships was cutting out the offending bloke’s tongue. Rest well tonight, lad.”

“I sure will!” Alfred replied.

Arthur closed the bedroom door behind him with a smile. 

Alfred spent the next half hour snuggled in his blankets replaying images of handsome, strong, and cute Arthur in his head.

(Please leave a kudos and comment on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335624/chapters/72675669)

#red line #mod diurnal #fanfic #usuk #ukus

[96harmony96]

Chapter 2

Her tie was silver and her shirt brilliantly white, the stark absence of color emphasizing those amazing green irises. Standing there with her jacket open and her hands shoved casually into her pants’ pockets, the sight of her was like running smack into a wall I hadn’t known was there.

I jerked to a halt, my gaze riveted to the woman who was even more striking than I’d remembered. I had never seen hair that purely black. It was glossy and slightly long, the ends drifting over her shoulder. That sexy length was the crowning touch of bad boy hotness over the successful businessman, like whipped cream topping on a hot fudge brownie sundae. As my mother would say, only rogues and raiders had hair like that.

My hands clenched against the urge to touch it, to see if it felt like the rich silk it resembled.

The doors began to close. She took an easy step forward and pressed a button on the panel to hold them open. “There’s plenty of room for both of us, Camila.”

The sound of that smoky, implacable voice broke me out of my momentary daze. How did she know my name?

Then I remembered that she’d picked up my ID card when I’d dropped it in the lobby. For a second, I debated telling her I was waiting for someone so I could take another car down, but my brain lurched back into action.

What the hell was wrong with me? Clearly she worked in the Crossfire. I couldn’t avoid her every time I saw her and why should I? If I wanted to get to the point where I could look at her and take her hotness for granted, I needed to see her often enough that she became like furniture.

Ha! If only.

I stepped into the car. “Thank you.”

She released the button and stepped back again. The doors closed and the elevator began its descent.

I immediately regretted my decision to share the car with her.

Awareness of her prickled across my skin. She was a potent force in such a small enclosure, radiating a palpable energy and sexual magnetism that had me shifting restlessly on my feet. My breathing became as ragged as my heartbeat. I felt that inexplicable pull to her again, as if he exuded a silent demand that I was instinctively attuned to answering.

“Enjoy your first day?” she asked, startling me.

Her voice resonated, flowing over me in a seductive rhythm. How the hell did she know it was my first day?

“Yes, actually,” I answered evenly. “How was yours?”

I felt her gaze slide over my profile, but I kept my attention trained on the brushed aluminum elevator doors. My heart was racing in my chest, my stomach quivering madly. I felt jumbled and off my game.

“Well, it wasn’t my first,” she replied with a hint of amusement. “But it was successful. And getting better as it progresses.”

I nodded and managed a smile, having no idea what that was supposed to mean. The car slowed on the twelfth floor and a friendly group of three got on, talking excitedly among themselves. I stepped back to make room for them, retreating into the opposite corner of the elevator from Dark and Dangerous. Except she sidestepped along with me. We were suddenly closer than we’d been before.

she adjusted her perfectly knotted tie, her arm brushing against mine as she did so. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to ignore my acute awareness of her by concentrating on the conversation taking place in front of us. It was impossible. She was just so there. Right there. All perfect and gorgeous and smelling divine. My thoughts ran away from me, fantasizing about how hard her body might be beneath the suit, how it might feel against me, how well-endowed—or not—she might be…

When the car reached the lobby, I almost moaned in relief. I waited impatiently as the elevator emptied and the first chance I got, I took a step forward. Her hand settled firmly at the small of my back and she walked out beside me, steering me. The sensation of her touch on such a vulnerable place rippled through me.

We reached the turnstiles and her hand fell away, leaving me feeling oddly bereft. I glanced at her, trying to read her, but although she was looking at me, her face gave nothing away.

“Camila!”

The sight of Cary lounging casually against a marble column in the lobby shifted everything. He was wearing jeans that showcased his mile-long legs and an oversized sweater in soft green that emphasized his eyes. He easily drew the attention of everyone in the lobby. I slowed as I approached him and the sex god passed us, moving through the revolving door and sliding fluidly into the back of the chauffeured black Bentley SUV I’d seen at the curb the evening before.

Cary whistled as the car pulled away. “Well, well. From the way you were looking at her, that was the girl you told me about, right?”

“Oh, yeah. That was definitely her.”

“You work together?” Linking arms with me, Cary tugged me out to the street through the stationary door.

“No.” I stopped on the sidewalk to change into my walking flats, leaning into him as pedestrians flowed around us. “I don’t know who she is, but she asked me if I’d had a good first day, so I better figure it out.”

“Well…” He grinned and supported my elbow as I hopped awkwardly from one foot to the other. “No idea how anyone could get any work done around her. My brain sort of fried for a minute.”

“I’m sure that’s a universal effect.” I straightened. “Let’s go. I need a drink.”

The next morning arrived with a slight throbbing at the back of my skull that mocked me for having one too many glasses of wine. Still, as I rode the elevator up to the twentieth floor, I didn’t regret the hangover as much as I should have. My choices were either too much alcohol or a whirl with my vibrator, and I was damned if I’d have a battery-provided orgasm starring Dark and Dangerous. Not that she’d know or even care that she made me so horny I couldn’t see straight, but I’d know and I didn’t want to give the fantasy of her the satisfaction.

I dropped my stuff in the bottom drawer of my desk and when I saw that Mark wasn’t in yet, I grabbed a cup of coffee and returned to my cubicle to catch up on my new favorite ad-biz blogs.

“Camila!”

I jumped when he appeared beside me, his grin a flash of white against his smooth dark skin. “Good morning, Mark.”

“Is it ever. You’re my lucky charm, I think. Come into my office. Bring your tablet. Can you work late tonight?”

I followed him over, catching on to his excitement. “Sure.”

“I’d hoped you’d say that.” He sank into his chair.

I took the one I’d sat in the day before and quickly opened a notepad program.

“So,” he began, “we’ve received an RFP for Kingsman Vodka and they mentioned me by name. First time that’s ever happened.”

“Congratulations!”

“I appreciate that, but let’s save them for when we’ve actually landed the account. We’ll still have to bid, if we get past the request for proposal stage, and they want to meet with me tomorrow evening.”

“Wow. Is that timeline usual?”

“No. Usually they’d wait until we had the RFP finished before meeting with us, but Cross Industries recently acquired Kingsman and C.I. has dozens of subsidiaries. That’s good business if we can get it. They know it and they’re making us jump through hoops, the first of which is meeting with me.”

“Usually there would be a team, right?”

“Yes, we’d present as a group. But they’re familiar with the drill—they know they’ll get the pitch from a senior executive, then end up working with a junior like me—so they picked me out and now they want to vet me. But to be fair, the RFP provides a lot more information than it asks for in return. It’s as good as a brief, so I really can’t accuse them of being unreasonably demanding, just meticulous. Par for the course when dealing with Cross Industries.”

He ran a hand over his tight curls, betraying the pressure he felt. “What do you think of Kingsman vodka?”

“Uh…well…Honestly, I’ve never heard of it.”

Mark fell back in his chair and laughed. “Thank God. I thought I was the only one. Well, the plus side is there’s no bad press to get over. No news can be good news.”

“What can I do to help? Besides research vodka and stay late?”

His lips pursed a moment as he thought about it. “Jot this down…”

We worked straight through lunch and long after the office had emptied, going over some initial data from the strategists. It was a little after seven when Mark’s smartphone rang, startling me with its abrupt intrusion into the quiet.

Mark activated the speaker and kept working. “Hey, baby.”

“Have you fed that poor girl yet?” demanded a warm masculine voice over the line.

Glancing at me through his glass office wall, Mark said, “Ah…I forgot.”

I looked away quickly, biting my lower lip to hide my smile.

I looked away quickly, biting my lower lip to hide my smile.

A snort came clearly across the line. “Only two days on the job, and you’re already overworking her and starving her to death. She’s going to quit.”

“Shit. You’re right. Steve, honey—”

“Don’t ‘Steve honey’ me. Does she like Chinese?”

I gave Mark the thumbs-up.

He grinned. “Yes, she does.”

“All right. I’ll be there in twenty. Let security know I’m coming.”

Almost exactly twenty minutes later, I buzzed Steven Ellison through the waiting area doors. He was a juggernaut of a fellow, dressed in dark jeans, scuffed work boots, and a neatly pressed button-down shirt. Red-haired with laughing blue eyes, he was as good-looking as his partner was, just in a very different way. The three of us sat around Mark’s desk and dumped kung pao chicken and broccoli beef onto paper plates, added helpings of sticky white rice, and then dug in with chopsticks.

I discovered that Steven was a contractor, and that he and Mark had been a couple since college. I watched them interact and felt awe and a dash of envy. Their relationship was so beautifully functional that it was a joy to spend time with them.

“Damn, girl,” Steven said with a whistle, as I went for a third helping. “You can put it away. Where does it go?”

I shrugged. “To the gym with me. Maybe that helps…?”

“Don’t mind him,” Mark said, grinning. “Steven’s just jealous. He has to watch his girlish figure.”

“Hell.” Steven shot his partner a wry look. “I might have to take her out to lunch with the crew. I could win money betting on how much she can eat.”

I smiled. “That could be fun.”

“Ha. I knew you had a bit of a wild streak. It’s in your smile.”

Looking down at my food, I refused to let my mind wander into memories of just how wild I’d been in my rebellious, self-destructive phase.

Mark saved me. “Don’t harass my assistant. And what do you know about wild women anyway?”

“I know some of them like hanging out with gay men. They like our perspective.” His grin flashed. “I know a few other things, too. Hey…don’t look so shocked, you two. I wanted to see if hetero sex lived up to the hype.”

Clearly this was news to Mark, but from the twitching of his lips, he was secure enough in their relationship to find the whole exchange amusing. “Oh?”

“How’d that work out for you?” I asked bravely.

Steven shrugged. “I don’t want to say it’s overrated, ’cause clearly I’m the wrong demographic and I had a very limited sampling, but I can do without.”

I thought it was very telling that Steven could relate his story in terms Mark worked with. They shared their careers with each other and listened, even though their chosen fields were miles apart.

“Considering your present living arrangement,” Mark said to him, catching up a stem of broccoli with his chopsticks, “I’d say that’s a very good thing.”

By the time we finished eating, it was eight and the cleaning crew had arrived. Mark insisted on calling me a cab.

“Should I come in early tomorrow?” I asked.

Steven bumped shoulders with Mark. “You must’ve done something good in a past life to score this one.”

“I think putting up with you in this life qualifies,” Mark said dryly.

“Hey,” Steven protested, “I’m housebroken. I put the toilet seat down.”

Mark shot me an exasperated look that was warm with affection for his partner. “And that’s helpful how?”

Mark and I scrambled all day Thursday to get ready for his four o’clock with the team from Kingsman. We grabbed an information-packed lunch with the two creatives who would be participating in the pitch when it got to that point in the process; then we went over the notes on Kingsman’s Web presence and existing social media outreach.

I got a little nervous when three thirty rolled around because I knew traffic would be a bitch, but Mark kept working after I pointed out the time. It was quarter to four before he bounded out of his office with a broad smile, still shrugging into his jacket. “Join me, Camila.”

I blinked up at him from my desk. “Really?”

“Hey, you worked hard on helping me prep. Don't you want to see how it goes?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I pushed to my feet. Knowing my appearance would be a reflection on my boss, I smoothed my black pencil skirt and straightened the cuffs of my long-sleeved silk blouse. By a random twist of fate, my crimson shirt perfectly matched Mark’s tie. “Thank you.”

We headed out to the elevators and I was briefly startled when the car went up instead of down. When we reached the top floor, the waiting area we stepped into was considerably larger and more ornate than the one on the twentieth. Hanging baskets of ferns and lilies fragranced the air and a smoky glass security entrance was sandblasted with Cross Industries in a bold, masculine font.

We were buzzed in, and then asked to wait a moment. Both of us declined an offer of water or coffee, and less than five minutes after we arrived, we were directed to a closed conference room.

Mark looked at me with twinkling eyes as the receptionist reached for the door handle. “Ready?”

I smiled. “Ready.”

The door opened and I gestured in first. I made sure to smile brightly as I stepped inside…a smile that froze on my face at the sight of the woman rising to her feet at my entrance.

My abrupt stop bottlenecked the threshold and Mark ran into my back, sending me stumbling forward. Dark and Dangerous caught me by the waist, hauling me off my feet and directly into her chest. The air left my lungs in a rush, followed immediately by every bit of common sense I possessed. Even through the layers of clothing between us, her biceps were like stone beneath my palms, her stomach a hard slab of muscle against my own. When she sucked in a sharp breath, my nipples tightened, stimulated by the expansion of her chest.

Oh no. I was cursed. A rapid-fire series of images flashed through my mind, showcasing a thousand ways I could stumble, fall, trip, skid, or crash in front of the sex god over the days, weeks, and months ahead.

“Hello again,” she murmured, the vibration of her voice making me ache all over. “Always a pleasure running into you, Camila.”

I flushed with embarrassment and desire, unable to find the will to push away despite the two other people in the room with her. It didn’t help that her attention was solely on me, her hard body radiating that arresting impression of powerful demand.

“Miss, Jauregui,” Mark said behind me. “Sorry about the entrance.”

“Don’t be. It was a memorable one.”

I wobbled on my stilettos when Jauregui set me down, my knees weakened from the full body contact. She was dressed in black again, with both her shirt and tie in a soft gray. As always, she looked too good.

What would it be like to be that amazing looking? There was no way she could go anywhere without causing a disturbance.

Reaching out, Mark steadied me and eased me back gently.

Jauregis' gaze stayed focused on Mark’s hand at my elbow until I was released.

“Right. Okay then.” Mark pulled himself together. “This is my assistant,

Camila Cabello.”

“We’ve met.” Jauregui pulled out the chair next to hers. “Camila.”

I looked to Mark for guidance, still recovering from the moments I’d spent plastered against the sexual superconductor in Fioravante.

Jauregui leaned closer and ordered quietly, “Sit, Camila.”

Mark gave a brief nod, but I was already lowering into the chair at Jauregui’s command, my body obeying instinctively before my mind caught up and objected.

I tried not to fidget for the next hour as Mark was grilled by Jauergui and the two Kingsman directors, both of whom were attractive brunettes in elegant pantsuits. The one in raspberry was especially enthusiastic about garnering Jauregui’s attention, while the one in cream focused intently on my boss. All three seemed impressed by Mark’s ability to articulate how the agency’s work—and his facilitation of it with the client—created provable value for the client’s brand.

I admired how cool Mark remained under pressure—pressure exerted by Jauregui, who easily dominated the meeting.

“Well done, Mr. Garrity,” Jauregui praised lightly as they wrapped things up. “I look forward to going over the RFP when the time comes. What would entice you to try Kingsman, Camila?”

Startled, I blinked. “Excuse me?”

The intensity of her gaze was searing. It felt as if her entire focus was on me, which only reinforced my respect for Mark, who’d had to work under the weight of that stare for an hour.

Jauregui’s chair was set perpendicular to the length of the table, facing me head-on. Her right arm rested on the smooth wooden surface, her long elegant fingers stroking rhythmically along the top. I caught a glimpse of her wrist at the end of her cuff and for some crazy reason the sight of that small expanse of golden skin with its light dusting of dark hair made my clit throb for attention. she was just so…womanly.

“Which of Mark’s suggested concepts do you prefer?” she asked again.

“I think they’re all brilliant.”

Her beautiful face was impassive when she said, “I’ll clear the room to get your honest opinion, if that’s what it takes.”

My fingers curled around the ends of my chair’s armrests. “I just gave you my honest opinion, Miss. Jauregui, but if you must know, I think sexy luxury on a budget will appeal to the largest demographic. But I lack—”

“I agree.” Jauregui stood and buttoned her jacket. “You have a direction, Mr. Garrity. We’ll revisit next week.”

I sat for a moment, stunned by the breakneck pace of events. Then I looked at Mark, who seemed to be wavering between astonished joy and bewilderment.

Rising to my feet, I led the way to the door. I was hyperaware of Jauregui walking beside me. The way she moved, with animal grace and arrogant economy, was a major turn-on. I couldn’t imagine her not fucking well and being aggressive about it, taking what she wanted in a way that made a woman wild to give it to her.

Jauregui stayed with me all the way to the bank of elevators. She said a few things to Mark about sports, I think, but I was too focused on the way I was reacting to her to care about the small talk. When the car arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief and hastily stepped forward with Mark.

“A moment, Camila,” Jauergui said smoothly, holding me back with a hand at my elbow. “She’ll be right down,” she told Mark, as the elevator doors closed on my boss’s astonished face.

Jauregui said nothing until the car was on its way down; then she pushed the call button again and asked, “Are you sleeping with anyone?”

The question was asked so casually it took a second to process what she’d said.

I inhaled sharply. “Why is that any business of yours?”

She looked at me and I saw what I’d seen the first time we’d met—tremendous power and steely control. Both of which had me taking an involuntary step back. Again. At least I didn’t fall this time; I was making progress.

“Because I want to fuck you, Camila. I need to know what’s standing in my way, if anything.”

The sudden ache between my thighs had me reaching for the wall to maintain my balance. She reached out to steady me, but I held her at bay with an uplifted hand. “Maybe I’m just not interested, Miss, Jauregui.”

A ghost of a smile touched her lips and made her impossibly more handsome. Dear God…

The ding that signaled the approaching elevator made me jump, I was strung so tight. I’d never been so aroused. Never been so scorchingly attracted to another human being. Never been so offended by a person I lusted after.

I stepped into the elevator and faced her.

She smiled. “Until next time, Camila.”

The doors closed and I sagged into the brass handrail, trying to regain my bearings. I’d barely pulled myself together when the doors opened and revealed Mark pacing in the waiting area on our floor.

“Jesus, Camila,” Mark muttered, coming to an abrupt halt. “What the hell was that?”

“I have no freakin’ clue.” I exhaled in a rush, wishing I could share the confusing, irritating exchange I’d had with Jauregui, but well aware that my boss wasn’t the appropriate outlet. “Who cares? You know she’s going to give you the account.”

A grin chased away his frown. “I’m thinking she might.”

“As my roommate always says, you should celebrate. Should I make dinner reservations for you and Steven?”

“Why not? Pure Food and Wine at seven, if they can squeeze us in. If not, surprise us.”

We’d barely returned to Mark’s office when he was pounced on by the executives—Michael Waters, the CEO and president, and Christine Field and Walter Leaman, the executive chairman and vice chairman.

I skirted the four of them as quietly as possible and slid into my cubicle.

I called Pure Food and Wine and begged for a table for two. After some serious groveling and pleading, the hostess finally caved.

I left a message on Mark’s voice mail, “It’s definitely your lucky day. You’re booked for dinner at seven. Have fun!”

Then I clocked out, eager to get home.

“She said what?” Cary sat on the opposite end of our white sectional sofa and shook his head.

“I know, right?” I enjoyed another sip of my wine. It was a crisp and nicely chilled sauvignon blanc I’d picked up on the walk home. “That was my reaction, too. I’m still not sure I didn’t hallucinate the conversation while overdosing on her pheromones.”

“So?”

I tucked my legs beneath me on the couch and leaned into the corner. “So what?”

“You know what, Camila.” Grabbing his netbook off the coffee table, Cary propped it on his crossed legs. “Are you going to tap that or what?”

“I don’t even know her. I don’t even know her first name and she threw that curveball at me.”

“She knew yours.” He started typing on his keyboard. “And what about the thing with the vodka? Asking for your boss in particular?”

The hand I was running through my loose hair stilled. “Mark is very talented. If Jauregui has any sort of business sense at all, she’d pick up on that and exploit it.”

“I’d say she knows business.” Cary spun his netbook around and showed me the home page of Cross Industries, which boasted an awesome photo of the Crossfire. “That’s her building, Camila. Lauren jauregui owns it.”

Damn it. My eyes closed. Lauren Jauregui. I thought the name suited her. It was as sexy and elegantly masculine as the woman himself.

“She has people to handle marketing for her subsidiaries. Probably dozens of people to handle it.”

“Stop talking, Cary”

“She’s hot, rich, and wants to jump your bones. What’s the problem?”

I looked at him. “It’s going to be awkward running into her all the time. I’m hoping to hang on to my job for a long while. I really like it. I really like Mark. He’s totally involved me in the process and I’ve learned so much from him already.”

“Remember what Dr. Travis says about calculated risks? When your shrink tells you to take some, you should take some. You can deal with it. You and Jauregui are both adults.” He turned his attention back to his Internet search. “Wow. Did you know she doesn’t turn thirty for another two years? Think of the stamina.”

“Think of the rudeness. I’m offended by how she just threw it out there. I hate feeling like a vagina with legs.”

Cary paused and looked up at me, his eyes softening with sympathy. “I’m sorry, baby girl. You’re so strong, so much stronger than I am. I just don’t see you carrying around the baggage I do.”

“I don’t think I am, most of the time.” I looked away because I didn’t want to talk about what we’d been through in our pasts. “It’s not like I wanted her to ask me out on a date. But there has to be a better way to tell a woman you want to take her to bed.”

“You’re right. She’s an arrogant douche. Let her lust after you until she has blue balls. Serves her right.”

That made me smile. Cary could always do that. “I doubt that woman has ever had blue balls in her life, but it’s a fun fantasy.”

He shut his netbook with a decisive snap. “What should we do tonight?”

“I was thinking I’d like to go check out that Krav Maga studio in Brooklyn.” I’d done a little research after meeting Parker Smith during my workout at Equinox and as the week passed, the thought of having that kind of raw, physical outlet for stress seemed more and more ideal.

I knew it wouldn’t be anything close to banging the hell outta ofLauren jauregui, but I suspected it would be a lot less dangerous to my health.

#camren #camren fanfiction #lauren jauregui #camila cabello #camren shipper #conversion

[squidpro-quo]

    Jaskier notices that Geralt lets things come to him, rather than the other way around. 

    They’re waiting for the blacksmith to be done fitting Roach out, an important errand that Geralt never delays with, and while Geralt contents himself with taking up a post near the barn door, Jaskier has found a seat on the fence with his lyric notes out while he indulges the quiet pastoral sensibilities of the scenery around them. The mountain looms up behind the village but from their spot near the edge and a little ways up the slope, it’s a beautiful view of the rolling foothills and the streams crossing like veins over the wrinkled earth. 

    He’s a few minutes into the task of finding even more rhymes for ‘yearning’ when he looks up to find Geralt three feet away from a cat that looks only a little bigger than a loaf. The witcher is crouched, hunched near the ground with his yellow eyes fixed on two very like his own and he simply waits. No calls, no murmurs to come closer, just a stillness settling over him as though he could scare the cat away with a mere breath. Jaskier thinks of that stillness, remembers seeing it more often than he’d have expected, when children passed by or became curious, when the barmaids bring him drinks and when the old, bent farmers he trades for a few carrots take his sparse coin. 

    His witcher can’t make himself smaller, can’t remove the expectations from the minds of those who encounter and so he goes still, keeping himself motionless as they approach. As though afraid of chasing them who would perform a kindness or a curiosity away. Jaskier’s charcoal has left a smear of grey across the edges of his fingers as he rubbed the stick between his fingers in thought and he snaps from his reverie at the soft mewl of a feline. 

    The colorful calico is bending against Geralt’s leg, claws sunk into the leather of his armor and brushing her head along his clenched fist which slowly uncurls until she presses her nose against the calloused fingers and climbs into his lap. 

    “The White Wolf and the little cat, a little too fable-sounding to me but you know, I can make anything work,” Jaskier calls over, pitching his voice low to keep from ruining Geralt’s work but he needn’t have bothered. The cat is firmly planted across Geralt’s thighs, who shoots Jaskier an unimpressed look before returning to his slow carding of fingers through her soft fur. 

    “Stooping to nursery rhymes, bard?” Geralt grumbles back, far milder than his usual tone at which Jaskier comes close to toppling from his perch. He might even have said it came close to being a coo, as rough as there ever was, but the gravel in Geralt’s voice is ground smooth as he continues. “You’ll be queening soon.” 

    Sidestepping his surprise at Geralt’s clear address to the cat, Jaskier stares at him quizzically. The cat doesn’t look rounded or heavier than expected in the least, though admittedly he isn’t petting her to the point of purring right then as Geralt appears to be doing. 

    He’s watching the cat baring her chin for the witcher’s careful strokes when the blacksmith brings Roach out of his barn, her short knicker pulling Geralt’s attention away even as he seems reluctant to stand up now that his lap is burdened as it is. 

    “She’s looking good,” Jaskier remarks, jumping down from his spot and taking the reigns from the blacksmith, whose expression is fixed into a stunned kind of shock as Geralt finally gets up with the cat twining around his ankles. 

    “Payment as promised,” Geralt mutters, proffering the handful of coins and this time Jaskier knows what’s coming. The stillness that comes over him, waiting for the blacksmith to approach and take what is due without a waver in his stance. 

    The observation sticks with him, flitting around in his mind for the rest of their day’s journey and even as they make camp. His lyrics are forgotten in the meantime, he’s got enough ‘burning’ and ‘discerning’ to do of his own. As to why his witcher does this, why he’d never noticed it before and how it fits into his picture of Geralt. Because he knows that jobs turn into rescues more often than not, that Geralt has his fair share of bad memories in relation to humans from the past, that Jaskier is still trying to undo all the associations the common folk have but perhaps… perhaps he’d missed how that affected Geralt himself. 

    Behind the black of his garb and the gold in his eyes, he’s always wanted for the simplest things. A little peace, some quiet, a nap. He’d never seemed to care for people’s opinions, as dry as his own were when Jaskier got the opportunity to hear them, so what is it that brings him to that stillness? 

    He’s still mulling on it when Geralt jabs the skewer of fish he’d caught under Jaskier’s nose.

    “It’ll burn if you leave it any longer. Last I heard, you don’t like the taste of ash,” is his only comment, returning to his stony contemplation as he spears his own empty skewer into the smoldering remnants.

    “What do I have a taste for, then?” Jaskier bites into his dinner, the edges still hot and he sucks in a quick breath as a last-ditch attempt to cool it off. The mild pain is enough to make him jerk the fish away, the sharp point waving wildly before Geralt catches his hand to keep it still.

    “Your own burned tongue.” 

    Jaskier glares at him, but the smile at the corner of Geralt’s mouth makes him forget the tingling in his own. They’re sitting on the same side of the fire, mostly to keep the smoke out of their eyes from the slight breeze rustling through the forest but Jaskier finds himself thinking of rough hands gently untangling the cat’s paws from his pants and where those fingers rest now, curling in a warm grip over his knuckles with just enough pressure to hold his hand steady. 

    As soon as Jaskier’s mouth parts, still watching the hint of a smile, he notices it again. Geralt goes still. Like a lake undisturbed by even the ripple of a fish’s passing, he stays and Jaskier realizes he could pull away easily. Could disentangle their fingers with less effort than it takes to strum a chord, and yet he knows what Geralt’s doing now. 

    His idle gaze becomes a lure, pulling him towards Geralt now that he understands. They’re a mere inch apart when he begins to doubt, to think the heat in those eyes might be for a different reason, that there’ll be no response bar another burned tongue, except in a different sense, when Geralt’s stillness breaks and he moves just a fraction. Towards Jaskier. 

And Jaskier meets him, lips brushing against parted lips, in a gesture so fragile he wonders if it’ll break upon exhale but Geralt presses into another kiss, more bold now that Jaskier’s touched him first, and it blooms between them. 

Between the gentle tilting of his world, Jaskier’s thoughts slip away despite his confirmed theory. That with all the fear curdling his interactions with the world, Geralt had found kindness only rested near him when he ignored it, lest it flee at his smallest motion to welcome it. Jaskier’s heart, already turning to Geralt as a sunflower to its light, had taken root around him as Geralt had waited and would remain with him wherever he went. 

I’m open for prompts here!

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #geraskier #dandelion #my writing #I just couldn't resist the visual of his kisses from the show #so slow and hesitant #giving so much opportunity to pull away #feat. cats #idk #i'm trying to work on stuff again

[chapitre7]

When I have you

The Untamed [陈情令] | Mo Dao Zu Shi [魔道祖师] fanfiction

Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Yīng | Wei Wuxian (Wangxian)

CQL-verse, Canon Divergence, Alternate getting together

Tracks up to episode 33

Read on AO3

“Why would a person like another person? I mean that kind of like.”

 He makes an abrupt pause in his writing, and though he doesn’t look up, the smudge on the paper is ever-growing. If not for the practice of his calligraphy, all the work put into transcribing those rules would have been for nought. He’ll have to discard those, and start over.

 Wei Wuxian, however, unfortunately encouraged by his reticence, continues.

 “Come on, Lan Zhan, you’re the smartest person I know. I don’t understand what my senior sister sees in that peacock, but she seems to like him, like really likes him, and not out of the endless kindness in her heart.”

 The Jiang disciple breaks the peace in the Library Pavilion with heavy steps, crossing the distance between his desk and Lan Wangji’s in long, ungraceful strides, plopping down beside the Second Jade with a low sound. Head bowed, eyes turned up, he attempts to lock gazes with the other.

 “What do you think, Lan Zhan? Have you ever thought about it?”

 Lan Wangji is not looking up but he can see Wei Wuxian’s grin just at the limits of his peripheral vision. Out of a stubborn, uncontrollable desire to ignore the other, Lan Wangji continues to write down the Gusu Lan rules from memory, the blotch in the middle seeming to chastise him for his irritation.

 “Has Second Young Master Lan ever liked someone?”

 “Ridiculous,” he mutters, but not with as much purpose as he meant to convey with the word. Under the cold layers of his façade, Lan Wangji admits to know the sentiment in his heart. He loves his brother, and he loves his uncle, and he certainly loves his sect. Those are all different from the kind that Wei Wuxian is talking about, he also knows. A kind that he hasn’t put his mind into in his short experience in life, having had no reason to consider it. Even as brother tries to gently push him towards the path of friendship with someone, he’s... troubled. If he must fulfill his duties with his sect with focus and precision, how could he be dedicated to someone else?

 “Right, it is ridiculous.”

 It must be a particular talent of Wei Wuxian’s, to sound petulant even when he’s being agreeable.

 “Second Young Master Lan is cold as jade, I bet no cultivator has been strong enough to melt the ice in his veins.”

 Lan Wangji closes his eyes, summoning all of his diligent training to calm the storm that seems to loom around this disciple who seems to want nothing but to shake the foundations of the Gusu Lan sect.

 “But if I could almost beat you in a fight, Lan Zhan, I wouldn’t give up on that front if I were you!”

 He snaps his eyes open and Wei Wuxian recoils at his glare, as if sharp Bichen had just been unsheathed and pointed at his neck. And because he’s not been taught to feel pride, Wangji rationalizes that it’s only appropriate for the misbehaving to be aware of their actions.

 “Get back to work,” he says, enunciating every word, and Wei Wuxian pouts like a child, resignedly dragging himself to his feet and slouching back to his own desk. He doesn’t ask anything else that day, and Lan Wangji makes a series of mental notes of all the points that Wei Wuxian needs to work on in order to become a proper cultivator.

 The question still lingers in his mind when he lies down to sleep. In the cold, dark blue of the Cloud Recesses after curfew, no hints are blown to him on the breath of the wind, nor are they whispered by the cricking branches of the magnolia trees. It’d be a shameful question to ask uncle; brother wouldn’t mind, but his usual method of guidance would be like trying to tread through a village without light. One can live alone, Wangji. Our hearts are our own to keep or to give. But our feelings are hardly ours to control. He knows, just like he’d be able feel the dirt beneath his feet and feel his way from one side to the other in the dark. But as he relies on his sight to see, how could he know if his surroundings were the very ones he had been looking for?

 Lan Wangji only falls asleep hours after curfew, after he wills himself to stop thinking.

 ***

 To find Wei Wuxian searching through the archives of the Library Pavilion, having arrived earlier than Lan Wangji, is something of a surprise that the young Lan could easily brush past, his jade-like complexion not betraying the slight sentiment of optimism that the disciple is finally willing to be studious and respectful.

 To hear him muttering, “I can’t believe there’re literally no romance books,” causes those fragile wings of hope to melt under the scorching reality that Wei Wuxian is unrepentant, and realize there’s still much work to be done.

 “Lan Zhan!”

 He barely suppresses the narrowing of his eyes. Every time he calls his name is like he’s closing in again, trying to whisper theories or whatever occupies his mind at the time, and Wangji does not like to be close, does not like to be touched, does not like the ease with which Wei Wuxian falls into calling him by his name. Excessive feelings are forbidden. He bundles his disapproval, folds it over and over and tucks it away, so he can properly start finding ways to discipline Wei Wuxian.

 Who’s looking at him with undisguised disappointment. “I had so many expectations for your library, Lan Zhan, but there’s really nothing helpful! The library at Lotus Pier has collections on bravery, legendary hunts and cultivation partners. Doesn’t your sect have any romance in you?”

 Lan Wangji moves soundlessly to stand beside the other, adjusting the book spines back into their proper place. The task is nothing to him, just a repetition of propriety, and against his better judgment, his eyes go unfocused, thinking about the concept of romance.

 “Lan An, after finding his cultivation partner and founding the Gusu Lan sect, passed on that all regulations can be foregone once one finds the one they love. Although that much is known, he didn’t leave behind any record or notes about his life with his cultivation partner.”

 Which Wei Wuxian would know if he had been attending class like his peers, and paying attention instead of messing around.

 Casting his gaze aside from the bookshelf, Lan Wangji notices that Wei Wuxian stares at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. Words seem to have escaped him, for what surely must be the first time in their short acquaintance. The moment stretches for so long (seconds) and it’s so out of place that Lan Wangji almost fidgets, but instead he barely moves, ready to guide them to their proper seats to start their work for the day, if Wei Wuxian isn’t inclined to say anything else. However, he takes only a sidestep when the boy blurts, a bit too loudly,

 “You can ignore the rules?!”

 He soundly gasps, clutching the front of his robes, looking positively anguished. Lan Wangji is unimpressed.

 “Lan Zhan! Then why are we even learning this many rules to begin with!”

 Lan Wangji retracts his foot from its designed path to place it right beside the other, turning fully to Wei Wuxian, the perfect form of ordinance.

 “One must first know and follow the rules in order to forego them.”

 The rules are so much more than the binds Wei Wuxian perceives them to be, and with time, he’ll understand. At that point, however, Lan Wangji is a little wavered, experiencing his own limits. He is, perhaps, a bit disappointed in himself. But Wei Wuxian only blinks, the exaggerated, dramatic mask he’s wearing dropping, only to break into his usual mirthful countenance. He laughs, body curving forward, both hands cradling his belly.

 “Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan,” he says between difficult breaths, wiping tears away from his eyes. Lan Wangji simply waits, hands behind his back, slowly blinking. “The Second Jade of Lan can be so funny! You must talk more!”

 “Nonsense,” he says, ready to leave Wei Wuxian’s inappropriate curiosity behind, walking to his usual seat in the pavilion. Without anyone to entertain him, Wei Wuxian follows.

 “Lan Zhan, listen! What do you think a man who wrote down however many rules only to give them up was thinking?” He hops from one side of Lan Wangji to the other as the cultivator walks, and gingerly sits down beside him as the other carefully sets himself behind his desk. “Do you think it he was taken by how pretty she was? Or how nice? But the peacock is neither of those things! Well, he might be good-looking, but his personality is rotten, so what good is it for! What do you think, Lan Zhan? What would you like? Would your destined young lady cultivator have to be prettier than you? I think those standards are a bit— All right, I’m going, I’m going, I’m sitting down, see?”

 Lan Wangji keeps glaring at Wei Wuxian even as he starts scribbling down the rules in uncoordinated calligraphy. He catches every glance the other throws in his direction to make sure he refocuses on his designed task. It’s only after a few good minutes of Wei Wuxian copying the rules at remarkable speed (which would probably require another whole round of copying, considering he’s processing a whole lot of nothing that way) that Wangji allows himself to look down at his own blank manuscript.

 With Wuxian quiet, the doors to the pavilion closed, and only a breeze swaying a wind chime by the open window, Wangji tries to remember any love poems that he’s read in the past. He doesn’t get up to look for any books, not wanting to catch Wei Wuxian’s attention, but all of the meanings and messages that he remembers fail to form a proper answer, speaking only of an abstract feeling that supposedly one could do anything for. To create rules to regulate one’s spirit and then give them up. To live for a sect and to live for a single person. Be two people — or was it just one, perfectly divided, perfectly wise? Was love also a form of cultivation, once you uncovered its mysteries?

 All Wangji knows of love are uncle’s short words about father when he dared to ask, spoken with fondness before a grunt and an endless reciting of rules.

 An open door with warm arms and a laughter that rang like bells, teasing him into speaking, into making sounds. Warm despite her fate, caring and welcoming, until the door closed and never opened again.

 Flowers that never survived winter.

 “...An. Lan Zhan!”

 His eyes had been open the entire time, but it’s only after the call that he sees Wei Wuxian. Standing before him with a slight furrow between his brows, holding a stack of notes but keeping it at his side. Instead of handing them over, he kneels, placing his elbows on Wangji’s desk. The paper before the Second Jade is empty again, and if he wrote anything, he’s unable to recall. The sun is low outside, casting shadows on the usually bright pavilion.

 “Are you okay? Are you hungry?” Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side, and all of his questions beg no real answers as he continues. “Really, Lan Zhan, the food you serve here isn’t enough to sustain a cultivator of your caliber. You should come to Yunmeng! I’ll show you all of the best restaurants, though none of them can really compare to senior sister’s cooking. I can ask her to make you all my favorite dishes! I’m sure you’ll like them.”

 Wei Wuxian stands up laughing, but it’s not quite like the way he usually does. He’s moving between his heels and the balls of his feet, delighted huffs of air escaping through his nose. It echoes the melody of the wind chime, his eyes catching a light that Lan Wangji doesn’t know the source of. Wangji can only watch him for a second or two, spellbound, as if the sun that he is, that Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang tend to gravitate around, is lighter, the beginning of autumn. Something lies heavy in his chest — the promise or the company? The clear concern or the unambitious compliment? — and he can’t speak, waiting for the words find their way back to him.

 “No need,” Wangji says at last, holding out his hand, and Wei Wuxian hands him his copy of the rules with a clearly displeased expression at his dismissal, which gives Wangji some relief; he’s not acting strangely, or not so strangely as to make an impression on the Yunmeng Jiang disciple.

 All through dinner, thoughts keep swirling in his head. Brother doesn’t keep him in his company for long, catching that something is on his mind, but being, as always, kind enough to let him go if he’s not ready to share. And as he folds his robes after changing for bed, he’s suddenly hit with the memory of the cloud patterns on his mother’s robes. Even if he can no longer perfectly envision her features anymore, he thinks that he can understand the virtues that could lead someone to love. Kindness, gentleness; a disposition to accept him and stay with him, even if he’s not much of a talker, not fun to be around; and a way to make him feel like he’s right where he’s supposed to be, even within the four walls of her pretty birdcage.

 In the space between the long night and sunrise, Lan Wangji dreams of white gentians and of Wei Wuxian, clad in the white of Gusu Lan as he knew him, laughing with his sword in his hand and the night breeze in his hair. The world is boundless behind him, and he’s calling his name. Opening his eyes to the dark of his safe quarters, Wangji wishes it had been one of those dreams that he forgets at the first light of day, lest he feels tempted to long for their continuation.

 His name in Wuxian’s voice lingers in his ears.

 ***

 Brother seems to understand something that’s not enlightened to him yet. Or maybe he’s just testing the waters, surveying the scene, as cultivators ought to do at the beginning of a night hunt. Guiding him, without taking his hand. Smiling at him, anticipating his success.

 Traveling with Wei Wuxian is nothing like night hunting. There are no guidelines to follow; even as they ride their swords to Caiyi, he talks about everything he can think about, all the people he sees, an anecdote about Yunmeng here and there. Once they arrive, he’d certainly get lost in the crowd, carelessly going from one merchant to another, if Wangji didn’t go straight to their inn. And when brother arranges for them to stay in the same room — what were his expectations, exactly? Wangji wishes he could see the threads of his brother’s thoughts —, Wangji feels like he’s being tested. Exactly by whom and what for, he’s not sure. His brother isn’t one for tasteless jokes, that much he’s certain. So he must be missing something, any indication that he let on, unconsciously, that he wants things to change.

 Does he?

 An answer doesn’t come simply because he wishes for it. And he’s no child to throw tantrums at what he doesn’t like or understand. So he just takes it as he does the tasks he’s given. He goes, and he’s focused, as he always is.

 Wei Wuxian — Wei Ying, despite his brashness and overconfidence, is smart. He’s capable of asking the right questions, to find the flaws in a story, to grasp at the truth beneath. But exactly because he’s brash and arrogant, he jumps to conclusions that, judging from Jiang Wanyin’s brazen outbursts at his attitude, oftentimes lead into trouble. And he refuses to adapt, to fit into the rules, to follow a more direct path to being a righteous cultivator instead of skirting from one way to another like a drunk.

 And yet, Lan Wangji keeps the drawing he made secure on a shelf, pressed between his books. And yet, Wei Ying keeps approaching him in that shamelessly familiar way, just to... What? Rile him up? Get under his skin, like he did with that outrageous book? Or is he so used to all the attention that he gets, that he won’t tire until he’s secured his as well? He tries to piece him together, the contradicting parts of him, the loud and the subtle, the clever and the ignorant, and Wangji doesn’t even know why he thinks of him. Is this what brother intended, in the end? To help him solve a puzzle that he didn’t even realize he was trying to put together? He is unlike any other guest disciple that had come to the Cloud Recesses. Maybe brother intends to have Wangji guide him—

 “Lan Zhan.”

 Wei Ying talks from his bed. He’s been quiet for so long that Wangji had assumed he had fallen asleep after sulking, after his usual games didn’t follow through with him. And there’s a part of Wangji that feels a pang of guilt that, instead of meditating or preparing to sleep, he had just been sitting there, thinking about him while he’s in the room. It feels dangerous, all of a sudden. That somehow, his thoughts and questions might be seen by the other, that he’ll be able to tell that he’s been on his mind.

 “I still can’t think of why senior sister would like the peacock. Maybe it was something he said to her?”

 There’s no perceptible change in Wangji’s stance, but he doesn’t shut the topic down.

 “Maybe in one of their meetings he said something to her that made her fall in love... Is that possible? I’ve said all kinds of things to the girls in Yunmeng to make them smile and I don’t remember any of them. So why like someone for what they say? Why like something that can be so easily taken back or veiled in lies? You agree, right, Lan Zhan?”

 Lan Wangji agrees that words are fleeting, especially considering that Wei Ying says so many of them at any given time, and he’s not surprised that he can forget them the very next moment. But he can’t deny that words can have a life of their own; those once said or those never uttered. They carry a weight to Lan Wangji; he’s known for having few, and in his experience, few are enough. Other times, the questions he’s wanted to ask die in his throat and speak only in restless dreams.

 Why did mother kill father’s teacher?

 Why didn’t he let her go?

 How did she die?

 Why won’t father see us anymore?

 Why is Wei Ying—

 “We must sleep.”

 He ignores Wei Ying’s complaints, putting out the candles. He takes off his outer robes, folding them with precision, as his eyes grow used to the dark. He lies down and tries not to be so aware of Wei Ying’s presence in the room, even as he strains to hear the rustling of cloth, his intelligible mumbling followed by a sigh, then silence.

 Could a person fall for someone’s words?

 He has no idea what it’s like to fall.

 But a person can remember so many things in a lifetime, that even something ordinary can feel precious with time. A compliment, perhaps. A hummed melody.

 A deep inhale in the stillness of the night.

 ***

 It’s not sound that wakes him. Wei Ying is sitting by a window, looking down at an asleep Caiyi, drinking directly from a jar of alcohol that Wangji doesn’t remember seeing him buy, but he’s not making a sound. He’s just peering at something, or nothing at all, moonlight bathing him in pale blue. The Gusu Lan robes grant him a sort of glow — or maybe it’s Wangji’s half-asleep eyes, interpreting the only source of the room with more brightness than it holds. Wei Ying doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

 “Drinking is forbidden,” is something that comes straight to mind and right out of his mouth. His body is telling him that he hasn’t had enough rest. Wei Ying’s image, his face turning to him, softer at the edges with a trick of light and shadow, keeps him from slipping back into his bed. His unguarded posture and uncharacteristic silence keep the sting out of Wangji’s words. The sound of water is faint in the background, in the pause where they simply look at each other.

 “Sorry, Lan Zhan, did I wake you?”

 Lan Wangji rises, softly muted steps taking him towards Wei Ying. He casts a glance out of the window, trying to will himself awake and catch any abnormality, but he sees only the busy town of the day, now deserted and painted in darkness.

 “You should sleep,” he remarks, letting his hand fall from the window frame. Wei Ying just smiles, bubbling with a low chuckle.

 “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I’ve been to night hunts on little sleep before, it doesn’t affect my performance.” He lifts his jar to him, eyebrows raised with a question, but Lan Wangji just shakes his head. Wei Ying shrugs, then proceeds to down the rest of the alcohol by himself.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “Just thinking.” He doesn’t really fit on the windowsill but that doesn’t keep him from perching one foot up while the other just moves back and forth languidly, as if unable to catch up with his rapid, endless thoughts. His smile goes a little crooked then, before he says, “Wishing the peacock were here, to see what he’s made of.”

 “Don’t antagonize, Wei Ying.”

 “I’m not antagonizing him,” he says, eyes darting up at Lan Wangji, his lips forming an almost imperceptible pout. “I just need to know.”

 He doesn’t elaborate, meaning hanging and falling away from view. Wangji frowns, more from trying to decipher Wei Ying’s charade than from any discomfort.

 “Ah, I wish I had brought my dizi.”

 “You can play?”

 Wei Ying nods, foot moving down to join the other, body turning to face Lan Wangji fully.

 “Madam Yu, ah... Only senior sister really likes my playing, Jiang Cheng complains it gives him a headache. I’m good! I don’t use it for cultivation or anything, although, after seeing Zewu-jun, I think it wouldn’t be so bad.”

 Wangji nods, without hesitation. This Wei Ying, creating music with the spirit that he has witnessed, is something that he finds himself wanting to see.

 Wei Ying beams up at him, the moon at his back, still favoring him. Like on that first night of mischief, the night when Wangji met his match.

 “Lan Zhan, you should come to Lotus Pier and I’ll play for you. You can play an instrument too, right? We can play together! I may not be on the Second Jade’s level but we can play something nice together, I don’t think anyone would complain about you giving them a headache. What do you say?”

 He doesn’t give voice to his agreement. Doesn’t take a step forward, closer to Wei Ying, like he feels compelled to. He looks down at Wei Ying’s fingers, supporting him on the windowsill, and lets his mind wander, for the long span of a second, maybe two, about the songs it can bring to life. Wei Ying, in the foreground of the lively Lotus Pier, painted in his mind only after books and retellings from senior disciples. His smile beckoning, ready and open, like it is now, for him.

 “It’s late,” he says, after too long. He turns his back so he doesn’t see Wei Ying’s disappointment, lies down and closes his eyes so he can sleep instead of think about it, of how nice it would be.

 What would Lotus Pier sound like? What would it smell like?

 He doesn’t even know what the Cloud Recesses smell like anymore.

 He closes his fists, fingers clutching at his covers. He falls asleep quick, as his body was trained to do, and once again, he dreams.

 ***

 The cold springs turn the burning on his back into a phantom pain; something there but distant, bearable. The cloudy memories of the night before, in inexplicable contrast, don’t stop echoing in his head, as much as he’d like to forget them. The heavy beating of his heart against his chest as his admission about his mother fell from his lips; the slurred tale about a boy, his parents and a donkey; weak laughter drowned in alcohol. He swayed then, right where he sat, taken by the mist of his inebriation but also by warmth. He thinks he fell, embarrassingly, against the other, or maybe it was the other way around. Then the memory blurs and he remembers only of lying down and hands holding his, placing them against his chest. They’re not close, he had said so, he doesn’t like touching people, but boundaries were pushed back, washed away by waves that carried him along to unknown places.

 He thinks that he held onto those hands, but it could be either a memory or a dream. Questions asked, answers given, his face so overwhelmingly warm. He tries to recall some kind of promise; another one among so many that he collected now, like pressed flowers between pages of his favorite poetry book. And then nothing else.

 He accepts punishment for his transgressions, accepts it because it’s the right thing to do. But the night yet lingers behind his eyelids, faded and out of focus, watched from behind a waterfall. When Wei Ying approaches him, crossing the waters, he’s ever conscious of him, of things he said and things he might have said but that Wangji can’t remember; or maybe something Lan Wangji might have showed, eyes downcast but not closed, the back of Wei Ying’s hand against his cheek.

 “We’re friends, aren’t we? Of all people that I know, I really want to be friends with you, Lan Zhan!”

 He struggles without purpose, without meaning, while Wei Ying says all that he wants with ease, convinces him to use his headband so they can both uncover the secrets that lie beneath the land of Gusu Lan. Uncle would have been outraged to know; Lan Yi says nothing, demonstrating a spirit so unlike those of his immediate family that Wei Ying himself looks at her in awe, bowing to her with more respect than Wangji has seen him show for anyone.

 Their bound hands are just like the pull that he can’t ignore, persistent, like an ache. It’s stronger when Wei Ying is close, and stronger still when he backs away. Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to think. The tangible problem of the Stygian Metal fails to take over his mind, no matter how much he wants it to.

 After they emerge from that place lost in time, that piece from the past heavy inside his robes, Wei Ying falls against him. He feels heavier than the Stygian Metal, the weight not lessening even as he stands, pressing against Wangji’s chest.

 Every look Wei Ying sends is tinged with meaning now, with secrets shared between them, both acknowledged and not.

 When Wei Ying shows him the lantern he made for him, he thinks he knows a bit why his brother seems to have taken a liking to the boy so fast. In his hands stained with ink, in the delicate rabbit he drew for Wangji (it’s their lantern, their secret), he sees him. His is a spirit that thrives in pushing down barriers and then reveling at his success with showmanship, with resonating laughter. Every action has his mark, every move gives him away. Juggling jars of Emperor’s Smile back and forth with a warrior’s gait, speaking against Wen Chao unafraid of an unequal fight, pulling pranks and playing with those he holds in esteem; thinking hard about things beyond himself, just for the sake of his sister. There’s so much of Wei Ying in everything Wei Ying does, and the person he is...

 “I, Wei Wuxian, wish to eliminate evil and protect the weak, always maintaining a good conscience.”

 ...doesn’t feel like a stranger.

 ***

 “After young master Wei leaves, the Cloud Recesses will return to its previous silence,” brother remarks as the Yunmeng Jiang sect leader walks away with his family, Wangji’s chest aching like it hadn’t in so many years. The passing of time in constant calm and quiet, things Lan Wangji has known all his life — he feels like the ants that Wei Ying had been playing with before are crawling over him, cold and insistent and hard to get rid of.

 He clenches his fist, the other holding firmly onto Bichen, and prepares himself for the journey ahead. Away from the Cloud Recesses, he might not feel the loss as he does then. Alone, he can focus on his mission, on his duty to his sect, without being carried away by feelings that grow every time he thinks about them, every time Wei Ying is near and filling his head with questions about love. It is enough for him to invade his dreams with his smile, with his gifts and outstretched hands, calling him to share his burdens, to fight together with ideals guiding their swords. He dreams of him even awake, at times, the cadence with which he says his name already etched like a song in his memory.

 He tries.

 “Lan Zhan!”

 And his resolve to let go crumbles so easily, in a single call. It’s always so easy for him; to appear in a second, with loquats in his hands. It was once alcohol, it was once a drawing, a rabbit and a flower for the Second Jade of Gusu Lan. He closes the steps and stands beside him, clad in dark and red robes, the sun catching on his eyes, and Lan Wangji feels the ache of Wei Ying’s absence grow numb, even as he throws his usual quips at him, even as Lan Wangji keeps pushing him away for his own peace of heart.

 As they walk together, move together, and talk about which way to go first, the numbness gives way to a buzz, and the buzz gives way to nothing. It doesn’t feel out of place to have Wei Ying standing near, he doesn’t have the need to be alone, away from Wei Ying and everything, secluded in his own cultivation. Wei Ying shows off his talismans and plays around Tanzhou; he chatters away with Nie Huaisang and talks about frivolous things and Lan Wangji lets him. He’s sprinting ahead, leading, taking him by the hand, and he lets him.

 Lan Wangji doesn’t know when he started trusting him, at what point between all of his rule breaking and demonstrations of good thinking and good heart he started to trust his judgment, but he does. On the night of their second night hunt together, he sits around a fire with a dozing Wei Ying and a very much asleep Nie Huaisang, waiting for a clue about the Stygian Metal to show itself, waiting to contain a disaster, and it’s completely different from all the night hunts he’s gone with the Lan sect.

 It’s...

 “Lan Zhan.”

 He keeps his eyes closed, but tilts his head in Wei Ying’s direction.

 “Uncle Jiang canceled the marriage between elder sister and the peacock. Can you believe that?”

 Lan Wangji opens his eyes and looks at the fire. He remembers young lady Jiang’s face at the time of the fight between Wei Ying and Jin Zixuan. Futures are more fragile than we believe.

 “I want to feel like it’s a relief but I saw elder sister crying and there’s really nothing I can do to make her feel better.”

 Wei Ying pulls himself up to a sitting position, regarding the fire with eyes that look but don’t see.

 “Liking someone like that, isn’t it like haltering your own neck?”

 He says it so low that Wangji doesn’t think he’s talking to him anymore, fiddling with the ribbon that fasten his arm guard. Concerned about how he gazes so intently into the fire, Wangji speaks, though he’s not sure about the subject, not any more sure than the first time Wei Ying brought it up.

 “Have you found your answer?”

 The temple is cold, dust and dirt caught in every corner and crevice, under them, all over their palms and robes, long inhaled by their lungs. It’s uncomfortable, and the fire can’t warm them evenly, can’t keep them safe in its weak light from the shadows that surround them. He takes notice of nothing. As a cultivator who treads in the night, who protects those in need, who goes where the chaos is. And as Wei Ying looks at him, saying nothing, maybe still thinking, yet unwavering, perhaps leaning towards him. Wangji waits for the answer, discovering Wei Ying’s smile against the candles flickering behind him, and his warmth despite the whole distance of the burning campfire between them.

 It should have been different. Wei Ying smiles for anyone and he plays with everyone and he goes wherever he wants, unbound by rules. How could he long for him to smile only at him, to appreciate his company, to stay by his side, being so fundamentally alike but with so striking differences?

 He thinks there’s an answer in his ellipsis, in how he stops smiling. Wei Ying’s hands are moving, splayed on the ground, scraping against the dust, he’s definitely inching closer, the few feet between them growing fewer, and the man who’s always had something to say is silent like the nights at Gusu.

 Wei Ying stops when their knees touch. He has to look up at Wangji as he stands with his back straight, and Wei Ying doesn’t, leaning in instead, his breath tickling Wangji’s cheek. He thinks Wei Ying dusts his hands off on his dark robes but he wouldn’t be able to tell much, he can’t look away from his face, suddenly so close. The fire shines in his eyes, beautifully. Wei Ying is beautiful, like the warriors from the books he likes, drawn with fine brushes and the right lines and curves, as Wangji saw in an illustration in Caiyi. He’s more beautiful still, because he’s real and he knows him and he wants to be known in return.

 “Let me see something,” he says, and he moves his hand like he wants to touch Wangji’s face. He halts, not completing the motion, hand in mid-air, and Wangji’s gaze goes from it back to Wei Ying’s eyes who are looking down at his lips. Wangji swallows, the action so clear in their proximity, and Wei Ying looks back up, waiting, but Wangji does nothing else. Wei Ying had asked him for permission and he lets him. Through the tempest inside of him, he lets him, one hand closed around Bichen, gripping it tighter, and the other safe on his lap. He closes his eyes when Wei Ying does, and leans his head down at the same time Wei Ying tilts up.

 The kiss doesn’t make a sound. Their position is awkward, not close enough, and without either of them holding onto the other, it’s like they can fall at any second. They hold still, not breathing, until Wei Ying moves his lips, closing around his, pressing closer. He backs away but Wangji falls back into him, the hand not holding Bichen moving to fit perfectly on his jaw, the cold tips of his fingers touching the soft skin behind Wei Ying’s ear. He moves his lips like Wei Ying did, capturing his upper lip then his lower lip, while Wei Ying responds, both slow, unsure of what they’re doing. Wei Ying still hasn’t quite touched him, his fingers traveling, but not holding, along the front of his robes.

 Their exhales come deep and hot between them when they part. Nothing much has changed; there’s not a strand of hair out of place that wasn’t already out of place a minute ago, and their clothes aren’t crumpled or dirtier. There’s only their lips, glistening in the firelight, and Wei Ying looking at him with wide eyes.

 What did you see?

 They’re leaning back against each other, like magnets that can’t help themselves, but just like in Caiyi, time is not on their side. There they were out of sync, out of balance, still lost between questions. In their pocket time at the temple, he sees an answer in Wei Ying’s face — or maybe not an answer but a different question, a tilt of his head, an inhale that he’s just close enough to hear  — and the moment is broken by the sound of cracking stone and a rumble that shakes the ground and causes Nie Huaisang to jolt awake with a scream.

 Together, they fight. They go from one enemy to the other, the night stretching into day, cultivators committed to their cause. He fights back to back with Wei Ying, their feet and slashes working in perfect coordination, completing attacks with simple commands, with a look. Yet Wei Ying still goes a little further, mind always working too fast, too careless, where Lan Wangji hasn’t yet learned to go. He folds and folds his worry and his frustration and everything that follows Wei Ying away, until the moment comes again, when he’s within his reach. Until then, he’s the Second Jade of Lan, and he’s on duty for his sect and for the good of the entire population.

 Was Lan An ever worried about giving too much or too little to his partner?

 Which way was he supposed to go?

 Lan Wangji just marches on, not a single sign in his body language that he’s lost any of his resolution.

 He just moves forward, going where his brother wants him to go.

 ***

 Wei Ying is a little tipsy when he enters Wangji’s room in Qinghe. He smiles a silly smile that turns his eyes into tiny crescent moons before he walks to his bed, tips off his shoes, and plops down.

 “Lan Zhan, it’s not fair,” he says, swirling the jar of alcohol he’s still holding. “We’ve been through so much the past couple of days and there’s not a stain on you.”

 He’s wrong. There’s dried blood caught at the hem of his robes, and residual dirt that told the tale of their battles and little rest. Lan Wangji feels all of the tribulations of their journey in his bones, and the tension caused by the shadow of the Wen sect feels even stronger against his bloodstream. Wei Ying must feel it too, his smile strained, his eyes lost in the distance but not glossy, not overtaken by the alcohol. In a few strides, he reaches the bed and sits down next to Wei Ying, taking the almost empty jar from Wei Ying’s lax grip. Wei Ying lets him, smile shining again.

 “Lan Zhan, we need to report back to Zewu-jun. We can figure out what to do about the Wens together. We’ll part in the morning, just you and me.”

 He pats down on Wei Ying’s hair, an affectionate gesture that surprises the both of them. Wei Ying just stares at him at first but quickly leans against the touch, and Lan Wangji is left with the tatters of his restraint as he pets him, thumb gently touching his temple.

 “And Jiang Wanyin?”

 Wei Ying stops moving his head like a needy cat to blink, frowning as he considers his options. Wangji is glad, then, to know that he’s not the only one struggling with priorities.

 “I’ll ask sect leader Nie to have someone escort him back to Lotus Pier... I can’t let you travel alone, Lan Zhan, not while you’re carrying the Stygian Metal. What if something happens before you reach the Cloud Recesses? What if you’re ambushed?” He shakes his head, taking hold of Wangji’s wrist and sitting up. “You’re not going alone.”

 He holds Wangji’s gaze with the determination he’s got to witness more than once as they worked together. Wangji says nothing, does nothing, but he feels Wei Ying hand trembling in the grasp he has on him. He looks down, pulling his wrist from Wei Ying’s hold, only to hold his hand in both of his. He understands. Though they’ve been trained to fight since they learned how to walk and have been cultivating for just as long, there are little lessons that prepare you for the bloodbath that Xue Yang left in his wake. And it’s only a prelude of what’s to come, following the Wen sect right to their homes.

 Wei Ying head falls against Wangji’s shoulder, the hand that’s not being held closing around the cloud motifs in his robe.

 “You don’t have to be alone anymore, Lan Zhan.”

 His words are low, muffled from his position, but Lan Wangji hears them clearly. And they bring him back to that day, apparently so distant but it wasn’t, not really. It was just before all of this, all of the worry, all of the road that led them to where they are. The words he had forgotten, hidden away by his drunk stupor and shame, but a promise still uttered, still made before he fell asleep under Wei Ying’s kind touch.

 You don’t have to be alone forever.

 Wei Ying raises his head, nuzzling against his jaw. He takes his hand from Wangji’s hold, placing it on his shoulder, his lips placing a lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth. They’re so simple, his touches, not demands but asking, giving him time and space to lean away, his eyes small and tired but unwavering from his. Asking, please, asking, what do you see?

 There’s no risk of falling this time. They’re not alone in an abandoned temple with a threat right at their necks, they’re not exposed and vulnerable under a shaky roof. He guides Wei Ying down on the mattress, the embroidered, silver curtains of Qinghe keeping them safe, if only briefly, a small sanctuary to spare. He keeps one hand on Wei Ying’s waist, the other lying next to his head, lost between thick strands of black hair. There are wet sounds in the silence this time, their mouths finding ways to meet, to pull, to open and breathe, before Wei Ying’s tongue tentatively nips at his lips and he dives further, tasting the alcohol in his mouth and getting inebriated by it alone, Wei Ying holding his face with both of his hands and keeping him close.

 They kiss until Wangji’s jaw hurts, until Wei Ying is so dazed that the alcohol and exhaustion catch up to him, drifting off as Wangji melts the stress away with gentle touches and his warm presence. He lies with him until he’s sure he’s fast asleep, then he disentangles himself from Wei Ying and stands up.

 Looking down at his asleep form, Wangji can already feel their separation like a physical ache.

 Why would a person like another person? For a touch, a look, something they said or did, or a beauty that no other can compare?

 Wangji remembers everything about Wei Ying since they first met, has overanalyzed them, discovering only the undeniable proof of Wei Ying’s being; rash and inconsequential, reckless and wild, but brilliant just the same. Relentless against challenges, even if that challenge is the son of a high sect, too closed up in himself to let other people in. And he called himself his friend, he called himself close, until he found all the parts where they intersect, where they meet, and there he made his home.

 He doesn’t know if Wei Ying found his answer, but he found his. And because he’s certain of it, he holds Bichen in his hand, and he stands, pale blue of Gusu catching the lights of the Unclean Realm.

 “Wei Ying, I’ll be leaving now.”

 He parts, knowing he’ll come back, trusting he’ll have someone to come back to.

 ***

 Everything else hadn’t seem real. People looking at him and not seeing, as if he’s invisible. Somebody else’s life, with his own nightmares bled in. People calling his name like a curse long destroyed, a plague, defeated. Jiang Cheng’s hatred was just as he remembered or worse, words stinging with venom each time they fall from his lips. And the white of mourning, touched by the clouds, summoning him — Hanguang-jun.

 His guqin, resounding through Mo Manor, was the first thing that got through to him. More than a memory, cutting deeper than the wounds of Mo Xuanyu’s last wish. Under the experienced hands of the Light Bearer, the ground shook and the threat that had troubled his disciples seemed almost small. Then everything stilled under his gaze and Wei Ying allowed himself a moment to simply watch him, those eyes he had missed so much and that could tell you the world if only you were looking.

 He’s alive again. The ritual had really worked. And he has to leave those eyes behind, knowing he had already given him enough trouble for a lifetime.

 But why does chaos follow him, wherever he goes, knowing he can’t turn his back on the pain of others, as long as he’s in power to help?

 Everything else happened too fast. Seeing Wen Ning again, alive, or as alive as he last saw him. Losing control of him, panic soaring inside his head in flashes, like the signal the juniors had sent for their beloved senior. And there he was, as though Wei Ying had truly sent for him, called him, just like in the past. Lan Zhan, he’d say, over and over again. “Lan Zhan,” was at the tip of his tongue but he bit it back, tried to hide behind Mo Xuanyu’s mask, behind the shrill sounds of his makeshift flute that was nothing like what the Yiling Patriarch used to win the Sunshot Campaign. He played for Wen Ning though he wanted to run. He played until he was gone, then, Zidian.

 Zidian.

 He wakes to the sound of Lan Zhan’s playing, but it’s Zidian that he feels at his back. It had been just one hit, but it grounds him, oh it grounds him with a shiver and a burn. Even when he had a golden core, it had hurt. And though it had been a single hit, it still stung, as if it had been Yu Ziyuan herself who had scorned him for his return.

 The melody of the guqin is broken with a dissonant note. Lan Zhan is by his side in an instant, even though he never rushed, never ran, always the perfect son of the model sect. He feels his weight on the bed as he sits up, wincing at the mark on his back but knowing that he had felt much worse.

 I’ve died, once. What could be worse than that?

 Lan Zhan is calling.

 “Wei Ying.”

 He freezes, and even his pain forgets to burn. He quickly raises a hand to his face, and realizes that the mask is gone. Of course it’s gone. He’s down to his under robes, so if there had been no decorum for his clothes, why would his mask be spared? The Lan Wangji he had met on that rooftop, a lifetime ago, might not have touched him. But this one who stands before him, who had left whatever remained of his childhood on the battlefield washed with Wen blood, whose face is sharp now, lean and so fair (have they been feeding you? you look like you’ve spent three months at the Burial Mounds, Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan) — this man who stares at him now, he knows Wei Ying too much, too deep.

 He had almost fallen off the edge of that cliff, still holding on to him.

 “...ei Ying. Is the pain too severe?”

 Wei Ying looks up, the anguished eyes in the back of his mind being replaced by the same pair, now worried, in front of him. He tries to wave it off, feeling too exposed by everything happening at once, even if it’s just his heart that’s too slow to catch up.

 “I’m okay, Lan Zhan. I just had forgotten what it’s like to be struck by Zidian. I’ll be fine in a couple of days, it was just one slash, after all.”

 He lets his hand fall back onto his lap but Lan Zhan takes hold of his wrist, pulling his robes up to reveal the sole mark of the curse that remained. Lan Zhan raises his eyes, the question evident in them. Wei Ying opens his mouth, ready to dismiss it again, but Lan Zhan takes his other wrist, checks the skin above, then attempts to slid Wei Ying’s robes down his shoulders. Wei Ying’s catches his hands, flushed despite the mood of the situation, and says Lan Zhan’s name in a high-pitched question.

 “Anywhere else?”

 Wei Ying frowns, breathing through his mouth.

 “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 Their hands are clasped together, but it’s different now. Wei Ying can feel a slight tremble in them, and it stings, deep in his heart, knowing those hands are always steady, always wielding Bichen with perfect grace, and playing the guqin as if they had been born for nothing else. But they have touched him, whispered secrets against his skin, and held on, even when he tried to let go. When the path got too narrow and too dark for Hanguang-jun to tread and he tried to push him back, he held on, and Wei Ying reveled in it. Until the day he couldn’t anymore.

 Wei Ying lets go of him, but his hands remain close.

 “Ah, no, I’m all right. I was well put together!” He smiles because it’s what he does, because it’s what he’s always done, even when elder sister worried. “This isn’t even a wound, you see, the ritual—”

 Lan Zhan takes his wrist again and pulls, at the same time he leans closer him, and their chests collide. Wei Ying is a little out of breath, and his back complains at the impact, but Lan Zhan has one arm around his shoulders while his other hand travels across his back, its movements long, slow, and warm against the thin fabric. He feels Lan Zhan’s inhale against his own chest, and the exhale is ragged, loud and heartbreaking next to his ear.

 “Lan Zhan?” He tries, not really knowing what answer he wants, but knowing the other will not speak on his own, barely ever is the first to move, but he’s shaking now, his forehead pressed against Wei Ying’s shoulder.

 “Sixteen years...”

 It had been long. Jin Ling is grown now, there are so many disciples that he doesn’t know, but Jiang Cheng still has the same look in his eyes that he did the day elder sister died. And Lan Zhan...

 “Wei Ying.”

 “Mn,” he lets out, his arms moving, circling Lan Zhan’s middle, his chin resting on his shoulder.

 “Wei Ying,” he says again, in a voice that Wei Ying hadn’t heard before, or perhaps did, right before he closed his eyes and vanished from the tragedy at Nightless City.

 “Mn, I’m here.”

 The last time he had seen Lan Zhan cry, it had been in that forgotten cave, trapped with the Tortoise of Slaughter. He cried for his father, for his sect, for his home, and Wei Ying cradled his head in his arms, kissed his exposed forehead, and didn’t wipe away his tears until he was done. He had promised him it’d be okay, that together they could make it right, but nothing had been right. Had Wei Ying kept a single promise he made him? As Wei Ying’s robes soak all of his tears, Wei Ying realizes that he had left him alone. For sixteen years, he had left him just as he was when he had first met him, with a brother too busy to keep him company, and a world that needed him, but never saw beyond the white of his clothes.

 His own crying comes with sobs, but Lan Zhan doesn’t make a sound, he never does. Wei Ying rubs circles on his back but still feels him strained, so horribly contained, and no amount of whispered words can soothe him. He’s caught between grief and his own rules that try to limit what can’t be limited.

 Lan Zhan, shouldn’t you stay away from this person? Should you be holding so tight?

 Jiang Cheng had proved what the world thought about him still. He feels that he should tell Lan Zhan to let go, but if asked the same, would he do it? Could he don a mask and pretend not to know him, go about his life, without ever looking back at the cultivation world that meant everything to him?

 In this second life that he was so unworthy of but that was gifted to him anyway, could he not right his wrongs, mend his promises, and live without regret?

 Lan Zhan has stopped shaking, and the hand that had been clutching to him so tightly feels lax. And yet he embraces him, fingers threading through Wei Ying’s loose hair, so affectionate that Wei Ying feels he might cry again.

 Why like someone so much? Lan Zhan, is it possible to like someone this much?

 He leans back, arms unwrapping from around Wei Ying, head bowed low like a chastised disciple. There’s a flush on his cheeks, on his ears and around his eyes, clear marks of his emotions, vivid in candlelight. He keeps his hands on his lap, almost as if he doesn’t know what to do with them, as if he’s forgotten where they belong. Wei Ying regards all, still clinging to his robes around his waist, sketching his wet lashes in his mind, and his unadorned hair, and all the other parts of him that he shows no one else.

 “Wei Ying, you should rest...”

 Wei Ying can’t help but let out a huff of air. Really, that Lan Zhan, when has he ever rested unless Wen Qing forcefully knocked him out? And after sixteen years of darkness, neither here nor there, when all the parts of him are finally one, how could he let his soulmate fall apart in his stead?

 Lan Zhan looks up at him, a little startled at the sound he makes, and Wei Ying lifts his hands to tearstained cheeks, wiping away the trails, brushing back stray strands of hair. He brings that face closer — beloved, beloved —, lays kisses on closed eyelids, rests his forehead against the cloud patterns of his forehead ribbon. So many promises made, all of them broken, but what does he have if not a thick face and a beating heart that knows he’s welcome?

 He places a kiss right on the metal adornment that he’s touched more times than he should probably have. Lan Zhan’s hands have found their way to his wrists and he holds on tight, his breathing loud in the clear silence of the Cloud Recesses.

 The kiss feels nothing like it used to. He knows the shape of his lips, and the details of his mouth, but his weight is different, heavier, carrying sixteen years of memory that Wei Ying will never be able to experience, to understand like Lan Zhan does. They kiss like it’s the first time, and it is, all around them a world at peace, with newborn life, and all of tomorrow ahead of them.

 Breaking away, Lan Zhan hovering above him but careful not to place his weight on top of him, Wei Ying sees the past in his eyes. Eyes still red from crying, a tell-tale of his heart, that have been looking at him — after him, since he was copying rules at the Library Pavilion. Wei Ying’s memory is faulty and spotty, that much he knows, but he remembers what Lan Zhan looked like then, the reliable expanse of his back, and how he called his name each time with less annoyance, growing used to him, indulging him as he rambled about both useless and useful things.

 He laughs, because he remembers wanting to kiss him not to see if he liked him then, but because he already liked him so much, he needed to see if there really was a cliff waiting on the other side and if Lan Zhan would be there to catch him. He needed to give it a name.

 Turned out it felt much like they had already been leaning back to back, waiting for the other to turn.

 Lan Zhan tilts his head, the curtain of his hair falling over his shoulder, hiding Wei Ying from the gaze of the moon.

 “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, wanting to say it a million times more, pulling the other until he lies on the bed beside him. “Will you play a duet with me?”

 Lying on his side, facing him, the moon once again smiling upon them, Wei Ying sees him smile.

 “Mn.”

 “Will you go to Yunmeng with me?”

 “Mn.”

 “Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay by your side? I’ll try my best not to be recognized, but—”

 “If Wei Ying wants to stay this time, I wouldn’t have him anywhere else.”

 Wei Ying frowns.

 “This time?”

 “Wei Ying didn’t want to come the first time I asked.”

 He looks down and Wei Ying can’t help but let out a pained noise, scooting closer until his nose is nuzzling Lan Zhan’s collar.

 “That was different, Lan Zhan, I wasn’t...”

 He sighs, closing his eyes when Lan Zhan’s hand starts petting his hair.

 “I won’t leave you alone. I promise.”

 With a hand at Lan Zhan’s back, he searches for the ends of his forehead ribbon and twirls it around his finger. His breathing falls into rhythm with Lan Zhan’s and he falls into a peaceful sleep, Lan Zhan only moving to place a cover over the two of them, protecting against the chill of the night. Curled around his best friend, confidante, soulmate, Wei Ying has no need for dreams.

 When he wakes in the morning, alone, the sun cascading through the open window, he finds that the Cloud Recesses look just as beautiful as it did in his youth. Fire couldn’t destroy its heart. He sees himself and Lan Zhan in every corner, his elder sister smiling and laughing as he plays with Jiang Cheng, the smiling eyes of Lan Xichen following him, and even the memory of Lan Qiren throwing a scroll at his impertinence doesn’t fail to make him happy.

 Wei Ying sees love in the halls and pavilions, in the trees and the rabbits. And when he catches the sight of Lan Zhan at the cold springs, he sees it in every moment of their past, all the way back, in a conversation about Lan An, and in a drawing of the Second Jade with a flower in his hair.

 He runs towards Lan Zhan, ready to give purpose to his second life. There are still mysteries to be uncovered and a debt to be paid to Mo Xuanyu. There are night hunts to be had, and without the Stygian Tiger Seal, he can figure out his own way to fight, without harming the body he now cherishes. He needs to find Wen Ning and take care of him, and maybe, when he finds a way, he can see Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling again, even if it’s from afar, against the warm waters of Lotus Pier. He doesn’t know whether he can live in the Cloud Recesses, if they would accept him, or if he dares to hope they can live like Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan, bound only to their common ideals, their combined strengths and inseparable hearts.

 Wei Ying isn’t good at planning far ahead; he dreamed of being a hero and he gave it all up to do what he considered right. He doesn’t regret it, not even for all that he lost, for all the pain he caused. All he can think about is the immediate tomorrow and a tangible, new dream.

 If he can, if Lan Zhan will have him, he’ll do everything to finally live his life with a clear conscience and a heart full.

 Lan Zhan turns his head once he approaches, and seeing him there, trusting and waiting, Wei Ying swears he can promise him a hundred things and still not run out of things he wants to do or say or keep. So many years have passed and he still wants to pour all of his heart at the feet of the second young master of Gusu Lan.

 ***

 “Lan Zhan, what’s the name of the song? Don’t give me that look! Please? There can be no secrets between us! You know I never stopped thinking about it! All I wanted to do was play a duet with you in Yunmeng, ever since you got stuck with me at the Library Pavilion. ...Lan Zhan? Really, you didn’t—? Haha, Lan Zhan, you’re really too much to my heart. I only started thinking about what it’s like to like someone when I met you.

 It was always you, Lan Zhan.

 It had to be you.”

 ***

 Why would a person like another?

 Wei Ying can no longer remember a time he hasn’t.

#The Untamed #Mo Dao Zu Shi #fanfiction #Wangxian #Lan Wangji #Wei Wuxian #Alternate Universe: Canon Divergence

[oriigami]

hanami

@opsecretsanta2019 gift for @ask-the-kings! Merry Christmas! I decided to go with your ‘Zoro and Chopper being friends’ prompt, hope you enjoy!

(Read this on AO3 here.)

“Zoro?” 

Zoro blinked one eye open, glanced down at Chopper. The little reindeer had been napping against his side, but was now sitting up and looking troubled, tapping his hooves together in a small, fidgety motion. 

“What?” Zoro asked after a minute or so, when it was clear Chopper wasn’t going to continue on his own. 

Chopper startled slightly. “Oh! Um, I was just wondering... have you ever seen a sakura tree? A real one?” 

Zoro blinked. “...Yeah. Of course.” A distant memory, one he hadn’t thought of in years, surfaced at the question, and he continued absently, “The place where I was born. There were lots of ‘em there. It was a whole spectacle in spring, when they flowered. Whole island would celebrate it, there was a special name for it and everything.” 

“Oh,” Chopper said, sounding hesitant. “...Was it pretty?” 

“Yeah,” Zoro said, glancing up at the sky and trying to pull the memories into focus. They were old and faded, all blurry faces and lost details, but he could answer that at least with confidence. “It was really pretty.” 

“Oh,” Chopper said, and went back to fiddling with his hooves again. Zoro closed his eye again, relaxing under the sunlight, but didn’t fall back asleep. He sensed the little reindeer still had more to say. 

“I want to see one someday,” Chopper said eventually, sounding far away. “A real sakura tree.”

Zoro opened his eye again to look down at him, eyebrow raising slightly. “What’s stopping you?” 

Chopper looked up at him, startled, then huffed and looked away. “Don’t be stupid, stupid. They're only found on a couple islands, and I don’t even know which islands those are!”

Zoro looked at him for a second, then sighed, resigning himself to losing the next half-hour of naptime, and shoved himself to his feet. “Follow me.” 

He was four steps away before he heard Chopper’s hooves tapping on the deck behind him. Zoro lead them to the galley without looking back to check if the reindeer was following. 

It was around mid-afternoon on a hotter day, which meant- yes, the dumbass cook had already got a pair of overly-elaborate sundaes resting on the counter, ready to be ferried out to the girls accompanied by an obnoxious amount of fawning. And, more importantly, each was topped with a single fresh red cherry, delicately scored along the side where the pit had been squeezed out. 

Between Sanji’s compunctions about wasting food and Luffy’s willingness to eat anything that was even vaguely edible, the galley’s trash was always almost shockingly clean, and today was no different. The pair of cherry pits were resting neatly on top of a small pile of fish bones that had already been cleaned of every scrap of flesh available. Zoro reached down and fished them out, rolling the seeds in his palm. 

“Here,” he said, passing them over to Chopper, who cupped them carefully between his hooves, his already too-big eyes going wider with surprise. 

“Are these-?” 

“Pits,” Zoro confirmed. “You can plant ‘em. Cherry trees are still just trees.” 

Chopper was still staring at the seeds. “But I’m- I’m from a winter island? I don’t know anything about- plants, or-”

“Yeah, me neither,” Zoro said easily, stepping back out of the galley. “We’re not done yet.” 

This time there wasn’t any hesitation in Chopper’s gait as he trotted along in Zoro’s footsteps- ten little scurrying steps clicking against the wood equaling every one of Zoro’s strides. The sound was almost stupidly endearing. 

Nami was, predictably, reclined beneath the shade of her little grove, studying a map from behind a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses. She glanced up at their approach, a wordless question on her face.

“I need a favor,” Zoro said, and before her face could narrow into the ‘of course, but it'll cost you’ smirk, clarified, “It's not for me.”

Nami pushed her sunglasses down on her nose so he could see her raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Zoro sidestepped, exposing Chopper where he’d been half-hiding behind Zoro’s legs, the cherry pits still cupped carefully between his hooves. Hooked a thumb, to let the little reindeer do his own explaining. 

“Ah!” Chopper yelped. Zoro nodded meaningfully at the cherry pits, and after a moment he seemed to get the hint. “Ah, um, well. You know about… gardening, right, Nami?” he asked, glancing around at the tangerine trees all around them. 

Nami shrugged a little, but looked intrigued, leaning over the side of her lawn chair to peer at the seeds in his hooves. “I'm not good at flowers, that's Robin’s expertise, but I grew up on a tangerine farm. Why, what’ve you got?”

Chopper glanced up at Zoro, who gave him a thumbs up. He hesitated a moment longer, then blurted all in one breath, “I want to plant a cherry tree will you help me?” 

Something in Nami’s face softened, and Zoro could guess she was remembering the same thing he was- the clouds of pink snow, soft and magical, falling over Drum as they sailed away. Maybe remembering something older than that, too. He remembered the way she’d looked at the ruins of her mother’s tangerine grove on the way out of Cocoyashi.

“Well, I don't know much about cherries specifically, but I do know fruiting trees,” she said, half to herself, looking thoughtful. “And I’m sure there has to be something in the library.”

Chopper’s eyes were bright and wide. “So you’ll help?” he asked hopefully, bouncing slightly in place. 

Nami rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was fond. “Of course I’ll help,” she said, folding up her map and swinging her legs over the side of her chair. 

Well, that was that settled. Zoro nodded to himself, stuck his hands in his pockets and turned around to head back to his nap.

“Oi! Where do you think you’re going!” Nami called before he’d made it more than a half step away. “You better bet you’re helping too, mister!” 

“I don’t even know anything about plants!” he protested. 

“Doesn’t matter!” she said decisively. “There’s a couple big ceramic planters down in the hold and a bag of fertilizer, hop to it, chop chop-”

He scoffed, but didn’t bother arguing further as he shifted his course to head down belowdecks. It wasn’t like he really minded, after all. 

It wouldn’t bloom right away, of course, might take two years or three, but he was sure Chopper would be as diligent about watering the little plants as he was about looking after their crewmates. The little reindeer was good at that- good at looking after things, making sure they stayed healthy and strong. 

Zoro was kind of looking forward to seeing cherry blossoms in bloom again.

#one piece #one piece fanfic #secret santa #roronoa zoro #tony tony chopper #nami #@giftee idk if you have an ao3? #but if you do #lemme know and ill gift it to you on there

[sultrysirens]

Blue Blood [Part 15]

Universe: Detroit: Become Human

Rating: PG-13 (swearing)

Characters: Connor, Evelyn (OC)

Tags: interspecies, romance, fluff, detective, law enforcement, original character, continuation, sex

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“Well, that was...an adventure,” Evelyn noted as they departed. 

“And informative,” Connor added, thoughtful. 

“Yeah? Anything in particular come to light?” she prompted. They pulled out of the estate’s grounds and were back on the main road quickly, the destination: her apartment. They’d done more than enough investigating for one day, a simple arrest leading to looking for a missing person leading to a chat with the matron of a powerful crime family. 

Forbes obviously needed her weekend break by now, he assumed, so he was fine with letting the trail be for now. They could pick it up again tomorrow. 

Glancing at her, he said, “I think Elias and Émelie were lovers.” 

She nodded. “I was getting that impression, too.” 

“Unless Elias crossed her somehow, I don’t see a motive for her being involved in his death,” he went on. 

“Hugo might have,” she suggested. “If they were lovers and he found out...” 

“It’s possible,” he agreed. “But I don’t think Hugo would’ve cared. It seems their marriage is more one of business than romance.” 

She inclined her head. “It’s very common. Especially with that comment Émelie made -- about Hugo being ‘overjoyed’ that a woman is interested in him.” 

“Extra-marital affairs,” he said. 

“Or an open marriage,” Evelyn offered. “Those are pretty common these days, too.” They were both quiet for a moment, then, before she checked, “Find anything of note while you were looking around?” 

He shook his head. “Nothing possibly crime-related. No recent blood stains, footprints out of place, nothing in the air...the house, at least, is crime-free.” 

“Unless everything is digital,” she noted. 

“Likely. I found it odd there wasn’t a computer in the study -- just a TV set.” 

“And how close the desk was to it -- I’m betting there was something behind there, the TV was just a better mask than a painting would be.” 

“Heavier, harder to move, more innocent -- I can see it,” he agreed. 

“I’ll just file that one away for later,” she said, “in case we ever raid the place.” 

Smart. He’d already done so by the time she verbally declared it. There was something intriguing, even comforting, about the knowledge that they followed the same train of thought, he noted. 

Like they really weren’t all that different, androids and humans.

He asked then, “So...you know French?” He was impressed.

She laughed. “Actually, no -- that was a bluff. I know two sentences in French. That was one.”

Amused, he asked, “And what’s the other?”

She grinned and, between chuckles, forced out, “Où sont les toilettes?”

Where is the bathroom?

He laughed. Of course she’d know one profound statement -- and a ridiculous query. “Well, your pronunciation is fairly accurate,” he noted.

She shook her head. “Yeah, I practiced that.”

“Why?” he prompted. “What drove you to learn exactly two phrases, and those two in particular?”

Chuckling again, she answered, “I-I didn’t, really. I picked them up from TV. Films, I think. I do this thing sometimes where I’ll repeat foreign languages, try to work out the pronunciation. And sometimes they stick.”

“And those two stuck?” he checked, doubtful.

“Yeah. The former cause it was difficult so it took a lot of work, the latter cause it was so simple,” she explained.

“Your mind is a curious thing,” he noted.

“From my perspective, my mind is fine. Yours is the curious one,” she countered.

A fair point, he agreed. He doubted humans and androids would ever fully understand each other; as he understood it, the way they thought was entirely different despite the many similarities. His thoughts could be broken down into Binary if he dug deep enough, he was sure, and he was actively recording everything he saw and heard as video and audio files.

Humans often thought either in pictures and sounds or words, some of them hearing their thoughts as verbal communication and others only as abstract intention. Neither aligned very well with how androids thought.

They were so different in their cores, humans and androids, despite how visually similar they were.

That thought managed to loop back around to another from earlier that day, and he asked, “May I ask you a personal question?” 

She smirked, amused. “Let me just answer that indefinitely: yes, you can ask. Whether or not I answer is another matter, but you can always ask.” 

That was good to know. “Your leg,” he began, “you said there were metal pins in the bones?” 

She hesitated, that simple inaction telling him a great deal -- namely that this was a very sensitive subject. He could understand that, he thought; she must’ve faced a great deal of trauma to have received such a wound. Psychological after-effects were common to the point of being expected.

At length, she offered, “Uh...yeah. Old wound, permanent damage,” she hinted. 

He absorbed that, thoughtful, then ventured, “May I ask what happened?” 

She gave a smile, but it was strained -- tense. “Accident involving a tower of weights. They fell over on top of me. My leg got the worst of it. Woke up three days later in a hospital bed.” 

That...definitely sounded traumatic, he admitted. “Where did this happen, Brass Balls?” he asked, concerned. If this happened at that shop...well, he already knew it was barely up to code. This would be the kind of thing to shut it down, and...thinking of Quincy...he really didn’t want to do that.

Nowadays his gym is his family, Evelyn had said.

Connor didn’t want to be the one to take that away.

Shaking her head, she hedged, “No, this was...before I graduated. Had this...injury...my whole adult life.” 

Her pauses, hesitating over certain words, got his attention more than what she was saying. She was implying much deeper psychological damage than she realized, he thought -- possibly more than she was aware of, herself. 

And he found himself both impressed and confused as to how she would’ve ended up an officer with such issues. Officers had to have pristine physical health to get accepted; Evelyn had a bad leg, it seemed. Yet, he’d never seen her limping or displaying such an injury. The only time she favored her leg was when she was sparring, and even then she was just keeping it out of danger. 

He noted, “You don’t seem to be bothered by it.” 

“It doesn’t slow me down, if that’s what you mean,” she returned. “I just try to stay conscious of it.” 

Hesitating, he asked, “Does it hurt?” 

At once, he could feel her tension skyrocket. It was such a bizarre thing -- she barely changed in a physical sense, only her throat giving a strain before relaxing again, yet he was aware of just how much that question had distressed her. 

She answered, subdued, “Sometimes.” 

Sometimes, he repeated. The way she said that made him think that it didn’t hurt often -- but when it did, it was very painful. 

In his mind, he tried to construct how her leg might be functioning based on the information he’d been given, and ultimately he determined that either the pins could fall out of alignment -- or she’d suffered nerve damage and sometimes it acted up. 

Either would account for sudden, unpredictable spikes of pain, he thought. And he made a decision then to keep an eye on her, just in case she fell prey to those surges when he was around. He wasn’t exactly built with physical therapy in mind, so he couldn’t offer a great deal of help, but he’d do whatever she needed.

Then she said, more sharply, “About this...I need you to not talk about it. Don’t bring it up with anyone.”

Surprised, he checked, “At the precinct?”

“In general,” she corrected. “No one knows -- I don’t want anyone to know. Outside of my family, it’s -- it doesn’t exist.”

He could see that, he thought. If it came to light that her leg was permanently damaged, she might lose her job. She’d told him that it was her career that kept her going, kept her from falling into depression. It was clearly vital to her, and more so, she was a fantastic officer.

Her case history was more than enough to prove that, but over the last few days he’d seen some of it in action. Even visibly exhausted and overworked, she’d still managed two-hour drives and active chases and hours of research. Her work ethic was admirable.

She was valuable in this profession.

“Alright,” he agreed easily. “I won’t bring it up. For context, though, may I ask who does know?”

“My parents and my sisters -- sister,” she corrected.

He sidestepped that particular landmine, checking, “Then, your husband...?”

“Doesn’t know,” she confirmed with a nod. “I never told him.”

Curious, he asked, “Why not?”

She hesitated over that question, hedging, and after a few moments of struggling for a response, she said, “Plead the fifth.”

...Noted.

That was highly suspicious, but he supposed everyone had their secrets. It wasn’t his place to pick apart her brain and try to figure out why she chose to keep some things quiet over others. She had her reasons, he was sure -- and those reasons were probably traumatic. Best not to prod at them.

Nodding, he relented, replying, “Then I take it you never wanted me to know, either.”

She inclined her head. “Not really. But there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Metal detectors are my bane.”

His, too. “I wasn’t certain I’d set it off,” he said, thoughtful. “I would’ve thought CyberLife would’ve found a way to prevent that by now -- they already succeeded in protecting us from electricity, so it seemed logical.”

“Well, are you magnetic?” she asked.

“No.”

“That’s probably about as much protection as they felt you needed,” she said. “Unaffected by electricity and magnets -- boom, you’re safe from all the big things. Keeping you from setting off metal detectors was probably determined as being a luxury, and lord knows big companies aren’t keen on providing luxuries.”

He could definitely see that.

“I’m surprised you set off the metal detector, too,” she began. “I thought you were plastic?”

“Externally, yes,” he agreed, “but internally there’s still metal casing and things similar to bones.” Patting his chest, he explained, “Keeps everything sturdy and in place.”

“Makes sense,” she noted, nodding. “So you have, like, a rib cage?”

“Not so much. More of just a spine, shoulders, arms, legs...the frame is simplistic. Its design is more to keep all our biocomponents and parts in place while keeping us light in weight.” 

“Cool.”

He smirked, amused.

They fell into small talk then, mostly Evelyn sharing information about L.A., which he appreciated. He could look up the history of the city from its founding in 1835 or even earlier, but none of that would account for a citizen’s perspective. Her insight was invaluable.

The most important things were obviously how the city functioned currently, but he was curious about everything. Like Detroit, it had a storied past, entire books written about this one city. So old and intrinsic to the U.S. as they both were, they were living monuments of human achievement and persistence.

Evelyn didn’t know much beyond when she’d begun working at the precinct a decade earlier, but it was more than enough to get him up to speed. Combined with his foot tour the day prior and he was compiling a great deal of information about the city as a whole.

It was a contradiction, this city -- simultaneously one of the richest and poorest of U.S. cities. The SubTube had seen to that, he thought, at once both despondent and impressed with the transportation achievement. Its speed and capability were incredible and priceless, but the effects L.A.’s populace were suffering for its release was...painful.

He was worried Evelyn would end up one of those displaced by its appearance. It would be a disaster, both for her and all those she helped on a daily basis. He could only hope that, if it came to that, her husband would be able to keep her off the streets.

Following that thought, he asked, “Detective? What does your husband do? He’s employed, correct?”

She seemed surprised by the question but answered, “Yeah. He’s a manager at a hotel. La Esencia,” she explained.

He ran a quick search on it, concluding it’d been built in 2027. Reviews stated it was smaller but comfortable, four stories tall with ten-to-fourteen rooms on each floor. It was ranked as four-star and just recently began plans to expand out of L.A.

What had begun as one hotel became three in 2033, then six in 2038, and now it’d been announced that they were going to start opening hotels across the country. Construction had yet to begin.

And Richard Sinclair was the manager at one location, it seemed.

“That’s likely lucrative,” he noted.

“It certainly was,” she agreed.

Curious, he checked, “What changed?”

“The revolution,” she answered. “Most of the employees had been androids. Richard said only two came back after everything settled -- cut down from thirty-two,” she hinted. “The workload on all of them has skyrocketed.”

A little shocked, he checked, “Did he not have any human employees?”

“Six, yeah, and they’re still on,” she agreed, “but they’ve all had to take on heavier loads. Granted, tourism plummeted in the last month, too, so they’re not having to wrangle the raw numbers they once had, but still. It’s hard on them.”

And Connor heard the sympathy in her voice as she spoke, the almost reluctant affection. She was concerned, he realized.

“You’re worried about him,” he concluded.

Her shoulders dipped a fraction. “Yeah. I worry. He used to run the front desk, then worked his way up to manager. He knows the ins and outs of every part of the job. But that just means he can -- and will -- do everything.”

Drawing a picture, he suggested, “And you’re concerned he’ll hurt himself doing so.” 

“He’s hurt himself before, doing so,” she answered quietly. Shaking her head, she said, “He works too hard sometimes. He messed up his knee just from how much walking he does around the hotel.”

And now Connor was seeing a parallel between husband and wife. Both of them seemed to be very hard workers, willing to put themselves through Hell for their careers.

With a sigh, she went on, “From a personal standpoint, the revolution happened at a terrible time. It’s bad enough just being separated like this -- and now we’re both bogged down with extra work on top of it. It’s chaos, everywhere, and we can’t even be there for each other...”

Sympathetic but not apologetic, he replied, “I won’t apologize. We needed our freedom. But I feel for your individual situation.”

She gave the barest smile, reaching over to give his shoulder a rub. “I don’t expect apologies. And I agree with you, Connor. None of this is your fault,” she told him, “except all the good parts.”

It was surprising, how much relief he felt from that simple statement. “Thank you,” he said, sincere.

Her smile warmed, then, and she replied, “Thank you, too.”

Touched, he could only respond, “You’re welcome.”

--

The rest of the day passed quietly -- which, after the last few days, was preferred. It was barely four in the afternoon when they made it back to the apartment, and Evelyn was more than ready to get in some relaxation. Connor, on the other hand, never quite stopped thinking about the case. 

She made herself a late lunch, then sat down to catch up on the news. He watched absently, his mind elsewhere, ultimately concluding that nothing worthy of national news had occurred since yesterday evening. He did, however, catch a brief news report about “the first android assault case” in L.A. 

Evelyn glanced over at him with a smirk. “See? Told you there’d be a statement.” 

He couldn’t withhold a grin, pleased. She’d been right. Then, settling on a different thought, he said, “I’m curious about something.”

“Wassat?” she prompted.

“Have you ever...had an android?” he asked her, though he had difficulty with the phrasing. He found he couldn’t ask if she’d owned an android, the very idea scraping at him.

She shook her head. “No, actually, funny though that might sound.”

“Why would that sound funny?” he wondered.

“Cause these days, pretty much every human bought at least one android,” she pointed out.

“Yet there were only 120 million across the planet,” he countered. Now closer to 100 million, he knew, but he opted not to think about that.

“Fair point. The answer is no,” she told him.

“So you’ve never had an android?” he pressed. It wasn’t that he doubted her, he just wanted to be sure. He told himself as much.

“Nope. Never.” Then, waving her hand, she corrected, “Well, Richard did, when I first met him. A secretary,” she explained. “Named her Joanne.” 

“But he didn’t keep her?” Connor checked. 

Shaking her head, Evelyn explained, “I told him I wasn’t comfortable, having an android in the house. So he sold her. No idea what happened to her since,” she said, a note of melancholy to her voice. 

He felt a bit the same, a part of him wondering what happened to Joanne and if she was even still alive after all this time. Generally androids didn’t last that long, either due to being replaced or mistreated until killed. 

A memory rose to the fore: Eden Club, the back room, androids of numerous appearances standing in lines to be diagnosed after sustaining damage. At the time he’d had other focus, had felt indifferent to the sight, but Hank’s horror and the perspective of hindsight painted a different picture. Now he felt...sorrow, a yearning to go back and help those he couldn’t at the time. 

He hoped Joanne had found a better life. 

But, for now, he tried to stay in the present. “You weren’t comfortable?” he echoed, confused to hear Evelyn having that reaction to androids. He pointed out, “You’re fine with me.” 

“You’re my partner,” she told him. “Joanne was a...servant. I don’t like that -- never did. Don’t like being served, like I’m incapable of handling my own affairs. I got why he bought Joanne in the first place, though -- running a hotel isn’t easy. Secretaries help. I told him I’d feel better if he hired a human rather than use an android, he said androids are better with computing -- we argued,” she hinted. “Ultimately I got my way...and I’ve regretted it ever since.” 

Concerned, Connor asked, “Why?” 

Shaking her head, she explained, “I put my comfort over her safety. Richard’s a gentle one,” she told him. “He never mistreated her and I wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. If I hadn’t been so pushy...I could’ve at least watched out for her. But, then,” she added wearily, “I couldn’t have predicted this: the revolution. How would I have known that she might’ve needed me?” 

“Evie…” he murmured, a feeling of sorrow welling up. Her heart was too soft, too kind; she was clearly suffering in guilt for things that might’ve happened, and years after the fact. 

She glanced over, pulled from wherever her mind had traveled, then said, “I guess there’s no point in worrying over it now. Can’t change the past, can’t predict the future...the only thing any of us can really do is try to be better than we were yesterday.” 

Excellent point. “That’s a good philosophy,” he noted. “One everyone -- human and android alike -- would be wise to adopt.” 

She gave a half-smile. “Evelyn Forbes, zen guru, full of pearls of wisdom,” she joked. 

He chuckled. “Well, you are fifty-seven times older than I am,” he hinted. 

“Oh -- oh, ow,” she complained, patting her chest. “Ugh, straight knives, right to the heart! How dare you,” she pouted. 

He shrugged. “It’s the truth,” he tried. Then, as another thought came to him, he asked, “Had you ever thought about...buying an android?” That was difficult to ask, he found. The very implication that Evelyn might have bought an android went against the grain, given what he knew of her. But he admitted that people change, and the way she was now didn’t mean she wasn’t different before his arrival. 

That took her by surprise. She answered, “Well...yeah, the idea crossed my mind. Plenty of times. Case in point, back in ‘35, for a while L.A. was obsessed with personal trainer androids, and I train on weekends, Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was a sensible idea,” she explained. 

“But you decided against it,” he concluded. 

She shrugged. “I didn’t really need it. Besides which, my routine is a source of pride for me. If I got help, started depending on an android to keep track of my progress -- well, there goes the whole point.” 

“You have a lot of pride,” he commented. 

“Noticed that, did you?” 

“Day one,” he hinted. 

She laughed. “Well, it’s not like I was keeping it secret.” 

“Out of curiosity,” he said then, “what was it about androids that caused you so much irritation? Most humans seemed perfectly fine with, and even excited by, the prospect of android slaves.” 

She paused, thoughtful, then replied, “The unofficial tagline -- do you know what it was?” He didn’t; he gestured to her to continue, and she answered, “‘You don’t wanna do it, have an android do it.’ At first I’m sure it seemed like a great idea. Hate doing dishes? Have an android do it. Hate washing clothes? Have an android do it. It went on. Hate cooking? Hate cleaning? I certainly do,” she added to herself. “And it spiraled from there.” 

God, if it hadn’t, he agreed. 

“Boring jobs turned into dangerous jobs turned into greed and from there into true, infinite laziness.” She shook her head. “Humans very quickly started using androids for absolutely everything. Housework, heavy labor, secretary work, policework,” she hinted, “and finally to sex. ‘What you don’t want to do’ turned into ‘literally every possible task’.” 

“NASA had planned on sending androids to Jupiter with no return plan,” Connor noted. “They were designed to die, alone and stranded in space.” 

“Were going to be,” she corrected. “Hopefully that plan was shelved.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Do you know what really got me? Child-rearing androids,” she told him. “How...fucked up is that, that we consider raising our own kids something we don’t want to do?” 

She was tense, he could see. This clearly scratched her deep. He tried, “Humans have had nannies for millennia. Is it really so strange, having someone else raise your children?” 

“Not in that context, I guess,” she allowed, “but there’s still a key difference, Connor: choice. Any human can hire a nanny, pay them for their work -- instead they chose to buy an android and leave it at that.” 

“I don’t expect as many people had that choice available to them as you think,” he argued. “If your choices are to buy an android for $900 or pay a human for the foreseeable future at a fixed rate, and you’re already struggling to hold a job, what choice is there?” 

Shaking her head, she shot back, “You’re assuming anyone struggling to keep a job will just have $900 on hand at any point, and they don’t. The poor couldn’t afford to buy androids -- only the rich. And chances are, they have the time they need to raise their kids, they just find it unpalatable.” 

“Maybe,” he allowed, “or maybe the poor had greater need, so they found a way to afford the costs.” 

She inclined her head. “Cut corners, clipped coupons -- I can see that. But choice goes both ways. Humans can choose to be nannies, to raise children, because they enjoy it. We never gave androids the chance to enjoy anything -- just forced them into the roles we wanted.”

He considered that for a moment, then offered, “I suppose, on the scale of undesirable tasks, child-rearing is easily one of the best. I imagine if you gave every deviant the option to go back to their former lives, the ones most likely to do so would be nannies. There’s an inherent joy to it.”

That seemed to give her pause, and at length, she nodded. “I can see that. Raising children can be incredibly rewarding and even euphoric, depending on the person. Who’s to say androids wouldn’t enjoy it, too? For that matter, who’s to say how many androids had been perfectly happy with their lives before the revolution and would go back if given the chance?”

He couldn’t speak for all androids, but he’d quite enjoyed being a detective -- hence why he’d returned to this profession.

“But you’re still missing the biggest -- and arguably the worst -- android luxury there was,” she went on.

That had him curious. “Which was?” 

Catching his gaze, she answered, “The YK500. Literally children you can program to behave exactly how you want them to. No worrying over hunger or struggling to get them into bed at night. All the love, none of the nasty surprises -- like waking up to hear your kid screaming in pain and finding they fell out of bed and broke their arm, or sudden illnesses cause they ate something they shouldn’t have, or puberty as a whole. No temper tantrums,” she hinted. “All the things that make raising kids actually worth it -- poof, gone.” 

He couldn’t argue that one -- both because he had no idea what raising children entailed or what its rewards were, and because she’d made her point very concisely. 

“That’s when I knew the decline of humanity was imminent,” she said. “It was always inevitable, but now it’s right on the horizon. We’ve reached the point where it was considered okay to have robots raising our kids while we raised robotic kids instead. Taking the easier path in every sense of the term.” 

Something heavy and uncomfortable hit him then, right in the chest. Empathy, he wondered? Was he picking up on Evelyn’s obvious turmoil -- or was this his own? 

“There’s no point, you know,” she told him. “No point to android kids except the phrase ‘I want’. Greed coupled with apathy -- I want kids, but I don’t want real kids with flaws and unpredictability. I want kids I can tell how to behave and they’ll do it. Just sheer obedience. Slave children,” she said, voice hard. 

And he didn’t know how to respond to that. She was right -- at least about there being no point to android children. If the purpose behind androids was usefulness, then the YK500 had none. It certainly lent credence to the theory that there was more to android creation and marketing than what CyberLife claimed.

Most androids had a hypothesis about the truth by now. Among them: androids were meant to replace humanity; androids were meant to be immortal bodies for rich humans, they just needed to be good enough first; androids were meant to lead humans to a utopia of unrivaled bliss; androids were meant to supplant and destroy humans...the list went on.

Then again, maybe it really was all about money. That’s what Amanda had told him: that CyberLife’s goal was just to keep selling androids and making money. But then what? What happens after, when androids outnumber humans? What was the end goal? There was no way CyberLife didn’t have a plan for what comes next -- the question was what that plan was.

They were both quiet for a time, lost in their own thoughts, before Evelyn concluded, “Anyway, that’s why androids make me so uncomfortable. Not for what they are -- for what you are,” she told him, “but for what it represents for humans. The end,” she said, melancholy. 

The end...of humanity? That’s what androids equated for her? 

“Evie,” he murmured, hesitant. The decline of humanity is imminent, she’d said -- and this is what she meant? Not androids destroying humans, but humans allowing their own destruction through androids’ existence? 

The future is going to go one of two ways, she’d said when they met. Either androids are going to grab us by the ears and pull us out of this hole, or they’re going to grab shovels and bury us. 

“What is it you expect to happen?” he asked, cautious. Her signs of depression were stronger than ever before, and he knew how easily it could tip into suicidal thoughts. He needed to proceed carefully, get a feel for her mental state, and hopefully get her on steadier ground. 

She shook her head. “I honestly couldn’t guess. Aside from the total decline of humanity,” she added, “but I expect that’ll occur regardless of android intervention rather than because of it. But for all I know that’ll take millennia yet.” 

Still hesitant, he ventured, “You know most androids don’t want a war, right? Markus, especially -- after everything that’s happened, he truly believes that humans are good, as a whole. The bad ones just stand out more.” 

“Negative affinity,” she mused. “Funny -- it’s one of humanity’s worst traits, and somehow we managed to give it to you, too.” 

Negative affinity, he repeated: the condition of seeing bad things as worse than they are, largely because bad things are more rare than good ones and, thus, are less expected. Getting into a car accident or falling ill were noted because it happened comparatively rarely to successfully driving to your destination or having another perfectly healthy day. 

“Or we developed it on our own,” he pointed out. “It’s useful for reminding ourselves how fragile the good days are -- and how much we should appreciate them.” 

She glanced at him sideways. “Look who’s the zen guru now,” she teased. 

He smiled.

--

[>>>NEXT>>>]

#siren nightshade #detroit: become human #dbh #blue blood #part 15 #interspecies #exophilia #romance #sfw

[andthisisthewonder]

Warning Sign

Summary: All Detective Peeta Mellark wants is to save Katniss from herself. But some people don’t want to be saved.

A/N: Title from the song “I Found” by Amber Run. This fic contains several references to rape and murder. You can also read it on AO3.

Peeta’s first mistake was leaving his cell phone’s ringer on after he had crawled into bed. He needed the noise to wake him in case Katniss called or texted. She was prone to nightmares followed by bouts of insomnia. He had spent countless nights talking to her until his alarm went off, an insistent beeping underneath her voice. He would hang up then, leaving her to fall asleep as he showered and shaved and showed up for work, bleary-eyed and indescribably happy.

He had promised Finnick he would stop spending so much time with Katniss, but he still wasn’t sure it was a promise he could keep. At the very least, he could stop picking up every call, stop responding to every text. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to switch his phone to silent before burrowing into his pillow.

Shortly after midnight, his cell phone dinged. Before he could grab his phone, it dinged twice more. He only managed a quick glance at the incoherent messages before it rang in his hand.

Five minutes later, he was dressed and in his car.

It had been difficult to hear her over the pounding music in the background, but he had gotten the important details. Katniss was drunk. She was at a club. She was alone.

He didn’t ask why she had called him and not one of her friends. Even after a year and a half, he still had trouble calling himself her friend. At ten years her senior, he felt uncomfortable hanging out with a twenty-three year old. But she didn’t consider it an issue, and honestly, the age gap was the least of their problems.

Miraculously, he found parking only a block away. He jogged to the entrance, shoved the ten dollar cover charge into the bouncer’s outstretched hand, and disappeared into the dimly lit club. Maybe he was getting old, but the music seemed absurdly loud. Conversation would be near impossible. Of course, no one came to a place like Gild for the conversation.

The place was packed. Peeta craned his neck in search of Katniss’s dark braid. She hated dancing, drinking, and most people. This was the last place in the world he’d expect to find her. Why weren’t Madge or Johanna with her? They were Katniss’s best friends, even if they rarely saw each other anymore.

A thin, petite brunette caught Peeta’s eye. He froze. Even out of the braid, he recognized the dark hair spilling down her back. And that green dress...it was short and form-fitting, nothing like what she usually wore, but he recognized it from where it had hung on a hanger in the back of her closest for the past eighteen months.

He watched as she tipped her head back and downed a shot. She slammed the glass onto the table, and threw her hands up in triumph.

What the fuck?

She was surrounded by three men; overeager, drunk, foolish men. One of them offered her another shot, but Peeta grabbed her wrist before she could take it.

“Peeta!” She threw her arms around his neck. “You came!”

“Come on,” he said, leaning back to look at her. “I’m taking you home.”

“Hey!” A tall man with dark hair wedged himself in between Katniss and Peeta. “I don’t think she’s ready to go yet.”

Peeta tried to swallow his anger. Slamming the man’s head into the table wasn’t an option, even though he desperately wanted to. He knew what this man wanted from Katniss, what he would take given the opportunity. Peeta reached around him, his hand easily finding hers. She sidestepped the man and rested her head on Peeta’s chest.

She tugged on his shirt and he leaned down to hear her.

“I want to go home.”

It was too loud to discern her tone, but her mouth curved downward in the beginning of a frown. Her gray eyes were bloodshot.

Without a word, they turned toward the exit, but the dark-haired man grabbed Peeta’s arm. Before he could say a word, Peeta barged into the man’s personal space, forcing him backward. Peeta didn’t stop until the man collided with the table and an empty shot glass hit the ground.

Peeta took his badge out of his back pocket and shoved it into the man’s face. “I’m taking her home.”

The man, bent backward over the table, his elbow resting in a puddle of vodka, threw up his hands in surrender.

When Peeta turned around, Katniss was gone. His heartbeat picked up speed, panic replacing the last remnants of exhaustion. He took a few steps toward the exit, and saw her at the bar.

Jesus. The last thing she needed was another drink.

By the time he reached her, she was slipping her credit card into her wristlet. “I had to close my tab,” she shouted as an explosion of music practically shook the place.

Peeta’s eyes widened at the sight of the two hundred dollar bill. Katniss tapped a pen against her cheek as she studied the amount. Then, she carefully wrote the total in the tip section. Peeta touched her arm, trying to point out her mistake, but he could only watch as she added the identical amounts together and wrote the new total at the bottom: four hundred dollars. Katniss signed it, added a smiley face, and handed it to the bartender.

“You make great drinks!” Katniss shouted, patting the bartender on the cheek. All the man could do was stare. Peeta tugged her the rest of the way out of the club.

Once they were out on the street, the silence swallowed them whole. It was louder than the music, and Peeta didn’t dare break it. He was afraid the words would come out wrong. Everything he was feeling felt too big for his body, and he knew it would seep into his words. He didn’t want to yell at her. She wasn’t even the one he was angry at. It was everyone else. The whole world.

He pulled his key fob from his pocket and hit unlock. He opened the passenger side door, waited for Katniss to climb inside, and leaned in to click the seatbelt into place.

“I could have done that,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice.

This close, he could smell the alcohol on her breath. He turned his head, and the sight of her face made everything burst out of his body: the anger, the frustration, the misery.

“You’re not making great choices tonight. I figured I’d help you out with this one.”

Fuck. That was exactly the kind of he thing he didn’t want to say. But when you’re angry at everything, you have to take it out on someone.

“Calling you was another great choice, I see.” She tried to unbuckle the seatbelt, but he grabbed her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. Let me take you home.” After a moment, he added quietly, “Please.”

She stared down at his hand covering hers. Without looking up, she nodded, and he closed the door.

They were less than a mile away from the club when he asked the question that had been on his mind since she called him.

“Why were you out by yourself?”

“Everyone’s been telling me to get out more,” Katniss said. “Even you.”

“I didn’t mean by yourself.”

“What’s wrong, Peeta? Is my dress too short? Too tight? Should I have invited a big strong man out to protect me?”

His knuckles turned white against the steering wheel, but he didn’t take the bait. “You’re wearing the dress Prim picked out for you.”

She turned back toward the window. “I just wanted to feel something different. I wanted to be somewhere so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think.”

“Well, I’m glad you called,” he said. “I’ll go with you next time. If you want.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” she said.

“I know. But if something ever happened to you...”

“Stop,” she said. “We’re supposed to spend less time together. That’s what you said, remember?”

He winced at her words, at the lack of emotion behind them. Every time he tried to push her away, he ended up hurting the both of them.

A couple of weeks ago, he had agreed to go on a date with a woman Finnick knew. Finnick was constantly on his case about hanging out with a female other than Katniss, so he hoped this would get Finnick off his back.

The plan had been to go out with the woman once and then tell Finnick the connection wasn’t there. It would have worked too if Katniss hadn’t texted shortly after he arrived at the restaurant. She hadn’t known he was on a date. She had assumed he was home watching TV like he usually did after work. It had been his own fault that he had ditched his date before the appetizer had even made it to the table.

Finnick had been pissed when he found out.

“Your friendship is not healthy,” Finnick had said. “Whenever she calls, you come running no matter what you’re doing.”

“It’s not one-sided. She’s there for me too,” Peeta had insisted. He didn’t know how to explain that being around her after a particularly rough day made everything so much better. The simple act of eating takeout and watching TV with her made him feel loads lighter.

“Whatever you say. All I know is that relationships built on tragedies rarely work. She’s going to break your heart.”

The worst part was that Finnick was right. Peeta had had this thought before so many times, but it was different hearing it out loud from someone else. It made it true.

So he had told Katniss they should hang out less, and look where they were now. She had been out drinking by herself, and he had hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in a week.

“Staying away from you is turning out to be much more difficult than I thought,” Peeta said, reaching out to grab Katniss’s hand where it rested in her lap. She didn’t pull away.

“You either care about me or you don’t,” she said. “Stop pretending.”

“I care,” he said quietly. “You have no idea how much I care.”

He had first met Katniss a year and a half ago when he had come across her in the parking lot of the police station where he worked. She had been beating the shit out of a car with a tennis racket.

Others had taken notice, but he had been the first. He had been the closest. So he had assessed the situation and approached her.

“Excuse me?” he called out, unfailingly calm. While this girl was behaving erratically, she didn’t seem to present much of a danger to anything except the car in front of her.

She stopped, the racket still clutched in her right hand, breathing hard.

“Is this your car?” he asked.

“Yes.” She slammed the racket into the windshield.

He forced a smile, trying to keep their exchange as relaxed as possible. “Did it attack first?”

She stopped again. She was crying now, wisps of hair that had escaped from her braid sticking to her cheeks.

“They said I have to go to the morgue. I have to identify her body. I have to--” She glanced down at the racket in her hand as if she couldn’t understand why she held it. “This was in the backseat. She’s always leaving her shit in my backseat.”

All at once, he knew who this girl was. Her name was Katniss Everdeen, and she had reported her sixteen-year-old sister missing four days ago. Early this morning, a body had been found, and the evidence suggested it was Primrose.

Detectives Coin and Snow had been assigned to the case, but Peeta was familiar with the details. Everyone in the precinct knew about it. Everyone in town. Pretty soon the whole state would too. It wasn’t just the pretty, young girl at the center of it, but the boy that had been brought in for questioning. Cato West. The son of a politician on the rise.

Peeta took a step closer. “My name is Peeta Mellark. I’m a detective here. Do you want me to drive you to the morgue?”

She stared at the pavement for a long moment before nodding her head. She dropped the racket and followed him to his squad car.

The drive to the morgue was quiet. It wasn’t until the drive back to Katniss’s apartment, after she had positively identified Prim’s body, after she had thrown up in the bushes lining the parking lot, after she had sat on the cold cement staring straight ahead for five long minutes while Peeta remained beside her, that Katniss finally spoke again.

“It was Cato. He did this.”

Peeta knew better than to probe further. This wasn’t his case. These weren’t his questions to ask. All he could think to say was, “You have to be prepared to wait. The road to justice can be a long one. If it goes to trial…”

Katniss continued to stare straight ahead. “I can be very, very patient.”

Peeta had dropped her off at her apartment with his business card and the promise to have her car towed to a nearby auto body shop. At the last minute, he scribbled his personal cell phone number on the back.

“You can call me any time. For any reason. Okay?”

She had thanked him without meeting his eyes and shut the door with a quiet click. He was reluctant to leave her alone, worried that she would destroy her own home or, worse, hurt herself. But what could he do? There were lines he couldn’t cross.

Hours later, she had called to tell him about Prim’s skills as a tennis player, how Prim had been playing for years and placed second in her most recent tournament. He had listened patiently, knowing she needed to talk to someone and knowing it shouldn’t be him. But still. He couldn’t hang up.

Fifteen minutes into the conversation, she had finally confessed that she had had the sudden urge to destroy all of Prim’s trophies which was why she had called him instead.

He dropped all pretense of professionalism as she continued to call day after day, and he continued to pick up.

A few weeks into their strange phone-only relationship, she told him she couldn’t shake her destructive urges.

“I want to burn it all,” she confessed.

“What? Prim’s belongings?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “And the apartment. Everything. I want to set my whole life on fire.”

*

Peeta’s second mistake that night came fifteen minutes later when he pulled into a visitor’s parking space in front of Katniss’s apartment complex instead of dropping her off in front. He had a myriad of excuses, of course. She was drunk. He had to make sure she made it to her apartment, and then to bed. What if she got sick? What if the sadness and anger were swallowing her whole, and she turned destructive?

What if he drove away and spent the rest of the night with this ache in his chest, thinking of her?

“Are you coming up?” she asked.

“If you want me to.”

She nodded.

Clutching her wristlet, she led the way into the building. As the elevator ascended to the twelfth floor, Katniss yawned and leaned into Peeta’s side. He squashed the urge to wrap an arm around her waist and drop a kiss on her head.

As they approached her door, Katniss lagged behind him.

“We’re almost there,” he said.

“I’m tired. My feet hurt.”

He sighed, glancing down at the heels she wore. Where had she even gotten those? He had only ever seen her in boots and sneakers. Maybe she owned a pair for special occasions.

He held out his hands. “Keys.”

She handed them over, and he continued toward her door. He had just inserted the key when he heard a bang, a thump, and then a laugh. He turned to see Katniss on the ground, one heel in her hand and the other still on her foot.

“Whoops,” she said.

“Shh. You’re going to wake everyone up.”

She kicked the heel off and it hit the opposite wall. She laughed again. “These are Prim’s, you know. I went out dancing in a dead girl’s shoes.” She threw the remaining heel as hard as she could. It left a dent.

As Peeta rushed over, the door next to Katniss’s apartment opened. An older woman, gray hair tied in a messy bun, eyes bleary from sleep, stuck her head out.

“Oh, Detective Mellark,” the woman said.

“Sorry Sae,” Peeta said, helping Katniss to her feet. She wobbled, and he steadied her before scooping up her heels. “Katniss had a little too much fun tonight.”

“You’ll take care of her?” Sae asked.

“Yeah. I’ll get some water into her and put her to bed.”

Katniss raised her eyebrows in her neighbor’s direction. “He’s going to put me to bed,” she said in an exaggerated whisper.

“I’m not--” He sighed. “Goodnight, Sae. Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s okay.” She rubbed Katniss’s arm. “Goodnight, dear. Sleep well.”

Katniss disappeared into the apartment and Sae held her hand up to stop Peeta. “I’m glad she has you,” Sae said.

“I’m glad I have her too.”

Peeta dropped Katniss’s keys in the bowl near the entrance of her apartment. He lined the heels up beside the boots that stood to the left of the door. He heard the water running in the bathroom, which he knew was down the hall and on the right. Her bedroom lay beyond that. Prim’s bedroom was at the end of the hall, but her door was always kept closed. He had seen the inside only once.

Peeta had been to Katniss’s apartment countless times before tonight. They had made dinner together or watched a movie or talked for hours on her couch. Most often, they did all three. He had even been here this late, their conversations stretching into the night when Katniss’s insomnia refused to relinquish its hold on her. But tonight felt different.

The first time he saw the inside of Katniss’s apartment was the day all charges were dropped against Cato. Peeta hadn’t known that was going to happen despite seeing Coin and Snow everyday. After word got around the precinct that he had developed a friendship with Katniss, Coin and Snow became even more tight lipped about the case. They didn’t trust Peeta not to run to Katniss with even the smallest of details.

But dropping all charges against Cato? That was public knowledge. It had made the goddamn news.

Peeta had been out for a jog during the live press conference. After he had arrived home and taken a shower, he finally looked at his phone and found a message from one of the secretaries at the police station. Apparently, a woman named Sae had called, asking for him. She had left her number and asked that he return her call right away.

Peeta may never have met Sae, but he knew her as Katniss’s neighbor.

“Detective Mellark? Thank goodness,” Sae said when she picked up her phone.

“What’s going on?”

“She won’t let me in. I keep knocking on the door and calling out to her, but she won’t open it.”

Peeta’s pulse quickened. “Is something wrong?”

“I can hear glass shattering,” Sae said. “She must have seen the news.”

Peeta rushed out the door. If he had had his patrol car, he would have turned on the siren just to get everyone else out of the way.

When he made it up to Katniss’s apartment, he didn’t hear a sound. He knocked on the door, called out her name, and a few moments later, she let him in.

The kitchen was covered in shattered glass. Dishes, mugs, wine glasses...fragments scattered from corner to corner. Pieces glinted from where they lay on the kitchen table, the top of the stove, the counters. He grabbed her hands, examining them for cuts.

“Did you see the press conference?” Katniss asked. “Did you hear his fucking father?”

“I’m sorry.” He had no idea Cato’s father had issued a statement. He could only imagine how he had spun Prim’s death.

“‘Binge drinking is an epidemic in this country,’” she quoted, her hands tightening around Peeta’s. “So is fucking date rape!”

The tears came then, but the anger burned brighter than her grief. “He commended me on doing my best to raise Prim on my own, but I’m young and irresponsible. Is it any wonder Prim turned to partying to cope with her fucked up family? He’s lying!”

“I know,” Peeta said softly.

“Prim was smart and kind, and she was so, so good. The only mistake she ever made was getting involved with that asshole’s son!” She headed back toward the kitchen. Peeta couldn’t imagine there was anything left to break, but he raced to cut her off.

“He’s twisting the story,” she said. “He’s turning her into someone else. How could he do that? He knows what Cato did. He knows.”

Katniss had given Peeta all the details about Prim’s relationship with Cato. They had dated for four months, but Prim had ended things when Cato wouldn’t stop pressuring her for sex. Cato denied this, and Katniss couldn’t prove it.

The facts were these: Prim disappeared during a party at Cato’s home on a Friday night. Five days later, Prim’s body was found in the woods. She had been raped. The coroners had ruled her cause of death asphyxiation.

This was the theory: Cato had been drunk. He had been angry. He had lured Prim into a bedroom to talk, probably playing the sad, wounded rich boy act that had gotten her attention in the first place. He had attacked her. When she fought back, he tried to muffle her screams and ended up killing her.

Well, that had been the theory. Cato was no longer a person of interest, and Peeta had no idea what angle Coin and Snow would pursue next.

But they were wrong. He knew they were wrong. One look at that sneering boy’s face, and Peeta knew he was guilty.

“I can’t stop thinking about her body,” Katniss said. “I want to picture her alive and happy, but all I can remember is the morgue.”

“Katniss…”

“She must have been so scared,” she said. “Can you imagine that kind of fear?”

He pulled Katniss into his chest and cupped the back of her head.

“I can’t breathe,” she said. Her tears dampened the front of his shirt. “I can’t breathe, I can’t--” Then she was sobbing, shaking in his arms. Almost an hour passed before she had so completely exhausted herself that she fell asleep. He carried her into the bedroom and closed the door.

As quietly as he could, he swept up the mess in the kitchen. Small pieces of glass grazed his hands, leaving little cuts behind. He barely noticed them.

When she woke hours later to find him nodding off on the couch, she sat down beside him.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “And for staying.”

“Of course,” Peeta said.

“But you should have left the kitchen alone. That wasn’t your mess to clean up.”

“You have to let me help you,” he said. “I want to help you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you can.”

*

When Katniss emerged from the bathroom, her dress was gone. She strolled into the kitchen clad only in a bra and underwear and pulled a box of hot chocolate mix from the cabinet.

Peeta stared. Lust and shame competed inside him as he struggled to tear his eyes away from her skin. He had never seen so much of her before. Nudity embarrassed her. Even revealing clothes made her shy, but there wasn’t a hint of self-consciousness as she grabbed a mug.

She was acting so out of character tonight. He wondered if there was something other than alcohol at work here.

Finally, he looked down at the ground and cleared his throat. Maybe if he didn’t mention it, everything would be fine.

“You need to drink some water,” he said. And put on some clothes, he mentally added.

“I want hot chocolate.” She poured milk into the mug before putting it in the microwave.

He grabbed her wrist before she could set the timer.

“You need to drink some water and go to bed.”

“Why?”

Her arm was still outstretched, holding the handle of the microwave door. He pulled her into his body, forcing her to let go.

“You went out tonight wearing the dress Prim picked out for you two weeks before she died. A dress you haven’t touched in a year and a half,” he said. “You put on her shoes, and you went to a club and got drunk with men you don’t even know.”

She yanked her arm away and tilted her chin up, defiant. “So what?”

“Are you serious?”

“I don’t need your analysis,” she snapped. “I don’t need your advice, and I don’t need your help.”

“Then why the hell did you call me?”

She scowled but said nothing.

“Katniss?”

In the silence that followed, Peeta made his third mistake of the night. Instead of getting frustrated and pushing her to go to bed so they could talk in the morning, he touched her. Tucking her hair back behind her ear, he let his thumb graze her cheek.

He had touched her before, held her close as she cried, mumbled calming words into her hair, but this felt different. Everything about this night felt charged with something new and terrifying.

“You can talk to me,” he said.

Katniss stood up on her tiptoes, pressed her lips to his, and he was gone.

He had fantasized about kissing her more times than he was comfortable admitting, and he had also sworn he would never actually do it. But there were so much about this moment that he hadn’t anticipated, so many new discoveries: the taste of her toothpaste, the scratch of the lace of her bra against his arm, the hum of pleasure she made when he kissed her back.

His fantasies hadn’t prepared him for the reality of her lips and hands and warmth. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

She pulled away first, her lips a breath away from his. “Did you mean what you said in the car?” she asked. “About how much you care?”

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers.

“Maybe you should try telling me how much,” she said.

He kissed her brow, her cheek, her jaw. “You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning.” He kissed the side of her mouth, lingering close as he said, “You’re the last thing I think of before I fall asleep.”

Telling her the truth wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he thought it would be. Not with her already pressed up against him, not after she had kissed him first. Maybe this was his fourth mistake of the night.

Or maybe nothing about her was a mistake.

“I want you around all the time. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing.” He cupped the side of her face. “You make everything better.”

Before he could say anything else, she was on her toes again, kissing him with a fierceness she usually reserved for destruction. He stumbled backward into the counter, and she came with him, laughing against his mouth.

“Maybe we should trade places,” she said.

She hopped up onto the counter, and he moved into her, his body trapped between her thighs. He grabbed her hips and pulled her closer, desperately trying to erase even the tiniest of spaces between them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she mumbled.

His hand slid up her thigh, tracing the seam of her underwear before dipping between her legs. She moaned, and and he wanted more. It was all he could think of.

“Thank you getting out of bed to pick me up tonight,” she said, her palm hot against his stomach.

His head was fuzzy with lust and something more, but her words were enough to trigger the little bit of rational thought he had left.  “Wait.”

She looked up at him, her hands on his belt.

“We can’t do this,” he said.

“Is this about your age because I told you--”

“No, Katniss, you’ve been drinking, and I know something’s going on with you. We can’t do this. Not tonight.”

She folded her arms across her chest. It took him a moment to realize that it was out of embarrassment rather than anger. She was trying to cover herself up.

“I thought you wanted this,” she said quietly.

“I do.”

He wanted her despite their tragic beginning. He didn’t want to be the consolation prize she received for losing her sister. He wanted to be a bright spot in the darkness she was still stumbling through. He wanted to be her happy ending.

“I do,” he repeated, ducking his head to meet her eyes. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before wrapping his arms around her once more. “But I want you to be thinking clearly. I want you to be sure.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and after a beat of silence, she asked, “Can you grab me some pajamas? Please?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

Unease filled him as he walked away, but he didn’t know what else to say. He was doing the right thing by putting a stop to this. He knew he was. Still, he took longer than he needed locating a pair of shorts and a t-shirt for her to wear. He had to calm down and keep a clear head.

When he finally emerged, Katniss was dropping a handful of mini marshmallows into a mug of hot chocolate. He handed her the clothes, and she pulled them on. He was both relieved and disappointed that she was no longer half-naked. Nonetheless, he knew what he’d be dreaming about tonight.

“I see you listened to my suggestion of drinking water,” he said.

“You made it sound like an order not a suggestion, but I’ll make you a deal.” She held out the mug. “You drink my perfectly crafted hot chocolate so it doesn’t go to waste, and I’ll drink an entire glass of water.”

He rolled his eyes at the negotiation, although he was happy that there was no awkwardness left over from their kiss.

“Deal,” he said.

After grabbing a glass of water, she took a big gulp and smiled. He relaxed at the sight.

“Come on,” she said, heading to her bedroom.

His heartbeat picked up speed. They always spent their late nights out on her couch. Reluctantly, he followed. She sat on the left side on the bed, leaving plenty of room for him.

He remained standing and took a long sip of hot chocolate. He winced at the sweetness.

“I think you added too many marshmallows,” he said.

“No such thing. Come sit.”

He forced another sip before setting the mug on her nightstand table and sitting down beside her. Immediately, she was at his side, pulling at his shirt.

“Hey,” he said, stifling a yawn. He was tired, so tired. If he didn’t get up, he’d end up falling asleep in her bed.

“It’s time for bed,” she said. “No funny business, I promise.”

He laughed, her solemn look so ridiculous as she pulled at his shirt. He helped her pull it off him before letting his exhaustion pull him down into the pillows. Turning his head, he inhaled the scent of her shampoo.

Then, she tugged on his belt.

“I thought no funny business,” he said through a yawn.

“You’re not sleeping in your jeans.”

“I should go to the couch,” he said. “We shouldn’t--”

“Stop,” she said. “We can sleep in the same bed without anything happening. I want to be near you.”

Her words warmed him. He kicked off his jeans and turned toward her. His forehead bumped her bare thigh, and he sighed.

“I’m so tired,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s late.”

She ran her hand through his hair, her nails gently scratching his scalp. He hummed in pleasure. It felt so good, he wanted to return the favor. But all he had the energy to do was draw soft circles on the inside of her thigh. If he had been thinking clearer, he might have realized he was much too close to the hem of her shorts.

“You know I don’t have a lot of people I’m close with,” she said quietly. “Prim used to be the only person in the world I was certain I loved. Now that person is you.”

Her words registered slowly, drifting over him as his eyes closed and his breathing slowed. She loved him. She loved him! But sleep was pulling him under, quick and unrelenting. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tell her that he loved her too.

“I wish I could keep you,” she said.

*

Some time later, hours or minutes, he couldn’t be sure, something woke him. The room was dark, and he was beneath the comforter. He realized then that it was Katniss slipping back into bed that had roused him. Still half-asleep, he curled an arm over her waist and pulled her into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, surprised to find it wet.

He dropped a sleepy kiss on the back of her neck.

“Go back to sleep,” she said, her voice already so far away.

*

He had no idea how long his alarm had been going off before he woke. With a groan, he sat up, wincing at the burst of pain in his head. He yanked his phone off the nightstand table although it took him another several seconds to turn it off. Despite its volume, Katniss didn’t move. She slept with her back to him.

He forced himself out of bed and into his clothes. There was no time for a shower or to stop at his house to change. He’d have to go to work in jeans, stubble lining his jaw. Finnick was going to have questions. Great.

He pulled the comforter up over Katniss’s bare shoulder before he left. A thrill of excitement ran through him, a wonderful memory tugging at the corner of his mind. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was, but she had said something before he’d fallen asleep. Something good. Something perfect.

He’d stop over tonight, and then they’d talk. They would define whatever this was between them. And finally, consequences be damned, he would kiss her properly.

His grogginess followed him out to his car. If he didn’t stop for a cup of coffee, there was no way he’d make it through the day. Unfortunately, the line at the closest cafe was nearly out the door. By the time he walked into the precinct, he was fifteen minutes late, and Finnick was leaning against Peeta’s desk, arms folded across his chest.

“I know I’m late, I’m sorry, but--”

“Cato West was murdered last night.”

Peeta nearly dropped his coffee. “What?”

“The housekeeper found his body this morning,” Finnick said. “Coin and Snow are over at the estate now.”

Peeta placed his coffee on his desk before dropping into his seat. A terrible dread crept over him.

“They’re going to bring her in, Peet. This afternoon probably.”

Peeta’s gaze shot upward to meet Finnick’s. “What? No.”

Finnick sighed, looking truly regretful. “I’m sorry, I know the two of you are close, but right now, she’s definitely a person of interest.”

“No, I mean, it wasn’t her. It couldn’t have been.” Relief surged through him. Of course it wasn’t her. His head was still messed up from too little sleep. There was no reason to feel so much dread. “I was with her last night.”

Finnick glanced over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “You can’t lie for her. Okay?”

“I was with her,” he snapped. “I’m not lying.” Did his best friend of nearly ten years, his closest friend next to Katniss, really think he was lying about this? That he would fabricate an alibi for her?

Finnick stared at him for a long moment. “Can anyone verify that?”

Peeta rolled his eyes. “She called me a little after midnight. She was out by herself at some shitty club drinking with some assholes.” Even if those men didn’t remember her, there was the bartender. He certainly wouldn’t forget the tip she had left him.

“You went straight back to her apartment?”

“Yeah. We got back around quarter to one. One of Katniss’s neighbors heard us come in. Sae.”

“She was up that late?” Finnick asked.

“Katniss tripped. The noise woke her up.”

Finnick asked something else, but Peeta couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. The dread came rushing back, so strong he nearly doubled over from nausea.

The men Katniss had been drinking with. The bartender. Sae. The overly sweet hot chocolate...

“Peeta, are you okay?”

“What?” Peeta stood up, willing himself to be calm. These were all coincidences. She had been sad and drunk, and in no shape to get across the city let alone kill someone. And this was Katniss! She had destructive impulses, but she had never hurt anyone.

Besides, they had fallen asleep next to each other. Hadn’t they?

“I said, did you stay in for the rest of the night?”

A fuzzy memory surfaced of Katniss slipping into bed, her hair wet. He hadn’t heard her get up. But all she had done was take a shower. She had probably wanted to wash the grime of the night away.

“Yeah.” Peeta was back in her kitchen. He was kissing her again, arms wrapped around her, inhaling the scent of her perfume. But why had she taken off her dress? Why had she walked around half-naked as if it was something she did all the time in front of him? She hadn’t been that drunk. A one hundred and fifty dollar tab, but how much of it had she actually consumed herself?

“What time did you go to bed?” Finnick asked.

But that kiss. She had wanted him, had protested when he put a stop to it. Then, she had taken care of him, helped him undress before settling into bed. She had run her fingers through her hair as his eyes fluttered shut, and she had said...she had said she loved him.

“Two or so?” Peeta took a deep breath and met Finnick’s stare.

“Is there a chance she could have left after you fell asleep?”

She loved him. His eyes had been closed, his breathing even, and she had said it anyway. She wouldn’t lie to him, not about that, not about something so important.

“I didn’t sleep though,” Peeta said. “I couldn’t.”

Finnick frowned. “You didn’t sleep at all?”

“We had a long talk last night about...our relationship. About maybe becoming something more. I couldn’t turn my brain off.”

To Peeta’s relief, Finnick ignored the part about their relationship and said, “No wonder you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, Coin and Snow will probably still want to ask her a few questions, but…” Finnick shrugged. “A lot of people were pissed when Cato wasn’t officially charged.”

“Yeah.” The precinct had received a barrage of angry calls and emails. Cato had even received a few death threats in the mail.

“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. I know you care about her.” Finnick sighed and dropped a hand on Peeta’s shoulder.

Peeta’s entire body ached. With exhaustion. With anger. With an emptiness that felt bottomless. But he forced a smile.

“Maybe you should take the rest of the day off,” Finnick suggested. “Get some sleep. You should be the one to tell Katniss anyway. You don’t want her hearing about it secondhand on the news.”

“Yeah,” Peeta said. “I should go talk to her.”

*

The text messages. The assholes at the club. The bartender. Sae. The hot chocolate. The text messages. The assholes at the club. The bartender--

It continued on and on, an unending circle in his head. At one point, he had to pull over, certain he was about to be sick, but there was nothing in his stomach.

When Katniss answered the door, she appeared surprised to see him, but not unhappy.

“Hey. I thought you had work,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.

There was nothing different about her, and she was so calm. So normal. But the words kept repeating over and over in his head.

“Were you careful?” he asked after she shut the door.

Her brow furrowed. “With what?”

“Don’t lie to me, Katniss. I want to know if you were careful. Did anyone see you? Did you leave any evidence behind?”

“Peeta, I don’t know--”

Fury burned through his body. With a quick swipe of his right arm, he knocked a nearby lamp off the end table. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? That I’d be so blinded by love that I wouldn’t put the pieces together?” He wanted to scream at her, but he kept his voice down, knowing how thin her walls were. God, he was still trying to protect her, even after all this.

Katniss stared down at the ground. She said nothing.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Peeta buried his face into his hands and sank down onto her couch. How many conversations had they shared here? How many movies had they watched? How many nights had they cooked together in her kitchen? He had spent a year and a half learning everything he could about her, but he didn’t know a fucking thing.

“I knew something was wrong last night. You weren’t acting like yourself. I thought you were just sad, but you-- Everything about last night was planned. Everything.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“That was smart,” he said. “Creating a timeline. Those assholes from the club could attest to how much you drank, even if you never took more than a couple of shots. You paid for all the alcohol, so you had a receipt to back you up. And you made sure the bartender would remember you.”

She didn’t say anything. She was still standing a few steps in front of the door, just out of his line of sight.

“You woke up Sae on purpose. You needed someone to see us come home, see how drunk you were. And then…” Bile rose up his throat. He had been so happy an hour ago, foolishly believing that the woman he loved had loved him back.

“You manipulated me. You kissed me. You wanted me to stay. And you wanted to make sure I’d sleep through the night.” Finally, he looked over at her. “You put sleeping syrup in the hot chocolate. You drugged me.”

When she remained quiet, he jumped to his feet, his rage demanding movement, demanding violence. He ignored the urge to kick her coffee table across the room.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t drank it?” he asked.

“I knew you would,” she said in a small voice.

“How?”

“Because I asked you to drink it.”

He stormed over to her, invading her personal space, but she stood her ground.

“You’re unbelievable,” he snapped. “You’ve been manipulating me this entire time. You’ve done nothing but lie--”

“I didn’t lie!”

“You made me believe you cared about me.”

“I do,” she said. She was crying now, tears streaming down her face faster than she could wipe them away. “I’m in love with you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Of course I love you! How could I not?”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Sometimes when I’m with you, I actually forget for a little while,” she said softly. “I don’t feel her absence or how sad I am every goddamn day. Other times when I’m with you, I can remember her without wanting to die.”

He could feel himself softening, and he hated himself for it. He hated her. “Katniss…”

“I wanted to start over with you so badly. But I couldn’t…” She pressed her fist over her heart. “I couldn’t live knowing he was alive and Prim wasn’t. I couldn’t. It was him or me.”

He wanted to believe her so badly, but all he could think about was that first day he met her, when he drove her home from the morgue. He remembered how perfectly still she had been in his front seat, staring straight ahead, the emotion drained out of her. “I can be very, very patient,” she had said.

And she had been patient. She had waited a year and a half. She had made sure not to pick a special day like the anniversary of Prim’s death or Prim’s birthday. She had carefully planned every detail down to the marshmallows in the hot chocolate she had drugged.

“I never told you this, but when I went to pick up Prim’s things from her school, Cato cornered me in one of the stairwells,” she said.

“He what?”

“He shoved me into the wall and told me he wouldn’t go to jail because my bitch sister wouldn’t just lay back and take it.”

Peeta remembered that day. It was the only time he had seen the inside of Prim’s room. He had come to Katniss’s apartment for dinner like they had planned the day before. When she didn’t answer his knocks, he tried the door and found it unlocked. He had discovered her sitting on the floor of Prim’s bedroom, the items from Prim’s locker spread out around her. At the time, he had been relieved that nothing appeared broken. Katniss had given into grief instead of anger. But she had turned that rage into something much more construction. She had started to plan.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Peeta asked.

“There was no point. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Maybe not from a legal standpoint, but Peeta would have done something. He felt the truth of it. Cato was dead and still Peeta felt a boiling anger that he had put his hands on Katniss and taunted her with Prim’s death.

What would he have done if he had known? What was he capable of doing to protect her?

“I told Finnick I never fell asleep last night,” he said.

“What?” The word was loud and sharp. “Why would you do that?”

“Sleeping here wasn’t enough. They could argue that you snuck out.”

“I know it wasn’t enough. It was just supposed to cast doubt. They could charge you as an accomplice! What were you thinking?”

“That I’m in love with you. That I’m an idiot.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “I’ll tell them you were confused. That you did fall asleep for a couple of hours. That I took the opportunity to sneak out.”

He surged forward and grabbed her arms. “You can’t do that.”

“I never wanted to hurt you, Peeta. But I can at least make sure you don’t lose your job over this. Or worse.”

He was still so angry, so distrustful, but the idea of Katniss gone, unreachable in prison, made the ache in his body worse. He couldn’t imagine a life where he couldn’t just show up at her apartment and see her.

“You never answered me. Were you careful?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Your clothes? The weapon? You took care of everything?”

“I’ve been listening to you talk about your cases for the past year and a half. I was careful.”

Finally, he released her and sank back onto the couch. His anger had burned itself out, and now all all that remained was a sadness unlike anything he had ever experienced. He was so, so tired.

“Peeta…” There was so much desperation packed into that one word.

He held out his arm, an invitation for her to sit beside him. Reluctantly, she did.

“I won’t let you get in trouble for this,” she said. “I won’t ruin your life.”

He looked over at her tearstained face. “I think you already did.”

She buried her face into his shoulder. Gently, he stroked her hair. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

“I love you. I do. I wish I could prove it. I wish this didn’t have to hurt so much.”

Finnick had been right. How could a relationship built on the foundation of a tragedy end in anything but heartbreak? How could it do anything but cause pain?

He loved her too. He didn’t know how to stop. And he wanted so badly to believe her.

So maybe he would. If he could overlook the violence, then maybe he could forgive her for the lying and manipulation. Maybe he could pretend.

He didn’t care that she had taken a life. He didn’t care that he had sworn an oath promising to bring criminals like her to justice. Cato had deserved it. A part of Peeta wished Katniss had trusted him enough to ask for help.

Would he have done it? Could he have helped her plan a murder if he truly believed it would bring her peace?

He closed his eyes. Already he could feel the darkness that had taken over her life sinking its claws into him. Maybe, one day he’d find the light again, and yank them both out of this. Because despite all the lies and violence, there was no place he’d rather be than here on the couch, next to her. Maybe this was a sign he could still save her.

Or maybe this was proof that the darkness was where he belonged.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #thg #i wrote this #i can't believe i actually finished something and it's not one of my WIPs #sigh

[yacshij]

Hello, I’m Lumi!!! Let’s just take a moment to watch this attempt of an introduction get super awkward because it has been literally years since I’ve done this. hOWEVER, I am super excited to be here and present my child to you. I’ll probably have a bio or something of the sort up for him soon, but let’s be realistic, i’m slow, so who knows when soon’s gonna be... for the time being, I’m gonna leave some info on him under the cut, also a few ideas of wanted connections and such. If you’d like to plot, feel free to hit me up or like this and I’ll come to you as soon as I see it!

( zhang yixing, cismale, he/his ) — Welcome back, SHI YAO. I’m surprised you’re still a FIELD AGENT! Congrats! You’re TWENTY-SEVEN years old? Our agents usually don’t last that long! :O I see you’ve been given an IRISH SETTER. Funny how it seems they work harder than you! Can’t wait for another lovely day of you being PATIENT. Though, if we’re being honest, we really know you’re more SECRETIVE. Welp, have a good at work, Agent JONQUIL. I really don’t care! I’m a robot, I have no feelings. ( lumi, 23, gmt-3, she/her ) 

BACKSTORY

Yao doesn’t know his biological parents. Why they didn’t keep him, is anyone’s guess; he never had anyone who knew about what really happened, no family whatsoever to tell him anything about where he’d come from and why he’d end up somewhere so fucked up. 

He was raised by a man he always took for his grandfather. A compulsive drinker and gambler, a man who was always involved in some kind of trouble. His childhood wasn’t the brightest, that being so, he didn’t have the best education and they were always jumping around the country, running away from debt collectors and the law. Or trying to, at least. 

At this point, his life was nothing but a big lie. With them moving around so much came the need of fabricated stories and a lot of pretending to sustain them. Every month they were someone different and had a different background. Even though with time Yao got really good at the whole pretending thing, he also realized there was never room for a real him. 

When he was 16, however, things took an ugly turn. After a few years of successfuly dodging their pursuers, they came to a point where there was no running away anymore. His grandfather knowing this, gave Yao all the money they had left, a passport, a backpack and a name. It was the end of the line for him, but for Yao, it could be his chance of getting out of that life and maybe do something good with it. 

Yao ended up in Seoul, Korea, at the front door of a lady he’d never seen or heard anything of. She took him in as if he was her own son, however, as if she’d known him her whole life; she gave him a bed to sleep, food to eat, clean clothes and a place that quickly started to feel a lot like home. She became a mother to him. He finally got the chance to properly go to school and have a decent part-time job, to have friends; he finally had the chance to figure out things for himself, to figure out who he was. A fresh new start, just for him. 

Just a couple of years after, when he was about to turn 19, he was approached by Hwarang to join the organization, and he accepted because it seemed like a good turn of events, considering everything. (he doesn’t know it, but his mother was a former hwarang member. and also the lady who practically adopted him, and she knew his mother. so he received the offer probably just because of her. but will he ever know abou this. who knows.)

After joining the organization, he made it his life. He was very devoted to his training and did the most, you know, not to suck and lose the opportunity. At first he didn’t know how to feel about the whole idea, but nowadays he’s very passionate and committed to the job. 

Outside Hwarang he leads a pretty normal life, lives in a small apartment with his Irish Setter, her name is Eva and she’s the most precious and important thing to him (and to me). 

PERSONALITY

Yao is very eloquent, and although quiet in nature, he’s not shy. It takes a lot to get on his nerves and you better not get on his nerves, because it doesn’t get pretty when he’s angry. He doesn’t like confrontation or anything like that, but he doesn’t let people talk shit to him, if he needs to stand up for himself (or someone he knows and cares about) he will. 

He doesn’t trust people. It comes without a surprise, I’d say. He grew up around people that were always sidestepping certain subjects whenever he asked about, people who never told the truth, people who lied to get what they wanted, etc. Even though he knows there are good, true people out there, he just can’t fully trust. He’s very insecure about this, actually, that people are always hiding something, or pretending to like him for whatever reason; it never feels real. My poor insecure child.  

Speaking of hiding. Yao doesn’t talk about his past. He doesn’t talk about his life in general; that doesn’t apply just to co-workers or people he barely knows, it applies to friends too. And it also isn’t about him not wanting to talk about, it’s just that 1) he doesn’t often feel like he has anything interesting to share and 2) nobody asked, so he takes it as a hint that he probably shouldn’t tell.

Yao’s very observant and he pays attention to a lot. Even small details. He doesn’t tend to forget that easily, as well, so if somebody tells him their favorite ice cream flavor today, chances are he’ll remember even months later. Deep down, he makes the effort to remember because he likes to impress people with these little things. 

He’s a good shoulder to cry on, a good person to tell a secret to, to vent, a good person to tell all your embarrassing stuff, the best friend to call drunk at night, to share compromising stories/pictures, because he would never judge or spread anything about it. 

On that note, he hates gossip. Irrelevant, but throwing this info out there for whoever wants to know.

Also, Yao was born on January 10th, 1991. A whole Capricorn. And bisexual. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Gimme best friends. Wheter someone he’s known since training days or someone he met after graduating but became fast friends. OR BOTH. There’s always room for more than one best friend. 

I’d also love to have that unlikely friendship, where they’re so different in all aspects, but in some way ended up getting real close. Neither knows how it happened, but it’s not like they’re complaining. 

Someone that maybe isn’t actually a close friend, who he goes after to talk when he needs to get something out of his chest or just need the company until he feels better. Pretty vague, but basically someone that listens and understands without asking a lot of questions. Something like that. 

I would also love a flirtationship. 

A carnal relationship. It's just sex, it's always been just sex and it's always gonna be just sex. or will it 

Give me someone that actually gets on his nerves. Someone that seriously or just playfully enjoys irritating him, that likes to go against everything he says or anything of the sort. at this point i need this ajdhkeh i need this connection in my life. (it can also work for a friend. or enemies with benefits ~cof cof~anyone?~cofs~) 

An ex would also be nice. But I’m not gonna specify if they ended on good terms or bad terms, because that would be nice to develop depending on their personalities and dynamics, so if anyone’s interested, we can discuss it 

I know these are just a few and there’s probably a lot more that could be added here, but for now, I’m leaving at that. I know I was pretty vague with the connections as well, but it’s actually because this is just the very basic, I like to discuss it in more detail when we plot, in case anyone’s interested. We can brainstorm, mix two connections, come up with a new one that fits better for the muses, so no worries. come plot and there’s gonna be a lot of ideas for everyone!!!! 

#hwarangintro #sorry if this is a mess #i probably forgot a few things #but i hope it's at least decent #okay now i'm gonna read the other intros #and stop talking in the tags askljalj bYE

[believerindaydreams]

some of what Angel and Tuco were up to in Blondie’s absence

the first time he runs off, while they’re still at the mansion

Angel Eyes is asleep at the breakfast table.

This wouldn't normally be a matter for comment- Angel Eyes has a way of dropping off whenever he feels like it and convention be damned, albeit not often at this hour of the day. However. Today they have company.

The first company they've had since he's been here, at that, and Tuco can't help finding it suspiciously convenient timing that he's been left to listen to this conversation. It's sort of a letdown, honestly. If he had a nice hacienda like this, he'd lock the gate and wouldn't let himself be trapped into interactions with people whose existence he couldn't stand.

"Doing that again. Sleepyhead Angel, that's what the boys used to call him."

The guest's name is Baker. He's not eating, which can’t but make Tuco mistrust him. He coughs a lot, between puffs at a pipe that is being held all wrong (well, it's not how Angel Eyes does it). One of the board members of a hunting club that Angel's in, has cheerfully hinted at being more than that. 

If Angel has a type- which Tuco's honestly not sure about- and if it's something that this guy has in common with Blondie, on present evidence that type has to be "grandiosely self-confident". Though that applies to him too, come to think of it...

"I will say, it doesn't half come in handy. The times we were all hanging around, waiting for just the right shot to present itself while Angel Eyes would be snoozing away in his blind- and bang!" (Tuco can't help jolting, and splashes orange juice all over his bacon.) "It comes of that silent way he has, you know. Fine way to score yourself a choice set of antlers."

If he was on the make, this man would be wonderful- loud and crude and craving a victim, exactly the kind who wants something for nothing- only he wasn't planning to do that when he woke up this morning. Full of half-formed plans and anxiety for what happens next. Maybe this is the kind of thing that drove Blondie away, if Angel has a habit of keeping men around to save the bother of listening himself...

"Annnnngel. Angel. Wake up," Baker orders, rapping on the table with the sharp end of a grapefruit spoon.

It occurs to Tuco to wonder, how many people think this is what he's like, all fairly pathetic bluster and not particularly interested whether anyone else is fitting a word in edgewise. More than he'd guess, probably. He's visited a lot of bars in his day.

Maybe that's why he's suddenly finding himself in Blondie's part, all stoic and silent; but no, he can't fool himself like that. The simple fact is that Baker gives him the creeps all over, and he doesn't have a clue why. None of this kind of chat is new territory for him, so...for someone who relies on gut instinct as much as he does, complete bafflement is not a comfortable state of affairs.

"Angel," Baker croons, reaching out to poke the sleeping man's shoulder with his spoon; and before Tuco quite knows he's doing it, he's leaning across the table with his hand extended, ready to slap the interloper away-

did I think he was Blondie, just for a moment? Not wanting to see that dignity punctured?

but if it was Blondie I wouldn't do this, if I was hustling-

when did I stop?

Baker's looking at him, uncertain. He has to do something.

"Not like that," Tuco says, very dignified. Slowly he raises one black-gloved hand from the table, so heavy in his own he'd honestly think the man was asleep; and even when Angel opens his eyes to fix him with a keen stare, Tuco doesn't know whether that was faked or not.

"Morning," Angel Eyes says. In a tone that promises he'll take charge of the situation whether he understands it or not; Tuco lets go. Angel nods at him and turns, surveying Baker with an air of considered disgust.

Also a certain degree of amusement, which is what Baker responds to. He smirks, rather too broadly; and it hits Tuco then, just what's bothering him. It's as if Baker wants somebody to catch him out.

Now that isn't like him one little bit.

*************

"I will get rid of him as soon as possible."

"You said that this morning," Tuco points out. Now it’s so late they’ll have to have the man for dinner. "Not to speak ill of your friends, but since he isn't..."

Angel looks just a bit taken aback by that, as though he'd expected more patient acquiescence. "Sometimes these things take time- I suppose I've disappointed you. Revealing that I don't entirely live to please myself, like some medieval hermit basking in isolation."

"Why not? Blondie would." The two of them aren't that different.

Angel Eyes opens his mouth, ready to say something; then cuts himself off. It's not characteristic of him, uncertainty like that, and Tuco presses his advantage just to fill the silence. "What's the worst that can happen, if you tell this man to go fuck himself?"

"Actually-"

He's interrupted by Baker, who comes back in with too large a smile and damp hands- probably piss, Tuco thinks sourly- "We should do this more often, Angel you know, we really should."

"This" being far too much time spent standing around chatting about Angel's gun collection, looking at the pieces. Maybe he should have left, instead of tagging along for conversations in which he has nothing to say and less desire to say it; but he feels oddly responsible for looking after Angel in Blondie's absence. Stupid, sure- Angel Eyes is perfectly able to look after himself- but it's what his partner would want him to do.

Angel Eyes has a small reluctant half-smile on his lips now, not a bad look for him at all. "I won't deny, there's times when I've missed talking shop like this."

"Talking shop is nothing," Baker says easily. "I think you're missing the hunt, aren't you? Now I have a little expedition all organised, every detail mapped and paid- but I could use one more. You'd be good for it, you know how much, and it'd do you good too."

"I said I wasn't interested. Not right now."

"What, does your new houseboy give-"

If he was thinking about it, he'd know better than to wallop a fellow guest in Angel's house. Tuco's not thinking in the least when he steps close and lashes out- but the punch never lands. Angel sidesteps to grab his wrists, hard, and he knows a dozen tricks for slipping out of that soft leather grip or turning the force against him, but even as Tuco's thinking that the hold on him slackens-

the intent not to stop him, exactly, just to check and see how far he means it-

"Give such good head," Baker finishes; but with far less assurance now. "Ooh. I see, you've hired yourself a new bodyguard?"

Angel's gaze meets his- is that something you can stand- and Tuco lets him know yes it is and they break apart again, each as calm as if the moment had never happened. "You wouldn't want to be on the receiving end," Angel Eyes informs him, indifferent as dust. "Trust me, Baker, I'd hate to see you push your luck like that again."

B, after A. 

Baker wibbles a bit, doesn’t apologise but drifts off the subject to more innocuous topics, while Tuco puts his hands in his pockets and listens. Sulky strong man isn't his usual type, but he'll cope.

Blondie would have watched me punch the lights out of that devil. Enjoyed it, and lit a cigarillo over the body when I was done-

but the way Angel looked at me, knowing, only Blondie does that-

yes. All things considered, he can stand not being the one with the flapping mouth for a change.

He's got a lot to think about.

#70s au #the good the bad and the ugly

[fernwehbookworm]

Knight of Kandor- Chapter 20

(Alex)

The tunnel was cramped and damp as we squeeze through it. Everything was going to plan and that made me extremely nervous. I just hoped that Kara could get Lena out safely. One lady was not worth all of this but it was worth it to Lena and in turn, Kara. So that meant I had to try. Soft light filters down from above me, flickering from a torch. This was it. I remove the drain cover as quietly as possible, praying that the guards were asleep. I poke my head up and see rows of cells, most are empty. As the women follow me through I begin to search. Some cells hold men. Only one holds a sleeping woman. Rao, I hope she's just sleeping. She looks thin and sickly in the faint torchlight. I slip my lock pick kit from my belt and work as fast as I can. The woman stirs from the soft jangling of the bars.

"Wha... Who are you?" She asks in a hoarse voice. It sounds like she hasn't had water in days.

"A friend of Kara's" the girl still looks confused.

"Shit umm... Kal's. A friend of Sir Kal's and Queen Lena." I say, struggling to recall Kara's old name.

"My lady? Is she safe? Don't save me, save her." She pushes further back into the cell.

"Kal is saving her. You will see her shortly. Then we will get you both back to Krypton where you belong." I say exhaling as the lock clicks open and the bars swing out.

"Now we have to go. The guards are asleep. It will be tight but we will keep you safe." I hold my hand to the girl still huddled in the corner. She takes in the hooded women around me, ten of us in all, before accepting my hand.

Just as I am helping her through the opening, the door at the end of the hall bursts open. Men in armor and swords flood in. My women draw their daggers. In close quarters like this, swords will be a huge disadvantage. Jessica stumbles into my arms. One of the men steps forward, out of formation.

"Jessica! Let her go!" He commands in a slightly comical way.

"No. She's coming with us. She is done being your prisoner." Lily says.

"Donovan?" Comes a soft whisper next to me.

"Do you know these men?" I ask.

"Yes, they... are... Kal's men." she manages in a voice like rocks scraping over each other.

"Stand down," I say, immediately they all sheath their daggers and the men are left looking uncertain.

Bells begin to echo through the castle, it sounds distant this deep in the castle but I recognize the warning bells. I groan at the meaning. Our stealth operation was blown.

"You idiots ruined everything."

"We came for our Queen and we intend to find her." Says a burly dark skinned man. He looks very intimidating. Something tickles at the edge of my mind, something Kara had told me.

"John, right?" The man looks taken aback.

"Let's skip the dramatics. Kal is one of us. She is saving the queen now. If you will follow us we will get you out of here safely." I cut off his question.

"Not without our Queen."

"For Rao's sake. Okay, ladies. Take Lady Jessica here to the base, I'll lead these men to their Queen. Hopefully, we can catch them before they escape into the tunnels."

"You aren't taking Jessica from me." The first man states. There it is, stupid love. Men were stupid when it came to love. I roll my eyes.

"You can follow them then. Thea, please take over. Quickly now, I'll shut the grate behind."

The man passes right through my assassins and takes Jessica from me. One by one my women hope back down into the tunnels, Jessica is slowly lowered in and the man is last. I slid the grate back over.

"Okay, we have to hurry. The drugs on the guards are going to wear off soon." John motions me forward with his still drawn sword. I sigh and lead the way.

The guards are still asleep, thankfully. As we hurry I have a whispered conversation about how they got in. A minor explosion and fire to draw guards away. They killed a few who lingered at their posts. Someone must have found a body and sounded the alarm. I use my knowledge of the castle to lead us through deserted servants corridors and to the other side of the castle as quickly as possible. When we emerge it takes a second to orient where the water drain entrance is in relativity to Lena's tower. Something sharp pokes my back. I turn to glare at John.

"Hey watch where you point that thing. You won't find them if I am dead." I continue around the corner.

"No offense, but I don't trust you," John says. This is it. The last stretch before Kara's escape. We either beat them or we're far too late. A figure steps out in front of me.

"John..." I hear Kara whisper from a distance.

"Kal..." he whispers back.

(Kara)

Sure enough, the next day wanted posters for Alex and Kara Danvers were hanging everywhere. All traffic in and out of the city was stopped, guards were searching everywhere for the kidnappers of Lady Elena Colby. Alex and I had to stay inside while Maggie and Sara did some scouting around to find all this out. We opted to practice in the training room to fight off the boredom of being confined. Lena sat in the corner and read, glancing up now and then to watch. We were practicing with dull versions of a new blade Felicity had come up with. It strapped to the forearm and extended out with the flick of a wrist. It was genius but also hard to get the feel of. One wrong move and the blade would appear accidental. I danced out of Alex's reach, only to stumble into a wall. A wall that laughed. I turn to find John right behind me.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Kara."

"Actually it's Sir John now. Use the title, he loves it." Lena teases from the corner. John rolls his eyes, clearly not loving the title.

"My lady, please. We have been over this."

"Yes, we have, Sir John," Lena stresses the word. He sighs.

"Lena doesn't like titles either." He says to me.

"Oh, I know, she believes they are quite cumbersome. She did the same to me. Wait should I be worried? I thought that was you flirting with me." I turn to ask her and she laughs.

"Oh, it was with you. But John would use it so much it was exhausting. I had to put an end to it. Not that he really listened." Lena continues with her book, ignoring the room again.

"So this is what you have been doing in Cadmium, rescuing damsels and fighting like nothing I have ever seen."

"Not just that. But we don't have to get into the specifics now. John, this is my sister Alex Danvers, Alex this is my former squire and successor, John Jones." I say, making formal introductions with the two vastly different parts of my life.

"Sister?" John asks but still reaches out a hand to shake Alex's hand.

"By choice, not birth." she clarifies for him.

"What are you two doing exactly? I've never seen this fighting style."

"It's a DEO style. I've been teaching Kara since she arrived here. Now we are evenly matched."

"Ah, the teacher became the student." John rubs his chin, amused at the thought.

"Just briefly. I can still teach you a thing or two."

"Challenge accepted." He disappears. I look at Alex.

"Where did he go?" She asks.

"To get his sword." We wait until deep voices echo through the hall outside. John returns with the entire Guard, minus Donovan who was still by Jessica's bedside. Sure enough, John had his sword. He had also slipped on his chainmail shirt and a shield on his left arm.

"You want an audience for this?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

"They asked. They miss training with you." I shrug and drop into a crouch.

"No weapons?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm ready. Are you?" John draws his sword in response.

We circle each other, testing the newness of each other's familiar fighting. My entire style had changed and John had a new sense of confidence. No one had beaten him in a while. That would be his downfall. He was too confident in his own skills to anticipate mine. His first strike is quick and he pulls it, just watching my reaction. Good. He strikes again with a little more force and I sidestep it. Back and forth we begin, like a dance. His sword flashes while I turn and spin and step to avoid it. It's a delicate task as he begins using more brute force than before. I step in front of his shield, he lunges out to hit me with it but I roll around. As my turn puts me behind him, I extend my wrist, the dulled blade makes a soft snick as it extends. I slide it easily between links of chainmail like it was designed to do, resting it between the shirt and John's side. He tenses immediately at the cold steel on his skin.

"If this was a sharp blade, you would be dead," I say evenly. I think John stops breathing because he exhales heavily as I remove the blade.

"That...was...awesome!" Says one of the men that now stand behind me. I think it may have been Andrew.

"Guess I have more training to do." Says John as he turns to me, a grin on his face as sweat pours down his forehead from the exertion.

"Only if you plan on fighting us. But we are on your side so I wouldn't worry too much." I say. Some of the excitement drains out of his face.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. I umm... we were just hoping to spar with you again."

"Lee, are you okay spending some more time here?" Lena waved me off without looking up.

"I'll take that as a yes. Alex, do you want to join?"

"And miss showing up a bunch of men?" She teases.

"And I'll take that as a yes also."

Later, after several hours of sparring, when I was getting a snack in the kitchen, John walked in too. He looked happy at first but a hint of sadness crossed his features again.

"All right, whats wrong? I know you, John, that's the same look you had before." He picks up an apple and examines it much more closely than necessary.

"It's nothing Kal, sorry, Kara. Really. I'm just happy to see you again. I really thought one of us would die before that happened."

"John," I say, staring him down like I used to when he didn't do his chores or rub down his horse at the end of a long march. He makes the mistake of looking up, or down at this rate since he seemed to continue to grow. He flinches and hunches his shoulders.

"You... earlier, you said that 'we are on your side.' Like you aren't apart of the Queen's guard anymore. Like we aren't a family anymore. And I... I realized that this is where you belong. These women are so much like you. This is your family." John goes back to staring at his apple. He is still just a kid, a kid with way too much responsibility.

"John, you are my family too. And the other men. And Winn. You all are. And I have missed you so much." I place a hand on one of his shoulders, his eyes snap to mine, I had never touched him like this before, not with such a serious conversation.

"I belong with Lena. Wherever she is. I will follow her. The DEO knows that too, they knew it the moment I found her here. But I have been with these women a long time now so I do think in the terms of 'we.' I am sorry if you thought you didn't matter, or that I replaced you. John, I love you. You were the first to trust Kara and believe in her, even if I didn't know it." John wraps me in a hug so tight he pulls me off the ground.

"I love you too. And I love who you have become. Kal wouldn't have said all that to me." I laugh through the tears forming in my eyes.

"Kal thought it though. It just took Kara to say it. Are you done being all sad and moppy now? I have a beautiful woman waiting for me to bring her an orange."

"Yeah. I am glad you found each other. Lena had me worried for a few months. She hardly left her room. Honestly, she wasn't even this happy with Kal." I smile so wide it hurts.

"Me too. She was the only thing that kept me alive sometimes."

It takes four days of rest and food for Lady Jessica to recover. Donavon rarely leaves her side. They made a cute couple and Lena told me she was already planning on blessing the marriage whenever he worked up the courage to ask Lena for permission. I found the thought of who I would need to ask to marry Lena but quickly shook it off. That was a whole other bridge to cross if we were even allowed, if she even wanted to. No, for now, I had to focus on getting Lena back home and safe.

"Halt!" calls the guard, unnecessarily.

Traffic leaving the city had been crawling at a snail's pace all day. I squeeze Lena's hand in the darkness of the hidden compartment. It was tight, barely enough room to breath between the floorboard and false bottom hatch. Maggie was driving with Sara. Thea and Vasquez were driving a cart several back with Lady Jessica and Alex in its false bottom. The Queen's guard were disguised as mercenaries hired to protect the caravan we had joined. I feel Lena tense as the contents of the cart are shifted above us. I hold my breath and wait. It's over in moments but it feels like an eternity. A jerk and the cart is moving forward again to join the rest of the caravan that has already been searched and is sitting outside the gate.

Its well into the trip that Sara lets us out of the bottom, my whole body feels like a giant cramp. The only positive was that we were out of Daxam and Lena's hand was in mine the entire time. We settle into the back of the cart, we lean against the covered side, Lena's head on my shoulder. I can see Thea's cart behind us. They had caught up since the gates. In the next major city, we would take our two carts and our 'hired muscle' and head west before heading north while the others went east.

When darkness arrives, all ten carts are circled and fires are lit. Our 'mercenaries' aren't the only ones. They meet and set up a rotation schedule so not all of them have to be on watch at once. We build a fire near our own carts like some others, away from the communal fire in the center. We talk softly and share food. Being outside was much needed after being inside for nearly a week.

"Yup, so when enlistments went out, I was taken because my father had lost most of his fingers on his sword hand. That day was the last day I saw my parents. And well, I think my most notable career points have been spoken about at length." I finish explaining my life to everyone. The women knew most of it at this point, but the men were still in the dark.

"Well Kara, I know you have been through a lot, but I am sure glad I was able to serve you." Says John, causing me to blush, only hidden by the firelight and the wine we were sharing.

Before long we settle into bedrolls. Lena pressed to my front to fight off the cold night air. Alex and Maggie settle into another while Sara, Vasquez, and Thea fall in a row to fight off the chill. Other men lay scattered as they sleep until their watch.

"Kara?"

"Yeah Lee?" I whisper back softly.

"We could just leave. Disappear. Together."

"What?"

"I've just been thinking how hard it's going to be. And I love you but I don't even know if we can get married or if the people will hate me for it or..."

"Shhh... Lena, you know you would never be happy hiding. You belong on the throne, it's in your soul. Secondly, I love you, I will be by your side no matter what, even if... even if you must marry another."

"No."

"No?"

"I won't marry anyone else. My brother and his children can take the throne then." I kiss the back of her head.

"We can figure all that out later, for now, We get you back to Kandor.

We all breathe a little easier three days later when we separate from the others. We push faster than we should but none of us want to stay in Cadmium longer than necessary. The men pair off to scout ahead through the woods. When reports of patrols come back, we hid much like when we were leaving Daxam. It becomes much more frequent, the more north we travel. We soon have to rely on the fake papers that felicity provided to get us past roadblocks. Thea was a seamstress and her assistants traveling north to join citizens willing to settle in an outpost being established as Krypton focused on the eastern front. We were in the hiding place when a patrol near the borders calls for us to stop.

"Here are our papers, sir." Says Maggie. Silence follows as he examines.

"Follow me." the man orders.

"I'm sorry sir, is something wrong?"

"Yes, you aren't doing as you are told." Threat clear in the man's voice. Lena squeezes my hand hard.

"Yes, sir." The cart jerks into movement after another moment and I feel it turn off the main road.

When the cart stops I hear a drone of conversation, too far away to hear. Then protests from the women driving the carts as things start to be shuffled above us. They are cut off quickly and I feel the cart rock as things are unloaded from the top. I pull a knife from my belt and press it into Lena's hand.

"Be ready," I whisper. My muscles tense in preparation for a fight.

Suddenly daylight pours in as the hatch is lifted, I spring at whoever opens it. We fall backward, off the cart and onto the ground. The man's back hits and I hear all the air rush out of him. The blade of my gauntlet is out and just under his chin. I look into the eyes of the first man I will kill here. Then I stop. I know those eyes.

"Prince Alexander," I say, shocked.

"Kal?" He asks, unsure. I nod. Still stunned. We shouldn't have reached them for at least two more days. I retract the blade and slowly stand up to look around. We are in a camp filled with soldiers in Cadmium uniforms but I recognize a few faces here and there as ones I used to help lead.

"Lex?" Lena asks from the back of the cart where a soldier helps her out of the shallow compartment.

"Lee!" He calls and stands up, lifting his sister out of the back and embracing her.

"My Rao, I thought I lost you. I will kill every last one of the men who took you." He holds on to her, running a hand down her hair and she squeezes him back. I look around to see Alex and Jessica emerging from the other cart. They join the other three women in a loose defensive circle, it looks casual enough but I can see they are all on edge. John stays near them to try and be a comfort.

"Lex, mother did this. She planned it all. Queen Rhea told me. Mother wants you on the throne, not me." Lena says softly.

"What?" Lex looks back to look at his little sister.

"She was going to use me to marry the Prince of Cadmium so there would be peace and you could rule Krypton."

"But I despise court. I don't want to rule, why would she think I would want that?"

"I don't know Lex. But she won't stop until she's rid of me. You know she never wanted me." Prince Alexander looks around and realized how many people could be listening.

"Let's talk in my tent." He pulls Lena by the hand towards the biggest tent. She catches mine and tugs me after.

"I'll be right there," I whisper. Then I motion for John and Alex.

"John, have the men Guard the tent, no one in hearing distance. Alex, you guys scout the camp and reload the carts. I want to get out of Cadmium as soon as we are done talking to the prince. I am not waiting around to be discovered here." They both nod seriously and I walk to the tent.

Lena is already telling Alexander what she knows from her side of the story, He gives me a soft nod of acknowledgment. When Lena is done I begin telling him everything I know, starting with my kidnapping at the border. I leave out most my time with the DEO, only giving enough information to provide an excuse for serving in the castle and then finding Lena. The daring rescue and slow escape. After all is said, the prince sits back in the chair, absorbing all the new information.

"I can't kill my mother." Is the first thing he says. I look at Lena and she nods.

"I can, and I will." I say, letting the 'with or without you' go unspoken.

"Then we need to get back to Kandor. But we can't have a battle in the city walls. We need to find a way in with no bloodshed. If I return now, mother will know something is wrong." I think silently for a moment.

"I might have a way. But I will need to talk to someone inside the walls first."

"Then let's get our future queen to Kandor. We leave in two hours."

#supergirl #supercorp #kara danvers #lena luthor #medieval #knight #au #assassin #KoK

[hypeathon]

RWBY - Volume 6, Chapter 9 Production Analysis

Previous Volume 6 Production Analysis Posts:

Chapters one, two, three, four, five, six, seven & eight 

With the holiday break behind the CRWBY and the show’s fan base, it is easier to look back at how things have been steadily maintained in volume 6, minus a couple of small bumps in production and presentation. So let us now see what chapter 9 provides.

Since the first scene centers with the two characters that originally were seen to help make Cinder look more intimidating, Emerald and Mercury, this is a convenient time to highlight some notes from the February, 2018 CRWBY Ask Me Anything event over on the RWBY sub-reddit. A few things were hinted at as to what they planned on covering in volume 6′s narrative, some of which have more or less already been shown prior to this episode. Director and co-writer, Kerry Shawcross answered that beyond Jaune being at the younger end, we would find out more about where he places compared to his sisters. He also addressed the matter of having to push a character out of volume 5 and reserve him/her for volume 6 which may have been likely Maria Calavera. He even casually mentioned Salem’s backstory as being the one to look most forward to in the future. Then there’s the matter of why Mercury decided to work for Cinder, to which Kerry vaguely replied that it’s “not simple”. There were other questions answered that directly tie to this chapter, but for now, there’s one more thing regarding Mercury’s character that was touched on by Gen:Lock director, Gray Haddock, along with Miles Luna and Kerry via the volume 3 directors audio commentary:

Miles: "More uh, more subtle hints at family life! Apparently Mercury's Dad smells like Qrow after a long day."

Kerry: "Yeah."

Miles: "Daaark co-me-dy!"

Kerry: "Yeah uh, we're not gonna get into it right now probably. But uh, yeah, Mercury's had a life."

Miles: "Yeah, we didn't get as far into Mercury's backstory as we were going to mainly because we were like, "why reveal all that right now", and uh, looking forward to more of that."

Gray: "But a lot of fans are already starting to clue in the real differences between him and Em and uh, which one you might actually be more sympathetic in the end despite kinda how you thought that dynamic was work going to work out after volume 2".

This insight is basically to further reinforce that despite Monty Oum not being around anymore, there was always a forward momentum with what to tell with many characters and aspects the show and Mercury was among them. There was another answer from that AMA that plays into this episode specifically, but let’s save that for later in this analysis. For now, let’s shift focus into the set design, which is nothing short of breathtaking. There were no mentions from anyone in the art department via Twitter about the set, but there were a few notes from a screenshot of the artwork shown during the ending credit (courtesy of Changyuraptor). One to the far left says, “windows on opposite side filled in w/ stone”, while three on the bottom say, “book wall”, “ignore floor texture”, and “use texture from the old circular training room but as square tile.” The last three notes can’t be fully seen from the above picture (at least not without adding the end credits text being there), but let’s examine what these mean. With the last note, by “old circular training room”, this is probably referring to the one in chapter 11 of volume 4 which was likely used as a reference while at the same time straying away from the design to make it be more of Emerald and Mercury’s scene. The added tatami mat designs were probably also there to further indicate that the setting was more of a sparring room compared to the one Cinder was in.

However, the one note that was especially intriguing was the one about windows on the opposite end being filled in with stone. This was a deliberate choice to make the lighting from the stained windows be one-sided and I believe the reason has to do with providing visual subtext to the story behind the scene. Both Emerald and Mercury deeply wanted something before meeting Cinder for different reasons and while both take the fact Cinder is not around to guide them very differently, they do feel currently muddled and express that in their own ways. One could even interpret the lighting through stained glass can serve as a Christian metaphor for wanting to seek salvation and the shot composition supports this. In one shot, Emerald sulks in the light, explicitly stating she doesn’t know what to do next while Mercury actively trains right outside of it, as if he’s fine. Then cut towards the end of the scene and both of them are seen in the light after talking with Tyrian. Speaking of which, both he and Watts are first shown from utter darkness and the former playfully goes right back in. It’s also worth adding that the colors of the stained glass themselves are the same as Salem’s palace, helping further indicate that despite wanting better, both won’t easily find it through Salem.

I’ve gone on record on how much the cinematography has been utterly incredible this volume, which is saying a lot considering how previous volumes had already been praised. There have been excellent uses of staging and framing through objects like windows, doors, and stair banisters, as well as the usage of height to display conflict and power struggle. But rarely has lighting played a key factor in volume 6, so to see it done so effectively here makes a great way to mix things up. Of course, the animation helps compliment things which I suspect Hannah Novotny may have done the first half before Tyrian arrived. The the types of facial expressions being emoted by Emerald and Mercury are a bit of a giveaway, what with the snarl-like mouth movements and shrunken pupils to help sell the tension between them. Finally, there’s Tyrian’s new tail which had a few notes, including the stinger having a retracting ability.

With that out of the way, next is the Argus scene which the work-in-progress version emitted a bit of controversy a few weeks prior. The matter had already been addressed in detail through a previous post, so not much more will be touched on here. But to put simply, the one shot of this scene simply did not go yet through the compositing and final rendering stage where lighting, effects, and characters could be properly layered to avoid the phasing through aspect. The animation was already done if you compare the shots in the video side-by-side.

What’s much less controversial to talk about and more intriguing is the Argus setting in general. To say a great quantity of thought was put into this setting would be an understatement and in the eighth episode of CRWBY - Behind the Episode, a lot of insight is shared with screencaps provided once again from Changyuraptor. First, there’s the matter of it being a combination of San Francisco in terms of the landscape and trolleys (which most fans recognized) and Greco-Roman architecture. Second, there some notes about the structure of buildings for both residential homes and shops in order to distinguish them from each other, right down to the latter having “flatter fronts” than the former. There were also designs and notes about the plants and trees and lamp posts which altogether, just make for a very pleasing-looking setting that no doubt took a lot of time, planning, and crafting to make. The scenes in this episode especially help sell the bustling, yet peaceful and vibrant feel. RWBY has done nighttime city settings, most of which were in Beacon during the earlier volumes. But the differences are just night and day (pun not intended) and while it’s definitely a coincidence, as a fan of the Tales Japanese role-playing games series, I got strong Flanoir vibes from Tales of Symphonia.

The next scene to follow is of course the one fans could not help but get deeply emotional over. Though to sidestep from talking about how gut-punching the scene was for a moment, let’s break down certain aspects of it. Based on how her design the concept art for the courtyard matches that of concept designs by Ein Lee, I imagine that the statue was based on Pyrrha’s exact model in volumes 1-3 which would be rather fitting. Moving on to the character animation, there were very strong moments on Jaune’s part. The way his shoulders lowered as his clothing and hair were briefly blown by the wind to express shock and bewilderment when he first saw the statue and how in another shot, he wanted to say something but hesitated to and attempted to pardon himself as if he didn’t deserve to say anything all concisely present how he felt without a word being uttered. There was also a cute and endearing moment of him gently rubbing the red cloth besides him as he talked to the red-haired woman. Even his expression when he learned the woman already knew who he was only made his guilt seem more explicit which followed with him initially puzzled by what the woman meant by Pyrrha already standing there.

As stated, the character acting told so much and maintained great nuance, which is why I was especially surprised to find out that at least part of the scene may have not been animated by Asha Bishi, but rather by Alyssa Lisiecki. I’ve gone on record on how much the former’s character animation can feel snappy yet abundant and lively. So I really did believe at first it was Asha was the one who animated the sequence between Jaune and the Red-haired woman. But this isn’t the first time I’ve been tripped over between a sequence either her or Alyssa animated. In chapter 6, Alyssa confirmed to have animated, “Qrow being angsty”, which I responded through the production analysis for that episode by expressing uncertainty that she did the part where Qrow stormed back inside the house to drink and thought that was Asha instead. This was honestly due to not having a clear grasp on how Alyssa animates in general. While it’s still a bit unclear how she animates, it’s possible she conveys similar approaches in character movement that Asha does. Then again, it’s also possible that be it between the both of them or whoever else animated the courtyard scene, they were asked by Kerry to make the animation feel seamless. It wouldn’t be the first time that would happen as a noteworthy example of this was Jaune and Pyrrha’s scene at the Beacon Academy courtyard as mentioned again in the volume 3 blu-ray directors audio commentary:

Kerry: “This was a tough scene, this was uh, again, just the new style of animation, some of the rig challenges that we had this year just with having so many different characters built at so many different times. All of our new rigs are great! Some of the older ones are starting to show their age a bit.

Uh, this is the first scene that four different animators animated this scene. Kim (Newman), Paula (Decanini), Melanie (Stern) and Millie (Gonzalez), I believe, and ya can’t tell! I don’t think there’s a single scene where you can actually see the shift and I thought they did a phenomenal job working with each other and uh...

Koen Wooten (lead producer): “A lot of that, ya know, some of that goes to the leads as well. The animators did an amazing job, I don’t want to take away from that. But the leads also, they go around with you Kerry and they look at every single shot to give your opinions and everything else. there’s a lot of work from day-to-day that goes into that to kind of make it seamless.

Kerry: “Yeah, there’s a lot of, “hey, Melanie, you’re working on this shot right now. Millie was just doing the shot right before this, you should go look. let’s get the continuity right”, and there’s some things they had to go back and fix. But again, they wanted to fix it and they wanted to make it right because they realized that between Paula and Kim, the hand shifted.

At the end of the day, having to second-guess these things to such a degree makes things more perplexing, but that is not necessarily a bad thing, as it encourages examining some scenes between different animators more closely. The last part of this scene to cover of course is the visual direction. It’s simple, but the statue is focus of every shot composition. When Jaune meets the Red-haired woman, at first, it’s shots of just their own expressions with the only shot of the both of them together being the statue framed to stand between them. It’s not until the woman acknowledges Jaune as someone close to Pyrrha that we see a shot of both of them. Once she turns to face Jaune directly and openly expresses what she believed Pyrrha’s last actions meant. By the next long shot, Jaune turns to face her in a way that the statue doesn’t feel like it’s keeping them separate but is instead bringing them together. This is supported by the following shot of Jaune openly talking to the woman with the latter also being in the shot. Slightly later on, when Ren and Nora run into Jaune, we get the same kind of long shot of the three of them gazing at Pyrrha’s statue and then when Jaune attempts to apologize, the camera pans to Ren and Nora who try to be closer as well. By the end of the scene, Jaune looks up at Pyrrha’s statue one last time as a plane aptly flies by to probably hint at Jaune eventually coming up with a plan.

Intimacy is the theme of the storyboards in this sequence. It’s similar to Yang and Blake’s scene in the Brunswick farms shed, but with a nice, slight variation. Now some may notice the persistence on referring the the character Jaune spoke to as simply “Red-Haired woman” as displayed in the ending credits and not whoever various fans think she really is. While I and others have our respective guesses, I'd rather keep the speculation out of this analysis. All there is to go on is that according to the voice of the character, Jen Brown, there is a particular identity behind the character. Beyond that, she has no idea when or even if he identity will be properly revealed and that apparently, a lot of fans have theorized wrong. As frustrating as that may be to some, the lack of confirmation shouldn’t be seen as hindering how the role of the character was crafted into the scene in all the ways it was.

Moving on to the next scene, there’s one more thing to talk about regarding environment designs, that being the Cotta-Arc home. Rooster Teeth’s twitter account released the set designs themselves and with it, came a few interesting notes. One of which stated, “the Arc house is slightly wider than main modular buildings. This is to account the interior floor plan.” One educated guess to make is that since Saphron and Terra’s living room would be a setting for the main cast, making their house a bit wider would help make things more believable to viewers. Then there’s the note that says, “metal Atlas tech shutters and heating”, which help indicate to what Atlas contributes to Argus right down to an individual home. Honestly, given the whole, “Atlas and Mistral”, collaboration, it wouldn’t be wrong to compare the cultural-fusion design philosophy to Republic City from Avatar: The Legend of Korra. A couple of other notes aside, there is finally the note of the choice of flowers sitting in front of the windows. Apparently, Terra has blue rose flowers while Saphron has yellow pansies/primroses. What these choice of flowers are suppose to say about the two characters beyond their relationship is something I won’t go into here since it may invoke endless speculation (even the matter of what the flowers the Red-Haired woman carried were suppose to represents varies from one fan to another).

With that said, now is the time to address the elephant in the room: Oscar’s scene. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that every fan who took issue with it, did so for the same reason. Whether everyone agrees on the sense of scale regarding the conflict of Oscar’s agency, the fact he is bound to carry on a seemingly hopeless burden all of his previous incarnations were tasked with had definitely made him anxious. When he got accused by Jaune in the previous episode, the end of that scene combined with the cliffhanger implied more would be centered on Oscar’s concerns before moving on to the next phase of the story. So to have that conflict that would otherwise be addressed and resolved, be instead glossed over in a manner comparable to how Weiss got over the fact Blake was once a White Fang member by not caring, it would definitely rub a lot of viewers the wrong way.

Back on October 10th,2018, Miles Luna posted a Tweet expressing how he had to commit a “darling massacre.” This amusingly led to a misunderstanding of what he meant, but basically, there was an idea for a story he worked on that ultimately had to be cut out of the script. This is far from the first time a narrative beat had to be either pushed out of the current scripts or be cut entirely, as trimming a script is a necessary process for various reasons Miles spoke of before like allowing time for home video authoring for a scheduled release. It could be argued that maybe Oscar originally had a scene written where he managed to transition his state of mind more positively but that had to be cut. The only problem is that it would be inconsistent with what was said about where Miles and Kerry were up to with the script for volume 6 back during one of the RWBY panels at RTX Austin 2018. Now it’s possible that he was really referring to having to cut something for the next installment of say, Camp Camp and not RWBY. But assuming another scene dedicated to Oscar was cut, maybe it was something that got to the storyboard stage but had to be cut then due to whatever the circumstances were. This wouldn’t be the first instance of something having to be cut altogether as oppose to be reserved for a later volume. To summarize an extensive anecdote from the volume 3 director’s commentary, there was supposed to be a comedic fight between Sun, Neptune, Pyrrha and Nora during the double rounds of the Vytal Festival tournament that had swamp and anti-grav biomes. While the former two characters would lose, Neptune was given an opportunity to overcome his insecurities after being made fun of by Weiss and then the whole audience for showing off his “water wings” to help out Sun. had storyboards and even an animatic, but it had to be cut to avoid putting a strain in volume 3′s scheduling and production. 

So that could’ve happened or maybe something else occurred behind the scenes. Either way, the execution behind Oscar’s resolution definitely felt a bit clumsily handled and maybe in a more ideal situation, what may have been cut could’ve been kept as is. Then again, something may not have cut at all. Without more concrete information, all there really is to do for now is speculate. One thing that doesn’t need to be speculated though is who did the animation for the cast hilariously dog-piling on Oscar, which was Vince Cappelutti. His name has been mentioned before, having been credited for doing part of the Adam Character Short and doing the first scene and the tunnel chase scene with fellow animator, Nicole LaCroix in chapter 6 of this volume. But this is the first time he confirmed to have done something by himself. As a result, there’s not much to comment on regarding his style, but if nothing else, it’s likely that his sequence extends to Weiss, Ruby and Nora asking questions towards Oscar since the quirky animation is carried through, albeit presented differently. Moving on to another sequence is Jaune telling Qrow his plan, which was confirmed to be animated by Hannah McCravy. Her name has been credited in the show since chapter 2 of this volume, so she is among the newer recruits. Regardless, she nails the right reactions out of each character, including when Adrian giggles. Though beyond that cut, it’s unclear if she animated anything afterward. My best guess is that when comparing to the timing of the animations of the scene between the main cast and the Nubuck guards, Nicole LaCroix animated Jaune explaining how he didn’t think of the details to the plan yet before Qrow shut his idea down. But that part is once again, left to speculation.

One last thing to go over in the scene is Ruby’s character. As mentioned earlier, there was something from the CRWBY Reddit AMA that directly connects to this episode that Miles Luna answered. Among the things he and Kerry believed they could improve on was “ More attention and meaningful conflicts for Ruby.” Seeing the titular character be given the kind of focus she has been is definitely considered welcoming to many fans of the show. But to give Miles and Kerry some credit, they have been conscious about giving Ruby a sense of conflict before. There are a couple of interesting quotes from the volume 4 blu-ray directors commentary that demonstrate this.

Chapter 6:

Miles: “Oh, this is another fun little moment too where we really are kind of pointing out the fact that Ruby... she’s very idealistic and optimistic, but not always super practical and really, he’s (Tyrian) putting her on the spot like, “y-you really don’t know what you’re doing out here kid, do you?”

Chapter 7 (when Ruby stepped in to fight Tyrian):

Miles: “Ruby you’re optimism is gonna... really bite you in the butt here, girl. There are things at work that you do not know about.”

Chapter 8:

Kerry: “So this is um, another good example of what happened a second ago (when she asked Qrow “what should we do”) and what’s coming up in a second (when she asked Qrow about not trusting her) about Ruby’s... ya know, like, her naive nature being both a good and a bad thing. She’s hearing all this stuff, she’s starting to learn what she’s wrapped up in and the consequences of everything and she’s still like “alright, what’s next?” Ruby, like... Tyrian just wrecked y’all. You shouldn’t, like she shouldn’t want to be badly into this, but she is and it’s just a really important thing to her character.”

Similar to Mercury’s character, there is a forward momentum with Ruby’s character and it seems that in her case, it has a lot to do with exploring when her decision making can be a benefit or a detriment and why. Volume 6 can be seen as a juxtaposition of her character in volume 4 where she criticized by Maria for not giving herself enough credit. Speaking of Maria, if the character/sub-plot that was taken out of volume 5′s script was actually her, then given what role her character played into volume 6 so far, it’s possible that more focus to Ruby’s character was planned at the time but ultimately had to be reduced.

That marks the end of a rather lengthier production analysis this time around. This was the episode where some major story ideas expressed via audio commentaries or Q & A’s in hindsight are being presented explicitly here and more attention to design notes for the settings in this episode helps provide insight as to what kind of thought goes into helping make scenes have a bit more going on than just be aesthetically pleasing. With the main party having a plan to go on, it’s safe to say that volume 6 is entering its third and final act in the story which will doubt result in potential action sequences and hopefully more interesting analyses to touch on.

#rwby #rwby6 #rwby spoilers #rwby analysis #crwby #production analysis #production #analysis #kerry shawcross #kerry #shawcross #monty oum #monty #oum

[wickedsingularity]

All Lit Up [drabble]

wickedsingularity’s Christmas Stories 2017 Masterlist

Fandom: MCU Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Unknown Words: 1176 Warnings: Flirting, kissing

Summary: Wanda finds me in a rather awkward situation.

When all the other Avengers were busy on missions or training or writing reports, it fell to me to decorate the tree in our communal living area. Or rather, I was a perfectionist when it came to how the tree was supposed to be set up, so everyone else cleared out when they realized I was getting to it.

Using my powers, I easily got the boxes out of storage and carried them up into the living area and sat them in front of the tree. The previous day, Steve and Sam had been out to chop it, and it stood there, tall, lush, green and sweet smelling, waiting for me.

The first thing I had to do was sort through the boxes. We had a lot of different ornaments and garlands, and I never did the same style twice.

Once it was all laid out, I took some time to look it over. I usually thought about this weeks before, but I never managed to make a decision until I saw the tree or saw the decorations. Finally, I settled on warm white lights, gold pine cones, silver baubles, white frosted snowflakes and the occasional red bauble. On the top, I wanted a golden bow, with a few ribbons cascading down.

To start off, I had to put up the lights. Unfortunately, they were all in a giant tangle. The last time we used these lights, I had been sent on a mission at the end of Christmas and hadn't been able to make sure they were put away in a sensible way.

First, I plugged them in to see if they worked.

"Damn you," I mumbled as the ball of lights lit up. "Could have bought new ones if you didn't work. At least behave while I attempt to untangle you." I went to pull out the plug and began looping it through the rest of the cable, as far as I could manage.

To start with, it went fairly well. I began laying the string out around the room until I found the other end. Then I began looping that through too, but it was going too slow. I had to be careful of each bulb. I couldn't just pull the cable, I had to make sure the bulbs survived. Which meant that I was soon walking around the room, pulling the string of lights with me.

I thought I was doing a good job until I was about to roll up a couple of feet to pull through the loop I had carefully widened just enough. That's when I realized I had made an even bigger mess than before I began, as I was now all tangled up in them myself.

I finally lost my patience, and a string of expletives tumbled from my mouth. I began turning around, trying to get out of this mess, only to tangle myself in even deeper and deeper. I cursed louder and louder, and had a few choice words that would make even Loki blush. I tossed the loose ends around, not caring if the bulbs survived this. If I could get lose enough to reach something sharp, I'd cut myself out of these motherfucking lights and light the tree on fire, see if that didn't make for a pretty light show to go with the decorations.

Suddenly, all the lights lit up and I stopped short, blinking in confusion. Then I heard a quiet giggling and I spun around to find the source of it. There, by the outlet stood Wanda, dressed so adorably in red tights, a black bubble jacket, the furry hood pulled up over her head, white fluffy mittens. Around the mittens and the outlet, red smoke faded quickly.

"Princeza, what have you done?" She pushed back her hood and began pulling off her mittens as she walked towards me, an amused smile on her face.

I just glared at her. Wasn't it obvious?

"You look very pretty all lit up." Her jacket came off and she tossed it up and it floated elegantly on a wave of red light over to the couch.

"Show off," I muttered, still glaring.

"You're also very cute when you're miffed at me." Wanda was now standing right in front of me, having easily sidestepped the lights on the floor. "Do you want me to help you?" When I didn't answer, she went on. "Or maybe I should carry you to my bedroom and have you standing there over Christmas, looking all prekrasno i sjajno."

A shudder went through me and her smile widened. She knew all too well what it did to me when she spoke in her mother tongue. But two could play that game.

I looked straight into her eyes and opened my mind to her if she wanted to get a visual of what I was going to suggest. "Help me untangle and hang up these lights, and I'll stand naked in your bedroom all through Christmas."

A beautiful blush blossomed on her face, but I was soon surrounded by red light and fog. I felt the string of lights loosening and wiggling and straightening out. Wanda's eyes began to glow red as she pulled on more power, but she was still looking at me. In the corner of my eye, I saw the string being lifted and began twisting around the tree. And a handful of seconds later, the red faded around us and from her eyes, revealing the green I loved so much.

"Thank you, Wanda."

"Anything for you, ljubavi moja."

I looked around at the tree and saw the lights arranged beautifully, I couldn't have done it better myself. "Would you mind helping me with the rest too, sweetie? I wouldn't have to find the ladder."

"Of course, I will help you."

I turned to her again and leaned in for a kiss. I meant it to be chaste, wanting to start decorating already, but Wanda laid her hand on the back of my head and deepened the kiss. She tasted like snow and cold air, and I moaned into her. But then there was a hint of gingerbread. I pulled back with a smacking sound. "Did you have Christmas coffee without me?"

She smiled bashfully. "Yes. I am sorry."

"No, you're not. But take me out for one when we're done, and I'll forgive you."

She nodded and pulled me to her for another kiss, and I tried to get as much of the gingerbread spiced coffee from her as I could. Before I could devour her completely, she pushed me away and giggled. "The sooner we start, the sooner I can get you your coffee and then you can come stand naked in my room."

I explained to her how I pictured the tree, and her red telekinesis took the first golden pinecone, lifted it up high and hooked it onto a branch. At that moment I decided this was going to be the new tradition. I never wanted to decorate another tree without my Wanda.

Princeza (Serbian) – princess prekrasno i sjajno (Serbian) – gorgeous and radiant ljubavi moja (Serbian) – my love

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[thousandmaths]

“and do the exercises”

I’ve always found the common recommendation to “Read this textbook and do the exercises.” to be... kind of unrealistic?

Recently I’ve had the opportunity to be on the other side of this recommendation, and this post is a somewhat winding and personal journey from my old perspective to my new one.

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Bounding the problem

That was intentionally a bit inflammatory, so let me backpedal a bit. There are certainly times when this kind of approach is appropriate. For instance, I’ve encountered a bunch of geometers who have been given such a recommendation by their advisor about Vakil’s notes. This is a bit of an extreme example, but even in this case, this kind of advice seems justified. Probably most of those notes are going to be important for them at some stage in their career, and doing exercises is the sort of thing that a person is just generally less willing to do as they get older. So you might as well get comfortable with these ideas, in a very concrete, no-details-spared way, while you’re still a student.

On the other hand, if Christine told me to do the same, that seems a little less justified. Yes, a lot of commutative algebra interacts quite strongly with algebraic geometry, and so I wouldn’t be terribly surprised to go through substantial portions of the book at some point. But it’s another thing entirely to do the exercises, and the difference really has to do with time investment.

I always assumed that people giving this kind of recommendation just forgot that exercises are fairly time-consuming. Even if they’re easy, they still take a while. And of course if you’re really trying to do all the exercises, some of them will not be easy. (If you’re not trying to do all the exercises, then you have to guess which ones will be most useful ahead of time! Which is a task I barely trust myself with, and I am a fairly mathematically mature student...)

For me, who uses algebraic geometry as a tool rather than being in the field per se, there’s no way it would be worthwhile to go through Vakil “and do the exercises”. That would take an enormous amount of time, time which would, almost surely, be much better spent thinking about things more directly relevant to my thesis problem. Or, you know, going through Enumerative Combinatorics and doing the exercises :P

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On the other side of the fence...

I haven’t talked about it much on the blog, but I’m working with a high school student online this summer because of conversations we’ve had through Math StackExchange. They’ve just finished the legally & freely available portion of Hermann and Sally’s Number, Shape, and Symmetry, and we’re now in the position of trying to figure out where to go from here. I have a physical copy of the book and am pretty sure I could get away with anything reasonable while staying well within fair use boundaries. But in particular the publicly available portion doesn’t have the exercises for Chapter 1, so I figured I’d type up the ones that we would be most likely to be useful. And you probably know where this is going.

To be clear: this book is chock-full of exercises: in addition to more routine things posed as “Practice Problems” within the text itself, there are also 42 exercises for Chapter 1 alone. And these are not terribly short exercises, it even takes the authors 10 pages just to write down all of them.

A few were pretty easy to cross off for this particular student, since they pick up on things fast enough that they don’t really need to be computing another union and intersection of elementwise-defined sets, &c.

The first one that I picked up on was 1.7, which is the classic $|2^S|=2^{|S|}$ for finite sets. And then 1.10, about the composability of functions. And then 1.14 which asks to justify a certain argument via the ring axioms.

And then we hit 1.17 and suddenly my job gets fairly difficult because now it’s “here are some unusual but respectable binary operations, which ring axioms do they satisfy” for a solid ten questions, and pretty much all of them are worth it— like at some point we’re going to talk about Pythagorean triples and so it would be good if they had seen 1.25 about Gaussian integers, but can you really justify doing that without 1.24 about $\Bbb Z\times\Bbb Z$, and what about 1.27 which translates the operation to the rational points of the unit circle (which would help for that video) and it keeps going...

And then 1.34 to 1.39 are all about $\Bbb Z/12\Bbb Z$, which, since the textbook has already made a big deal about $\Bbb Z/10\Bbb Z$ and $\Bbb Z/2\Bbb Z$, might be the point where the general notion of modular arithmetic might start taking shape in their mind.

Not to mention 1.31 and 1.40 which start hinting at quadratic residues, and 1.32 gives that idea an interesting connection to Fermat’s Little Theorem, and—

You get the idea. There are just so many worthwhile problems crammed in there.

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“They advise you on how to fail.”

As it happens, I’ve experienced this phenomenon in another aspect of my life: low-level Starcraft coaching. The exact nature of the problem is slightly different there, but the idea is the same. 

Since probably not many readers of this blog play Starcraft, let me say a few words. I am not a tremendously good player, but I could look at any replay given to me by a silver-leaguer, and we could analyze its problems for multiple hours. Of course I don’t do this in sessions because that’s not productive. But it’s worse than that: it’s even unproductive to condense that analysis down into just the advice portions, which we could get through in 20 minutes easily. Firstly that’s because it would be a massive dump of information. And more importantly, most of that advice— while it will surely help— will only help very little.

So the easy part of my job as a Starcraft coach is really to compile a list of problems in their play. The hard part is to take this long list of problems, throw most of it away, and find the two or maybe three bits of advice that they can walk away with, that will improve their skill most quickly while still being moderately entertaining.

And that, in turn, reminds me of this:

If you ask them what is important to succeed as a junior faculty member, people will tell you everything they did that they think helped them succeed. Plus everything they wish they had done. And all the things their friend did too. They deliver you this list without annotation, a list which no single person could ever accomplish.

So I no longer think that the problem is just that “and do the exercises” recommendations come from a place of failing to remember that solving math problems is time-consuming work. Sometimes it probably is. But it’s probably more common that this advice comes from remembering how much insight they personally have gained from doing just that one exercise, and forgetting how many exercises they did which— while they surely helped!— helped only very little.

[ It is also, of course, much easier to say “and do the exercises” than to say “and do Exercises 1.8, 2.12, 4.6,” etc., which is perhaps an even more direct comparison to the Starcraft situation. It’s not even clear to what extent such advice would be welcomed in the mathematical context— or in Starcraft either, but there it is easy to sidestep that issue by simply not mentioning the hundred other things. This workaround doesn’t translate to reading books, where the constraints of the medium are that, like it or not, you have all the available information presented to you at once. ]

#math #maths #mathematics #mathema #reading #learning #advice #becoming a responsible academic #this was kind of just supposed to be a light idea that I threw out casually but #guess what I'm incapable of doing that nowadays hahaha wonder why that is