#Spare & Label Printing Machine

[admiralstarnight]

Worldbuilding some Danger Signs for my Lancer game! In the world of Lancing Dawn, mechs have gone mad and turned against humanity, their need for pilots replaced with the ever present Madness, a strange black cancerlike substance that is seen growing on mechs that are still considered 'alive.' Its been many many years since this second fall almost wiped out humanity, the survivors are now entering a sort of post post apocalypse, where they have learned to live with the dangers of Madness Mechs in their own unique way. Here are a few signs you can find about the world. Reuse of older signage is popular, especially since not many have the resources to spare to print new signs. These signs in particular can be found on the world of Ute, where the campaign takes place.

Danger: Human Aggressive Mechs: This sign is a repurposed KEEP OUT sign, the newer paint cracking with wear from the elements. Madness Mechs on a whole are extremely dangerous, but some are known to be much more human reactive than others. Be wary.

Broken Reality: A newer sign further graffitied by passerbys. The line between realspace and other places like the firmament or legionspace are closer than ever, and NHPs that have long cascaded can cause permanent scars on the world that are a danger to look at let along be near. Its recommended people avoid these areas. The 'crossed out eye' symbol is the official symbol that the most advanced settlement, Solaria, uses to warn their people off these areas.

Pyro Territory: A newer sign, warning that the area beyond it is home to mechs that like to use fire as their weapons of choice. It's generally suggested humans give pyro territory wide berths as provoking them means dealing with an angry mech as well as possible wild fires.

Danger: Wild Mechs Present: Signs posted up at the edge of Solarian territory. If the mech is not under control of a pilot or 'Lancer' it is considered wild, no matter how harmless it may act. If you are outside the walls of the city, it is always recommended you bring firepower worthy of fighting a mech but if you see this sign you are truly stepping beyond where Solaria can save you.

Do Not Enter: Pack Territory: A repurposed Do Not Enter sign that has been marked with the label that a near-by group of mechs has claimed the area as their territory. Called 'packs' normally (rarely a 'flock' if it consists of flying types), these groups are hierarchical groups with usually one leader and the rest following their command. 'Alpha' mechs, the leaders, tend to be older and smarter, having learned over the years from harsh survival against others that might try to kill them.

Warning: Mech Training In Progress: Humanity progresses. Solaria has learned of ways to tame and break these mad mechs to their will once more for human use against a world that wants them dead. It is not a smooth process, however, and requires a lot of training to get huge war machines to act in accordance with human desires. Civilians are barred from mech training grounds for obvious reasons.

Road to Solaria: Solaria used to be a different city all together before the Second Fall, sadly that name has been lost to history, not helped by the current natives wanting to make sure people know that their place exists and as such have gone around scribbling the current name while crossing out the old. As for why you should stay away from the Spaceport? Well I can't tell you, all I can say is someone went to great effort to cross out this giant sign in blood red paint. Whatever is there has to be dangerous.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

@jegulus-microfic august 21 - hallway - 1124 words - office AU with intern!Regulus and juniorboss!James (nsfw! in part2)

this one’s for shan @grimjobs <3 heh

Regulus has a love-hate relationship with the supplies room. Or, more specifically, the hallway leading there.

It’s all the way at the fuck all end of the office, past the breakroom and near the lavatories. And Regulus, being the intern, gets sent there for every piss little thing a coworker might be in need of. Oh, Regulus I think I’m out of sticky notes, can you be a darling and get some from the supply room?, or, Regulus the copier is out of paper, or, Regulus is there a spare chair in the supply room? Mine’s so squeaky.

It is, also, precisely across from the Junior boss’s office, and Regulus gets incredibly flustered around James, even if the curtains are covering the huge glass panes, and so, more often than not, Regulus forgets something and has to trudge back all over again.

He knows it’s part of the job and hey, he even gets his steps in every day but what’s still entirely unfair is the way heat shoots up Regulus’ nape the second James looks up from behind his monitor and flashes him a pearly smile.

Regulus nods his head in acknowledgement, cheeks flaring and then ducks into the supply room for an array of markers, pens, blue paper for flyers, a whole fucking paper cutter machine and paper clips, but only the red ones! Sure, Bethany.

He is in the process of checking the idiotically small-printed labels for the box of yellow markers, apparently completely unaware of his surroundings, when suddenly there’s a puff of minty breath against Regulus’ cheek and a warm body skirting past his back, not quite touching but body heat radiating off him like a bloody furnace.

The Junior Boss has naturally warm hands, which Regulus is intimately familiar with since this one insisted on proving that fact when they were out with the colleagues for mulled wine last year before Christmas and Regulus had nearly frozen his fucking fingers off despite gloves. Needless to say, Regulus had gotten warm very quickly after James had stood close with his sweet smile and deep red beanie over tousled hair, cradling his hands in his palms like they were something precious.

“Sorry, love, don’t mind me,” and Regulus leaves an undignified high-pitched sound as he whirls around and comes face to face with messy raven hair and toffee brown eyes behind gold rimmed glasses. Is so hypnotized by the sight up close that his hold goes slack on the pens and paper he’s already found.

“Oh,” James says, hand shooting out to keep the rolling pens from hitting the ground. Grins while he puts one of his palms steadying under Regulus’ hand where he’s now gripping the stack of blue like a lifeline and places the pens back on top of it, “Careful there.”

Regulus’ voice is raspy when he manages a weak, “Thanks.”

James hums in understanding as he extracts himself and it’s low and deep and Regulus swears he can feel the wavelengths of it permeate through the air and penetrate all the layers of skin and muscle in his chest. Lap at the bones and wash right through between the ribs. Coil around his heart, dangerously and then devilishly slink down his spine and pool right in a pit below Regulus’ stomach that seems responsive solely to all things James related in a very biased way.

What comes next is a bit inconceivable and hazy in Regulus’ mind.

Because then James, terrifyingly, decides to step back close again and lean in.

Closer than before and Regulus is tensing, waiting for James to get the thing he’s reaching for from behind Regulus on the shelf but James doesn’t.

Doesn’t move in any regard safe for his eyelids drooping and gaze restlessly darting over Regulus face. Lick his lips and now they’re shiny and wet and Regulus has to look away. Eyes flitting back up to James like he’s being reeled in magnetically and finds their gazes locking.

And then there’s a careful touch at Regulus’ jaw and Regulus tilts his head up and into it and before the breathy noise can entirely leave his mouth James is already swallowing it up, pressing parted lips against Regulus’ with a heavy sigh.

It’s a careful press of lips and it stays like that, measured and controlled, even as James comes back in for another array of soft fluttering kisses. But it’s still wet and with the unhurried leisure their lips stick to each other, with the spit and the slow press and it’s so, so fucking far from decent and appropriate Regulus could cry.

So, really, Regulus is not to blame for the way it draws him tight, riles him up until comes the snap, and it’s in the form of a keen he didn’t even know he could make that sounds a horrifying lot like a mewl.

Which then has James promptly separating them with heavy panting, lips kiss bitten and eyes wild and Regulus would literally rather staple his eyes shut than keep looking at this without being able to do something about it.

James rightens his glasses where they’ve become askew and then his mouth tips into a happy, self-satisfied 100 watt grin, “Come on, I’ll walk you back to your desk,” taking the blue paper packet out of his hands. “Anything else you need from in here?”

And Regulus tries to remember while simultaneously suppressing the urge to throttle him and also trying to get his breathing back under control and blush to fade and hard cock to go down and why is he acting like nothing out of the ordinary just happened? Like this is your usual Monday morning occurrence and not groundbreaking and also a complete disaster waiting to happen?

Helplessly mumbles about the paper cutter machine and then James is balancing that on one defined forearm like it weighs nothing and escorting Regulus back to his desk, chattering his ear off in a chirpy tone that Regulus doesn’t register a thing off.

When James takes a pause to breathe Bethany coincidentally happens to walk past and after one look the old bat asks about her red paper clips, Regulus? which then for some reason prompts Mark to leer over the cubicle wall from across and frown at the lack of yellow marker.

Regulus barely refrains from face-palming, internally chanting and begging for the ground to open up and swallow him and then James next to him is chuckling and making a fucking cooing noise at him. He waves a dismissive hand, “Must’ve slipped your mind, huh?”

The glint in his eyes though is anything but innocent when he leans a little closer, murmuring, “Well, let’s head back and get the rest, shall we?”

———

part 2, they’re nasty fuckin there 🤭

[nbgprintography]

How to Choose the Right Flexo Printing Machinery

Investing in the right flexographic (flexo) printing machine is an important decision for any printing or packaging business. The right equipment can improve print quality, speed up production, and reduce operating costs. However, with many options available in the market, choosing the right machine can be challenging.

In this blog, we’ll help you understand what to look for when selecting a flexo printing machine. Whether you're a startup or an established business, working with experienced flexo printing machine manufacturers and choosing a trusted printing machine manufacturer in India can make a big difference.

Understand Your Business Needs

Before you start comparing machines, it's important to know what you need. Consider the type of material you plan to print on—paper, plastic, film, foil, or labels. Also, think about your production volume, color requirements, and the level of automation you need. If your jobs involve short runs with frequent changes, you’ll need a machine that allows quick setup and easy plate changes.

Look for Print Quality and Speed

Flexo printing machines are known for high-speed printing, but print quality should never be compromised. Choose a machine that offers sharp image clarity and consistent ink distribution. A good machine should balance speed and quality to help you meet deadlines without sacrificing output.

Evaluate Machine Features and Technology

Modern flexo machines come with advanced features like automatic tension control, drying systems, and computer-based controls. These features reduce manual work and increase efficiency. Machines with servo drives and automatic registration systems help improve precision and reduce material waste.

When choosing a machine, look for features that match your workflow and production goals. It’s best to select a machine that offers room for upgrades or customization if your needs grow in the future.

Consider After-Sales Support and Maintenance

Even the best machine will require maintenance over time. That’s why after-sales support is crucial. Work with flexo printing machine manufacturers that offer training, spare parts, technical guidance, and quick service response. This will help reduce downtime and keep your production running smoothly.

Choose the Right Manufacturer

Partnering with a reliable printing machine manufacturer in India ensures that you receive a machine that’s built to last. Look for manufacturers with proven experience, good client reviews, and a strong focus on quality. Companies like NBG Printographic Machinery Co. Pvt. Ltd. have decades of experience and offer advanced flexo printing solutions for various printing needs. Their machines are built with precision, using modern technology and durable materials, making them a preferred choice for clients in India and abroad.

Plan Your Budget Wisely

Cost is always a factor, but it's important to focus on value—not just price. A cheaper machine might cost more in the long run due to breakdowns, poor print quality, or limited features. On the other hand, a well-designed, efficient machine might offer faster returns through increased productivity and lower maintenance costs.

Ask the manufacturer about total cost of ownership, including installation, training, spare parts, and support.

Final Thoughts

Choosing the right flexo printing machinery takes careful planning and research. Understand your needs, compare machine features, and work with a trusted printing machine manufacturer in India who offers long-term value and support.

Flexo printing is a smart investment for packaging and label production, but the success of that investment depends on the machine you choose. Reliable flexo printing machine manufacturers can help you find the perfect fit for your business—improving quality, efficiency, and profitability.

Ready to take the next step? Explore the latest flexo printing machines at NBG Printographic Machinery Co. Pvt. Ltd. and find the perfect solution for your printing needs.

[micronindia]

Leading Bottle Printing Machine Manufacturers in India: A Complete Guide

India has emerged as a significant player in the manufacturing of bottle printing machines, catering to various industries like beverages, cosmetics, pharmaceuticals, and personal care. These machines are vital for branding, labeling, and providing essential product information.

With the rising demand for customized and high-quality bottle printing, finding a reliable manufacturer is essential for businesses aiming for efficiency and aesthetic appeal. In this blog post, we will explore the top bottle printing machine manufacturers in India, factors to consider when selecting a manufacturer, and the different types of bottle printing machines available.

Why Invest in Quality Bottle Printing Machines?

High-quality bottle printing machines ensure precise, durable, and attractive prints that enhance brand visibility. Substandard machines can lead to printing errors, wastage, and increased production costs. Partnering with a reputable manufacturer guarantees reliable equipment, compliance with industry standards, and effective after-sales support.

Types of Bottle Printing Machines Available

Screen Printing Machines: Ideal for simple, durable, and high-opacity prints on bottles.

Pad Printing Machines: Suitable for small prints and intricate designs.

Digital Printing Machines: Offers versatile, high-resolution prints with quick turnaround times.

Laser Marking Machines: Best for permanent and tamper-proof markings.

Factors to Consider When Choosing a Bottle Printing Machine Manufacturer

1. Industry Experience and Expertise

Look for manufacturers with a proven track record and industry expertise. Experienced manufacturers understand diverse business needs and can recommend the most suitable solutions.

2. Product Quality and Standards

Ensure the manufacturer adheres to international standards like ISO or CE certifications. High-quality construction and durable components ensure reliable performance.

3. Customization Options

A reliable manufacturer should offer customization options, including machine size, speed, and printing techniques tailored to your specific requirements.

4. After-Sales Support

Efficient after-sales support, including installation, maintenance, and spare parts availability, is essential for minimizing downtime and ensuring smooth operations.

5. Client Feedback and Testimonials

Check client reviews, case studies, and testimonials to assess the manufacturer’s reputation. Positive feedback from established brands indicates trustworthiness.

Top Bottle Printing Machine Manufacturers in India

Here are some of the leading bottle printing machine manufacturers in India known for their quality products and customer-centric approach:

 Renowned for advanced digital printing solutions and high-quality screen printing machines.

 Specializes in cost-effective, automated bottle printing machines with a strong after-sales network.

Offers versatile printing solutions suitable for various industries, known for durability and precision.

Conclusion

Choosing the right bottle printing machine manufacturer in India is crucial for achieving reliable, high-quality printing solutions. By considering experience, quality standards, customization, and after-sales support, you can establish a fruitful partnership that meets your business needs.

If you need personalized guidance to find the best bottle printing machine manufacturer, feel free to reach out for expert recommendations.

[adinathinternationalindia]

Vial Sticker Labeling Machine

Vial Sticker Labeling Machine also known as vial sticker labeler can label vials with utmost accuracy and precision. By using our pharma vial labeling machine one can label up to 250 vials per minute. Vial Labeler can be attached to any vial liquid or powder filling line for online operations. Fabricated in high quality stainless steel grade machine complies all regulatory requirements. PLC HMI based control panel equipped with servo driven control mechanism for accurate label placement with minimum rejection. There is option of installing missing label sensor for detecting any vial without label. On higher end we can offer automatic camera based inspection and rejection system for printing mistakes and barcodes. We provide lifetime support for spare parts for our supplied machines. Regarding automation components, we can offer you components as per your desired brand preferences. We also provide after sales service and AMC services for our supplied equipments.

[hitech-pcba]

Industrial Control PCB Assembly Manufacturer

sales12@hitechpcb.com

Industrial Control PCB Assembly Manufacturer – One-stop service

Industrial Control PCB Assembly – PCBA Manufacturers, Suppliers, Factory From China

Since the establishment of our company, the primary goal has been to maintain the superior quality, excellent durability and high cost performance of PCB Assembly. We are an enterprise specialized in manufacturing Industrial Control PCB Assembly integrating development, scientific research, manufacturing, technical services and marketing. Network interaction can enhance the value of our product brand, increase market share, and spread our brand image more effectively. Enterprises spare no effort to meet the needs of customers and serve customers unconditionally is the basic principle to achieve the first-class service level. With the in-depth understanding of product manufacturing process and market, our company collects high-quality brands and technical services targeted to meet the needs of customers with rapid response and high-quality service.

Because of robots and comparable technologies, many different remote control devices are being employed in numerous sectors. Assemblies of printed circuit boards are critical to the smooth movement and robust electrical connections between controllers and industrial machinery.

Rapid Assemblies was well aware of the potential influence remote-controlled machines would have on several sectors as soon as they entered the market. We’ve taken significant initiatives to ensure that our circuit board assemblies fulfill this industry’s rigorous criteria.

Electronics must be rock-solid, long-lasting, and capable of withstanding the most punishing environments for industrial usage. Additionally, industrial control PCB must adhere to tight industrial SIL and IEC requirements and offer unique design features and form factors for any industrial environment.

Advanced Electronic Manufacturing

• PCB Manufacturing

• PCB Assembly

• Integrated Manufacturing

• Cable Wire Harness Assembly

• Electromechanical Assembly

Application of PCBs for Industrial Use

Here are few examples of our industrial application:

Units that provide power

Robotics

Electronically controlled gearboxes

Drives and inverters for industrial applications

Instrumentation for electronic testing and measurements

Systems for regulating energy consumption

The use of smart meters in industrial settings

Smart labels for computers and other electronic devices

Lighting Systems

How to make industrial PCB?

Printed circuit boards (PCBs) are constructed from insulating panels onto which copper layers and signal lines are etched or printed. As the intricacy of the circuit increases, the number of layers on an industrial PCB may range from a single to eight or more. PCB Manufacturing Process includes the following steps:

PCB Layout

Design and layout come first when thinking about the industrial control PCB manufacturing process.

You need to know what you want and select a designer that will bring your vision to life (virtually) (virtually). Understand that PCB design and layout is the most critical step of producing an industrial circuit board.

PCB Design

The design will determine how the product will look and operate. A successful PCB design supports the operation of the device within which it is housed. Not all gadgets have the exact pricing, and hence the PCB design might differ on numerous parameters. The kind of users and their access to resources also determine the style of PCB.

Designing nowadays is done with specialized tools that may be used online and offline; they can be free or expensive.

PCB Prototyping

Once the design and layout have been authorized for production, you may prototype and test the product to confirm its functions and features as intended. It’s possible that prototyping will take longer than usual if the industrial PCB is very complicated. 

Once a PCB prototype is complete, third parties often put through further testing before being released into production. So, the final product’s function and other features rely entirely on this one component.

Industrial Control PCB Assembly Characteristics：

According to the characteristics and technical particularities of industrial control products, it is not difficult to find that it has a high dependence on PCBA. The demand for information and intelligence is higher than that of general computers in some places. Industrial computers are computers, but they are different from personal computers.

Industrial computer configuration is not very high, as long as it meets the needs of the project. However, the motherboard has relatively rich slots, which can be used for various expansion functions. So it is not difficult to see that in practical work, the demand for PCBA is more diverse and the quality requirement is higher.

The application of industrial control board in industrial control board can adapt to the harsh industrial application environment and has good stability and reliability. Customers can also customize motherboards, core boards, module boards, and support specific specifications such as TG180, hot-roll boards, etc.

In order to meet the production demand of high-layer and high-precision industrial control products, Hitech Circuits has mature circuit board manufacturing technology and advanced imported production equipment, such as Korea OPE punch, Germany Burkle press, Japan Mitsubishi laser drill, Germany Schmoll drill, and vacuum resin plug machine; meanwhile, it has mastered the advanced production of the industry.

Conclusion

Industrial automation control is mainly used in industrial control units, high-power transformers for advanced integration and testing electric vehicle charging stations, smart metering and other fields. Printed circuit board assemblies are important for smooth movement and robust electrical connections between controllers and industrial machinery. Crucially, in the field of industrial control, PCBA can help companies save costs and reduce human errors, while PCB assembly for industrial control needs to involve large-scale component procurement and PCB production.

Industrial electronics assemblies are an integral part of modern industrial automation, playing an important role in improving the productivity, precision, and safety of industrial operations. Since industrial electronic equipment needs to run for a long time and the operating environment is complex, their quality must be strictly guaranteed. Hitechpcba is an expert in electronics assembly manufacturing, we provide a full range of industrial electronics manufacturing services from design to production and testing. With professional equipment, skilled technicians, and a strong quality management system, we are capable of consistently producing reliable and high-quality electronic equipment for industrial applications.

[maharanimachine]

How can I choose the right Pouch Packaging machine for my business

Choosing the right pouch packaging machine is crucial for businesses across various industries, including food and beverage, pharmaceuticals, cosmetics, and household products. Here are some key factors to consider when selecting a pouch packaging machine for your business:

Pouch Type and Size:

Determine the type of pouches you need, such as flat pouches, stand-up pouches, zip-lock pouches, or spout pouches. Consider the size, shape, and material of the pouches based on your product specifications and packaging requirements.

Packaging Capacity:

Evaluate your production capacity and choose a machine that can handle the desired volume of pouch packaging per day or per hour. Consider factors like filling speed, sealing capacity, and throughput to meet demand efficiently.

Packaging Material:

Ensure that the machine is compatible with the packaging materials suitable for your products, such as laminated films, aluminum foil, plastic films, or biodegradable materials. Consider factors like barrier properties, product protection, and sustainability.

Sealing Mechanism:

Check the sealing mechanism offered by the machine, such as heat sealing, ultrasonic sealing, or impulse sealing, to ensure secure and airtight seals that maintain product freshness and integrity.

Product Handling:

Consider the handling capabilities of the machine for your specific products, such as powders, liquids, granules, or solids. Look for features like adjustable filling volumes, gentle product handling, and automatic feeding systems to minimize product waste and ensure accurate filling.

Automation Level:

Choose the appropriate level of automation based on your production scale and operational requirements. Options range from manual machines for small batches to fully automatic machines for high-speed production lines.

Pouch Features:

Decide on additional pouch features you may need, such as resealable closures, tear notches, printing or labeling capabilities, and tamper-evident seals, to enhance product convenience, branding, and shelf appeal.

Hygiene and Sanitation:

Prioritize machines with hygienic design features, easy cleaning procedures, and materials compliant with food safety standards to ensure product safety and regulatory compliance.

Energy Efficiency:

Consider machines with energy-saving features, such as efficient heating elements, servo motors, and automatic power-off functions, to reduce energy consumption and operational costs.

Maintenance and Serviceability:

Evaluate the ease of maintenance, availability of spare parts, and technical support provided by the supplier to minimize downtime, address any issues promptly, and extend the machine's lifespan.

[sinhosun]

Should I buy new or second-hand post-press equipment?

Post-press processing are indispensable steps in the printing industry, such as die cutting, binding, laminating, folding gluing, etc. With the continuous progress of technology, there are more and more post-press equipment in the market. When purchasing post-press equipment, should we choose new or second-hand ones? This article will analyze the advantages and disadvantages of new and second-hand post-press equipment, as well as the factors to consider when purchasing.

What is the post-press equipment?

A. On the Definition of ' post-press equipment '

Post press equipment refers to the equipment used for subsequent processing after printing, such as: die-cutting machine, waste stripping machine, folding gluing machine, etc. With the help of these equipment, factories can produce paper packaging with better quality.

B. Types of post-press equipment

There are many types of post-press equipment, including digital post-press equipment, laminating equipment, folding equipment, cutting equipment, labeling machines and so on.

C. The importance of post-press equipment

Post-press equipment plays a vital role in the entire printing process. Not only can they improve the quality and efficiency of production, but they can help the plants to reduce labors costs and increase profits. Therefore, when purchasing post-press equipment, choosing the right ones can bring significant economic benefits to the enterprise.

Advantages and disadvantages of buying a new post-press equipment

Advantages

Higher reliability：New post-press equipment generally has higher reliability because they have not been used and worn out, giving the plant a longer service life and more stable performance.

Warranty period: New equipment usually has a warranty service from the supplier, which means that machine can be repaired or spare parts can be replaced for free within a certain period of time, reducing the maintenance cost for the enterprise.

Technical updates：Brand new equipment is often equipped with the latest technologies and features that can improve the production quality and productivity

Weakness

High price: Compared with used equipment, the price of new one is much higher, which may exceed the budget of small businesses.

Depreciation rate: Once new equipment is used, its value will decline rapidly, which may result in higher depreciation charges.

Advantages and disadvantages of buying second-hand post-press equipment

Advantages

Low price: Compared to brand new equipment, second-hand post-press equipment is usually cheaper and can provide a more economical option for small businesses.

Stable performance: The used equipment has been used for a period of time and has been tested in actual production, which can prove its stable and reliable performance.

Try new post-press equipment by purchasing second-hand equipment: Before purchasing new equipment, you can try new post-press processing technologies by purchasing used equipment of the same brand to evaluate their performance so that you can make a more informed decision.

Weakness

Potential issues exist: Used equipment may have potential machine failure or damage, and a full inspection of the equipment is required to ensure its proper operation.

Warranty issues: Used equipment is usually out of warranty period, need to bear their own maintenance costs and risks.

Maintenance costs: Since the service life of second-hand equipment may be shorter, maintenance and repair costs may be higher, which needs to be fully considered by enterprises.

How to make the decision to purchase new or second-hand post-press equipment?

A. The case of purchasing new finishing equipment

Adequate budget: If the enterprise has a sufficient budget, it can give priority to purchasing new post-press equipment to improve production efficiency and quality and reduce maintenance costs.

High requirements for equipment reliability: If the enterprise has high requirements for equipment reliability and stability, it can give priority to purchasing new equipment to ensure its normal operation and long-term use.

Requires a higher warranty period: If your plant requires a higher warranty period, it can give priority to purchasing brand new equipment to repair or replace faulty parts free of charge within the warranty period.

B. The case for purchasing second-hand post-press equipment

Tight budget: if the enterprise has a tight budget, you can give priority to purchasing second-hand post-press equipment to save purchase costs, and try to choose better second-hand equipment to ensure stable performance.

Try new equipment: If the enterprise wants to try new post-press technology, but does not have enough budget to buy new equipment, it can give priority to buying second-hand equipment to evaluate its performance and functions.

Flexible requirements for equipment: If the enterprise has flexible requirements for equipment and needs to respond to market demands and changes more quickly, it can give priority to purchasing second-hand equipment in order to adjust equipment configuration and quantity more flexibly.

Summing

Purchasing post-press equipment is an important step for enterprises to improve production efficiency and quality, reduce costs and increase profits. When deciding to purchase new equipment or second-hand equipment, companies need to fully consider their own needs and budget, and choose the most suitable solution. Purchasing brand new equipment has the advantages of high reliability, warranty period, and technology updates, but it is relatively expensive and may exceed the budget of a small business. Buying used equipment is inexpensive, but you need to be aware of issues such as potential problems and maintenance costs. Enterprises need to make wise decisions based on actual conditions on the premise of ensuring equipment quality and performance.

If you are considering purchasing brand new post-press equipment, then SINHOSUN brand equipment is your reliable choice. As an enterprise specializing in the production of post-press equipment, SINHOSUN has many years of production experience and technical advantages, and is committed to providing customers with high-quality equipment and high-quality services.

SINHOSUN produces a wide variety of post-press equipment, including but not limited to Paper stripping machine, cutting machine, die-cutting machine, intelligent folder-gluer production line, auto gluing machine and other equipment. Each equipment has been carefully designed and strictly tested to ensure its efficiency and reliability. In addition, SINHOSUN also provides customized services to meet the individual needs of customers.

If you want to know more about SINHOSUN's post-press equipment, you can contact us at any time, we will be very happy to help you. We believe that choosing SINHOSUN brand post-press equipment will be the right choice for you to improve production efficiency and product quality.

[charlestownladyposh]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NYDJ Plus NWT Charming Top Delray Ditsy White w/Black Floral Blouse Tunic Sz 4X.

[decepti-thots]

MTMTE/LL script project.

I am reposting an updated person of this post so I can maintag it for visibility!

tl;dr: I am attempting to digitize the MTMTE/LL scripts that exist for archival purposes to prevent any of them becoming lost media in the future. And I am looking for help in this!

The long version:

I am trying to get scans or clear, readable photographs of all the MTMTE/LL scripts that exist for the sake of digitizing them and making sure they don’t wind up lost media. (Needless to say, me currently trying to get ahold of fandom stuff from 20-30 years ago and constantly running into brick walls because nobody has scanned their copies of things got me thinking about this, haha.)

These scripts are, in a lot of cases, literally just printer paper stapled together and sold at cons to a very few people. I would hate to see these disappear in a decade or two because we all wound up forgetting where we left them, or stuck them in the attic and damp got them, or whatever.

Roberts has been selling nothing but spares/leftovers of these for a while now, including at this year's TFN, where he had very few left and none of them were new prints as far as I could tell. (Rusty staples!) In addition, he's said he does not expect to be doing more cons for some time. The one time he sold them online in 2020 or so, it was explicitly just old stock. So at this point, getting my hands on more for this project means either getting folks to kindly contribute scans or sell me their copies on.

(Sidenote: at the moment I'm not 100% sure if JRo has finished up selling these forever, though it seems likely for the forseeable given the above. Even so, I’m a little leery of making this stuff super public until such a time as he confirms he's got no future plans, because I hate to eat into a potential way for creators to make some well earned money off their own work if it turns out he’s gonna sell more later. This project is to make sure an archive exists as futureproofing, but I don't currently plan to immediately make this a massive public repository. But obviously, anyone kind enough to contribute can have access to the drive.)

Below the cut is a list of a) what I currently have, b) what I expect to have soon and c) what I know exists and do not have. If you have anything I don't, and would be willing to scan or photograph it to contribute, please let me know. Alternatively, if anyone has scripts I don’t already own which rather than scan they’re interested in selling on, hit me up. I am not made of money, but I’m willing to pay a fair price to get my hands on them if needed. Just be aware I’m UK based.

Unscanned, for me to do: Lost Light #6, This Machine Kills Fascists (standard)

Unscanned, being scanned by others: Chaos Theory

Scanned or photographed: More Than Meets The Eye #6, Interiors (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #9, Shadowplay Part One: Post Hoc More Than Meets The Eye #12, Before and After (standard) More Than Meets The Eye #16, The Gloaming (standard) More Than Meets The Eye #22, Little Victories (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #28, World Shut Your Mouth: Towards Peace (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #31, Twenty Plus One (standard) More Than Meets The Eye #35, The Custom Made Now (standard) More Than Meets The Eye #38, Elegant Chaos: Predestination, an Expert's Guide (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #39, The Permanent Revolution (annotated) More than Meets The Eye #40, Our Steps Will Always Rhyme (standard and annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #47, The Lopsided Triangle (standard) Lost Light #6, This Machine Kills Fascists (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #50, How Bright Their Frail Deeds (annotated) Lost Light #13, Sardines (annotated) Lost Light #25, How To Say Goodbye And Mean It: Part 2 (annotated) The Transformers Holiday Special, Silent Light/MTMTE #50 backup script (annotated)

Ones I am looking for and know exist: More Than Meets The Eye #4 (labelled #3), Life After The Big Bang (standard) More Than Meets The Eye #5, How Ratchet Got His Hands Back More Than Meets The Eye #14, Remembrance Day More Than Meets The Eye #21, Remain in Light: This Calamitous Life More Than Meets The Eye #35, The Custom Made Now (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #43, The One Where They Go To Earth (annotated) More Than Meets The Eye #55, The Dying of the Light: Do Not Go Gentle

(Note: the scripts often have preliminary titles that differ from those above that were used for final issues. Also, for earlier issues, sometimes numbering is off by one, because projected issue counts shifted. The above is mostly guesses based on numbers JRo mentioned for scripts on Twitter and final issue names.)

You can contact me either here or on Twitter. And if you could let anyone know who you think could help and signal boost, I would appreciate it.

Thank you!

[littlemisspascal]

Mailroom Crush Part 7

Pairing: Javier Peña x Female Reader

Word Count: 3000

Summary: A story about Reader who works in the mailroom of the embassy and her encounters with a handsome, brown-eyed DEA agent.

Warnings: Language, fluff, angst, Reader sits on Javier’s lap, inaccurate depiction of an embassy mailroom, this is only loosely based on canon of Season 3 so the timeline does not 100% match the show’s

Author Note: Thank you everybody for your amazing support and encouragement! I appreciate every word and I hope y’all enjoy this segment 💝

PART 6 / PART 8

(gif made in canva by me)

For all the letters and packages you successfully deliver, items will still inevitably wind up getting lost. You do your best to double-check the names on the labels and envelopes match the recipients’, but sometimes papers stick together or the handwriting is messy and they’re accidentally sent to the wrong office or placed in the wrong mail slot. 

You deal with hundreds of deliveries per week and although you hate to admit it, you’ve learned to accept the fact you can’t account for all of their whereabouts 24/7. Sometimes it isn’t even your fault the items are lost. The embassy staff are forgetful creatures, creating unorganized piles on their desks or feeding dozens of documents into the shredder at once. 

Point is, mail is easily lost.

But being easily lost does not guarantee never being found again. Sometimes those missing items have a funny way of being rediscovered. Once somebody taped a letter to the mailroom door with a note saying it had been mixed in with their bundle accidentally. 

So now when something’s missing–be it mail, pens, your car keys, whatever–you cling to the hope of it returning instead of drowning in worry over its disappearance. You’ve learned to become observant, alert, mind and eyes sharp for the tiniest of clues. But you’ve also developed the belief that if what is lost is meant to return to you, then one way or another it will.

The time’s verging on eleven o’clock when you step out of the mailroom to grab more paper from the embassy’s supply closet. Usually the cupboard in the mailroom is fully stocked with everything you need to get through your night shift, but apparently there must have been a bunch of documents printed during the day shift because you couldn’t find even a single spare sheet on any of the shelves. 

As your footsteps echo off the tile floor with an annoying clicking sound, you contemplate stopping by the vending machine for a soda or maybe even a candy bar. There’s nobody around except for you so it’s not like you’ll face judgment if you indulge in your chocolate craving. The cleaning crew is already finished with this floor, and you figure if Javier was going to drop by then he would’ve already. 

Your little late night rendezvous with Javier in the mailroom aren’t usually preplanned. He either shows up or he doesn’t. On the nights he’s absent, you’ve learned it’s most likely because he’s consumed with sifting through his boxes of files on the Cali Cartel, oblivious to the passage of time and the rest of the world, but on two memorable occasions you’ve peeked into his office and found your boyfriend asleep on the couch instead. He looks younger when he’s dreaming, peaceful almost, a lot less burdened than he looks when he’s awake. 

The sight of a light on in one of the audio rooms sends your thoughts scattering. Even without being able to see inside you know it’s Javier. Throughout the week you’ve caught glimpses of him frequently going in and out, usually with Stoddard on his heels, though what exactly he’s been listening to you haven’t the faintest idea.

You pause outside the door, torn between knocking to check on him or leaving before he discovers your arrival. Ever since the misunderstanding with the photographs, Javier’s been determined to keep you distanced from his work, maintaining a carefully constructed wall around all things pertaining to the Cali Cartel. As a result, Agent Peña continues to remain an elusive side of Javier’s personality to you.

Not for a lack of trying on your part, however. 

Your attempts at getting Javier to open up about his job and unload some of the stress he carries on a daily basis have all been slyly evaded like a fox outsmarting a trap. Sometimes he’ll distract you by deflecting your questions back at you, seeming to enjoy listening to you ramble on about the positives and negatives of your day, or he’ll talk about growing up in Texas, knowing you’re always interested in hearing of his life before Colombia. And if those tactics don't work then a couple of heated kisses has you turning to putty in his hands, unable to remember your own name let alone those of the Cali Cartel leaders.

Once you stopped by his office during your lunch break, bringing him an extra piece of cake you’d packed with the intention of sharing it. He’d smiled at your impromptu visit, leaning over his desk to press a kiss to your cheek, but he’d also made a point to shut all the open folders he’d been browsing before joining you on the couch. 

Trying to erase the lines of tension on his face, you’d said in-between bites, “I’ve watched a couple of true crime documentaries, Javi. I highly doubt there’s anything in those files that would give me nightmares.”

His expression tightened, eyes turning dark, looking at you like you had no idea what you were talking about. Like you were hopelessly naive and disillusioned.

“Oh, tesoro, I wish that were true.”

Biting your lip, you surrender to your selfish desires and knock twice. You wait a beat, then mentally slap yourself because duh he won’t be able to hear you if he’s wearing headphones. The doorknob twists without resistance when you grab it and you poke your head inside, eyes immediately finding Javier sitting at the sole desk in the room listening to a recording.

You tap his shoulder. “Hey.”

Javier jolts, a flicker of alarm crossing his face before his expression relaxes when he realizes it’s you. He slides the headphones down around his neck and asks, “What’re you doing here?”

“I saw the light was on. Thought I’d say hi,” you answer simply, though your gaze strays from his tired face towards the audio equipment on the desk, noting the various wires and buttons. There’s a label on one of the tape reels with the name Christina Jurado on it. You recognize her as the blonde photographed with Javier who he claimed is married to a banker with big ties to the Cali Cartel.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’re you doing here?”

He sets his hands on your waist, lips curling into a pleased smirk. “You came all this way just to say hello? I’m touched, tesoro.”

He’s doing it again, you think even as you wrap your hands around his wrists, finding comfort in his pulse beneath your fingertips, and move to stand closer between his spread legs. Sneaky little fox.

You reach out a hand and his eyes shut in expectation of you caressing his face, something you’re quite fond of doing during your moments of alone time with him, but instead you tap a fingernail against the side of the headphones.

“You wiretapped her phone, didn’t you?”

Javier’s eyes fly open, lips parting with surprise. He shouldn’t be though. Despite being a lowly mail clerk, you know not everything that happens in the embassy is legal. It’s practically an open secret around here that everyone, including the ambassador himself, have all bent or outright broken the law in order to get the desired result of a positive outcome. Politics have been and always will be messy, one of the abundant reasons you stick to sorting mail instead of seeking any kind of promotion. 

The grip on your waist tightens and his mouth opens, a protest ready on his tongue, but before he can voice it you take a page out of his playbook and sit on his thigh, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt over his chest, and look up at him through your eyelashes.

“I know you’re trying to protect me,” you say quietly, “but please no more lies, Javi darling. Don’t make me worry about you more than I already do. Let me in.”

Javier’s jaw clenches, mulling over your plea. You know this is hard for him, that he’s doing all he can to keep you away from the darkness of his job, to prevent a target being painted on your back, and here you are begging to jump right into the deep end of it all with him.

You can’t ask him to quit his job. Partly because you don’t want to feel the hurtful sting of rejection when he chooses it over you, but mostly because you know if he did quit, if he did stop chasing after bad guys and let them get away with their sins, then he’d never know peace. Not truly. He might fake it for a while, smiling at you over grilled cheese dinners and thinking up ridiculous puns to make you laugh, but deep down his desire for justice would remain unsettled. He’d grow to resent you. And then he’d leave you. 

An alternative option would be you leaving him first. Sever all emotional ties and go back to your safe (and lonely) bubble of existence you lived in before dating him. But you tried that already and those two weeks apart were some of your worst days in recent memory. 

The fact is, Javier’s a part of your heart now, wrapped up in your bones, as necessary in your life as the oxygen you breathe. You’re willing to take the plunge and walk with him through the dark if that’s the only way to stay together. Perhaps you could even help him find the light on the other side. Question is though, will he continue keeping you at arm’s length or will he accept your choice?

The gentle touch of Javier’s hand upon your cheek has your eyes locking onto his. You say nothing, just lean into his palm and pretend your heart’s not pumping a frantic beat in your chest.

“Tesoro,” he starts, thumb brushing against your skin. “You’re asking me for something dangerous.”

“I’m asking for you to talk to me,” you lightly amend. 

There’s a lengthy pause that follows your words, long enough you start to feel defeated in your endeavor, but then he nods. “Okay,” he says, reluctance so thick in his voice it’s practically dripping from the word. He swallows, tries again. “Okay, you want to know what��s going on then I’ll tell you. No more hiding.”

And then it’s like the floodgates open up. He starts talking, brutal in his honesty of all the nitty-gritty details, telling you about finding Gilberto Rodriguez hiding in a crawl space beneath the stairs of his bathtub, and the mounting pressure of trying to take down the other cartel leaders before Gilberto finds a way to slip out of jail, and the discovery of Franklin Jurado as the cartel’s banker which led to wiretapping Franklin’s wife’s phone with hopes he’d slip up and reveal something important. Except he didn’t and time’s fucking running out and desperate times call for desperate measures.

You sit on his lap and listen silently throughout the whole explanation, keeping your face carefully composed even when he brings up his meeting with Christina at the bar, how he’d attempted to flirt with her in order to get her to spill information. Javier holds onto your hand during that part, lacing and unlacing his fingers through yours like he’s trying to soothe you both. Admittedly, it does help you stay grounded in the moment, especially when he confesses to visiting Christina a second time earlier this week to convince her to make her husband flip—a visit he had not so much as hinted one word about to you prior to this conversation.

There’s a small part of you that feels slighted by the tardiness of this revelation, but the intrigue and relief flooding through your system are stronger sensations. Javier’s finally handed you all the puzzle pieces you’ve been missing, trusting you to see the whole gruesome picture instead of just the pretty parts. 

“So,” you finally speak after Javier’s gone quiet and you’ve absorbed the overload of facts. “Was your second attempt at convincing her successful?”

Javier’s mouth twists. “Kind of.”

“What does that mean?”

“She said she’d think about it.” He sighs through his nose. “Then Stoddard got a recording of her talking to Jurado this afternoon, trying to persuade him but it didn’t go well. Here, listen for yourself.”

Javier lifts the headphones off his neck and hands it over. After you adjust the speakers comfortably over your ears, he leans over to press a button and then a woman’s voice—Christina’s, you presume—is all you can hear. 

“Maybe we have more options than we think, Franklin,” she says, a nervous lilt to her tone. You imagine her pacing while holding the phone, too restless to sit still. 

“What do you mean, ‘more options’?” Franklin counters, tense and suspicious. 

“You know things. You know about the organization, how it all works and—”

“You want me to be a rat? Have you been talking to someone?!” 

You wince as the couple dissolves into an argument, voices increasing in volume and overlapping, vying to subdue each other into submission. Barely able to understand them anymore, you start to reach up to remove the headphones except then Franklin’s voice goes abruptly polite, clearly talking to somebody else on his end.

“Danki masha danki, right? Thank you.” A pause. Then, speaking again to Christina, the banker says, “That was room service. I’ve got to go, but this discussion isn’t over, bonita. I’ll call you later.”

The audio equipment beeps, signaling the tape has reached its end. 

“What language was he speaking at the end?” you ask, looking at Javier with furrowed brows. “I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

“I asked around, turns out it’s Papiamentu,” he answers, taking the headphones from you and setting them on the desk. Seeing the lingering confusion still apparent on your face, he elaborates, “It’s the local language in Curaçao.”

“Oh,” you blink, not what you’d been expecting as an answer. “So…I guess it’s safe to say he’s probably doing business there? I bet Curaçao has a lot of banks.”

“A lot of fucking banks,” Javier agrees with a nod. “There’s also a luxury resort there with a guest using one of Jurado’s aliases.”

You bite your lip, unsure what you’re supposed to say to that, and Javier is just staring at you, a look on his face like he’s hoping you’ll connect the imaginary dots, sparing him from having to do it for you. 

It seems fitting this moment is happening within such a private space. You and Javier have a habit of finding these places—the supply closet, his apartment, the mailroom past sunset—where you can just be yourselves without any witnesses. 

However, this moment feels different than previous ones. Heavier, somehow, like the air is filled with dread, reminding you of being caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella. You don’t like it.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, unable to stand the silence anymore. “This is the big break you’ve been waiting for, right? You know where he is now so you can–”

Oh.

Your shoulders slump, realization striking you square in the chest. “You’re going to go after him.”

Javier’s hands tighten around your middle, wanting to pull you closer but having to resist because there’s absolutely no way cuddling would be comfortable in this chair. 

“Yeah, tesoro,” he admits softly. “I have to.”

You could argue, tell him that technically no, he doesn’t have to be the specific agent who makes the arrest. You could, but you don’t because you know this mission of dismantling the Cali Cartel has evolved from being another career defining moment for Javier as a DEA agent into something profoundly personal for him. Something he has to see through to the very end.

“When are you leaving?” you ask, toying with his sleeves rolled up around his elbows. 

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

You inhale a deep breath and close your eyes for a moment, trying to make everything slow down, if only for a few precious seconds. 

“I was going to come by your place in the morning and tell you,” Javier continues, voice still so soft it almost pains you to hear him speak.

Eyes remaining closed, the question slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, “You weren’t going to tell me tonight?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to. You’re on shift and I didn’t want to distract you by dropping that kind of news on you.”

You look at him now, eyebrows climbing incredulously up your forehead. “So, what, you were gonna tell me you’re leaving the country to chase down a member of one of the biggest cartels in the world over coffee and donuts?”

Javier’s silence is confirmation enough that’s pretty much exactly what he was going to do. He looks everywhere but your eyes, uncomfortable now that you’ve managed to put a crack in his armor. You have hopes one day he’ll have no need to wear it around you at all, that he’ll feel safe enough to do so.

And it suddenly occurs to you then, that he was going to bottle the news of his leaving as long as possible to keep you from being hurt by it. God, this man…

“Oh, Javi darling,” you breathe, the amount of affection you feel for him threatening to choke you.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he promises, squeezing you again, mistaking the emotion in your voice as disappointment. 

When things go missing, it’s your belief if what is lost is meant to return to you, then one way or another it will. It’s a belief that requires a high amount of patience. To wait, and wait, and continue waiting for an outcome that may never come to pass.

Luckily for you, your job has taught you how to be a master of patience. 

And if anybody’s worth waiting an eternity for, it’s Javier.

You offer him a small smile, leaning in close to murmur against his lips the same words you’d said to him last time his job stole him away from you. 

“Good luck, Javi.”

[scrittarts]

Okay i read through your posts again and saw some stuff i missed.

The mech replaces all life supporting vitals, so the questions about having a digestive tract and what happens to the organs solved lol

that still leaves some questions:

How do they digest inorganic substances like metal or plastic?

Are there any inorganic waste products?

Can they use what they intake to self repair damage? Does extensive damage need an engineer of some sort to repair?

i think there was more i asked but I'm really forgetful.

I hope your world building goes well, i really like this concept!

Thanks for asking - Lore Dump Incoming! Biomechanical life as an Operator Mech in this sense follows slightly different rules than fully biological beings. 1) Digestion isn't really a thing they do - they refuel on synthetic mech fuel, and only have minimal nutrition requirements. As such they generally cannot and have no reason to eat metal or plastic. Fuel is transported between, and burned within fuel cells in all parts of the mech's Actua (machine muscle), providing mechanical, chemical and electric energy as needed. 2) Not many waste products, as biological components are mostly self-contained and use mech fuel as an outside power source to facilitate all the necessary catasysed and chemical functions within. There is a small cycling of chemical intake and waste which can require mechs to "eat" or otherwise intake nutrition, but they can generally function for a very long time on just fuel and water. They do not have a digestive tract - machine muscle interconnects make up all chemical transport throughout their body. 3) After integration, an operator is permanently reliant on machine life support - blood pressure, filtering, oxygenation, as well as nutritional cycling and recycling, stem cell repair and more. The operator's brain just about the only thing that remains of their previous body. The process splices machine muscle into the prospective operator's entire nervous system, starting at extremities and seeking inwards against the current of neural output, until it eventually reaches the brain. This is what becomes the "You" part I labeled on the anatomy chart - what remains of your mind, along with neural I/O strands of machine muscle! But an operator entity is technically separable from its mech - just not for long (as they'd die without life support).

(this allows an operator to move to a different mech body, if absolutely necessary) Mechs contain the necessary life support systems, and those systems are able to self-repair and maintain. This is just about the only thing mechs need to intake non-fuel substance for. Each mech typically has multiple backup life support systems for redundancy, such that critical damage done to any of them can be repaired by replacing the component. Some mechs are able to print components out of spare material internally, but this requires specific bioorganic systems for this - an example are Solar Moth Mechs that can continuously print membrane-thin solar cells, which can be used as a secondary power source to fuel. Most other repairs are done externally in one of a few ways: - By themselves by physically replacing damaged components that are superficially accessible. This can be done mainly for the Shell and Plating, and installation of systems that integrate into the shell. - with the help of a Mech Repair Engineer, using replacement components, that are either printed or salvaged. - Using a Proxy Workbench - supporting the ability for the Operator to extend their consciousness into the workbench robotics, to perform repairs / surgery on their own body from an outside point of view. Mechs feel pain (along with all other sensations the operator was capable of prior to integration). This can complicate self repair sometimes. Life support and Operator systems are the hardest to repair, and the least abundant as spare parts, making it critical for a mech to protect these from all significant damage. For this reason, those components are usually housed deep within the center of their body, surrounded by shock aborbing machine muscle, and alloy plating. I have some sketches that illustrate a couple of the concepts mentioned above, which I'll try and upload shortly! EDIT: I forgot, but I think I have a note somewhere that machine muscle is printable, meaning at least some mechs would be able to repair or synthesize strands from raw material intake.

[batchcodingkew]

We are expert Semi-Automatic Batch Printing Machine manufacturer for printing on labels, Cartons, Pouches and also Batch Coding Printing Machine. Side & Back Stopper is provided for margin setting for large Labels, Cartons, Pouches, Extension Platform support with side stoppers provided. Printing Speed is 25, 36 & 48 stroke per min and weight is @48kg for Batch Printing Machine.

[writingsbychlo]

mistletoe magic | stiles stilinski

word count; 10,490

summary; stiles learns that his cute neighbour might be a witch after accidentally getting her spellbooks delivered to him instead.

notes; I know a witch!au isn’t a huge au for stiles, because he’s had evident races of magic throughout the series anyway, but just enjoy it!

warnings; smut, unprotected sex, use of magic

It had been a pretty regular Monday morning for Stiles.

At six sharp, he’d been up and awake, barely functional but stumbling through his apartment and clicking on the coffee machine, before hopping into the shower for a quick wash. When he’d emerged, the machine had just finished grinding, as always, his routine functioning like a well-oiled machine now, and he’d moved it all across into a to-go cup and left it on the counter before going to get dressed.

He’d stumbled around to find his school books and shove them into a bag, eaten two cinnamon pop tarts that had burned the tips of his fingers when he’d grabbed them straight from the toaster, and had still been chewing as he shoved his keys in his pocket and sipped at his coffee, straight into the elevator at twenty to seven.

It was a fifteen-minute walk across campus to his early morning lecture on a Monday, leaving him with a few minutes to spare, in case he saw the sweet older lady from two floors down and wanted to say ‘hi’, or the cute neighbour who lived across the hall that always made him fall over his own feet, or maybe even the kid who delivers newspapers and is always falling off of his bike. He made it on time, took some great notes, and was feeling a little more alive and welcome into his day.

At exactly ten past one, he’d been home, having gone to the library to get some study in and find his new books, and get lunch at the diner he always ate at after classes, a cheeseburger and curly fries, and grabbed his letters and a parcel from the mail slot with his housing number printed on, tucking the package under his arm and heading upstairs and back to his flat, ready to flick through his bills.

All according to plan. One year and four months away at university and he knew every day like he’d been doing it for a decade, so he was only half-way to the kitchen when he remembered the package he was clutching under his arm, coming to a complete halt, throwing the usual assortment of envelopes away to the counter, and producing the neatly wrapped bundle.

He didn’t question it, not even bothering to look at the front, figuring it was just an early delivery on the textbooks that he wasn’t expecting to get here for another three weeks, finger slipping under the folds of the brown paper and tearing it away, fingers dancing over the covers of the books, before his brows were furrowing once again.

These were definitely not his ‘intro to psychological profiling’ textbooks.

Beautiful swirls in gold, carved into dark leather across the front, Latin words he didn’t understand before he was opening the cover, brushing off a layer of dust and letting one brow arch up. The text inside was English - though, no modern - and paper that he was cautious to take care of, simply from what appeared to be the age of it, stained and worn, finger marks clear on the corner from being passed down through generations. It was handwritten, drawings in old ink that had leaked onto the paper a little, rough and coarse, and labelled doodles with names he had never heard of before.

At a glance, he would assume it to be some kind of witchcraft.

He felt on edge, suddenly. He’d left Beacon Hills to come to somewhere that no supernatural would follow, where things like werewolves were still a myth, something to be laughed at, and he swallowed thickly, looking around his apartment as though someone was going to jump out. He loved his friends, he really did, and he didn’t so much mind the supernatural when he was with them all because they protected him, but alone out here, he and his bat didn’t stand a chance.

Now, it was Christmas, he knew this from the poor excuse of a tree up in his living room, and the snow outside, and the fact that for the last six weeks, his usual mochas had been a gingerbread-spiced mocha, on the insistence of the barista who served him whenever he ventured into the little coffee shop joint, and he was growing find of it. So, he tried to be optimistic, in the spirit of festivities and all that, and texted the group chat, waiting to see if any of them had sent him the books as a present, maybe even his father or Melissa. He even texted Parrish.

Except, they all said no, and now, he was stumped. Then, as he was being extra nosey and flicking through the book, he came across a page marked with a small slip of card, the item falling out, and he cursed, having no idea which page it came from, but as he picked up the piece of paper, one of the questions in his puzzle finally gained another piece towards the jigsaw.

‘(Y/N), the spell you’re looking for is here, but be careful, it’s a strong one.’

So, the books are for his hot neighbour, the next number up from his, and it now made sense as to why he had these books - they were a mistake. It opened a new question, however, as to why you would be getting them.

He had absolutely no patience, barley remembering to flick the catch on his door so that he’d be able to get back inside, before he was striding across the hall in one, two steps, and knocking on the wood. He could hear you shuffling around inside, the soft and muffled notes of the classic rock music you’d been listening to getting turned right down to low. It only took you a further few seconds until you were opening the door, but it felt like years to him with his impatience, fingers tapping against the books agitatedly, biting the nail of the other thumb, and his foot was tapping against the floor.

When you opened the door, though, he felt like it was too soon, like he wasn’t prepared for what to say, his breath hitching in his throat as his heart leapt in his chest, eyes sweeping down along your body and widening at your bare legs, only a t-shirt hanging on your frame, rising up to reveal the edge of a pair of white lace panties as you opened the door, and he forced his eyes back up to yours, wincing as he bit down a little too harshly on his nail, and pulled it from his mouth, shaking it as his dropped to his side.

“Hey, neighbour.”

“H-Hi. Hello. Yes, hi.” He already wanted to die a little bit, he hadn't stuttered this much in front of a pretty girl since junior year in high school, even Lydia had lost this effect on him, and college really had been a growing experience for him. He’d had a fair few hook-ups, and experimented, and he wasn’t shy about flirting when he wanted to, but you always through hi right back through loops, like he was still that kid with a buzzcut.

“What can I do for you, four-A?”

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.” He waited for the usual reaction, the cringe, the eyebrows shooting up, the scowl, something to indicate that you had actually heard the pronunciation, but you only smiled a little wider.

“I know. After I introduced myself and you fell over and didn’t give me your name, I checked the mail in your post-slot. I was curious. There was a lot addressed to Mieczysłav, but then one with a handwritten address to Stiles.” You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe, and crossing your arms, and while you might seem casual, at least his degree was coming in useful for something, as your body language read an entirely different reaction, insecurity and worry rolling off of you in invisible waves of tells.

He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, laughing slightly. “That sounds like something I would do.”

Silence fell between you both for a second, and he couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail of your face, the way your lower lip was a little reddened, and he figured you must have been nibbling on it while working, and your hair was messy, an attempt to pin it back that seemed to have come loose and entirely ineffective, presumably from dancing, because you looked a little flushed. When you raised your brows at him a little, he realised you were waiting for him to explain himself, why he was on your doorstep, and he flushed with embarrassment shaking his head clear.

“I got your spellbooks by mistake.” He held them out, eyes widening even more, before his jaw was dropping open. “Book. Regular books. Not spell books, because that would imply magic, right? And, that’s dumb. Just regular books. I didn’t look at them, at all, not even a little bit, I promise.”

“You don’t believe in magic, then?” You took them from him, a coy smile on your lips, and you placed them down on the counter beside the door, pushing a bowl of potpourri getting pushed aside, along with your car keys and what looked like an incense burner.

“Do you?”

He was testing the water, seeing where your mind was at, and as a whistling came from your kitchen, you glanced back over to the kettle on the hob, and he thought this conversation might be about to come to an end. “Well, I think there’s always a little magic in life, even if people don’t notice it. You have to believe in magic to be able to see it. It’s like the supernatural that way.”

“And, you believe in the supernatural, huh?” He felt bad for the way he said it, because it was mocking, but he had to be sure that you weren’t messing with him, or spying on him, he had to try and find out who you were, but you only looked away as the whistling got louder, opening the door a little more and waving him inside as you walked away, and he stumbled after you and closed the door before his mind had even caught up with the movement of his feet.

Your apartment was littered with plants. The windowsills were lined with them, all brought green and blooming, even though he was sure it wasn’t the right season, and there was even a set of cactuses along a shelf near the corridor. There was a homey feel to your place, almost earthy, neutral tones and soft accents, a smell that was so calming he felt his own muscles begin to relax, and the music had changed from classic rock to some country song he was sure he’d heard in a movie somewhere but couldn't quite place it, and he followed you to the kitchen.

Rows of cookbooks and recipe folders stacked up on top of a lower cupboard, and he swallowed thickly, averting his gaze from the way your lace panties hugged your ass deliciously as you reached up for a mug, bringing back two, and pouring them both full of the herbal concoction you’d been making. On a mismatching saucer, you offered it to him, and he sniffed it carefully, but remembered his manners, mumbling a ‘thank you’, because his mother raised his right, even if he was a little suspicious of you.

“Relax, Stiles, if I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t be giving you tea made of Valerian and Lemon Balm. Do you want any honey, honey?” You grinned a little at your joke, but he shook his head, watching as you stirred a spoonful of the sticky sweetener into your own, and taking a tentative sip after blowing on the surface. It wasn’t all that bad, he had to admit, and he found his tensions slipping away a little. “It’s for relaxing, and helping with sleep.”

“It’s good.” You smiled, blowing lightly on your own, and he decided that he could busy himself by checking out your posters. An interesting arrangement, one was a band poster, the other was a chart with the phases of the moon, a third with diagrams of plants and little facts underneath, and the fourth, with symbols and drawing he didn’t quite understand. “So, you’re really embracing that whole witch thing, then?”

“Well, seeing as I am a witch, I would think it’s only appropriate.” He tried to hide his grin behind his mug, shaking his head a little, not believing that they really existed, and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes, clearly, because there was a playful kind of offence flashing across your face. “You can’t tell me you think I’m insane, not when there’s so much of the supernatural all over you, Stiles.”

“The supernatural? Really?”

“So, you’re not the emissary to a pack of werewolves?” You challenged, his jaw dropping at the accuracy of it, and it was your turn to laugh at him. “It’s literally stitched into your aura, I sensed another supernatural the second you walked into the building.”

“I just associate with a lot of ‘em, but I’m not supernatural myself.”

“You sure about that?” He stilled, memories flashing behind his eyes of a time when he once was, and you seemed to pick up on the slightly sour mood he’d taken on, then again, he wasn’t really sure where your abilities lay, being that Scott or Derek would have simply sniffed it out on him. Your hand on his arm snapped him back to the moment, fingers squeezing lightly at his bicep. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“There was a possibility, once, but it’s gone. There’s a dark chapter in my past, and the spark I was told I once had disappeared when I got through it.”

It went quiet again after that, your fingers slipping down from his arm to take his, and you placed your cup down, the steaming brew barely touched, but he followed suit, letting himself be pulled along as you directed him back to the living room. You were distracting him, it was an obvious ploy, but he was excited to learn, and he let the sadness of remembering his possession fade away as the thrill of new knowledge took over. “I can tell you have a lot of questions, so, what do you want to know first?”

He rubbed at his chin, settling down onto the couch at the edge of the room, finding it surprisingly comfortable, and you were busying yourself around him, a little water jug in your hand as you nurtured the abundance of houseplants you owned. “How did you know about my pack? And how much do you know about them?”

“It’s in your aura, I suppose. I can just pick up hints of different things when you’re around. The wolves are obvious, I’ve been around a lot of wolves. I also get death, and I've never met a banshee, but I assume that’s what it is. I knew you were the emissary because you’re the only magic in there, I would sense other traces on you, and there’s something else I can’t quite place.” Your face screwed up a little bit as you thought about it, nose wrinkling adorably before shrugging. “Like a werewolf, but not quite. I can’t get it.”

“She’s a werecoyote.”

You paused your pouring, turning to look at him, eyes flicking lightly around his being, before smiling slightly to yourself, and going back to your task. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Have you been a witch your whole life?”

“Since the day I was born, but I didn’t know or start practising until I was older. It just kinda’ happens, comes out of nowhere at a certain age, you start to realise you have abilities.” You had moved onto using a dropper to give little drips of water to cacti and succulents, standing on a small step stool as you did.

“Do you have to go to a school, like Harry Potter? Do you have a wand?”

You laughed at that, a genuine and hearty laugh, and you finished up your tasks, legs folding underneath yourself and you smirked a little at him as you sat down and got comfortable. “You wish, Stilinski. It’s not like that, it's more of an earthly connection than magic. It’s why my plants are so healthy. I can brew stuff, make little potions-” You motioned a hand over the jars lining the shelves on the walls, his eyes scanning over each one, picking out the neatly written titles across the fronts. “-I can cast very light spells, but it’s not the sort of thing where you can curse people, or teleport.”

“So, you can’t curse people to turn into frogs?”

“No, unfortunately not.” He was sure your giggle was the sweetest he’d ever heard, and he dared to twist himself around a little more, inching slightly closer to you across the couch. “I can do some stuff, like make your skin break out or give you a rash that won’t go away until I let it, and I can even give you headaches and such, but I don’t like to dabble in that sort of stuff. I much prefer protection charms.”

“Protection charms?” His heart skipped a little beat at the way your face lit up as you nodded, and he was intrigued, interest piqued. “I could use one of those, y’know, I’m incredibly clumsy and often get into supernatural trouble when I’m home. Hasn’t been so bad since I got here. Will you make me one?”

Your eyes left him, bottom lip nibbled between your teeth, and for a second he had worried he’d messed up, unsure on how witch spellcasting etiquette worked, but then you were moving across the room, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the room, and inside the doors and wooden frame hung what must be close to a thirty different decorative charms. Some were dreamcatchers or garlands hanging on the inside of the door, others were handcrafted little ornaments sitting on the shelves and filling them up, and your fingers were flittering over them all.

When you found what you were looking for, you lifted it out, a dream catcher that was bright and colourful and a little odd-looking, before bringing it back over to him, and presenting him with it cautiously. “You already made me one?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let the cute guy from across the hall get any more injuries. I watched you fall over five times in your first week living here. You’re really clumsy.”

He felt heat rush to his cheeks, and yet he couldn't help the goofy grin that travelled across his features, not mentioning the fact that he noticed you sitting considerably closer to home when you took your seat once again. He was embarrassed for two reasons, the first being that you had noticed his innate penchant for ridiculous injuries, but more overwhelmingly, the second being that you still thought he was cute. College might have helped him bloom a little, but when he had a crush, he was still a bumbling mess, and he didn’t know quite how to respond.

He busied himself with taking in the details of the dreamcatcher. Somehow, despite this being the first real conversation that the two of you had ever had, passing and fleeting chats in the halls and elevator not counting, you had managed to capture his entire essence, he could already tell. The strings were made of wool, chunky and all different colours, a mix of yellows and blues, woven in together and tangled in strange patterns, but beautiful nonetheless, and the little accents were what made it complete.

A button that had fallen off of one of his flannels, he recognised the distinctive wooden piece, and it was woven into the design, along with a blue ribbon in the same colour of the jeep that was tied in a bow, and a wooden twig tangled in it. Dangling on more pieces of wool from the bottom was a keyring he was sure he’d lost after leaving it downstairs overnight, the Yoda on it looking cleaner than he remembered, and you must've cleaned it. There was also a black feather, and a sprig of some kind of dried herb that he didn't recognise, but enjoyed the smell anyway.

It was intricate and personal, and he felt chuffed just to know that you’d made one for him, a little security and peace washing over him to know that someone was out here looking after him, completely unmaliciously, simply because you wanted to.

“This is incredible.” You let out a breath of relief, he recognised it in the way your body slumped a little, and he placed it down carefully on the coffee table beside you both, reaching out to take your hand in his, and daring to lace your fingers together and squeeze in gratitude, and you held onto him yourself, gaze dropping down to your connected hands. In a bold move of your own, you lifted your other hand, holding onto his with both of yours, and his thumb lifted out to brush lightly over your skin. “You’re the reason I don’t get papercuts and splinters anymore.”

“And you are very welcome for that.” You teased him back, and an easy kind of harmony fell between you both, your presence being more comfortable simply having only just really begun to meet you than he ever had been with someone new. It was strange, to feel so relaxed and at home with you, the way you put his fears at ease and soothed every worry without even trying, making him feel welcome and accepted, like he’d known you for years, not just shy of an hour. “Will you tell me about your pack?”

“You really want to know?” He couldn’t mask his surprise, and you nodded, excitement gleaming in your eyes, and he felt a surge of pride swell up in his system at the idea of getting to boast about his friends completely honestly for the first time in his life. There was no threat, he wasn’t showing off their skills as a way to try and ward off a threat or intimidate someone, but he simply wanted everyone else to be as awed by them as he was, and he didn’t have to hide any supernatural secrets from you. “Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Is it a long story?”

“Very long.” He confirmed, a shy laugh leaving you, before you were shifting again.

“How about I go and make us some fresh tea, then?” You were on your feet, wandering away to the kitchen as soon as he’d offered his affirmations of the idea, and he decided to follow after you, already beginning to blather about Peter Hale.

Hours seemed to pass by, as he spoke to you, two more pots of tea being made, and you’d broken out your snack-store for him, before the two of you had ordered pizza. He’d made himself at home, too, keys and phone sitting abandoned on the table, shoes kicked off on the floor, and feet stretched out along the couch. You were sitting at the opposite end, your legs stretched out in his direction, and one of his hands was sitting on your ankle, fingers drawing patterns on the soft skin there absentmindedly as his other hand was used to gesture wildly around himself.

He told you it all, confessing right from the beginning as he encountered Derek Hale, who liked to lurk in the woods, which had made you crack up as he told you about how the man was basically now the alpha, even if Scott was officially the alpha, and he’d told you about Jackson’s kanima phase, which had made you crack up even more as you claimed he deserved it.

You’d been shocked by his homicidal English teacher, and comforted him when he spilled his heart to you over the nogitsune incident he hated to think about, accepting your hush happily, and revelling in the smell of your hair when you’d pressed in close to him, before retreating to your seat.

He told you all about the benefactor and the dread doctors, and about Allison’s death, which he still blamed himself for when he was on a low day, and you’d used your thumb to clear away the tear that had fallen from his cheek, leaving him blushing and breathless for a second when you’d pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone just after.

You had scooted closer to him and stayed there near the end of his tales, tucked under his arm, playing with his fingers over your shoulders as he rambled about how alone he’d felt while taken by the Wild Hunt, thoughts that he’d always kept locked up in his own mind, never having shared with another person before.

“You really got the short end of the ‘supernatural encounters’ stick then, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that is the understatement of the century.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, your feet nudging together on the coffee table, the reindeer themed fluffy socks on your feet playing with the patchy and worn door knitted socks he’d had for years, worn to keep warm during the winter, even though your apartment was nice and toasty, the heaters running and the radiators on, and it was much cosier than his place had ever been.

The Christmas lights on a timer had come on, flickering around the place once the light had started fading, hours flashing by in the blink of an eye, a hazy glow cast over the apartment and creating a whole new range of shadows. “Do you want me to make charms for your friends?”

He watched you for a moment longer, trying to discern whether you were serious, and when he caught no gesture of ill-will, or hesitation, or hidden-motives, he smiled. “You’d do that?”

“Seems like you all need it.”

He shrugged a little, smiling when you rested your forehead against his, fingers playing together still, but feet stilling in their game of footsie. “I can’t believe I waited this long to get to know you. You’re, like, the coolest chick I’ve ever met.”

His eyes fluttered closed, he couldn't’ help it, noses bumping together as you both simply drowned in the moment, in what the moment was leading up to, where you both knew this was going but were revelling in the simple but exhilarating tension that was crackling with electricity in the millimetres of space between your lips and his. You were so close to him that he could feel it more than hear it when you whispered some words he didn’t quite understand, your breath fanning over his face in a dreamy sigh, and it took his hazed brain a second to catch up, before he was pulling back just enough to catch your eyes, one hand coming up to rest over your cheek as he turned to face you fully.

“Oh, my God. Did you just cast a spell?”

“Look up.” He was hesitant to pull back much further, but did so anyway, and he chuckled slightly as he spotted the little green plant beginning to sprout from the ceiling. Vines were still strengthening along the beam, and the leaves were beginning to form right before his eyes, white berries hanging between the green stems, and Stiles shook his head, in complete awe as he looked at it.

You were staring up to, eyes focused on the plant as it bloomed and he assumed you were concentrating on its development, but he couldn't hold back anymore, two hands on your cheeks, pulling your face back to his, and your lips barely parted to speak before his mouth was colliding with your own. A squeak left you, and he wanted to grin at being able illicit such a sound from you, but the temptation to kiss was just enough for him to contain himself. When your mind finally caught up, you were kissing him back just as eagerly, a soft sigh leaving you. “You are fucking adorable.”

The words were whispered into your mouth, he felt you shake with a soft laugh under his hold, before you were holding onto him just as tightly in return. One of your hands wrapped around his wrists, the other sliding over his bicep to his shoulder, before slipping down underneath, and smoothing over the front of his chest. He puffed out a little under your touch, pulling away for a quick breath, groaning slightly at the way your nails dug into his skin as he did, and then, he was diving right back into you.

Your hand slipped down to rest over his heart, the organ thudding under your hand, and he felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest, but as he pressed a little further into you, a shock like an electrocution was racing right through his body, a kind of jolt that was thoroughly exhilarating, and he pulled away, eyes wide as he stared at you.

You looked just as shocked as he expected he did too, his hands dropped down as he watched sparks and electricity crackle between your fingers and his, your brows raising at him. “Thought you said you had no magic left after.. y’know..”

He couldn’t drag his eyes away from it, your fingers weaving with his, a loud snapping sounding as a particularly bright flare went off, and he flinched a little, jaw dropping and a whine slipping from him as you contained it all the sight disappeared before his eyes. “So, there really are sparks flying between us, huh?”

He regretted the words the moment he’d said them, expecting to see on your face the same kind he’d always gotten from Malia or Lydia when he made those kinds of cheesy puns that only he enjoyed, even Scott daring to fix him with a bored or blank look, and Derek would simply glare, but much to his surprise, you laughed. It was fond, with a roll of your eyes and a huff to preempt it, but you laughed nonetheless, and he felt himself somehow manage to brighten even further. “That was cheesy.”

“I know.” He beamed, shifting a little, hands sinking down to your hips to pull you closer to himself as he settled back into the couch, and your hand pressed to the cushions beside his head, the other one coming up to weave into his hair lightly.

“I loved it. I am quite a fan of puns.”

“That’s good, because I usually have a lot of them.” He leaned up, daring himself to be bold enough to close that gap once again, and he could feel your lashes tickling his cheeks as you nuzzled into him a little more. “If I kiss you again, will those sparks happen this time, too?”

“If I stop controlling it, they will.”

“Stop controlling it, sweetheart.” He felt you move to nod your affirmations, but dipped his head in time, proud of his own reflexes as he caught your lips, feeling the hand in his hair tighten, and he was so glad he’d decided to grow it out all those years ago, because right now, he was losing all sense of himself in the way your nails would scratch across his scalp, or the delicious burning that flared over his skin for a split second when you pulled on his hair, before you were rubbing it softly, fingers working in tandem timing with your lips, teasing over his own.

That same feeling took up, a sparking that felt like fireworks, like energy surging through him, escaping at his fingertips in every place that he touched you, one palm smoothing along your back to somewhere that was definitely too lose to be respectable, as the other held onto your cheek still. You were taking control, your tongue darting out to trace over his lower lip, bribing him to part them but he needed no convincing, letting your tongue meet his own only a second after you’d made the request, equally breathy and needy noises escaping you both at the slow and wet drag of the muscles over one another.

His lungs were burning, lips beginning to sting as his assault on your mouth continued, his neck straining to hold this angle, and yet the more you kissed him, the more that the hazy feeling of getting to be with you like this raced through his body was the more he became addicted to needing more, chasing a high that he didn’t even know he wanted until now, like an addict finding his next hit.

You seemed to pick up on it all, as though you’d read all of his thoughts, because the second he’d had the lingering thoughts, you were settling yourself across his lap, a leg on either side of his own as you seated yourself down, and he couldn't help the way his hips bucked up a little to meet you, or the way his hand slid down fully to rest on your ass.

After all, as much as he’d gone through the make him grow up emotionally, physically he was still a horny-teen college boy, and you were one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, sitting half-naked in his lap and sucking on his lower lap while doing something with your tongue that was making him feel like he couldn't even breathe properly for how aroused he was.

Maybe you could feel the growing erection underneath of you, maybe you couldn't, but he’d stopped caring about being embarrassed around you about three hours ago when he’d had to tell you all about the time he’d once dropped a condom in Coach’s class in front of the entire classroom, and you’d laughed so much your face had gone red and you’d hidden it form him by pressing into his shoulder.

You were something he felt like he was dreaming up, like any moment now he’d wake up in a small puddle of his own drool with his face pressed into the desk of his lecture hall, the lights turned out and another note left by his kind professor to get more sleep at home, and to lock up when he left, before you were giggling a little at him, pulling away and stealing a few more pecks as you did, and he wondered if you really could read his mind, heat flushing his cheeks.

“Are you reading my mind or something?”

He felt stupid even as he mumbled te words, especially when it only seemed to heighten your entertainment, but you shook your head. “I can’t read your mind, I can just kinda’ sense your mood, I guess. It’s the connection, you were clearly thinking something funny, and I don’t know what it was, but I got a sudden rush of amusement.”

“That’s pretty fucking incredible.” He whispered, letting you peck his mouth a few more times, simply sitting there with puckered lips as he tried not to smile too much, before he was tucking hair away behind your ears and finally you were opening your eyes, and at this point, he really should learn to stop being surprised by new developments with you. “Holy shit, your eyes are glowing!”

“So are yours.” You winked, the bright purple being a shade that was so captivating and beautiful on you that he couldn’t look away, even when you leaned away from him to grab his phone, raising it up to snap a picture for him, and forcing his gaze down to it. Much like you’d said, his eyes were beginning to hint in with a faint purple, the neon shading beginning to drip into his irises and take over from the usual golden-brown that resided there. “You never made out with another witch before?”

He pinched at your ass for your cheeky comment, taking his phone and throwing it away to the side, grinning when you yelped at his painless attack. “I didn’t even know witches really existed before today. Besides, what makes you think I'm one? I had a spark once, but as I said, that died out. Nothing truly magical.”

“I don’t know, you’re having a pretty strong connection with me right now, aren’t you?” Your arms looped around his neck, snuggling in a little closer to him, and he bit back a groan as you shuffled in his lap. “I think you’re underestimating yourself, you just don’t know how to tap into your magic, you have to believe in it to see it.”

“You really think so?”

He was vulnerable and he knew it showed, he’d gone his entire life being unsure as to where all his energy and twitching came from, as to why he’d always felt a draw to the earth; the preserve and the woods, and justice and balance, and why he’d somehow fit into a supernatural world with far more elegance and ease than he ever had the normal one, and maybe this was the explanation. “I really do, Stiles.”

“Will you teach me?”

“I would love to.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then to the spot below your ear, before flicking his tongue out a little to drag over the sensitive patch that lay there, before moving down your neck. He didn’t want to mark you without your consent, he wasn’t sure what was going to come of all of this and where it would go, but he was more than happy to lick and bite lightly at your skin, finding the sweet spot that made your hips roll down into his own and a sound of need and desperation to leave you that was like music to his ears, before his hips were bucking up to meet you once again.

“Y’know when you said that you could feel what I was feeling?”

“Uh-huh?” You were distracted, your reply seeming somewhat faded and distant, and he chuckled lightly, before making his way back up to your mouth now that you’d both had a chance to catch your breaths once again.

“Does that mean everything?”

“Are you asking if I know just how much you want to fuck me right now? Because yes, I do know.” He choked a little on his breath, your hand in his hair pulling his head back so that you could meet his gaze, your lower lip held between you teeth, flesh going a darker pink, and he longed to be the one biting that lip for you. “Trust me, the sentiment is returned.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t used to women being so confident with wanting him, being so unashamed of it, or of even wanting him at all. Most of his hook-ups had been slightly drunk make-outs and sloppy grinding, or booty calls and meetings in closets at parties. He got more action than he ever did in high school, he’d finally grown into his limbs and his looks, but that didn’t take away the surprise that still happened every time someone as pretty as you even offered him the time of day.

“Like, right here? Right now?”

“Been thinking about how much I want to ride you on my couch for like an hour and a half, now.” Stiles couldn’t stop the moan that bubbled up in his throat, lips parting as you ran a finger over his swollen lips, a cheeky glint flashing over purple eyes as you looked at him.

“You might just be perfect for me.”

“I like the sound of that.”

A toothy smile was offered to you, before he was pulling you back in towards him, hands slipping down to lay resting on your thighs as soon as your lips had found his once again. The heat seemed to have passed, and while the kiss was still completely intoxicating, there was something a little more tender about it, too. It wasn’t nearly as rushed and frantic, the sloppy kisses you’d shared as you learned one another’s ticks had passed, and as your lips worked slowly with his own, Stiles found that he much preferred this kind of kiss.

This was the kind of kiss that he could picture himself sharing with you in many settings. A sleepy, early morning kiss, when you were still between the land of consciousness and the realm of unconsciousness. Or, late nights, when he’d fall asleep while studying, and he would let you drag him to his feet and to bed. Or, simply when he would finish a lecture, or get you coffee, or meet you for dinner. The point was, Stiles already knew he wanted to kiss you at all times of the day, and to hold onto you, and to watch you brew little spells at the stove while holding onto you from behind.

Your lips were wet when you pulled away, eyes sparkling as you looked at him, a bright shade of royal purple, like silk and rich violet on flower petals, and you looked utterly ethereal. “Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?”

“You’re sweet-talking me.” You teased, bumping the tip of your nose against his, and he shook his head.

“No, I’m not, I’m just being honest with you. I’ve been into you for a long time, even if I didn’t quite have my mind in the right place to actually say it.” You huffed out a little laugh, your eyes averting from his own so that you could try and hide your bashful little expression, but he didn’t miss it.

“Well, I’ve been admiring you a little, too. I should’ve had my deliveries sent to you sooner, if I knew it was going to end like this.” As if to punctuate your words, you rolled your hips down into his, reminding him of the solid erection pressing into his jeans, his fingers digging a little firmer into your skin, and he pushed your shirt up higher, the soft cotton of your panties revealed to him.

“These are just fucking sinful. Do you normally wander around your house in underwear and band-tees?” He tugged at it a little, before daring to tuck his hand underneath the fabric, trailing up, and a poorly-concealed groan left him as he found no further obstructions, fingers closing over one of your breasts, squeezing lightly as he palmed at your chest. “Well, clearly not all of your underwear.”

“I tend to, I keep it warm in here, for all the plants.” Your back arched up into his hand, one of your own closing over his outside of your shirt, as your other held onto his shoulder, fingers leaving crescent-moon shaped marks he was sure, and the rocking of your hips into his own only seemed to increase.

“I’d love to see you in one of my flannels sometime, just like this.”

“Give me your shirt and you’ll see it sooner than you think.” You teased, his brows raising, before he was pulling his hands back just long enough to lean into you, stripping the garment off as best as he could, leaving him in a thin black t-shirt as you took the item from him. He wanted to whine out as you stood up, choosing instead to replace the pressure of your core over his with his hand instead, palming at his cock through the thick denim, and you grinned as you watched him, yet he didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed.

You stood before him, draping his shirt across his spread knees as he slumped further into the cushions, getting himself comfortable and popping the button on his jeans, swollen lower lip being nibbled as you played with the hem of your shirt. Your hips were swinging to the beat of the song, and then, you raised the garment up and over your head, letting it drop away to the carpet, his jaw dropping as he looked at you.

You picked up his flannel, pulling it up your arms, and leaving it open at the front, just barely covering your tits. You were an angel and also the devil, tempting him to do so many wrong things. Stretching his hands out toward you, he beckoned you back into his lap, an act you were more than happy to take as you bounded over to him, a pep on your few short steps, before you were settling back into his lap.

“Perfect.”

He let his hands find the flaps of the flannel, pulling it open wide enough to be able to admire your tits fully, letting you push your hair back away from your shoulders for his unobstructed view. Sealing one hand around your waist, he dragged you up closer, until you were almost pressed to him fully, before dipping his head down. His tongue dragged over a hardened nipple, taking the taut peak into his mouth and sucking harshly, as your hand wound into his hair. You tugged, roughly, a groan that vibrated along your entire body leaving him and making you shiver, and you made the prettiest little noises above him.

He switches sides, making sure to give the other half of your chest that same kind of attention, leaving wet marks and stinging watches along your skin that would become bright purple marks in the morning to match the colour of your eyes, and he just hoped you kept him around long enough to see them when they did become beautiful and prominent. He wanted to see his good work, he wanted to see the way he got to mark you up and leave his touch all over your body.

“Stiles..”

“I do love how you sound moaning my name, princess, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last when you're making noises like that and grinding yourself all over my cock like this.” You grinned, letting him kiss his way back up your chest and throat until he was taking your lips with his own. Your hands were moving down, tugging at his zipper as far as it would go, hid hips bucking up into his hand as he felt you drag a nail along his covered erection, breathy sounds between you both when you pulled away.

He only had to lift himself up for a moment, before you were tugging at his jeans, helping him to get them just far enough down his thighs for his boxers to be able to follow. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard and desperate for you, leaking precum along his skin, and he gave himself some form of relief. You were watching him, eyes wide as he pumped his length in one hand, the other dipping under your skirt rubbing over your core, and you bundled up your shirt for him.

“Y’know, all those times I thought about us, a quick fuck on your couch wasn’t how I had wanted our first time to be, but then again, I didn’t expect the cute chick across the hall to be a witch, wither, so..”

He used his thumb to drag your panties to the side, your sodden folds revealed to him, and he slipped two fingers into your dripping core with ease. “I’ll let you take it slow next time, I swear, but right now, I’d really like it if you’d fuck me.”

He could only nod, heart skipping a beat at the promise of another time. Your legs shifted, muscles clenching as he forced himself to take his touch away from your core and bringing his fingers up to his mouth, sucking your sweet essence from the thin digits. As you leaned over him, he was sure to line himself up, and then, you were sinking down onto him, your forehead flailing to his as your mouth fell open, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispered the words, a little breathless and hanging on the edge of his orgasm already, and you seemed just as close, because as you finally sank all the way down and settled into his lap again, he could feel every pulse within your walls as you hugged around him.

It took him a moment, staving off his climax so that he didn’t come just from getting to feel you like this, and you looped your arms around his neck gently to find your purchase. Your nails were scratching lightly at the hairs at the base of his neck, his flannel once again flapping around you, panties pushed to the side to let him have access to your centre, and it was deliciously filthy.

Once you were settled, you circled your hips, a test movement, pleasure spiking in both of your systems and it felt like the temperature in the room was shooting upwards. Stiles could already feel sweat beginning to bead along his skin in a thin layer, and you pressed yourself in closer to him. Each time you shifted your hips you were moving a little more, every rock of your body into his, you were pulling yourself up just a little higher to be able to drop yourself back down onto his cock, stretching and squeezing around him.

You felt like velvet, slick and warm as you sheathed around him. You were precise and deliberate, and he couldn't help the wonton sounds that were leaving you with every drop down onto his cock, before you were taking him up to see stars every time, leaving the both of you resting in the clouds. Panted breaths, a scream in the back of your throat that tried to break out each time as you gave him broken moans of his name, picking up your pace further and further each time.

Once you were stable above him, you were moving with purpose, fast and quick as you rode him, gaining more confidence each time, and he was gripping you so tightly that there would be fingerprints all over your hips in the morning. He helped you go, lifting you up each time, only to pull you back down into his lap, thrusting up with a weak effort to meet you, but feeling you go wild each time. That same energy was back, crackling with more force, surging through him like nothing he had ever felt.

Stiles was in college, he was away from home and the weight of being the Sheriff’s kid for the first time, and he had experimented. He’d gotten drunk, and high, and hungover, but this was a whole new kind of thrill; it was like lighting up with fireworks and adrenaline all at once, like creating a bond with another person, and a tingling spread throughout his entire body as your magic bonded with his own. He hadn't felt this kind of singing in his blood since the day he’d managed to finish the circle with the mountain ash back when he was only sixteen, or breaking through the wild hunt barrier at almost eighteen.

These kind of thrills were rare for him, but they’d never been this strong, and as the two of you moved as one in the most intimate way that two people could, your mouth coming up to claim his as you silenced yourself and him, growing louder and more desperate as you went, he felt that final high beginning to build.

“‘M so close, honey.” His voice had taken on that same kind of scratchy rasp that he had in the mornings before he even broke into his day, “Oh, God, keep goin’.”

He knew his words were beginning to grow slurred, and he could barely buck his hips up into you. As everything within his body began to light up, he felt like all of his muscles were going lifeless, his body going boneless, because the heat was consuming him. He couldn't hold it back, he’d been waiting for so long to feel you this way, and his lips could barely even move back against your own as he went slack-jawed, exploding within your tight heat.

The send that he was shooting over the edge, you were following right after him, crying out his name into his mouth as you kept going against him, until you couldn't clumping down into his body as you trembled, and Stiles felt as though you’d milked absolutely everything from him that he had to offer. There was a crackling along his skin from everywhere that your fingertips smoothed over, sliding down from his shoulders so that you could press your cheek to the spot instead, fanning breaths rushing over his neck as you tried to catch your breath, racing heart just like his was.

You didn’t even bother to move from him, letting him throb within your walls with each flutter you made and each shift, and if you kept it up, he was sure he’d be ready for a second round, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he had that in him. Resting his head back against the edge of the couch, he let you lift yourself up and off of him finally, your legs shaking as you stood, offering him a weak smile as he took in your through fucked out state, before taking wobbly steps away from him, and disappearing down the hall.

He heard a door close, assuming you’d gone to the bathroom, and he leaned over to the coffee table to snatch up a few tissues, to clean himself up with, before sorting himself out too. He did the bare minimum, not even bothering to do up his jeans once he had them pulled back up, but he stretched out along the length of the couch to lay down, an arm popped under his head, and a little laugh on his lips as he did.

He took a moment to glance around, not missing the way that the plants all seemed to be blooming particularly beautifully, seeming more alive than ever. As he lifted up a hand before his face, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, a spark travelled between the tips, and he felt a little in awe just at the sight of it.

“It's pretty incredible, right?”

He startled, jumping a little, before turning to look at you and propping himself up on his elbows as you lingered in the doorway. You had changed, your hair pulled back and out of your face, missing a few odd strands and you’d buttoned up his flannel along your body, mismatched and hanging unevenly, but still adorable. You took slower steps over to him, waiting for a second as you stood beside him, before he was lifting his arms and making it clear to you that you could lay with him, a smile gracing both of your faces as you flattened yourself along him, cheek pressed over his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You like feeling your magic, then?”

He lifted his palm, holding it to yours and admiring the final dying flares he saw, as the energy began to dissipate and absorb into his body and yours fully. “I’m not used to feeling special myself. I’ve always been a behind the scenes, research, kinda’ guy. I’m not used to being one of the main players.”

“Oh, hush. You told me your story, you were most definitely a key player, Stiles.” He shrugged under you, letting you cross your arms over his chest and prop your chin on them.

“Yeah, but I never really felt that way, and now I feel like I have something to offer.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw with a sweet kiss, and he felt like he could most definitely get used to this feeling. Can I meet them?”

“My pack?”

You nodded, seeming a little shy now, and joy raced through him at the fact that you saw enough of a future with him to want to meet his friends an get to know them, and to once again be able to be completely open and honest with everyone, never having to hide anything from anyone, and being able to let you fully and wholly into his life. It was a surprise, because the more he’d thought about his future late at night when lying alone in his bed, he was so sure he’d never be able to really settle down, because he could never let someone in on his life in every single way, but with you, that wasn’t a problem.

“I would absolutely love that.”

“Really?” You were studying him carefully, trying to ensure that he was telling the truth, and he gave you the most honey look that he possibly could, before lifting his head to meet your lips as he leaned in.

Soft and delicate, like a kiss that was shared between deep romance and longtime lovers, and he rested a hand on your cheek, holding you to him, and rolling you to the side, to sandwich you between the couch and his body Your thigh came up to rest over his legs, his palm slipping from your face to rest on your leg, drawing patterns on the skin until you pulled away to breathe, lips detaching from his as you whined a little. You stayed close, though, a soft look etched onto your features;

“I just want to meet a few more supernatural people, and get to know others who I don’t have to hide from.”

“Well, you definitely don’t have to hide from them, and you’ll love them, just as much as they’ll love you. We’re a pretty odd group, you’ll fit right in.”

“You’re right about that ‘odd bunch’ thing. I’ve never met a banshee, or a - what did you call it? - werecoyote.” That was an undeniable truth, your head coming back down to rest on his chest as he shrugged, unable to deny that you were right. “Your wolves sound nice, too. All the other wolves I’ve met have been overly territorial and closed off.”

“Well, Derek used to be like that, but we’ve pulled him around a little. He is still broody, though.” You laughed at his joke, a sound that made his heart burst open slightly and bleed with affection, all for you, as you continued to take more and more pieces of his heart with every act, and he was falling in love with you faster than he’d ever known was possible. “Don’t take notice of any of his lurking, by the way, it’s his twisted way of showing concern and care.”

“I’ll remember that, and if I ever catch him hiding behind a tree, I’ll know that it’s real friendship.”

“He does that, I’m serious, don’t underestimate him. I think my dad arrested him for stalking, once.”

“I think your dad would be who I am most scared to meet.” A fond tone in your voice, before he was pressing a kiss to your forehead, humming under his breath.

“He’ll love you the most, don’t worry.”

Silence fell between you both then, and he busied himself with tracing illegible drawings into your skin, simply enjoying feeling so close to you. It was irrationally domestic, and you were the final piece in his college life and college experience that was missing. Despite not being a  wolf, he was unequivocally part of a wolf pack, and being surrounded so closely by such a tight-knit group of friends for those years had made him dependent on company and reliability, and he had been feeling so alone since leaving for college.

Scott had Malia, Lydia had rekindled things with Jordan, and even Derek had been (begrudgingly, to begin) hooked up with a deputy by his father, and they’d been on a few dates.

The last time he’d been home, he’d felt like a fifth, seventh, or was it ninth wheel, when Liam and Hayden were taken into account? He had been feeling awfully lonely lately, and he was glad to finally find someone that fit him perfectly, matching him like a glove.

“When I do introduce you to my friends, my pack, y’know, and my dad..”

You lifted your head, a little crease across your cheek from the fold in his shirt, and he rubbed the spot with his thumb gently, an attempt to remove the mark. “Yeah?”

“What should I introduce you as?”

“A witch.” You deadpanned, and he knew immediately that you’d clearly know exactly what he meant, but were playing with him, and he pouted, fixing you with a mock glare, before you were laughing to yourself over your joke, something so undeniably cute that he couldn't even pretend to be mad about it. “What do you want to introduce me as?”

Nudging your jaw a little with his, he puckered his lips, tempting you down to kiss him, and you were more than happy to press a series of sweet and short kisses to his lips. “I’d really like to formally claim you to be my girlfriend?”

He mumbled the words into your mouth, feeling your lips flick up at the edges in a smile as you gave him a kiss that was a little more firm, a little more loving and powerful, before whispering your reply; “Then we’re on the same page, because I’d like to introduce you to my coven back home as my boyfriend.”

“You have a coven?” He pulled back, a gasp of shock, and you giggled at him.

“That I do. Maybe I should tell you about them?”

“You absolutely should.” He insisted, his craving for knowledge taking over, and he couldn't have been more glad to whatever deity was watching over benevolently that he’d taken the choice to stay the first time knowledge had been offered, because it had led him to where he was now.

“It might take all night, maybe you should go and get a change of clothes. Get comfortable.”

“Is that an invitation to stay the night?” You only nodded, letting him roll you back over onto your back as he kissed at your neck. “I’ll buy you take out if you cuddle me later?”

“Cuddling and dinner? Glad I get to call you my boyfriend, now.”

“Not nearly as glad as I am to call you my girlfriend. My little witch.” His lips sealed over yours, silencing your laughs against his mouth as you teased him for the nickname, and he pinched a little at your sides. The mistletoe overhead grew a little more, a few of the berries dropping away and bouncing off of his back as the plant became bolder, just like the rest, that energy beginning to grow once again, as you got lost in each other’s touch.

[sirpoley]

On Creating a Frictionless Traveller, Part I: Trade

I just ran Session Zero (character creation and so on) of Mongoose Traveller 1st edition (2008) with my quarantine pod. This is my second Traveller campaign that I've run (thoughts inspired by the first you can read about here), and the fourth that I've been a part of. Having learned a little from my last campaign, I've made a few improvements to the game's interface (not really houserules) that speed up gameplay and reduce friction.

What do I mean by interface? Imagine if Traveller was a computer program. The interface would be the information displayed on the screen, while the actual rules of the game are what goes on in the background. Traveller's rules, so far, are rock-solid. The basic core dice mechanics are fast and easy, and the game's many elegant systems for procedural generation allow nearly endless gameplay with only sparing need for GM-added "spice."

What isn't elegant is the way some of these systems are presented to the GM and the players. Thus far, I have isolated several systems (many of which are quite entangled with each other) that could benefit from a more polished interface to reduce friction during play (i.e., avoidable times when the game grinds to a halt and something has to be looked up, calculated, found, remembered, etc.). They are:

Trade (namely: calculating purchase modifiers, number of passengers, amount of available freight, legality of various goods)

Character Statistics (namely: character sheets, weapon and armour statistics)

Spaceship combat (namely: tracking spaceship position, responsibilities of individual crewmembers, tracking computer programs)

I'll start with trade because it is, I think, one of the most overwhelming systems in the game on its face, but also one of the most crucial to keeping the Traveller "loop" going. It's also part of what makes Traveller so unique.

To buy cargo, a character must make a Broker skill check (easy), adding a modifier based on the value of that trade good on the current planet (easy), and compare it to a little table that converts that into the price, as a percentage, of the good's value (easy, with a calculator or smartphone). For example: to buy Basic Machine Parts, a player must roll 3D6 + 2 (the PC's Broker skill modifier) + 4 (a bonus because the goods are cheap on the current planet). The roll is 17, which a table on page 164 tells you means Basic Machine Parts can be bought at 65% of their value (normally cr. 1000/ton), or cr.650 per ton. Great. Easy enough, right?

Wrong.

The reason this can be incredibly slow is because the price modifier based on the planet's characteristics—the number that encourages the players to explore the galaxy—is a real headache to calculate on the fly. It is calculated from the following sources:

First, look up the Trade Good on the table on page 165.

 Look at the Trade Codes of the planet in question (on a handout the GM generates and gives to the players at the start of the campaign)

 Determine if the Trade Good is illegal on this planet. This is found by:

Comparing the planet's Government Code (on the handout) to the Government Table (on page 175) to see if a category of goods is restricted

If it is, debating for awhile whether "Advanced Weapons" are considered "Heavy Weapons" or "Portable Energy Weapons" (i.e., make a judgement call)

Comparing the Law Digit for the item from the Law Table on page 176 to the Law Level of the planet to see how illegal it is

Find the highest number in the Purchase DM category related to these Trade Codes, unless it is lower than the number calculated in step 3, in which case, use the number in step 3 (and the PCs are now smuggling! This is cool because now you can have police chases and so on.)

Find the highest number in the Sale DM category related to these Trade Codes and subtract this

Sum all of these numbers. Repeat for each trade good purchased.

Looking at all of those steps probably convinced at least some of you to swear off Traveller altogether. But here's the thing: this is incredibly slow to calculate during play, but after the galaxy is generated, these numbers never really change. Barring exceptional events in the campaign, an Industrial world will continue to be Industrial from start to finish. My toddler was unusually chill last week, so I spent a few hours making an Excel spreadsheet that crunches this once, and only once, and spits out this table for my star cluster:

Each four-digit code along the top corresponds to a labelled hex coordinate on the star cluster map they have (i.e., a settled planet).

This table presents each planet's numerical stats. There's a lot more that goes into each planet (it's weird cultural quirks, important NPCs there, maps, etc.—you know, worldbuilding stuff) but this table is what the players need for the game's rules. Different types of survival equipment available are rated for different atmosphere numbers, for instance, and different bases provide different services. I know "Gas Giants" aren't really bases, but I didn't have space for another column for them.

I'll admit this was a slog to put together. I like spreadsheets more than most, but even my eyes glazed over a few times doing this. I also had to make a few judgement calls on what items were restricted at various law and government levels. It's also possible it contains significant errors; my spreadsheet grew more complicated than I was able to understand (and thus debug) by the time it was done. Still, it works for now, and I'm not willing to change it. It wasn't more work than, say, drawing a dungeon map, and it'll last the whole campaign. I made similar tables for determining passenger and freight availability. If I ever go back and tidy up that spreadsheet so that it’s useable for others, I’ll post it.

Now that that math is done, it stays done. I gave the players this, printed on cardstock, at the start of the campaign, and they never need to know how much work I saved them.

 Buying and selling stuff now isn't any more work than any other skill check: it's a dice roll, plus a modifier on the character sheet, plus a circumstance modifier. It's quick, it's easy, it's frictionless.

Next up: a tangent in which I discuss how making this trade spreadsheet unexpectedly balanced melee combat in my campaign.

[boxoftheskyking]

Pick Up Every Piece, Part Five

In which we have a scene at the bar

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

--

Early November 2000

When Jiang Cheng comes to the bar on his own, he lets Wei Ying watch his back. Which is to say, he sits at the bar and doesn’t spend the whole time half-turned to keep an eye on the door. When Jin Zixuan joins them, he hangs by the corner of the bar by the weird old poker machine that hasn’t worked in years, and he mostly avoids eye contact.

“Hey Zixuan,” Wei Ying says, grinning. “How’s your cousin?”

“Hm?” He’s so polite, always, in a snobby kind of way. Like he knows he’s better than you, but he’s far too well-bred to admit it. Wei Ying sometimes wonders if he got that from his mother. Wei Ying has never really spoken to Mrs. Jin outside of an awkward few minutes at the wedding, but what he knows of the rest of the family is far more in the “knows they’re better than you and will tell you to your face” camp.

“Your cousin, you know.” He winks at Jiang Cheng. “It’s the liiiiiife of the Jin!”

Jiang Cheng joins in, “What’s going down in Lanling—”

“Cut it out!” Zixuan reaches out like he’s going to cover Jiang Cheng’s mouth, but he doesn’t. 

“It’s catchy!” Jiang Cheng giggles. It’s a gratifying sight.

“That show should be outlawed,” Zixuan says darkly.

“It’s genius,” Wei Ying argues, drinking in the two of them there, together. “Nie Huaisang is a visionary.”

“I’m going to have him imprisoned. He’s a curse.”

“He’s a genius. It’s a totally new art form.”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “Art form. It’s boring. I like seeing Jin Zixun humiliated as much as anyone, but it’s just rich people sitting around being stupid and rich.”

“It’s reality, but also pure escapism. It’s brilliant.”

“It’s a threat to national security,” Zixuan says. Wei Ying cackles.

Jiang Cheng makes a face. “There’s no story! There’s no, like, script.”

“There is a story! It’s all how Huaisang edits it.” Wei Ying hasn’t actually talked to Nie Huaisang in years, so he’s not that personally invested, but he can’t resist the chance to disagree with both Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan at the same time.

Zixuan slides his glass over for a refill. “Zixun is never going to get a real job. He has no skills, he can’t do anything useful, so he sits around and has cameras follow him? It’s a disgrace.”

“It’s the most watched show in the country. I watch it every week.”

Jiang Cheng intercepts Zixuan’s glass to steal a sip. “That’s because you also don’t have a real job.”

“Serve yourself then, asshole.”

“We don’t watch reality TV, we work. We’re civil servants.”

“I’ve written six columns on The Life of Jin, I’ll have you know. So it is my job. And I’m more of a civil servant than you, I barely make any money.” It earns him a pair of eyerolls, but they won’t insult the paper to his face. Not anymore. “I can’t believe they made you both work today.” It’s the wrong thing to say, and Wei Ying covers his wince to fill a row of pints.

“Yeah, well.” Zixuan scratches the back of his neck. He keeps his hair a bit long, like Jiang Cheng does, but on him it feels like a memorial. “Five years. I guess I can’t keep getting time off forever.”

Jiang Cheng is drumming his fingers on the bar, looking away.

“Five years to the day, though,” Wei Ying offers. He leans in, almost wanting to touch . . . something, then twirls away to ring someone up. He feels like a bird, a swallow, dipping and soaring and coming in close for a moment before getting scared back up to a tree top.

When he comes back the tension has receded.

“Dad wants me to move over to the business side of things,” Zixuan is saying.

“Leave intelligence?” Jiang Cheng’s brow furrows, clearly already imagining following his brother-in-law over to the corporate hellhole of Jin Industries.

“Yeah. He keeps talking about the CEO gig, as if I’m qualified.”

“No offense,” Wei Ying says, “but your dad has never been big on qualified.”

“What about Guangyao?” Jiang Cheng asks.

“He’s not the face Dad wants for the company. I don’t know, it’s like during the war, he’s staying back in his lab and his back office, tinkering with stuff. Dad wants a stupid— A face. You know, dynasty bullshit.”

“Like those propaganda posters.” Wei Ying grins at him. “That noble profile. I had one on my bedroom wall.”

“Don’t be creepy.” Jiang Cheng goes to smack him, but he ducks away. “You did not.”

“It wasn’t propaganda.” Zixuan sighs, having lost this argument before.

“It was good propaganda,” Jiang Cheng argues.

Wei Ying keeps his thoughts to himself, for once. He doesn’t comment on Jin Guangyao, either, though he could. A drunk girl yells at him from the other side of the bar, which helps.

“But like—” Zixuan takes a long gulp, spinning his fingers in frustration, looking for the words. “This is what I trained for. I joined the army at eighteen. I was in the army when it was just prison security and diplomatic escorts. My degree is decoration, and he knows that. It’s an art piece on the office wall, it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know how I’m supposed to just become this business guy. It’s like— He doesn’t actually know me, who I am, what I’m good at. He just expects me to work wherever he plugs me in, to just be the best at whatever he thinks I should be the best at. I’m already the best at something. Right? I’m too old to be the best at something else.”

Wei Ying shrugs in sympathy. “Welcome to your thirties, eh?”

Jiang Cheng drains his glass, his third already. “He wants you to be a liquid.”

“What?”

“He thinks you’re a liquid. Your dad. Fit the shape of your container.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m not a fucking liquid.”

Jiang Cheng points at him. “That’s right. You’re not a fucking liquid.”

“I’m a solid.”

“You’re solid as shit, man.” Jiang Cheng pounds on Zixuan’s chest, and he winces slightly.

It’s nine o’clock, so Wei Ying decides he gets to pour himself a whiskey. He puts an orange slice in it, for vitamins.

Jin Zixuan looks into his own glass, thoughtfully. “Although, I mean. What’s a liquid without a container? Just a puddle, right?”

“Or a river,” Jiang Cheng says. They pause to contemplate rivers.

“What kind of liquid would you be?” Wei Ying asks, watching the gold of his liquor swirl around the melting ice cubes and the orange peel.

Zixuan huffs a laugh. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Vegetable soup,” Wei Ying says, then winces again.

“Soup,” Jiang Cheng agrees, quietly.

“Yeah,” Zixuan says. “Soup.”

They stare down into their glasses, drink.

“That reminds me,” Zixuan says, rallying after a long moment and pulling his fancy silver business card holder out of his breast pocket. “I got a new number.”

He hands Wei Ying a classy white card. It’s not his government one, just his phone number and his new email. Of course Jin Zixuan would have a personal business card, printed up by a printing company somewhere.

“Did you get rid of the old phone?” Wei Ying asks, carefully. Jiang Cheng looks between them, also careful, saying nothing.

“No, I just had to— I moved it to the basement. I can’t keep . . . The answering machine is still hooked up to the old one. I’ll still wipe the tape, so you can call—”

“Thanks.” We don’t talk about it. Let’s keep not talking about it. Wei Ying rinses a glass that’s already clean.

“If you want. It’s not a problem. I just can’t keep—”

“Yeah.” He wipes the glass, too quickly, the damp microfiber squeaks a little.

“A-Ling gets confused. He hears you say her name, you say ‘Jiejie,’ and he—”

“Yeah, I get it, no problem.” Wei Ying rinses the glass again.

“You can call me, though.” Jin Zixuan is looking at him, which he rarely actually does right in the face, horribly earnest. “You know that. You can call the new number and talk to him, or to me.”

“I know. I will.” He probably won’t. He looks over at Jiang Cheng, who’s chewing on his lip. Yanli would scold him for that, say that’s why it keeps chapping, worse now that it’s getting colder. He doesn’t leave her messages, Wei Ying doesn’t think. He doesn’t need crutches like that, he straps the anger onto himself like steel braces and gets on with things, limping.

Wei Ying would like to be angry, especially today on the five year anniversary. Five full years without her. That would be a comfort, such a relief, to be angry. But he doesn’t get to be angry when Jiang Cheng is around.

Jiang Cheng clears his throat. “I can’t believe your dad allows Zixun to do that show.”

Zixuan draws himself up, sucking in a breath like he’s coming out of water. “He must get something from it. Like some kind of PR or something.”

Wei Ying goes into the back and carries out a case of wine and a case of cider, loads them into the cooler. It takes a while, he has to pull things out so the warm bottles go in the back. He can vaguely hear his brothers insulting Jin Zixun and the state of modern television, keeping it light. He stares at the label on a bottle of cider—it’s an apple with a face, one of those unnerving cartoon faces where all the teeth are the same size and shape. No one’s teeth look like that.

He shuts the cooler and returns.

“If Zixun looks like a fool,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, interrupting them like he’s supposed to, “then he’s mostly harmless. He’s a goofball. It must be useful for the great and powerful Jin to have a goofball side. It makes you look less, I don’t know . . .” He could say a lot of things. He could say things like tyrannical or despotic or calculating or morally questionable. He doesn’t say any of it, just waves his hands around.

Zixuan looks like he hears the words anyway, and as usual, he stares out across the bar. “He’s a sacrifice, I suppose. Zixun. He’s always been the spare.”

“Do you think he knows he’s being played?” Jiang Cheng asks. “Would he keep doing it if he knew?”

“My dad,” Zixuan says slowly. “Doesn’t play Go. Metaphorically speaking. Not like A-Yao does. But he does play poker. Zixun—” he spins the glass between his hands. “Zixun plays hopscotch. Badly.”

Wei Ying snorts, and it feels nice.

“I guess I don’t like the show so much anymore,” he says, pouting.

“Good,” Jiang Cheng reaches out and flicks his ear. Wei Ying lets him.

“Why does everything have to be nefarious?” Wei Ying whines, meaning reality TV but also Jiang Cheng and his mean fingers “Can’t we have something that’s just dumb? Aren’t we there, as a country, where we can just have stupid shit that’s stupid and doesn’t mean anything?”

“You mean besides you, and also your face?” Jiang Cheng asks. Zixuan sighs at them in a judgmental way.

Wei Ying taps his chin. “Although, there’s a column there. The insidious political machinations of so-called reality.” He hits the button to roll out some receipt paper and makes a few notes.

“I just don’t get why he does it,” Jiang Cheng muses. “He has to know he looks bad. Right? Like, he has to.” As if everyone is as pathologically obsessed with their public appearance as you are, which is something Wei Ying does not say. “It’s not like he needs the money.”

As always, that’s its own flavor of uncomfortable. Zixuan makes more money than Jiang Cheng, and has a trust fund on top of it. He keeps trying to make it up by buying expensive presents and starting a tab wherever they go, but Jiang Cheng won’t take it. He used to, back when Zixuan was just their shitty rich brother-in-law, or Yanli’s shitty rich boyfriend. He used to call it “Yanli’s dowry” when he’d leave his birthday dinner with a new stereo or a nice watch. Now that they’re friends, though, he gets pissed off. He’ll get mad if Zixuan buys him a hardcover instead of a paperback, now that they’re friends. He’s a complicated man. So is Zixuan, in his way.

That’s probably why they get along so well, and why Wei Ying is always a half a step off of their weird masculine choreography. Wei Ying fancies himself a complicated man, but it’s different. He’s in control in a way they don’t seem to be, not of his life but of his face and his voice and his sentence structure. It makes him a good reporter.

They, on the other hand, have always been good soldiers.

Wei Ying had cried when Jiang Cheng enlisted, mid-’93. 

“You watch too many war movies,” he’d said, looking down at this lap, twisting his hands together, face hot and heart racing. “It won’t be like that, A-Cheng, there’s not any glory in it, it’ll just be horrible—”

“It’s the right thing to do.” Jiang Cheng had been stubborn as always, chin jutting out. “Wen Chao’s last attack—I can’t just sit here.”

Yanli hadn’t cried at all, she’d just looked between them, silent.

“Why don’t you come too?”Jian Cheng had asked him, eyes like a six-year-old. “You’d be good at it. We could do it together.”

“No, I gotta— Someone’s gotta report on all your heroics, right?” Wei Ying had been sweating, panicked, chills running down his arms, blowing his nose again and again. “Maybe I’ll get an assignment so I can follow you around and sing about your adventures. Like something out of those ancient poems, right?”

He’d been wrong about his role in the war, but more right than he’d be able to guess about ancient poetry. Because cultivation was real. Magic was real, and his brother was somehow mixed up in it.

He got drunk with Yanli the week after the first cultivator battle. The first battle with the new cultivator corps. Zixuan, Jiang Cheng, Lan Zhan, Mianmian, and the others.

“You husband is a wizard,” Wei Ying had said, slurring.

“Your brother is a wizard.” Yanli had flicked a sunflower seed into his lap. 

That was her secret: when Yanli got drunk she could go through two bags of sunflower seeds by herself. She got the cheap ones from the gas station on the corner and split them with her teeth, scattering shells everywhere like a little disaster zone. She’d clean up all the evidence in the morning, before anyone woke up. She was almost never hungover. 

Wei Ying loved that about her, the evidence she left, her secret messiness. He’d catch a stray shell in the corner, behind a potted plant or caught in the fringe of an area rug, and he’d get so rocked with love—violent, breathless love for her—that his vision would go spotty. 

Or maybe that’s just how he remembers it, now that she’s gone.

“Actually, he’s your brother too,” Wei Ying had said at the time, poking her nose. “Your husband and your brother are both wizards. So what does that make you?”

“Well, there’s Lan Zhan. You’re blushing, see, you’re blushing. And Mianmian. They’re your—”

“Friends.”

“Yeah, but you kissed both of them.”

Wei Ying had stuck out his tongue at her, or done something equally childish.

She’d cracked a sunflower seed and popped it into her mouth. “We could be wizards if we wanted to.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely”

“We just aren’t.”

“We’re busy.”

“We are busy people.”

Wei Ying is shaken out of the memory by a pint glass slamming down on the bar, just missing Jiang Cheng’s elbow. It’s Li Wangcheng, youngest son of his usual source, Li Riseung.

“Fill ‘er up, asshole,” Li Wangcheng says, listing into his buddies on either side. Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan are both looking at him with equally disdainful nose wrinkles. “Chop chop.”

Wei Ying sighs. “Sorry, Wangcheng, you’re cut off. I already over-served you, and I promised your dad and your brother I wouldn’t.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your liver can’t take it. Here, have some water and go sit down.”

“Fuck you, Wei Ying. Fuck you.” He’s pushing off his friends, leaning over the bar with his tobacco-stained teeth and his mix-of-alcohol breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wei Ying moves away, wiping down the counter, and Wangcheng follows.

“I’ll fucking kill you. You watch your back, bitch, I’ll fucking find you, and I’ll kill you.”

Wei Ying puts up his hands. “Okay, man, take it easy.”

“I know where you live. I know where you park your bike. Your stupid little fucking— Your stupid bike.”

His two biggest friends start pulling at his elbow, pulling him away. He shakes them off.

“Don’t think I won’t. Don’t think I won’t find you, motherfucker.”

Jiang Cheng is off his stool, now, and Zixuan is moving around behind him, coming in to engage. Wei Ying waves them off, desperately. Wen Ning is leaving his spot by the door.

“When you leave tonight, you better—”

“The fuck did you say?” Jiang Cheng is up in his face, now, and Wei Ying has to come out from behind the bar. He hates leaving the bar, it’s his comfortable place to be.

“Leave it. A-Cheng, A-Xuan, leave it, leave it.” He gets himself between them all, holding his brother back. Wen Ning has a good hold on Wangcheng’s shoulders.

“Fuck you.” That sprays a bit in his face, the plosive. “Everything was fine before you came here. Yiling was fine before you came here, and then everything went to shit.”

“That’s not—” Jiang Cheng tries to butt in, but Wei Ying sticks an elbow in his gut.

“I said, leave it.”

“Fucking worthless,” Wangcheng spits at him, and Wen Ning and his friends haul him back towards the door. “Fucking demon. You’re a fucking demon, Wei Ying! Fucking cursed!”

Wen Ning throws them out, and the silence following is awkward, no one looking at each other. Wei Ying wipes his face, straightens Jiang Cheng’s shirt collar, and goes back to work. There’s a short woman standing there, frozen, holding out her empty glass. He gets her another gin and cranberry, pleased that he remembered, and she gives him a pitying kind of smile. He hides his hands down by his sides, but he knows she’s seen them. Everyone can see them; he doesn’t cover them.

“Holy shit,” Jiang Cheng says, still staring back at the door.

“Yeah. Never mind.” Wei Ying readjusts his t-shirt.

“Never mind? That was a death threat. For what, cutting him off?”

“Forget about it.”

“For cutting him off? What the fuck?”

“A-Cheng, forget it.”

“I’m not gonna forget it, that guy knows where you live.”

“It’s fine, it happens. Leave it. Please? Leave it.”

Jiang Cheng sits down. Zixuan says nothing, looking between Jaing Cheng and the door.

“Does it happen a lot?” Jiang Cheng is interrogating, intelligence-mode.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Wei Ying, does it happen a lot?”

“I mean, a bit. Okay?”

“For cutting—?”

“It’s not about cutting him off. It’s not about that. It’s not about me. Calm down.”

“Sure sounded like it’s about you. ‘Demon,’ really—”

“If it wasn’t me it would be someone else. Wen Ning. His friends. His dad.” Wei Ying chops more limes than he needs to, calmed by the sharpness of the knife. “He’s dying. Actually dying, everyone knows it. His liver is shot. He’s been laid off for months, and he can’t pay for any more treatment. His dad’s broke, mom died in the war. He’s lashing out.”

“But that’s not your—”

“You can’t swing at the clouds forever. Right? He’s not the only one. People feel good here, they feel comfortable here, and so they can hit someone here if they need to. You get beaten down and beaten down for year after year, eventually you have to fight back. Right? Otherwise what are you?” What am I? he doesn’t ask.

Zixuan clears his throat, still not looking at him. “What’s the use of fighting you? You’re not—”

Wei Ying laughs at him, mean. “What’s he gonna do, fight your dad? The whole fucking government? Who can he hit? After a while, you have to hit something or you’ll go mad. You have to make contact. Right?” He chops another lime. “You have to have an effect on something. You have to hit someone and see the bruise, or yell at someone and see them flinch. Otherwise it’s like you don’t exist at all. You’re already dead.”

“Wei Ying,” Zixuan says it, which is a surprise. He almost never says his name.

“Somewhere like this, somewhere like Yiling, all you can reach is the guy next to you. Once they put the crabs in the bucket, they put the lid on.”

The chatter in the bar is back, which is nice since there’s an awkward silence between the three of them. Wei Ying puts the chopped limes into the cooler and washes the cutting board, washes the knife. He replaces a drink at the other end of the bar earlier than he normally would—the guy is only halfway through, but he nods a thanks.

“What about—” Zixuan starts, hesitant. “Wei Ying, what about police?”

“Ha!” Wei Ying snaps it at him, not a laugh, not at all. “Don’t you— You don’t come here, into my bar, talking about police.”

“I didn’t come in talking about police, I’m just saying—”

“No cops in Yiling.” He shuts a cooler with his heel, a satisfying slam. “Cops are military, and the military hates Yiling.”

Zixuan bristles. “No, we don’t.”

He always does this. It’s one of the things Wei Ying can’t process about him, and one of the reasons they’ve never been close and probably never will be. It’s always “we.” The Jins, the government, the military. Wei Ying can like him if he doesn’t see Jin Guangshan, if he doesn’t see Jin Guangyao, if he doesn’t see the war when he looks at him. But then he comes in with the “we.”

It’s probably sad, actually, how long he’s been a soldier. How much of him is wrapped up in being his dad’s perfect soldier.

Wei Ying bites his tongue, takes a breath. “Of course you do. Everyone in charge hates Yiling.”

“I don’t hate Yiling.” Zixuan is getting stubborn. He looks like A-Ling, almost a pout. “It’s where you live, and you’re my family.”

Wei Ying blinks at him. “I don’t know how to talk to you when you get like this.”

“Like what?”

“Sincere. All, you know—” he waves an empty bottle around in Zixuan’s face. “Sincere.”

The pout becomes more of a pout. “I’m always sincere.

“Yeah, that’s why we don’t talk.”

Jiang Cheng leans across the bar and snags the rail whiskey bottle to top off his own glass.

“I can beat you up later, if you like,” Zixuan offers.

“Yeah.” Wei Ying doesn’t want to smile, but he does anyway. “Maybe.”

The silence isn’t awkward this time. Wei Ying takes the whiskey bottle back from Jiang Cheng and makes a show of wiping it off with the bleach rag. Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.

After a while, Jiang Cheng asks, “Is there something happening here this month? For the five years? Like a memorial or something?” He’s looking away, all careful again.

“Is Lanling doing something?” They look at Zixuan, only slightly accusing on Wei Ying’s part.

“No. I mean December 3 there will be a whole . . . Armistice anniversary.”

“But nothing for Sunshot. Nothing for the massacre I mean,” Wei Ying says.

“I mean, not specifically.” Zixuan licks his lips. “I’m sure it’ll be mentioned.”

“Nothing here, though?” Jiang Cheng asks again.

“Trust me, people around here aren’t the ones that need reminding what you’re— what Lanling is capable of.” 

“That’s not fair,” Zixuan says.

Wei Ying looks down at his hands, the mottled brown of them. Flies, flies and dirt and flies and chemicals and flies. “Don’t talk about fair. Not about this.”

Zixuan opens his mouth, but Jiang Cheng shakes his head, violently.

“A-Cheng, it’s not—”

“Stop it.” Jiang Cheng is glaring at him now, the kind of look Wei Ying gets all the time, but Zixuan doesn’t see so much. It makes him stop.

Wei Ying goes to the back and grabs the broom. Jiang Cheng reaches over for the gin bottle and tops off Zixuan’s glass. Wei Ying pretends he doesn’t see it and starts at the far end of the bar. It’s getting slower, people heading out for the night to more exciting places.

A song comes on, something from his college days. He remembers recording it onto a cassette tape from the radio, keeping it in his backpack. Lan Zhan didn’t really like it, but he let Wei Ying play it all the time on his cheap little dorm room stereo.

Wei Ying sings along under his breath as he sweeps. “And if I lied, would you forgive me. Whoa-oh-oh. Fit to be tied, but you still live with me. Oh, whoa-oh-oh.”

“This song,” Zixuan says, smiling a little. “We used to— We used to fight a lot. A-Li and I. Stupid stuff. I was late for dinner. My mom would get so overbearing and we’d fight about that. Her mom would— Well, you know. We’d fight about that. Baby stuff. We didn’t know what to do about baby stuff, so she bought out the whole section of the book store and said we’d divide and conquer. But every book was different, so we’d argue. Dr. Po says this. Well, Dr. Wen says that. She could be so— You’re all so stubborn. Stupid stuff. And we’d be so pissed off we stopped speaking to each other. But I bought her this CD once, not for a birthday or anything, just because. She loved them from way back. And she’d put it on, and we’d dance, and we wouldn’t be mad anymore.”

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng said, clearing his throat. “She liked that sappy shit.”

“Do you play it for A-Ling?” Wei Ying asks.

Zixuan shakes his head. “It makes me sad to hear it. I spend most of my time trying not to be sad around A-Ling.”

Jiang Cheng moves like he’s going to touch him, his arm, his shoulder. He aborts the move and grabs his glass instead, slides it over to tap against Zixuan’s. 

“You’re doing good,” he says.

Zixuan looks down, blinking seriously.

“You are,” Wei Ying agrees. “You’re doing good. And you know it pains me to say it.”

Zixuan gives him an echo of a laugh.

“A-Ling is lucky.”

“He’d be luckier if his uncles would visit. Both of them.”

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying say in unison.

“You want me to change the song?” Wei Ying asks.

“No, leave it. It’s good. It’s a nice song.”

An old woman leans on the bar—she’s familiar but Wei Ying can’t remember her name. “Hey, hey, Wei Ying!”

“Yeah, auntie?” he smiles charmingly at her.

“You know my daughter’s coming home soon. December 21.”

“Cheers to that!” he gives her a half-salute.

“I’ll set you up, once she’s home. Just you wait, she’s the prettiest, even now.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“She makes that jumpsuit look like runway fashion. Still has her figure, even with the prison food.”

“Can’t wait,” Wei Ying says politely.

“December 21,” the old woman waves her finger at him and heads for the door. 

“Invite me to the wedding,” Jiang Cheng teases.

“December 21,” Wei Ying rolls it around in his mouth. “The Wens are coming home.”

Zixuan straightens up. “Really?”

“That’s what we’re celebrating. We don’t celebrate the Massacre, but innocent people coming home? That’s worth it.”

“Innocent is—”

“Zixuan, think about where you are.”

Zixuan nods.

All of the Wens who’d been scooped up post-Sunshot, post-war, those related to rebels or in the wrong place at the wrong time, they’d all been sentenced to five years in prison. “Just to be safe.” The majority came from Yiling, Dafan, other small towns in the West. People who couldn’t afford to run to Lanling, to Gusu, somewhere safe during the worst of the fighting. People who wouldn’t turn their backs on brothers and aunts and cousins in Nightless City. 

But five years have almost passed, and the Wens are coming home.

“It’ll be weird, won’t it?” Jiang Cheng asks, diplomatic in his insensitivity.

“A hundred and forty-three people,” Wei Ying says. “At least, that’s how many went in. I’m sure a couple fucked up inside, got their sentences extended.”

“But still.”

“But still,” he agrees.

“Are you going to do something for it? In December?” Jiang Cheng asks him.

“Dunno. I should stock up though, shouldn’t I? I’ll make a note.”

Later, after Jiang Cheng and Zixuan leave for Jiang Cheng’s Yiling sublet—a two bedroom so Zixuan doesn’t have to get his own place in town—Wei Ying sweeps up while Wen Ning flips chairs up on the tables.  

“Have you ever gotten over something?” Wei Ying asks him.

“Like what?” Wen Ning stops working and looks at him. He always does that—Wei Ying has always wondered if he had hearing loss as a kid. If he’s talking to you, he always has to stop whatever he’s doing and look at you right in the face.

“I don’t know. But have you ever stood there a second and realized you were over something? Or through something. You know, on the other side?”

Wen Ning thinks for a while, and Wei Ying sweeps around his feet. “School, I guess.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“What about you?”

Wei Ying leans down with the dust pan. “I don’t think I’ve ever come out the other side of anything. I think maybe if you stay in something long enough you adapt. Grow gills or whatever, so you can breathe. So you can survive when the world turns unlivable around you. And maybe you aren’t living at all, maybe you’re a stone, or you’re a dead fish with rotten eyes, washed up on the bank of a river that dried up years and years ago.” 

Wen Ning still looks at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he doesn’t ask Wei Ying to make sense. It’s what Wei Ying appreciates the most about him. 

“So maybe you’re dead, or maybe you’re evolving. Like, maybe that’s just what the world is now, and what you would have previously defined as dead, what you’d look at ten years ago and say that’s a dead thing, maybe that’s just what life looks like now. Evolution.” 

Wen Ning nods and picks up a chair. “I think . . . I might be remembering wrong, but I think evolution takes a long time. Like many generations. So maybe you should look at the kids.”

“The kids?” 

“Yeah, see if the kids have gills. Or whatever. Whatever you said.”

Wei Ying leans his chin on his broom and watches Wen Ning go table by table, strong and methodical. He sets the chairs so gently on the tabletops that it doesn’t make any noise. He flips them with complete control and lines up the seats.

“Maybe,” Wei Ying says. He goes back behind the bar and turns up the music. There’s work to do before heading home