#but that doesn’t mean I should be allowed to do it :) no one hire me for lettering designs ever

[sentientsky]

“Bloodshot,” Julien Baker

hello my beloveds <3 enjoy some more angst

[starry-bi-sky]

Danielle and Danyal's meeting... very, very quickly goes very sour from, basically, the moment Danny steps into his room and finds Ellie sitting on his bed (strike one) and reading the comic books Tucker introduced him to (strike two). By the time she's looked up to address him, Danny has the door locked, and a hand hovering near the knife hidden under his shirt.

She gets her third strike when Danny, in a voice that could make the mountains tremble, demands to know how she got into his room, and she lies (with uncertainty of her decision growing in her chest) that Jazz let her in. Danny's hand shifts closer to his weapon, and he turns towards her fully, and says that Jazz would never let someone he didn’t know into his room, and who was she.

(Vlad Masters had underprepared Danielle for her meeting with Danny -- not out of any completely direct malicious intent, but he failed to mention just how... 'touchy' Daniel could be -- he failed to mention the scars littering up his arms, unhidden by the hoodie tee he meets Ellie in. He failed to mention that along with those scars, that Danny was visibly lean, capable of doing very real damage without the use of his powers.)

(He tells Ellie that he’s adopted, and that he is observant and clever, but ungrateful and has a bad attitude.)

Her final strike occurs when Ellie, trying to keep her facade of cheeriness, tells him that she’s his third cousin once removed. Immediately, Danny has his dagger pulled out, and Ellie finds herself with the cold metal of a blade pressing against her throat.

Danyal 'A.G' Fenton hasn’t killed since he arrived in Amity Park. At first it was because mother told him to keep a low profile, and killing would do the opposite of that. But, he's been slowly learning from his sister and friends over the years the value of human life. So it's become a combination of keeping his head down, and also that life has value to it.

But. That doesn’t mean he can’t kill, nor is he opposed to doing it if the situation calls for it. It just means that he doesn't do it. And ‘Danielle’ is an unknown in his room, claiming to be family to him, and appearing uncannily similar to him and his family. Either someone hired her and she was trying to pass herself off as a relative to him because that someone realized Danny was the biggest threat, or, his false death has been compromised, his mother was unable to tell him, and the league was aware he was alive.

No matter how he looks at it, this Danielle was a threat to him, his sister, his friends, to Damian, and to the Drs. Fenton. Danyal Fenton doesn't kill, but he has no problems doing so.

(Ellie, pinned under Danny’s knee and the blade to her neck, is too terrified to think of phasing out of his hold. Not that it would help, he would just chase after her.)

“You have broken into my home, dared to lie to my face, and when I demanded to know the truth, you dared lie to me again." Danny's scowl could cower even Skulker, his glacier blue eyes burning. "Your continual breath has been a favor from me, that I have graciously allowed, from the moment you entered my room, dahkil."

"So I will ask one more time," he hisses, "who. are. you."

Danielle, only a few months old, unprepared for the ice storm that is "Daniel" Fenton, and his clone in only flesh and blood, and not memories, immediately breaks. And tells him that she was his clone, that Vlad sent her to come capture him, and to please not kill her.

Danny's face twists with anger, Ellie thinks he's going to kill her anyways. Instead, he withdraws his knife and gets off her, stringing out curses in Arabic as he sheathes his weapon back into its hiding place faster than Ellie can blink.

He switches to English as she is collecting her bearings (and contemplating fleeing), and Danny paces the room like a tiger in a cage. "--of course that wretched, arrogant, peacocking little ingrate would do something so infuriating. I should have driven my sword into the shrivel of his heart when I had the chance--"

Ellie, for a moment, thinks of leaving while he is distracted. And starts to slowly creep away. But Danny notices instantly, and whirls on her. His too-bright eyes bore into her head: "Where do you think you're going."

"...I'm leaving."

And Danny scoffs at her, "Why? So you can fly back to Masters and tell him that you failed to capture me, and that I know that he cloned me?" He says, and Ellie remains silent -- that's exactly what she was going to do. "He will destroy you within seconds."

Of course, Ellie rears back in offense, and she finds the footing to glare at him. "He would not! He's my dad, he loves me!"

Danny gets in her face, glowering back with an equal intensity. "He does not." He snaps, "Vlad Masters has not a soul in his body nor a heart in his chest. He would sooner cut off the hand that helps him stand, than to take it along with him."

"If you're really made of my blood, then I will teach you only this: we bow not our heads nor our hearts to anyone." Danny's too-blue eyes narrow, and his voice dips into a hiss, "Especially not to a conniving snake like Masters. Your heart: cut it off, or cut it out. He will sooner leave you to bleed."

Then, he unlocks the door and drags her out before she has much time to act. And as he drags her down the hall he shoots Sam and Tucker a text, and they meet up at Nasty Burger. Ellie is a spitfire, but Danny has her too intimidated to leave.

"This is Danielle," he tells them bluntly as he corners her into the booth, "she's my clone. Masters created her."

Ellie is with them for a week, and somehow throughout that time, Danny manages to actually get her to like him throughout that time. He's callous, blunt, and full of sharp edges that you can cut yourself on. But when he's not spitting venom, he's fretting.

When he drags her back to the house after being with Sam and Tucker, he pulls her to Jazz's room and opens the door to tell her the same thing. "This is Danielle." He says upon abruptly opening the door, interrupting Jazz's studying as he pulls Ellie inside. "She is my clone, Masters created her. She needs clothes."

Then he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Ellie, in that moment, thinks that now's her chance to flee. But Jazz then squeals, and she is trapped in new arms, shaken around by Jazz Fenton, excited for a sister.

(Ellie finds herself complaining to Jazz that night, shoved into old pajamas. She's in utter disbelief that Jazz could care about a jerk like Danny.)

("He's rough around the edges, but Danny does care." Jazz tells her, combing through her hair with her fingers. "We've been working on it ever since he joined the family, but Danny warms up slowly. He's usually less stoney; I think your arrival spooked him.")

("Spooked him?" Ellie repeats, she doesn't believe it at all. "He has a funny way of showing it, he threatened to kill me!" And she turns around just in time to see Jazz's press her lips into a line.)

("He's... very protective. He'll deny if you ask him, but he worries a lot." Jazz's fingers find her hair again. "What I do know for certain though, is that he wouldn't have kept you here if he wasn't worried about you at least a little bit.")

(Ellie doubts it.)

But Ellie is indeed there for a week, and the day after her initially rocky introduction with Danny, he is a little bit kinder to her. Still kinda a bitch, but he's less harsh to her, if... almost uncomfortable around her. Flighty, kinda.

Whenever she gets mouthy at him though, he looks oddly smug about it and, infuriatingly enough, praises her attitude. He is very, very annoying. And still kinda terrifying. But hearing him shout insults via puns at someone during a ghost fight that happens that week lessens the intimidating factor,,, a little bit.

Things go about,,,, relatively,,,, similar to canon. In the sense that it ends with Ellie defecting from Vlad because she finds out that Danny was right and that Vlad didn't actually care about her. (And that Jazz had been right too; Danny, in his weird, mean way, had been worried about her as well)

Danny looks out of his depth as she talks about how he was right, and he cuts her off with a vaguely uncomfortable clearing of his throat. And gives her the most awkward, but genuine apology he can muster.

"I should've used more tact when telling you about Masters, and I... apologize for threatening you when we met. I was..." he makes a face like he's sucked on a particularly sour lemon, "worried. First about my family, and then later about you."

(Ellie will be damned: Jazz was right)

Before Ellie leaves, Danny puts a hand on her shoulder and tells her: "I wasn't kidding about what I said to you when we first met: you are of my blood, and as such, you do not bow your head nor your heart to anyone."

Ellie looks at him, thinks about the last week, and smiles like she's caught him in a trap. "What about Sam and Tucker then? And Jazz?"

Danny smiles, it's awkward and tilted, like his face isn't used to the gesture. "We bow not our hearts, but that doesn't mean we can't share."

[nellasbookplanet]

In the wake of FCG' fate I've been thinking about death in ttrpgs, and how it kind of exists on three levels:

There’s the gameplay level, where it only makes sense for a combat-heavy, pc-based game to have a tool for resurrection because the characters are going to die a lot and players get attached to them and their plotlines.

Then there’s the narrative level, where you sort of need permanent death on occasion so as not to lose all tension and realism. On this level, sometimes the player will let their character remain dead because they find it more interesting despite there being options of resurrection, or maybe the dice simply won’t allow the resurrection to succeed.

Then, of course, there’s the in-universe level, which is the one that really twists my mind. This is a world where actual resurrection of the actual dead is entirely obtainable, often without any ill effects (I mean, they'll be traumatized, but unless you ask a necromancer to do the resurrection they won’t come back as a zombie or vampire or otherwise wrong). It’s so normal that many adventurers will have gone through it multiple times. Like, imagine actually living in a world where all that keeps you from getting a missing loved one back is the funds to buy a diamond and hire a cleric. As viewers we felt that of course Pike should bring Laudna, a complete stranger, back when asked, but how often does she get this question? How many parents have come and begged her to return their child to them? How many lovers lost but still within reach? When and how does she decide who she saves and who she doesn’t?

From this perspective, I feel like every other adventurer should have the motive/backstory of 'I lost a loved one and am working to obtain the level of power/wealth to get them back'. But of course this is a game, and resurrection is just a game mechanic meant to be practically useful.

Anyway. A story-based actual play kind of has to find a way to balance these three levels. From a narrative perspective letting FCG remain dead makes sense, respects their sacrifice, and ends their arc on a highlight. From a gameplay level it is possible to bring them back but a lot more complicated than a simple revivify. But on an in-universe level, when do you decide if you should let someone remain dead or not? Is the party selfish if they don’t choose to pursue his resurrection the way they did for Laudna? Do they even know, as characters, that it’s technically possible to save someone who's been blown to smithereens? Back in campaign 2, the moment the m9 gained access to higher level resurrection they went to get Molly back (and only failed because his body had been taken back by Lucien). At the end of c1, half the party were in denial about Vax and still looking for ways to save him, because they had always been able to before (and had the game continued longer it wouldn’t have surprised me had they found a way). Deanna was brought back decades after her death (and was kind of fucked up because of it). Bringing someone back could be saving them, showing them just how loved and appreciated they are. Or it could be saving you, forcing someone back from rest and peace into a world that's kept moving without them because you can’t handle the guilt of knowing you let them stay gone when you didn’t have to. How do you know? How would you ever know?

[heliads]

You and Me (A Whole Lot of History)

Based on this request: "y/n is a historian with access to old schematics so kaz hires her for a job. he keeps inventing reasons to find her afterwards until he’s forced to admit his feelings"

masterlist

You only get to study about half a chapter of your textbook before you’re interrupted by a criminal. It’s not like you mind having to put down the heavy tome you’ve been leafing through; estate law of centuries past is not your idea of some fun light reading, but you’ve been helping to piece together some fragments of an old mansion from pre-Unsea Kerch, and you’d really like to be able to decide if the master of the house your tattered documents keep referring to is the eldest son or the second eldest. 

It all depends on very specific details that refuse to make themselves known to you. So no, having an excuse to stop all this isn’t terrible, you’re just a little distracted by the fact that you’re in a private study room in the historical library of Ketterdam, and you know for certain that you locked the door that has just been opened.

You know who’s just broken into your study space. Not personally, that is, but just as well as any resident of the Barrel knows the one they call Dirtyhands– through bated breath, in stolen whispers of expensive heists and bodies left behind, no traitors tolerated and none allowed to live. The fact that Kaz Brekker has taken it upon himself to enter your study room of all the empty ones still available in the library is not promising, to say the least, although you have absolutely no idea what you’ve done to appear on his radar.

You are, in fact, quite possibly the last person Kaz would even be aware of. You’re a historian, specializing in a few select centuries and powerful families in the Kerch area. This means that you spend most of your time in old and crumbling buildings, not out in shady dealings or shootouts or any of the other places Brekker tends to frequent.

This doesn’t seem to stop Kaz from closing the door behind him and taking a seat opposite your desk. He folds his hands in front of him, idly contemplating the textbook you’re still supposed to be perusing, but remains frustratingly silent.

It falls to you, then, to pick up a conversation, which is unfair considering the fact that he’s the one who’s barged in on your space. “That door was locked for a reason, you know,” you point out.

Kaz arches a dour brow. “Yes. I opened it.”

He’s not making this easy for you. “Why?” You ask.

Instead of answering you, Brekker jerks his chin towards the book in front of you. “What’s that about?”

There is no earthly reason one of the most notorious gang leaders in the Barrel should be asking about the homework you’re doing for your job. Still, he has, so you must answer, no matter how confused you are about it. “Inheritance disputes of the fourteenth century Kerch nobles. Why, are you interested in checking it out after me?”

Kaz scoffs. “No. I just want your information, not that book.”

You feel yourself leaning back slightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Trust me, whatever information you’re after won’t be found from me.”

Kaz shakes his head once. “No, actually, I think it will be.”

He reaches for something under his coat, and you’re hit with the brief terror that he’ll get a gun or something and you’ll die here and now, but then his gloved hand comes back out into the light carefully holding a rolled up piece of paper, which he smooths out onto the desk before you. You tuck your textbook away so you can get a better look at the thing, more curious now than afraid.

It turns out to be a copy of house blueprints. As you study it, you realize that you recognize the place. You were there recently for a project for your employer, checking up on the preservation of a few rooms. “Is this the old van Haarst mansion?” 

Brekker’s eyes flash, reminding you of the slick of oil on water. “You know about it?”

“Yeah,” you say, peering further at the blueprints. “I’ve worked there before.”

Kaz nods, looking pleased. “I’d like to buy your services. I need information on this building and your silence on the matter. Are you interested?”

Your brow furrows. “What information do you need?”

To answer you, Brekker tosses a stack of kruge onto the table. You can see the numbers on the edges, and know even without counting that this payment will be far more than what you’d earn even for a year at your job. This is the deal, then. He’ll only tell you more if you accept his money, and if you accept his money, you agree to whatever he wants.

Honestly, not the worst bargain. Ghezen knows you’ve had worse supervisors on other jobs. At least you can trust Brekker to be honest so long as you are too.

You put the stack of bills into your bag, and turn back to the blueprints with renewed interest. “Are you trying to get in or get out?”

“Both,” Kaz tells you. “I’m assuming you’ve heard rumors of Marysa’s Diamond?”

You choke out a laugh. “Have I ever.”

Marysa’s Diamond is like the Saints in flesh for historians. The van Haarst family was exceedingly rich, and one of their matriarchs, Marysa van Haarst, was said to be in possession of an incredible gemstone, the diamond named after her. It disappeared when the family abandoned Kerch for Ravka following the death of three of Marysa’s sons, and no one has seen it since.

You blow out a low breath. “You think it’s in the old house somewhere? Historians have been all over the place, we would have found it if it was there.”

“It wasn’t always,” Kaz tells you. “It’s been moved there. I have good information that the van Haarst house will act as a safe house for the stone while it’s being moved from hand to hand. They’ll keep it there overnight. I will be entering the estate with a team and taking it.”

He goes silent, as if waiting for any objections. You don’t really care about the morals of the affair, though. You have your money and you get to be the foremost expert on a historical favorite of yours. Robberies happen every day, not something to get teary eyed over.

When you don’t speak up, Kaz continues on. “They’ll be keeping the stone in a place no one can find. There will be a window of exactly one bell in which the old owner leaves the house and is replaced by the new owner, carefully staggered so the stadwatch aren’t alerted by too many people in the estate after hours. That means it would have to be a damn good hiding spot. If you were hiding a gemstone in this house, where would you put it?”

You consider the blueprints before you again. There are a thousand and one places you could hide something in there– tucked inside the grand piano, in a safe, under one of a hundred carpets– and there’s no way Brekker’s men could find it in time.

However, that means the person meant to be picking up the diamond wouldn’t be able to find it as well. They would have to find somewhere in the estate hidden to everyone else but the recipient of the gemstone.

The answer occurs to you in a flash. “Oh,” you say, “Secret room.”

Brekker blinks at you. “What?”

You point at the map. “It’s totally going in the secret room. I mean, they don’t want it to be found by anyone else, right? That’s, like, the whole point of a secret room.”

Were it not for the fact that he’s, well, Dirtyhands, you’d swear his voice turns sarcastic. “That was my understanding of a secret room, yes. Where is it?”

Were it not for the fact that he is in fact Dirtyhands, you would roll your eyes. “There’s an entrance off of the secondary hallway leading off of the dining room. Unlock the door using a little latch under the bottom of the ugly painting of the old duchess of Belendt.”

He stares at you. “How do you know that? It’s not on any map.”

You lift a shoulder. “I wanted to know why they’d keep such a foul portrait around. The elites of that time period were huge on perfectionism, every one of their paintings had to be absolutely glorious or it would get removed from their sight. That’s why there are so many old paintings in the surrounding villages, actually, the nobles would just leave these expensive oil paintings outside the castle because they couldn’t take the sight of them anymore. There was no reason they’d let such a dreadful portrait stay unless it was hiding something.”

You had been focused on the map in your hands during the majority of this little speech, fondly recalling little anecdotes from your history classes, but you remember yourself soon enough. You look up and Kaz is staring at you, almost fascinated.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Sorry, I’m rambling. Got distracted.”

He shakes his head brusquely, although there’s a hint of pink on the tops of his cheekbones that wasn’t there before. “No, no. It’s important information. So we should be aware of any suspicious paintings?”

“Yeah,” you muse, “just look for the bad ones. Pretend you’re an art critic or something.”

The edges of Kaz’s dour glare turn themselves up into something of a humored smirk. “Will do. Thank you for the advice, L/N.”

You nod. “Have fun with the heist. Hey, if you see any older books on the history of the family, would you mind grabbing one or two for me? I’ve been trying to do some research for ages, but the library keeps stalling on getting resources to me, no matter how many requests I send.”

Kaz’s brows draw close together. “That would be unbelievably risky. We can’t take more things than we need or we could be caught.”

You grin. “I know, I’m kidding. Just a joke.”

Kaz’s expression lightens microscopically. “Yes, a joke.”

He leaves soon enough, pushing his chair away from the desk and rolling up the blueprints with a crisp snap of the paper. He warns you to keep your mouth shut about the plans, but you’re not sure that he does it with the fire you expected of a notorious gang leader. Instead, the words are soft, like he’s cautioning a friend.

You don’t hear from him again, not for a while. You’re not sure when this mysterious diamond deal is going down, and you doubt the unlucky men Kaz will grift can go to the stadwatch about this. In fact, you have no idea if it’s happened at all until about a week later. You had gone about your day like normal, not suspecting a thing until the moment you unlocked your door.

And there, centered perfectly on your desk when you get back home despite the fact that you never gave keys to your apartment to anyone, are three books. Aged, cracked covers, gilded writing. You hesitantly pick up one and read the title under your breath:  A History of the Bendtsen Family, 1200-1500. Another:  The van Almelos of the Belendt Region:  Two Centuries of Political and Economic Legacy.

Kaz. He actually got the books. Never mind that you were joking, never mind that he knew that, Kaz Brekker went out of his way to risk a heist just so he could help you out with a research project. Saints. And they say chivalry is dead.

You don’t expect to get the chance to thank him for it until he randomly crosses your path not two weeks later. He’s alone again, miraculously turning up outside your company door just as you leave to walk home. Kaz informs you that he’ll need your services again, exchanging some kruge for more words. This time, he wants details on an office building down the street, one that used to be a city hall. You’re able to take him in yourself thanks to access granted to all historians for historic places, and turn a blind eye when he grabs a few documents regarding interport commerce.

He walked you to your door that night, lingering over the threshold like a teenager not wanting to leave a first date. He shows up again after a month, using an excuse that’s less polished and more finicky. The next time, he doesn’t have an excuse at all. It’s just him, standing in front of you. No money, no plan. He just wanted to see you.

Kaz calls it ‘checking up on an investment,’ but you get the feeling that it’s not something he usually does. He walks with you by the water, he buys you drinks at a bar not even in his own pocket. It’s unusually sweet, so you can’t bite back your questions anymore and confront him about it when he hovers in front of your door for the dozenth time.

“What is this about, Kaz?”

He blinks at you in surprise. “What?”

You gesture between the two of you. “All of this. This isn’t for a job anymore. Why?”

Kaz looks away. It’s rare for him to not have a perfect poker face. Perhaps it’s yet another sign that this means something more, something that you can’t help but wish for. “I wanted to make sure you were safe. I’ve called on you for several jobs that can risk the players involved in the game.”

You shake your head. “You’ve gone out of your way to make sure no one knows about me. It’s just us, Kaz. You did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” he admits at last, “I did. I wanted something for myself. Something that wasn’t as bad as the rest.”

He risks a glance over at you, and his shoulders square slightly when he realizes you aren’t trying to fight him on this, or worse, leave. “You’re good, Y/N. Good things don’t last long around here. I want to make sure you do. I want you to stay forever.”

With me, he means. He wants to keep you in his life. His eyes flicker to your hands, and although you know he won’t take them, not yet, he wants to. That’s why you finally put together the pieces. Kaz Brekker is not good at verbalizing his feelings. Perhaps he never will be. This is the best shot he can give you, and he could not even say the word ‘love’ if it ripped his heart out with bleeding fingertips.

You've had so much over the years, and it has never been enough. Not once, not ever. A thousand coffers could empty themselves, a hundred men die and be reborn. It has never once stopped you. This, by contrast, is nothing. A canal rat's promise, most likely broken before the night is through. You know it, Kaz knows it. This is nothing. 

Yet it is the most true thing you have ever had, the one solid stone in a wall about to come crumbling down. It is small, barely there at all, but still worth it. Maybe that is why you stay, for the hope. For him. It is enough.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @deadreaderssociety, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @eclliipsed, @mayfieldss, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy

[pumpkinpaix]

Regarding #EndOTWRacism’s summaries of 2023 OTW Board election candidate positions

Before I begin, let me say now that while I am a volunteer with the OTW, my views are personal and should not be taken as any kind of official statement from the org, its leadership, or other volunteers, especially not the candidates in question. My focus here is on the Asian candidates for obvious reasons, but this post is not meant as endorsement or disavowal of any of the candidates, whose bios and platforms can all be read here.

Do not take this as an excuse harass the mods running EOTWR. I cannot make myself clearer.

--

I am making this post to express my extreme disappointment with End OTW Racism’s post purporting to summarize the platforms of the candidates for the upcoming Board elections. It is no longer rebloggable, but can be read here.

The way that the candidates with Asian names were spoken of is deeply insulting when compared with how candidates with English-language names were discussed. Asian candidates had their platforms misrepresented, their expertise downplayed, and their lived experiences reduced down to “bringing an international presence” to the board, which was then further caveated with, “diversity alone is not going to solve the issue of racist harassment currently allowed in the OTW’s policies and enforcement practice”. While it is true that diversity alone is not a solution, it’s pretty offensive to essentially have “remember! Just because they aren’t white doesn’t mean you should vote for them!” tacked on to one of the Asian candidates’ platforms. 

End OTW Racism seems more concerned with whether or not candidates used the buzzwords they wanted to hear rather than with how racism is discussed holistically within the statements. While I can appreciate that EOTWR has a specific agenda, to say things like, “[s]he does not mention racism, racist harassment, or hiring a DEI consultant in her platform, so outside the outreach and support she mentions, there is not enough for us to conclude that these would be priorities for her” regarding Zixin Z.’s position, directly following the statement, “[s]he also mentions the need for outreach towards non-English-speaking fans and has a desire to provide support to volunteers from minority groups” is fucking laughable, especially after the initial mistake of stating that Zixin Z. only wanted to do more outreach to Chinese-speaking fans. Again, I understand that people make mistakes and that this mistake has since been corrected, but I hope it prompts some reflection on the sort of biases that would lead to such a mistake in the first place. It may have been completely innocuous, but in charged discussions about racism, please understand that it gives an impression that is difficult to shake. I do thank you for not trying to hide that this happened. 

Why is Anh P.’s lack of discussion on TOS/PAC a point against her, while Zixin Z.’s years of experience on PAC, her role as a mod on Weibo, and her background in nonprofits don’t even warrant a mention? For that matter, why did none of the Asian candidates’ skills or experience warrant mention? Qiao C. and Zixin Z. have both been volunteers with the organization for several years now, and Anh P. has years of moderation and volunteer experience elsewhere prior to her work with the OTW.

It is so fucking frustrating that despite each one of these candidates specifically talking about the need for diverse voices, they had their platforms essentially passed over because they didn’t use the right words, and it is particularly fucking aggravating to see that EOTWR will use Chinese issues as props when trying to press OTW leadership on the racism that occurs within the org, but then completely fail to connect the dots on why these candidates are running because the wrong language was used. Zixin Z. is one of the Weibo mods, for fuck’s sake. 

The entire post feels like an exercise in virtue signalling, from every time it was brought up that a candidate did not provide pronouns in their platform statements, despite every one of them having pronouns provided in their bios (why mention this detail at all? You could have simply used the pronouns), to what felt like willful obliviousness to the anti-racism stances in the Asian candidates’ platforms. It feels like the concern starts and ends with racism in Anglophone terms, on Anglophone terms.

I can respect the driving ideas behind EOTWR, even if I disagree with the way that EOTWR pursues their goals. I do believe that we want the same things in the end, and therefore chose not to interact with the many posts I have seen about the protest. However, I saw the summary post and could not let it pass without speaking.

For a protest group supposedly dedicated to ending racism in the OTW, this felt incredibly hypocritical, conscious bias or not. In my most charitable frame of mind, I can see this as misjudging and overcorrecting to ensure that there was no favoritism shown to the obvious non-white candidates lest EOTWR be accused of tokenizing– again, it is true, that diversity in and of itself is not a solution to racism. 

In my least charitable and most bitter frame of mind, I feel inclined to wonder if EOTWR, much like the OTW itself, is uncomfortable with the lack of influence they could exude over an international candidate. It would be much, much easier to push their agenda forward with more culturally familiar candidates, particularly white ones. Guilt and public scrutiny are powerful weapons and easy to wield against those with perceived privilege in our current atmosphere, often to the detriment of the actual discussion at hand in my experience. I know that’s cynical. It’s hard not to be. (For clarity's sake: I do not know the other candidates' races. This is a hypothetical.)

This isn’t a demand for an apology. I think we fetishize the capital-A Apology to the point where I find them sort of meaningless unless they are given freely. I don’t need EOTWR to agree with me, and I don’t really want to keep talking about it. Rather, I would prefer that EOTWR take action to do better as they continue in their campaign. What that action is is their decision. If they truly mean to stand against racism in the OTW, then I’d like them to demonstrate it.

--

DO NOT HARASS EOTWR MODS. I AM FUCKING SERIOUS ABOUT THIS.

[ghcstao3]

(part 1)

-

As more days pass, the job doesn’t get any less strange.

Johnny is still poring over Ghost’s hint, trying to figure out how it could be possible that all these varying pieces are from the same artist. Unless it was someone more contemporary, experimenting in art styles of different eras—

Which would make sense, if not for the paints and materials not available in the present day, their methodology in creation having been lost to time, or its dangers realized.

And the signature. Scribbled consistently on every one of the pieces in the exact same place, exact same handwriting, even when the initials of S and R shift from the Roman to Latin alphabet, and when the length of the name itself shrinks and grows.

About every theory that pops into Johnny’s head is easily dismissed for another that makes slightly more sense, until he reaches another road block in reasoning. It’s impossible, plain and simple.

But at the end of the day, Johnny has to shake his head of those sorts of thoughts anyway. Because he’s here for a job, not to speculate, even when it’s his current employer that’s planted this dilemma in his head.

Speaking of—Ghost hasn’t gotten any less weird himself, either. Or, perhaps enigmatic, Johnny should say.

He continues to pose questions to Johnny as he works, but at some point they begin to sound less like questions from the owner of the artwork—and more like questions from the artist, as if seeking feedback.

All Johnny can do is answer honestly. He’s gotten better at deciphering Ghost’s hums and huffs and grunts, but not to the extent of really understanding what he’s thinking. Which only serves to confuse Johnny further about the whole… arrangement.

It’s on the last day, while Johnny is finishing up the last piece, that Ghost asks him the strangest thing of all.

“Say you were… immortal,” Ghost begins slowly, sometime nearing the end of the day; the end of Johnny’s contract, “would you choose to make a mark on the world, or remain invisible?”

Johnny furrows his brow. “I’m not sure. I mean—really, unless you’re big and famous, you kind of remain invisible to most, anyway.”

Ghost shakes his head, seeming almost frustrated by his answer—which would be a first. “No, not like—like if you made art, would you choose to keep it hidden, or would you allow it to be shared?”

It’s the first time Johnny has ever heard Ghost seem unsure of himself. He’s never seen the man falter like this, wavering in this intimidating, indifferent persona he’s thus far created.

Johnny suspects that there’s more to this question than it simply being a hypothetical.

“Depends,” Johnny says. He blinks up at Ghost, staring undeterred into that intense gaze of his. Sometimes Johnny thinks Ghost expects him to be nervous in his employer’s presence. “If it’s something personal, then sure, I’d keep it to myself. But I think in creating art, there’s also times that you’d want to display it, so I would. Not necessarily to leave something behind, but… maybe to inspire someone else.”

Ghost considers this for a long while, eyes raking over Johnny’s face for who knows what. Maybe a discrepancy in his honesty.

Eventually, he breathes slow and deep as he squares back his shoulders. “Then I’ll ask this again:” He pauses. “What do you think happened to the artist?”

The corners of Johnny’s lips twitch upward, though a proper smile never appears.

“I think he’s giving himself away right about now,” Johnny decides. It hasn’t really clicked to him, of course, that Ghost might be immortal—but it’s a conclusion he can at least speak aloud.

Ghost squints his eyes, and Johnny is inclined to think that means there’s a smile hiding beneath his mask.

“Suppose I have,” Ghost admits. Almost sheepishly, he then asks, “Does that change your answer?”

Johnny shakes his head. “I still think these should be displayed, if you’re willing. They’re… they’re beautiful pieces, and… why should you hire me to restore them just to keep them in storage?”

Ghost shrugs, and there reappears that new uncertainty. “I wanted a second opinion.”

Johnny laughs, shaking his head again. “Next you’re going to tell me you destroyed these yourself just to get it.”

Ghost stares at him a long, silent moment after that. Johnny’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline with the very clear answer to that joke.

“…Ghost.”

“It’s Simon,” Ghost corrects. “And I may have… tampered… with them. Just a little.”

Johnny scoffs. “Ghost, Simon, whatever. Some of these materials have been lost to time! And you just… you just—“

A deep, rumbling laugh escapes Ghost—Simon—that has Johnny trailing off from the rant he’d just been ready to go on. Art history is so meaningful to him, and he has a living man who can attest to those times in front of him, and—

And Johnny was just insulting him.

He shrinks back as Simon’s laughing tapers off, and that cold look in his eyes is overtaken by something warm, something friendly.

“Those pieces never meant enough to me,” Simon finally says, something melancholy falling over his tone. “But… I do have one more that was actually ruined by time that I think… I think I’d trust you enough to fix.”

Johnny’s eyes widen, perking up at the suggestion. “Really?”

Simon nods. “I’ll pay you however much, I—“

“No need,” Johnny interrupts. “You’ve already paid me… far more than you needed to, for the rest. I’ll do it, on one condition.”

Simon cocks his head, silently willing Johnny on.

The smile threatening Johnny finally releases, spreading wide across his face.

“You let me ask questions,” Johnny says. “I have a few debates to settle.”

Simon hums. Something… approving.

Finally, he says with an air of humour, and something oddly akin to hope, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

[cinnbar-bun]

Bad Romance (Various Valentine's Guards x Reader)

Characters: Blackmore, Magenta Magenta, Mike O., Ringo Roadagain, Wekapipo

Prompt: "I want your love, and I want your revenge / You and me could write a bad romance."

Summary: These men faithfully serve your father, Funny Valentine, but what can they do when their heart craves to be known to you as more than just your bodyguard?

Rating: NSFW I have no excuse for this.

Notes: parts SFW mixed with some NSFW hcs. I think maybe Wekapipo's is a bit mean but nrjkgnjrg. GN!reader, no parts mentioned, Reader is Funny Valentine's child. Also sorry I call him Magenta Magenta lmk for next time if I should just use Magent Magent.

Word Count: ~3.5k

Tagging: @bruabbina (bestieeee come get some Ringo food!!!) @uminozerol (I don't know if you wanted to be tagged but as you are the resident Blackmore lover and FV enjoyer in my life I think you deserve some Blackmore food)

Blackmore 

Blackmore has always been loyal to the Valentine family since he was hired, especially to the president himself. 

Blackmore believes the Valentine family to be the most ‘worthy’ family ever, with Funny as the head and you, his child, as a worthy and divine successor. You are something unearthly that Blackmore cannot comprehend. 

Normally, he isn’t always the first bodyguard assigned to you, but occasionally, Funny orders him to or you personally request him. Blackmore can’t help but feel elated when you do so, choosing him to escort you around on your daily activities. It makes him feel wonderful knowing that someone as magnificent and beautiful as you allows him within your presence. 

He takes his job of protecting you seriously, quietly removing any potential threat (no matter how minor) as to not disturb you. He hates the idea of you having to witness the things he must do to protect you, nor does he want you to be exposed to the darker parts of the world. 

At first he assumed the way his heart was pounding around you was due to his loyalty and eagerness to show he was useful to the family. However, it became pretty clear to him after a while the emotions he felt for you were far different from the loyalty he felt for your father. 

He’d never want to act on these feelings, instead choosing to continue serving you in silence, eagerly carrying out any and all orders you may have. 

He keeps himself calm around you, never allowing his voice to raise or his breath to quicken in your presence. You deserve much better than him yearning for you in such a display. 

Yet, occasionally, you will linger your hands near his whenever he is escorting you in the rain, claiming that you just want to stay under his umbrella. Blackmore is confused, since the umbrella is clearly large enough for the both of you to stay comfortably under (he made sure of it himself). 

Then you demand his presence more and more, even beyond things like needing an escort for going outside. He complies nonetheless, as serving you is his biggest honor. 

But you… you’re too much, sometimes. You know how protective your father is of you, yet you deign to be more casual with Blackmore like he is your equal. Blackmore is flustered by such a notion, but he doesn’t want to act on it, refusing to cause you shame. 

And then you corner him one day, but yet he does not mind. 

“‘Scuse me… we must be getting back to the White House, soon,” he reminds you. But you insist, practically begging for him to touch you. 

The way you whisper in his ears makes him want to throw his whole life away in order to serve you eternally. What could be more grand, more holy, than caring and serving you, the most glorious existence in this world? 

He lets you take charge, offers himself as a sacrifice to you as you say you want to ‘thank’ him for all his hard work and loyal service to your family. Your lips and hands on his body feel divine, and he thinks he has passed away from the way you touch him. 

He shouldn’t really be doing this, he argues. “What would your father think? He asks me to protect you, not… aaa… desecrate you…” 

But soon, he can’t help himself, finding himself touching you back and devoting himself to making sure you feel just as much pleasure as you do. In fact, he gets greedy, especially with the way he kisses you so frantically while the rain is pouring outside. 

“Such a perfect thing… you deserve to be worshipped, from this world, to the next.” 

Magenta Magenta 

A bodyguard who already acts far too casual for his standing with you. While your father appreciated Magenta’s work, Magenta’s attitude had often made him hesitate to pair the unprofessional man with you. 

But, honestly, how could you resist him? Every ‘good morning’ he said to you was loud and proud, as if this particular morning was the best one yet. Poor pick-up lines, bad puns, and silly little magic tricks would occur soon after, making you laugh at his behavior. 

“You know, you’re the only who has a sense of humor here,” he says while juggling some ice casually. “The others are so boring and act like they’re all better than me, or something.” 

He finds your laugh wonderful, wanting to hear it almost every day as he comes up with new material to tell you. Being the president’s kid in this strict White House has got to be boring, so he takes it upon himself to not only protect you, but to entertain you. It gives him more opportunities to not only make you smile, but to also talk with someone who doesn’t find him annoying. 

Magenta is not subtle at all with his feelings for you. He’ll pull out roses he picked from the White House lawn (he almost got chased by the gardener) and casually hand them to you, playing up the act of a suave gentleman. He’s not even afraid to flirt with you in front of the others, something Wekapipo smacks and reprimands him for. 

“Tch, he’s just jealous of what we got.” 

Magenta isn’t too scared of what Valentine thinks, mostly concerned about your happiness here. He’ll often suggest sneaking out of parties under the guise of ‘getting some fresh air’ so you two can hang out privately away from the highbrow guests. 

While you were more proper before, thanks to Magenta’s casual behavior, you shed your overly polite ways and relax around him more. 

And… well, you certainly become more bold around him. You talk of wanting to run away with him and the both of you enjoying the world by yourselves. He adds that you two should get a plane and fly it across the globe. 

You lean in closer to him, far too close for any bodyguard to be around their ward. He leans in closer, not minding the distance at all. 

He’s made it no secret he’s attracted to you, and seeing you try to get closer to him without telling him your feelings gets him excited. 

“Tryna get me killed by your dear daddy, darling? You know I’m not allowed to make the first move for you. I don’t wanna look like the bad guy or something.” 

Once you finally make the first move, then he’s all in and all over you. 

He’s not a refined gentleman, not in the slightest, as he’s just focused on grinding against you and kissing you all over. He just touches and squeezes wherever he can from you. 

It’s sloppy, it’s messy, but it’s passionate. All the love and tension you two had between each other since he began serving you comes out in full swing. 

Do note, Magenta is a loud man. This fool forgets he isn’t supposed to be having sex with his boss’s kid, and often just gets loud and whiny in your ear. He does continue to make jokes during the act, but majority of it is praising how wonderful you feel or how pent up he is. 

After the first time you did it, he’s gonna be wanting it more and more, and he’s going to try and get you two to sneak away for a bit so he can fuck the proper mask right off of you. 

“There, much better, huh? Don’t worry, I know those high and mighty assholes bore you to death. So let’s have some fun, you and me!” 

Mike O. 

If you thought Blackmore was holding himself back, Mike O. takes the cake. 

Mike is your father’s personal bodyguard, and Mike takes pride in his job. Hell, the fact Funny allows him to guard you and trusts him with you the most should be seen as the highest honor for anyone. 

So why can’t he just keep it like a job and not want to hold you? 

He was simply trying to do his job and make sure everything was in tip-top shape for you, yet the more he learned about you, the more he fell for you. 

He’s dedicated beyond belief, especially to you. If any staff even messes up something miniscule for you, he lectures them and gives them a warning, perhaps even having another staff member care for you. If a person outside the staff bothers your threatens harm, if he doesn’t personally take care of it in the case of an emergency, he’ll head to your father and ask for permission to do something about it. 

“My president… these men have been giving them a hard time. Permission to execute them? Or shall I make them simply regret having crossed the Valentine’s?” 

He does find your more relaxed and easy-going nature pleasant compared to your father’s stern and secretive behavior. You may insist on treating him like an equal or being friendlier to him, but Mike doesn’t want to cross into even more unprofessional territory and will respond stoically. 

He shows his care for you through physical acts of service, as that can’t be misconstrued too easily as an admission of his feelings for you. His face remains completely cold and serious, always on the lookout and always searching for any potential threats. But he makes sure your tea is the perfect temperature for you, or opens the window to let in the right amount of sunlight that you enjoy. Subtle things that none can trace back as him wanting to be more than your bodyguard. 

He would like more than anything to be able to be upfront with you and shower you in affection and love that you deserve. He sees the way potential suitors behave around you, and while he silences his envy in order to keep watch, he will never stop you from pursuing them if you choose to. He gives his honest opinions when you ask for them, never letting it slip that he hates them and wishes they’d just leave. He makes detailed files and potential pros and cons for them, never deluding himself into thinking he has a chance with you. Staying by your side is all he will allow himself to do. 

For god’s sake, you’re the president’s child. A mere bodyguard like him should not be anywhere close to you like that romantically. It’s simply wrong. He beats it into his brain over and over so he doesn’t reveal how admittedly relieved he is when you reject another potential suitor. 

He does wonder why you reject them all, even ones that seem like perfect fits, but he’ll never give himself the hope that it’s because you perhaps like him back. Even if you stare at him too long or ask for his help for everything or request his presence too much, it surely cannot be that. 

But you can’t resist him, and when you call for him one night to your room, you finally release the feelings you’ve kept lock and key. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. It would be inappropriate. I am just a bodyguard and-” his rather poor argument falls apart when you tell him he’s more than just a bodyguard, but your most trusted companion and the man you truly love. 

Something within him snaps, but he still tries to remain cool and collected. You kiss him gently and all restraints within him break. For so long he’s desired it, knowing this would surely get him killed by Funny’s hands. 

He’s a gentle but passionate lover. His hands move with a grace and fluidity of a man who knows exactly what needs to be done. As if he knows exactly what you need from him at that moment. 

Not to brag, but his fingers are truly wonderful and can easily bring you on your knees. His hands are amazing. 

He doesn’t talk much during this tryst, merely exhaling into your ear and asking if you are feeling good. 

“Ah… there is no greater feeling than your body in mine. Let me lead you to a world of pleasure, my ward.” 

Ringo Roadagain 

Although polite and caring for your safety, Ringo does not admire your presence at first. Labeling you a ‘conformist’ in his mind, one who simply does as told, who lives in the shadow of your father’s, he writes you off as perhaps another spoiled and coddled person. 

However, you see his skill with a gun and his general attitude, and you beg him to teach you how to shoot or defend yourself. He doesn’t mind teaching you, but he wonders if you are actually serious enough about it. 

You are determined, even if you’re not the best, and he begins sensing an inkling of that ‘spirit’ within you. It makes him wonder if you are able to surpass the expectations of others and become something greater than you’ve ever imagined. 

He doesn’t tell you this, not wanting to be too inappropriate with you, but he hopes you can surpass the others and be the one to kill him and complete his spirit. 

After these many training sessions, he does reveal more of his own self and gentlemanly behavior. You are of higher status than him, but he will not treat you like a porcelain object. He expects you to stand strong for yourself as well, lest everything you’ve learned be for nothing. 

The feelings he has for you are not something he is ashamed of nor does he deny. It just is. And it takes a real man to acknowledge them head on and do something about it. 

His mentality on fairness makes him believe he should not be the one to monopolize your time only. He’ll back off when the other men guard you, as he is not possessive or overbearing towards you. You are your own person, and he will not allow himself to overstep your boundaries. 

Ringo is often the one appointed to handle you and any potential suitors, given his nonchalance and calm behavior. Again, he doesn’t think much of that, given you’re your own person, but he has to admit that these ‘boys’ who try and talk to you are a ridiculous bunch. 

Ringo isn’t a fool, though, and notices when you are being cheeky or trying to get his attention. It’s not his place to mention it head on, but he does know how you feel. 

But you never seem to confess it to him straight, so eventually, when you two are alone and you again try to seem innocent in your flirting, he gives you a serious expression. 

“Darling, you’ve got to make up your mind and say what you want with your whole chest.” 

The shocked expression on your face makes him chuckle in amusement, but he continues. “You’ve been acting coy for so long around me. I’m surprised your father hasn’t noticed such brazen behavior from you. But if you want to pursue me in a real relationship, you must be honest.” 

Honesty is the best policy, and it doesn’t take long before you’re on top of him. Ringo admittedly enjoys the thrill of being with you, as it gives him a high that he cannot replicate elsewhere. 

He encourages you in that low voice to make some noise and let him know how he’s doing. He’s not particularly concerned about whether or not Funny catches him or knows. He gets you and a possible battle, both of which spur him on more. 

Skilled and methodical. He is not a hungry beast, but it’s as if it’s his life’s mission to get you to scream his name and leave you a heaving mess on the floor. 

When you two are finally finished for the night, he makes sure to clean you up and take care of your sore body. But he can’t help himself and leans in to you, quietly whispering into your ear-

“Welcome, darling, to the world of ‘men’.” 

Wekapipo

The opposite of practically all these men. He keeps it strictly professional. Does not talk to you. Does not humor you. Does nothing but what Funny asks. 

He doesn’t have much else to care for in this life, so he’s just trying to do his job. But you complicate everything. You insist on being a pest and doing almost anything other than what your father wants. He sighs often with you. 

Truthfully, you aren’t that bad, but he’s a closed-off man who just wants to live peacefully. Any time you try to casually ask him a question or chat with him makes him act unamused and remind you he is just a guard. Not your friend. 

“Please do remember that your father has hired me to keep watch of you. It would be unwise of you to attempt to get close to me, when we have such a difference in title.” 

Doesn’t stop you from trying, though, which only frustrates him to no end. 

Not to mention, for some god forsaken reason, you always keep attempting to be friendlier with him and ‘reward’ him for his service. 

“Why are you giving me this? Do you understand that I am simply just doing my job? I did not take this just for a chance at your gifts. I know my place. You should know yours, too.” 

He doesn’t know what to do with the amount of stuff you’ve attempted to give him or insist on doing for him, despite being your guard. He just sighs and leaves it in his room and complain aloud about while internally thinking it’s nice you chose them for him. 

Yeah, he’s crashing hard. Although now, you annoy him not because he finds you a nuisance of a ward, but because of how burdensome these feelings are for you. He just wants to get paid and go home, and wanting to have his boss’s child as a romantic partner isn’t exactly in line with that idea. 

So he quells it and continues, acting as he usually does- stern, cold, detached, and even more done with your behavior. He feels that if he acts more serious that these pesky feelings will die off and reveal themselves to be nothing more than childish delusions he imagined. 

Except it does the complete opposite, where him pulling away makes you come closer, and it makes his heart beat out of his chest knowing how much you care despite him being… well… Wekapipo to you. 

Wekapipo denies any and all feelings for you if Magenta brings up how overbearing he is with you. He insists it’s just part of his duty and that he’s doing his job correctly. 

Despite his aloofness… he is quite the jealous and possessive man. He hates others getting close to you or wanting to guard you. That’s his job, and if it was so easy that anyone could’ve done it, he would not have been specifically chosen to guard you. 

His frustration gets worse when you keep on teasing him or attempting to be coy. He knows what you’re pulling- he’s not an idiot, you know- and he has to hold back from telling you off and kissing your mouth shut. 

One day, after you tease him far too much, he pins you down and glares at you. “Have some decency, will you? Really, do you throw yourself at every other man like this? I doubt your father would like to know the stunts you’ve been pulling.” 

He lectures, but it’s clear by the way he’s shaking and can barely look you in the eyes just how flustered and angered he is by this. Yes, he wants you, he wants you a lot, damn it, but he can’t do this with you! 

And yet you always bring out the worst in him, making him throw caution to the wind as you embrace him and kiss him, making all his pent-up frustration come out. 

He doesn’t want to be rough, but admittedly, all this time pining for you while you two engage in this forbidden act makes him lose his mind and all restraints. He wants you, he wants you now, he wants you so bad it’s ridiculous and he cannot contain himself. 

He’s on you like a starved man, panting in your ear and cursing himself for falling victim to your charms. 

“Damn you… damn my foolishness. You’ll be the death of me! Making me want you like this, begging me to ruin you- you have no idea what you’ve just unleashed. I’ll make sure to set you straight!”

[beauty-and-passion]

Idk if you mentioned this before but, I’ve been rewatching some SaSi reaction videos recently and apparently there like a lot of inside jokes that can be easily missed if you are not in the patreon or the writers room. It also seems like the ideas that Logan and Janus are alcoholics idea came from there.

Personally I don’t like those characterizations, it was funny as first bc it was more subtle and a one off, but why is it that Janus is showing up drunk it doesn’t really makes sense—unless you’re in the writers room it seems that Ms Sanders doesn’t really care about getting new audiences or retaining the free to watch ones it seems to me that SaSi turned into a secret society bs with all the peeps who are paying him. Idk if I articulated correctly but it seems that the sides are being flanderized to heck rn and idk how to feel

I also noticed the same problem you're talking about and I talked about it too. There's no doubt the characters' personalities changed and there's no doubt that this is due to Joan's departure and Mr. Sanders' inability to handle them.

And believe me, there's nothing wrong with not being able to do something: that's why experts exist. But Mr. Sanders still doesn't want to hire one. Maybe he still believes he can do everything by himself.

And maybe, he believes that the writers' room will give him all the help he needs in remembering the characters' personalities and traits. In this case, flash news, Mr. Sanders: the writers' room is made of fans. And fans (especially young ones) are:

always influenced by their own headcanons

not always able to separate headcanon from canon

So relying on them is very silly and naive and a competent writer would never let their public decide everything. But since Mr. Sanders isn't a writer (and doesn't shine for professionalism either), of course he ended up being influenced by his fans. They're fans, so they must know the characters, right?

Sigh.

The result being, as you said, flanderization. Logan is angry, Roman is sad, Patton is stupid, Janus is drunk, Remus is weird and Virgil is edgy uwu. Nuances, details, being more than one single character trait? Everything lost.

I mean, the last GRWM with Janus was proof of how little Mr. Sanders understands this character and how flanderized Janus has been. Janus, the one who was characterized by shades of gray and nuances, is now just one thing, the last one people remember the most.

Sigh.

And yes, this makes me sad and frustrated, because the potential these characters had was huge. The mere idea that each of them had not just one main trait, but multiple traits that were linked to the main one in different ways... that was interesting. That was fun. It offered a ton of great material to work with. And the nuances of their personalities were a lot more interesting than just "drunk guy, alcohol funny ahah".

But in this case, I can't really blame the fans: fans are allowed to be fans. If they want to reduce the character's personalities to a sheet of paper, that's up to them. The author should be the competent one, he should make the characters more realistic. And he should be clever enough to not give fans so much freedom into a topic as delicate as the characterization.

[vodika-vibes]

Okay for the 650 follower event. I'm thinking something spicy~

Maybe Alpha or Boba in a Western AU ( Bonus points, though not required, if you can work in careful princess if you use Boba 🙈)

Fancy

Summary: Jabba, an absolute slug of a man, has been ruling the small town that you call home for your entire life. When you hear about the new bounty hunter in his employ, you fear the worst. Though, as it happens, Boba Fett isn’t half the monster that you feared.

Pairing: Boba Fett x F!Reader

AU Prompt: Western AU

Word Count: 2444

Warnings: Reader runs a brothel, smut

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: Alright, I wasn't able to add the actual smut part without it throwing off the flow of the story, but it goes right up to the smut part and then stops. I hope you like it. Also, when I wrote it I was picturing ROTJ Boba.

“Madame,” You lift your gaze from your ledger at the soft voice of one of your girls, “I...have you heard?”

“I hear a lot of things,” You reply, scanning the girl for any visible injuries, before dropping your gaze back to your ledger, a frown pulling your lips down. Once Jabba takes his cut, you’re going be barely make any profit this week.

“Honorable Jabba has hired a new bounty hunter.” You lift your gaze again. You hadn’t heard that. “Do you...will he be...do you think he’ll be like the other ones?”

“I don’t know.” You answer honestly, “But so long as you’re nice to the gentleman-”

“They’ll be nice to me, yes Madame, I know.” The girl, because that is what she is, only recently nineteen, smooths her long skirts and straightens her corset, “We will be opening soon?”

“We will. All of you have been reserved for the evening. With familiar names,” You reassure, and you’re relieved to see some of the tension drain from her shoulders. “Off you trot,” You don’t turn your gaze back to the ledger until you hear the soft click of her bedroom door shutting behind her.

And then you drop your gaze back to the numbers in your book.

Maybe, with some careful editing, you can make Jabba believe that you made less money then you actually did. And then you’ll be able to afford the food that your girls need to survive.

It’s not as if the slug himself checks your numbers.

And his accountant has always had a soft spot for you, and your home.

You are the sole owner and proprietor of the Desert Rose, the only brothel in the town of Old Ashton. You used to be a regular employee, yourself, until some clever gambling and even more clever money hiding allowed you to buy the previous owner out.

So now you protect the girls to the best of your ability.

Unfortunately, the best of your ability isn’t good enough.

You close your ledger with a snap and slid it into the locked drawer in your desk, and stand. You smooth your dark green skirt and make sure your corset is laced properly, and then you head to the front of the house.

You may not entertain the gentlemen anymore, but that doesn’t mean that you can neglect your appearance.

The men are already lined up at the door, joking and laughing with each other. And, as you open the door, they settle themselves into a more respectful manner. They know that you will toss them out if they become a problem.

You have before, after all.

“Gentlemen,” You greet with a dainty smile, “Welcome to the Desert Rose. The girls have been eagerly awaiting you.”

It’s all a show. An act.

Honestly, you should have gone into show business with how skillful your acting skills have become over the years.

While you’re not sure if the gentlemen believe your words, they at least pretend that they do. Which is good enough.

You allow the men into your home and take the payments in advance, before you send them off to the girl of the night. And then your home is silent, save for the sound of music playing from the old jukebox in the corner.

Shelling out credits to make all of the rooms sound proof was the cleverest thing you’ve ever done. Right up there with the panic button you had installed in each girls room.

You’re about to change the song playing, when the bell over the door chimes as the door opens.

“Terribly sorry,” You say absently, without turning away from the jukebox, “But all of the girls have been spoken for this evening.”

“A rather small brothel you’re running,” The voice is deep and unfamiliar to you, and is surprising enough to you that you turn your attention away from the machine in front of you to regard the man.

He’s tall and broad chested, he takes up a lot of space in your foyer, though it almost seems like he takes up more space than he physically should. He seems to be allergic to color, you note with some distant amusement, everything from his boots to his hat are the darkest black. The only color coming from the dark green shirt he’s wearing.

“Old Ashton is a small place,” You reply as you walk around him and settle behind your desk, and you favor him with a small smile, “Welcome to the Desert Rose.”

He stalks towards the desk, there’s no other word for how he moves, “Boba Fett.”

“Ah. Jabba’s newest muscle.”

“So the rumors have already started.”

“As I said, small town.” You open your scheduling book, “If you’re looking to spend time with a girl, I’m afraid you’ll have to make a reservation. All of my girls are booked for the night.”

“Including you.”

You tilt your head to look at him, “I no longer entertain gentlemen callers, Mister Fett.”

His dark eyes scan you as best as they can with you seated behind the desk, and you’re fairly certain that he’s looking down your top. “Never?” He questions.

“Never.” You confirm.

“Hm.” He finally tears his gaze away from your tits and flashes a small, cocky, smile, “I bet I can change your mind.” He nods at you once, and then turns and leaves as suddenly as he arrived.

The front door closes with a quiet click, and you release a quiet breath. Cockiness isn’t attractive, you’ve never thought that.

But you like to think that you’re pretty good at reading men, and that didn’t read like cockiness to you. No, it reads as confidence. And that makes him incredibly attractive.

You tap your pen against your lower lip, and sigh, “Shame that he works for Jabba, though.” You murmur to the empty foyer, before you go back to work. Your business isn’t going to run itself, after all.

The next time you see Boba Fett, you’re doing your shopping for the week. Not shopping for the girls, but for yourself.

You’re window shopping, to be more specific. Eyeing a lovely green skirt that would pair amazingly with the dark brown corset that has been sitting in the back of your closet...and naturally a new dress would require new boots-

You almost manage to talk yourself into buying the skirt, when you hear heavy footsteps stop next to you.

“It’s a lovely color.” A deep voice, familiar in it’s unfamiliarity, jolts you out of your thoughts. “You’d look very good in it.”

Boba Fett stands less than a foot away from you, his head tilted down as though his words are for your ears and your ears alone.

“I look good in everything,” You reply lightly.

“I imagine you look good out of everything too,” He counters with a sly smirk.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder about.”

“Oh, I did wonder. Repeatedly.” There’s no shame in his voice, and you’re grateful that your thick makeup is hiding the blush you can feel burning your face.

Hurriedly, you change the subject before he notices your embarrassment, “I’m surprised that Jabba let you off his leash long enough to come to the market.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.” He drawls.

“And what job would that be?” You shoot back, “Terrorizing innocent shopkeepers.”

Boba’s dark eyes pin you in place, and you refuse to back down out of sheer stubbornness, “Careful,” He murmurs, “Your sharp tongue is going to get you in trouble.”

“From you?”

He leans back, and somehow still takes up more space than a man his size should, “No. I don’t raise my hand against women. But Jabba is much less kind than I.”

“And yet you work for him anyway.”

“Credits are credits, darlin.” Boba scans your body with a casual ease that should have infuriated you, but for some reason, didn’t. “And you clearly agree, seeing as you run a whore house.”

“It’s a brothel, not a whore house.”

“A brothel is a whore house. You’re just arguing semantics now.”

You prop your hand on your hip, “I’m leaving now.”

“What about your skirt?”

“With the tithes that Jabba demands, I can’t afford it anyway.” You admit with a scowl.

Boba gazes at you thoughtfully, and then he nods and turns his gaze back tot he clothing in the window.

Assuming that he had nothing more to say to you, you cast one last longing glance at the skirt, before you turn and walk away. It’s probably a good thing that he showed up when he did, there’s no way you would have been able to afford the skirt and food for the week.

Later, as you’re putting the groceries away in your private studio, you admit to yourself that even without the skirt, you barely had enough money to get all of the food that you needed for the week.

As you open the Desert Rose for the evening, you come to the realization that you’re going to have to put yourself back on the roster to be able to keep food on your table, and to keep your girls fed.

Once more, several hours after the last man arrived for his appointment with one of your girls, the door opens and Boba walks into the foyer.

“Seems to me that you have rotten luck, Mister Fett.” You drawl without looking up from your ledger, as if staring at the numbers will make your reality less horrifying. “All of the girls have been spoken for.”

“There’s only one girl I want to take me to her bed,” Boba replies as he sets a box on the counter and pushes it in your direction, “For you.”

“What is it?” You ask, ignoring his first comment with ease.

“Open it and you’ll see.”

You squint at him suspiciously, and then nod slowly. You tug on the ribbon that’s holding the box closed, and move the lid and the tissue paper to the side, and then you stop as you see what’s in the box.

It’s the skirt.

More than the skirt, actually. It’s a whole outfit. Skirt and top and stockings and boots-

“What-?”

“A gift, for you. You deserve nice things.”

“How much did this cost?”

“Not so much to break the bank.” Boba replies with a wave of his hand, “The seamstress knew what size you wear, so everything should fit.”

You stare at the present for a moment, and then you groan and drop your head, “Whyyy? You work for Jabba! Why are you so nice?”

Boba watches you seriously for a moment, “Is that the only thing stopping you?”

“I...what?”

“Me working for Jabba, is that the only thing stopping you from taking me to bed?”

“...It isn’t helping, no.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He doesn’t answer and instead leaves the building, leaving you staring after him, absolutely bewildered, and with a brand new outfit sitting in your hands.

In truth, you don’t expect to see Boba again that night, so when he returns to the Desert Rose less than an hour later, something cold and grim in his gaze, you’re genuinely surprised.

“Welcome back?” You offer hesitantly, not sure what to make of his grim, yes strangely satisfied, expression.

“Jabba’s dead.”

His words are so startling that you almost drop the glass that you’re holding. “What?”

“Jabba’s dead. Wasn’t even hard, thought he’d have more guards.”

“You killed-!” Your voice is pitched higher than it should be and you could and lower your voice, “You killed Jabba? Why?”

“Because it’s what I was hired to do.” Boba says with a single arched brow, “And because I’m not blind, I can see what he was doing to the village. And then he insulted your honor.”

His words roll around your mind for a moment, “You killed Jabba, in part, because he insulted me?”

“Is that such a surprise?”

You walk over to him and reach out to lightly touch his cheek, “You’re not...hurt?”

“He didn’t touch me.” Boba confirms.

For a moment you stare at him, trying to determine if he’s lying to you, and as soon as you realize that he’s speaking the truth, you drop your hand from his cheek and hook a finger in his belt loop, “Come with me.”

There’s a glimmer of triumph on his handsome face, “Yes ma’am.”

Your personal apartment is pretty small, but it’s big enough for what you have planned, and for what he has planned for that matter.

Boba’s on you the moment he kicks the door shut, his hands heavy as the drag over the thick material of your clothes. He tugs at laces and pulls at buttons, until your dress falls to your feet.

“Beautiful,” He growls as one of his hands slides down your back to tightly grip your ass, his fingers digging into you and causing you to lift to your toes with a pleased gasp.

“Thank you,” You murmur, before you pull him down to press your lips against his.

Boba takes control almost immediately, and you happily let him.

He lifts you into his arms and walks you over to your bed, where he drops you in the middle of the mattress, “I’m going to ruin other men for you, princess.” He warns, as he starts to strip his clothes off and tosses them to the side.

You scramble to your knees, eager to watch him strip for you, and he shoots you an amused look.

“Someone’s eager.” Boba teases, not unkindly, “I’m going to use my mouth on your cute pussy, and then open you up with my fingers.” He explains, his gaze locked on your face, a smirk crossing his face when you lick your lips, “And then I’m going to lay back and let you ride me.”

“Let?”

“Let.” Boba confirms, “Because I’m going to be in complete control the whole time.”

You shiver in delight and crawl to the edge of the bed, your gaze dropping to his cock. “Can I-?” You ask as you reach out to touch him.

Boba catches your wrists and smirks at you, “You want to taste me, princess?”

“Yes, please.”

“Later. Lay back.” He presses a hand against your shoulder and pushes you back to the bed, before he kneels between your thighs, taking care to toss your legs over his broad shoulders.

You can feel his breath fanning against your pussy, and you squirm to try and push yourself closer to him, but his strong hands stop you from moving.

“Careful Princess,” His dark eyes glimmer with amusement, “We don’t want this to end too quickly, do we?”

[novacorpsrecruit]

April 24, 1987 - GAME 1

Hi here’s a Steddie Drabble from my latest sports discovery while deciphering basketball stats.

gen * wc 1,174 * established relationship

The 1986-87 Indiana Pacers season has been a doozy. Steve would never had guessed that the Pacers would make it to playoffs. Jack Ramsey, the long standing coach of the Portland Trail Blazers recently hired for the Pacers, leading the team into playoffs for the first time since ‘81.

And for the first time in four years, Steve has someone to watch the playoffs with.

When Eddie was still in the hospital, Steve and Wayne would meet in passing, alternating sitting by his side to keep him comfort and to keep him safe. The first two weeks, Eddie was in and out of consciousness, and “unable to protest when I put on the game,” Wayne half joked, nodding to the Cardinals-Cubs game on the television. Steve nodded, sitting down on the other side of Eddie as they watched the game in silence. A few innings in, Wayne scoffed. “You tellin’ me, this Rick Sutcliffe is worth a buck and a half?”

Steve couldn’t help but smirk. “The Cardinals are the ones paying almost 2 million for a short stop.”

“And a damn good one, too,” Wayne added. “Wayne.”

“Steve,” Steve added, properly introducing himself.

Wayne hummed, as if he was thinking something over. “I wondered if that was you. He doesn’t shut up about ya.”

“He’s … something special,” Steve said softly, and he was sure Wayne knew.

And when Steve and Eddie started to date, game nights with Wayne became more common. They started by watching the World Series (an unfortunate season for the Cubs, but at least Wayne’s Cardinals also failed to go into post season). Then into football season (a disappointing season from the Colts). Then a couple of hockey games when the Blackhawks were nationally televised, but the real excitement hit when the Indiana Pacers were playing.

Wayne and Steve were pretty excited when the Pacers made it to playoffs.

On game nights, one of the men would be in charge of grabbing supper, usually pizza or something from the diner on the edge of town. Wayne and Steve would settle in the living room as Eddie went to his bedroom, working on a new song or planning the next campaign. He enjoyed his alone time, allowing the creativity to flow and not worry about if he’s ignoring Steve. During halftimes, Steve would find his way into the bedroom, enjoying time with Eddie before the game picks up again.

Steve was setting up the living room and finding the channel for the first Pacers playoff game. Wayne and Eddie should be off of work and be home soon. Eddie was on supper duty tonight.

Gravel crunched under tires, signifying that one of the two had arrived. A loud slam of a car door confirmed that it was his boyfriend.

“Hey, baby —“ Steve started to greet Eddie.

“What do you mean a basket is called a field goal?” Eddie asked dramatically.

“I — what?” Steve asked a wrinkle to his brow.

“A field goal,” Eddie supplied. Steve watched as Eddie set up the three meals —three? — in the living room. Usually Eddie takes his into the bedroom before the game starts. “It’s fucking basketball. They’re called field goals?”

“I mean — yeah. Field goals,” Steve said, watching Eddie get settled into the couch, burgers and milkshakes spread out on the coffee table. “They’re the two or three pointer shots. If they score, it’s a field goal. They’re mainly called that … in stats.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, stuffing fries into his mouth. “I read up.”

“On … stats,” Steve said, sitting down on the couch, nearly on top of Eddie. “On basketball stats?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I wanted to know what’s going on in the playoffs.”

“You want to watch with us?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, leaning into Steve. “You said this was a big deal, so I thought I’d join in.” He took a sip of his milkshake. “Is that … okay?”

“You, Eddie Munson, want to watch basketball with us?” Steve asked. He extended his hand, pressing the back of his palm against Eddie’s forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughed, swiping Steve’s hand away. “I asked Lucas if he could give me some pointers.”

“For the Pacers game,” Steve repeated.

“Yeah,” Eddie said with a slight huff. “He said to keep an eye on Chuck Person, said he wouldn’t be surprised if he won Rookie of the Year. He said the Pacers improved drastically with the coach change. That they went from, what, a record of 26-56 to 41-41? That’s fucking impressive. And it looks like a lot of that depended on Person averaging 18 points per game? I mean, he’s no Magic Johnson or Larry Bird or Michael Jordan, but that’s still fucking good, right? For his rookie season?”

Steve couldn’t help but stare, his mouth slightly agape. He had to be dreaming, right? This is his boyfriend rattling off facts and stats in front of him, right?

Eddie waved his hand in front of Steve’s face. “Stevie?”

Steve all but leaped into Eddie’s arms, crashing their lips together in a hard and clumsy kiss. Eddie, known jock despiser, learned sports statistics for him?

“If I knew this was the response I’d get,” Eddie mumbled into the kiss, “I would’ve told you Colts stats months ago.”

Steve groaned. “It wouldn’t have worked as well. Colts sucked ass this season.”

“I know something that sucks good —“

“Please, for the love of God,” Wayne groaned from the front door. The two nearly split, pulling off of each other but staying pressed against one another on the couch. “Not in front of the Pacers.”

“Eddie’s gonna watch with us tonight,” Steve beamed. Eddie took note of his smile, of the energy Steve gave for just Eddie being interested in watching sports with him. Maybe he could get enough cash together to buy three tickets for the next Cardinals-Cubs game.

“Wondered when he’d get his head out of his ass and join us,” Wayne laughed, sitting in the recliner, grabbing his dinner from the coffee table. “Who you got on the game, Eds?”

“Depends on if we can keep the ball away from Wilkins,” Eddie said around his fries. “Ending last season with an average of 30 points per game? Need to keep him away from the net.”

“Jesus,” Steve mumbled, taking a long look up and down Eddie. “Wayne, you might need to take a long smoke break during halftime.”

“Already planning on it,” Wayne sighed. “Turn on the game.”

[weixuldo]

Allow me// ch 5

Vader x Reader

a/n: so just to keep u guys in the loop- my main priorities are Allow me and enigma- i have more written for enigma currently, but that doesn’t mean that one matters more than the other- i hope you enjoy and i have a lot planned for future chapters!!

The Sith has a proposition

warnings: Cannon typical violence, cursing, anxiety

_____________________

An odd sensation tickled your face and around your ears, slowly waking you from your sleep; it wasn’t a bad feeling, but it was definitely new.

You yawned and rubbed your eyes, you should probably get up because Vader could be entering any minu-

“Did you sleep well, miss L/N?” an all too familiar voice spoke. 

The hair on the back of your neck stood up and you jumped before slowly turning your face to look at the person to whom the deep voice belonged.

Just across from you, he sat in the large chair;  his body angled slightly to the left and his posture much more relaxed than you had ever seen him. 

You were in his domain, you were scared, and he knew it.

As you sat up you felt something fall off of your shoulders; a blanket? 

You didn’t remember having one of those? 

“My lord, I-I did not fetch this blanket, I do not want you to suspect that I rummaged around in your personal offi-”

“I thought nothing of the sort, Officer. That “blanket”- is my cape. You seemed cold when I walked in earlier.”

His cape? Why in the galaxy would he give it to you?

“May I speak freely sir?” you asked.

“You may.”

“I guess I'm just kind of…lost? Why did you call me here? Have I done something wrong?” you listed off your questions that came to mind.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding. Slowly, he lifted himself off of his chair and crossed the floor towards where you were still sitting. Your heartbeat quickened at his movement, but once he reached you, he placed a calming hand on your shoulder. 

“Officer y/n, You have nothing to fear. I simply wanted to have a conversation with you that was not called upon on grounds of work.” he spoke very matter-of-factly. 

You nodded and allowed yourself to relax just a bit. 

“First of all I wanted to personally thank you for the work on my private sector… I am pleased you have kept what I asked between you and me” he said as he walked to look out of the large window on the other side of the room. 

“You truly are gifted, Officer” 

A warm blush began to appear on your cheeks; Darth Vader was complimenting you. 

“I cannot thank you enough for your kind words, My Lord” you thanked him graciously. 

“I have an offer for you” He said, turning to face you. 

“Sir?” you curiously asked. 

“If it would interest you, I would like to hire you as my personal mechanic- you would only work on my machines rather than all empire grade machines.”

You were stunned, out of all propositions, you never would have guessed that!

You were just a hard worker, not necessarily one of the best- Why would he want you when he could have anyone else in the galaxy?

“My Lord, Are you sure?” you timidly asked. 

“I am. And in this scenario you would answer to me instead of some chauvinistic and vile excuse for a general.” he said, anger bubbling under his words. 

“Excuse my temper, I just mean to relay that taking this position would give you opportunities that other positions would not allow. You may feel free to decline the offer, there will be no repercussions”.

You were skeptical, but you also knew you couldn’t really deny him, no matter what he said. 

“I will take the Job” you proclaimed.

Vader placed his hands on his belt, “Are you sure, officer?”.

“Positive.”

His large arms crossed across his chest as he nodded, “Then it is done. I will send a guard to deliver your new equipment, I shall see you tomorrow morning”.

Before he could leave and before you could stop yourself, you called for him, “Wait! Sir!”.

He turned expectantly. 

“May I ask… why me? There are hundreds of better mechanics out there?”.

Of course Vader knew he could have any mechanic he wanted, he could get the best of the best,  but that wasn’t the point. He chose a mechanic that made him happy, one that he looked forward to seeing, he chose one that he truly wanted.

“I believe your capabilities hold an advantage over many of your colleagues,” he stated. 

The excitement found its way to your core and soon you were excited in a different way; though you would have to take care of that feeling at another time, preferably when you were not in the presence of a Sith lord.

Maker please don’t let him sense it…

“Plus, I find you alluring” he added, before heading out of the room before you could process what just happened. 

After he left a pair of troopers dawning black suits came to accompany you to your room where they delivered your new tools. Vader had spared no expense when obtaining your instruments. They were of the highest grade metals and all were much more high functioning than the communal tool from your old department. 

You felt like a little kid opening presents on their birthday; honestly this was the nicest thing you had ever received from someone. 

_________________________________

It was definitely an adjustment to see a set of troopers at your door to escort you to Vader’s private wing each morning, but you had gotten used to it over the weeks. In the beginning you were alarmed- knowing your track record with the armored men.- but then you realized: you were now personally employed by Darth Vader, not just the empire. 

No one would dare fuck with you now… and you kind of loved it. 

Today wasn’t unlike the previous days; you arrived at the place that had mechanics that needed to be inspected, fixed them, then went on to the next until your shift was over.

Mainly, you were working on the medical equipment with an occasional upgrade on his meditation chamber. Not hard stuff.

You couldn’t complain; the work was easy, the pay was good, and you basically got a seal of invincibility because, for some reason, the Sith Lord was fond of you.

But as the time went by, you found yourself becoming bored with the monotony of your life- When he first proposed this position to you back on the day he killed your former boss, you were excited; working under such a powerful figure had to mean your assignments would be more high stakes and challenging, right? 

Also, a big reason you had been excited to start the job was because you assumed being Vader’s personal mechanic would mean that you would see and spend more time with the illusive man. But you really hadn’t spent much time around him.

The large metal doors slid open with a gust of air and the man you had been waiting to see stormed in. He seemed upset and stormed past you so fast that you barely had time to scramble out of the way. 

Ok, maybe today wasn’t the best time to try and become acquaintances with him.

He walked to the far end of the room and let out a frustrated noise; his anger was palpable as you felt the machines shake with his mood; all of his focus was enveloped by his emotion, whatever that may be. 

Glass vials, smaller equipment, and even some medical droids were flung against the wall as Vader began to furiously force everything away from him 

Should you leave? Or would he be angry that you were not finished with your job?

You decided to stand and announce your agenda.

“I-I can leave if you nee-” 

He turned faster than you had ever seen him, but his body language relaxed when he saw that it was you and not some other worker. 

“Ahh, officer. I wasn’t aware you were in here. My apologies” he said, heading for the door. 

Why was he leaving? This was his wing after all, if anyone should be leaving, it should be you.

“Wait!” you called. 

He halted and turned back towards you.

“These are your chambers, I should leave so you can be alone” you said, gathering your things.

You headed towards the door when a heavy hand rested on your shoulder making butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

“No, It’s alright. You can stay” He said; his helmet downcast.

Before you could protest he butted in, “And I’ll stay too”. 

You offered him a small smile and went back to the machine you were working on, though you couldn’t help but feel excited by his presence.

Though you needed to be cautious because now that he had calmed down a little, his senses were more on top of things– you didn’t want him to sense the feelings that you didn’t even have sorted out for yourself. 

As you sat on the floor in the middle of all of your tools, Vader seated himself by the table he had just flung. Obviously something was plaguing him and it seemed that a part of him needed to talk.

You took a breath and said “My Lord”.

He turned his head towards you, “Yes, y/n?”.

No title? No formalities?

“Umm, I just wanted to say that… Well, I mean– I-if you ever need to talk or anything at all, I’d be more than happy to listen.

His shoulders seemed to relax, “Pay my plight’s no heed y/n, they most likely wouldn’t peak your interest”. 

“But you interest me” 

Oops. 

You definitely did NOT want to say that out loud. 

“Oh? And what exactly do you mean by that?” he said, voice filled with amusement.

“I-I just mean that you are such a powerful individual and you carry yourself so well” you back tracked.

He let out a low chuckle. 

Darth Vader laughs? Like actually laughs?

You felt an odd sense of pride swell in your stomach that you got the stoic man to chuckle. 

“I hear what you are trying to say, officer” he said, walking over to you.

“Would you like to take a break and talk with me for a moment? Nothing formal, don’t worry” he offered. 

Your heart skipped a beat; this is what you had been hoping for- one on one time with Vader. Suddenly you felt like you were back in school and giddy over your crush asking you to have lunch together. 

But this was real life, he was just being a good boss...right?

“Of course”.

***

a/n: sorry this one was kinda short :/// the next one ramps up a bit- while i’m writing this i’m realizing this is lowkey turning into a slow burn and i do sooo many of those, so imma speed things up heheh

taglist: @vadersassistant @sxoulohvn @khaleesihavilliard @kashasenpai @darling-murdock @beautifulbearpolice @salvatoresister1 @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @blueninjablade3 @jujuba096 @missmannequin @jellydodger @mirastark @wyvernthekriger @duckyhowls s @monada43 @lauriidoesstuff @vienettacream @ray-rook @itswhatever06 @ilovenielperry

[theminecraftbee]

Joe, of course, takes plenty of notes on exactly what Other False wants him to take notes on. He’s fully committed to being an Enemy Of The State, after all, at least until Scar gets him in writing that he isn’t, and spying on his friends in order to help protect a strange simulacrum of one of his friends is an easy enough duty that, hopefully, won’t hurt anyway.

(Except maybe Jevin, but if Joe stopped people from killing Jevin, he and Cleo wouldn’t be much of friends anyway.)

So he takes notes. He tells Other False about the people of Hermitopia, and about home. He also tells her about his projects at home and, uh, maybe ends up on a tangent about pinball for an hour at one point, but she’d hired him based on a resume that mentioned the pinball thing anyway. He should be allowed to use his expertises!

He gives her the notes, both the big notes about things like how his fellow hermits have no appreciation for totems of undying and the little notes about things like how he misses how wheat smelled and looked and tasted at home and the medium things about how Grian is the kind of guy to shrink people and the yet-to-be-sized things about cats and—

“You know, I don’t know how much your guide on which cats purr best will help me protect myself,” Other False says.

“I mean, I don’t know! It’s certainly protected me. From sadness.”

Other False laughs. “You’re a strange man, aren’t you?”

“Well, some people might call me strange. Some people might even call me a man,” Joe responds.

“You’re taking notes on me too, aren’t you?” Other False says.

Joe goes silent for a moment. “I mean, I’m writing poetry.” He looks out over his room for a moment. “I guess this feels sort of like symbolism.”

“…do you think it means something?” Other False asks.

“What?” Joe says.

“That it’s like poetry. That there’s this—that you’re here with me instead of your friends, and that I don’t know anyone, and that all of you recognize me. I mean, I hired you to figure it out, and isn’t poetry about meaning things?”

“Sometimes it’s on things that don’t mean anything at all,” Joe says, and quietly, he doesn’t show her the list that sounds like poetry in his head of all the ways Other False and False don’t quite match up. It’s a messy list. It would need major revisions before it would be nearly as good as the poem he shared with Other False about flowers.

“I don’t like that,” Other False mumbles. “I don’t like that. I want it to—to mean something. I want…”

“I took some notes about Cub’s favorite kinds of tea, too,” Joe says.

“You’re an awful spy,” Other False says. “I actually—you know, I don’t remember what kind of tea I like either.”

“Well, I wouldn’t trust Cub,” Joe says immediately. “He likes tea with almonds in it, and everybody knows that means Stress has messed with it.”

“Tea doesn’t do well under pressure?” Other False says, baffled.

“Yeah, see, exactly! You get it!” Joe says.

“I mean, sure?” Other False says. “What kind of tea is your favorite?”

“Sweet tea,” Joe says, and he almost says ‘but I know you think sweet iced tea is an abomination’, because he supposes he doesn’t, because this is Other False, not False.

Other False considers. “You know, that sounds like symbolism too. I’m getting the hang of this.”

“Yeah, exactly!“ Joe says, nodding. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but that’s okay. That’s why he’s taking notes on this, too. He’s getting the hang of this whole spy thing. He’s glad she read his application. If he squints hard enough, it almost feels like home.

[onetoomanyyy]

why ocho is one of the most interesting coroika characters (analysis/speculation)

Ok, so I think we all know that coroika isn’t exactly known for its incredible character writing. But every now and then when digging for iron and coal, you find some diamond ore (epic minecraft reference). I do really think Ocho/Octophones is the most compelling character in coroika, story-wise. Vintage is definitely second, but there’s something about this guy. So allow me a few minutes of your time to think way too hard about all this. I've never done an essay-style post like this before so it may be a little disorganized/confusing, sorry in advance.

When we first meet Ocho, he’s your typical coroika antagonist. Rude, cocky, and entirely sure that he’s right. He presents the actually interesting concept that battles are boring and that there should be a bigger punishment for losing in order to weed out the weak people. He thinks that the best 8 of splatsville should be based on power, not popularity. (Which is fair!)

He stays pretty static up until his vs. chapters, aside from a small moment of expressing remorse after black-labelling 8-Bit (likely because he knows how much pride she has in her position).

Ocho wants power, simple as that, and he’ll do whatever it takes to get it, including hiring teammates instead of building an actual team. The reason he wants power so bad is because the real thing he wants is to be strong - or to believe that he’s strong. This is, of course, because according to the  Hierarchy, the important people in Splatsville are the strong ones. So in order to be worth anything to the Hierarchy - to Splatsville - he needs to be strong. 

So what happens when he gets defeated? What happens when the core foundation: being able to win battles, of all that pride in himself and his position gets toppled? Probably more than what actually did happen. 

Wineglasses and how he may have severely fucked up Ocho's mindset

Wireglasses is the leader and the founder of the Hierarchy, and presumably the one who first presented their philosophy. (That the strong stay strong and the weak stay weak, and that thus the weak are worthless.) Of course, keep in mind that "strong" and "weak" are largely subjective terms here.

^ Goggles hits the nail on the head here. This idea likely comes from a place of insecurity, the idea that Wireglasses may lose his position as the strongest player in Splatsville. Duh, he doesn’t want that, so he spreads the idea that people shouldn’t even try. But Wireglasses is willing to hear Team Blue out, if even just to prove them wrong. After he’s defeated, he does as he promised. He dissolves the Hierarchy, because Team Blue proved their worth to him. They seemed like a weak team, but they did manage to take them all down. So, Team Blue must be strong. (I believe that Ocho takes the loss not as Team Blue are strong, but that the Hierarchy are weak.)

So all things considered, Wireglasses is actually quite reasonable. He’s got a big ego, but he’s able to recognize when he’s wrong, if he’s been proven so.

Ocho joined the Hierarchy after being defeated by Wireglasses, who despite the win, admired his skill and asked him to join (where he later gained the position of the second strongest member.) Essentially, Wireglasses gave him the opportunity to have a sense of actual worth in Splatsville, not just superficial popularity, and he clung onto that idea for dear life and went on preaching about the Hierarchy. He even echoes Wireglasses’ rule of “The weak will be silenced.” As their leader, it isn't too farfetched to at least partially blame Wire for why Ocho and the others act the way they do. This isn't meant to be a Wireglasses analysis, though, so whether or not this was intentional or malicious manipulation is up to you.

The defeat

So when Ocho gets defeated, it kinda screws him over. He’s so sure of this idea Wireglasses presented to him, that taking down the weak to stay on top by any means necessary is the true meaning of strength, that he doesn’t even turn around immediately and become a friend to Team Blue like many other coroika antagonists do. He instead relies on the last remaining sign that this philosophy isnt flawed (and just as senseless as a system based on popularity), Wireglasses. This is shown with his immediate shift in focus to how Wireglasses will keep the black label going, even if he’s defeated. Okay, maybe he got taken down, but surely Wireglasses, the strongest guy he knows won’t, right? 

But Wireglasses doesn’t just lose, he loses and ends up agreeing with Team Blue, then dissolving the hierarchy. And we don’t see much of Ocho after this happens, but he keeps the same straight face he had all throughout Wireglasses’ battle and up until the Salmon Run chapter (likely some time later) didn't say a word since his defeat. This combined with how much reliance he had on his position, shown by his insistence of how strength worked to the point of losing his usual cool during his battle, gives me a good idea that he wasn’t exactly stoked about this. Plus, he’s still a jerk during the salmon run chapter, which is a rare occurrence for coroika antagonists. But he seems to be getting a little better, so maybe he’s learning his lesson after Wireglasses sided with Team Blue.

Conclusion

Ocho is a guy who wants a sense of importance past just popularity, which is a respectable motivation. But after Wireglasses gives him a sample of that, the proposal of the Hierarchy, he gets way too caught up in it to the point where he needs more than three panels to turn around. And that, my friends, is why I believe Ocho is the most interesting coroika character. (with a whole lotta angst potential...looking at you, fanfic writers!)

 Thank you and good night :>

[writeforfandoms]

Fall Into Me 9

Find the series masterlist

Rose deals with the fallout of the graffiti, and discovers she has more help than she could have guessed.

Warnings: Swearing, Feels, these men are on a mission now, teasing.

Word count: 1.3k

Eventual Rose x 141/Los Vaqueros. Eventual.

The best thing Rose could really say about that day was that it passed. Far, far too many of her customers commented on the graffiti when they came in, expressing concern and condolences. Her smile was brittle after fifteen minutes, and Gaz quickly but gently exiled her to making drinks and took over talking to people. 

It stung, a little, but she didn’t fight him. She didn’t have the energy to fight him. 

After the morning rush, he pushed a cup of tea at her. Rose briefly made a face but took the tea.

“I don’t need to be coddled.”

“Not coddling you,” he immediately denied. “I’d do this for any friend.”

She swallowed a mouthful of tea to hide the way her heart clenched at that declaration. Friend. She didn’t have a lot of those, even fewer she considered to be truly trustworthy, so to have him say it so easily… Well. She enjoyed that far too much.

“I don’t normally let friends work for me,” she drawled, catching the way his smile brightened. “But I suppose I’ll allow it for today.” 

Gaz chuckled and nudged her. “What else needs doing?” 

Rose thought about it for a moment, her gaze wandering over to the window. She wanted that gone, desperately. But she also wasn’t sure she was brave enough to face it long enough to scrub it off the window.

“Hey, told you we’d take care of that,” Gaz murmured, stepping closer and nudging her to pull her gaze back to him. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Rose raised one eyebrow. “That is literally physically impossible for me,” she drawled. “I’m going to worry about it until it’s gone.”

He huffed. “Trust me, won’t be there much longer.”

She narrowed her eyes a little but didn’t question it. Yet. “I suppose you could make a help wanted sign to stick in the window,” she offered casually. 

“Yeah? Thinking you’re ready to hire someone?” 

“Thinking I need to,” she corrected with a little huff. “Because I can’t work seven days a week.” 

He nodded once, though she could see the wheels turning. “You have any social media for this place?”

“Uh. No.” Rose blinked, caught off guard.

“Shame.” Gaz smirked to himself as he located a pen. 

“What are you planning?”

“Who, me?”

“Yes you, you meddler.” 

“Nothing.” His grin had grown to shit-eating proportions now. “Just a question, love.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Rose eyed him but decided he wasn’t going to give up the information that easily. She’d just have to play the long game. 

Of course, she immediately got distracted when Price walked in, Soap and Rodolfo waving to her as they walked through the shop and out front, Soap carrying a bucket full of frothy soapy water. 

“What?” She blinked, gaze darting between the men. This was beginning to feel distinctly tactical, the way they were tackling her problems. 

“Security camera outside got a good enough shot of the man responsible,” John told her, leaning against the counter. Gaz slipped unobtrusively over to a table, out of the way. “How d’you want to handle this?”

Rose fidgeted, chewing on her lower lip. A quick glance at John’s eyes showed no judgment, no expectations. Just patience. “I’d rather not, actually.”

“You sure?” 

She nodded once. “I mean, if there’s a way to get him on some kind of watchlist, make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone. But otherwise, keep me out of it.” Her smile was a little bitter. She wasn’t very brave, and she knew it. She liked things quieter. 

John nodded once, and that was that. “You should have a few cameras in here,” he said, clearly moving on to the next item on his mental list. 

“Never had the time to properly research that.” Rose shrugged. She also rarely had the disposable income to put towards something like that. Not that she was going to spell that out for John. 

His lips twitched, and she thought he knew anyway. “One there,” he said, pointing to a spot above the prep area. “And one there.” He pointed again across the store. “Cover basically the whole place. Could do one in the back too, if you wanted.” 

Rose tilted her head slowly, blinking. “Alright,” she agreed slowly. “Is there a certain one you recommend?” 

He nodded, fighting down a smile. “Won’t take long to get them installed.”

“Wait, installed?” Rose blinked at him, feeling like she was missing some vital part of the conversation here. 

“Got a dozen up in my office, darling,” John told her, no longer fighting down the smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled with his amusement, and she tried hard not to be distracted by that. “I’ll have Ghost bring ‘em down and we’ll install them.”

“But–” Rose blinked. Private security. Right. “John, those are for your business.”

John shrugged. “And? Can’t exactly report me to the boss, darling.” 

She frowned at him, struggling for a moment to verbalize the rest of her concern. “I can’t…”

“Love.” John lowered his voice a little, leaning in closer. “Don’t worry about it. Just let us do this, yeah?” His smile softened, something warm and almost teasing. “You can give us free tea if it makes you feel better.” 

Rose chuckled, the tension in her chest releasing. “How about cookies?” 

“Soap will be thrilled,” John drawled. “You want a camera in the back too?”

“Sure. Might as well.” Rose shrugged. The back wasn’t large - her tiny office and a tiny kitchen, just big enough for her to make cookies. The storage area was more of a closet, really, which is why she kept a close eye on supplies. 

John nodded. “Good. Won’t take long.” One of his hands closed over hers, big and warm, his thumb pressing gently to the delicate underside of her wrist. “Worth it to have you safe.” 

Rose swallowed but nodded slowly, heart thundering along in her chest. “Keep being so nice to me and you’ll never get rid of me,” she said, trying for joking but falling a little shy.

The flash of his grin was brief and amused. “Why do you think we keep coming back, darling?” He released her and stepped away, leaving her floundering. 

A quick look showed that Soap and Rodolfo were working on scrubbing off the spraypaint, and Gaz was doing something with his phone, tongue poking out between his lips. 

She had a little time.

Sneaking into the back was easy, and it took very little time to whip up a batch of cookie dough. A quick peek out front showed Gaz behind the counter, no customers in the shop, with John and Ghost working together quietly to install one of the cameras. Good enough.

The timer beeping pulled everyone’s attention briefly to the back, and Rose hummed a bit as she pulled the cookies out of the oven. They needed to cool a little before she took them off the baking sheets, but given five minutes, she’d be able to deliver fresh cookies to the guys. 

To her guys.

The thought gave her pause, both because of how right it felt and how possessive it was. But, well… They were her friends now. And the way at least a couple of them flirted, more was not out of the question. 

But it was a question for later, because she did not have the mental capacity for this right now. 

Using two of the actual plastic plates she had, she carried the cookies out to one of the tables. “Anyone want a snack?” 

Watching Soap try to dive on an entire plate for himself (only to be blocked by Ghost) was enough to have her nearly in stitches. But not enough to distract her from Gaz taking a picture of the plate in front of him before typing rapidly into his phone. She could ask… but she decided not to. 

Especially since the thought of them being her guys circled around and around in her head, refusing to give her any rest. 

She really needed to get herself sorted.

[suddencolds]

Fool Me Twice | [6/6]

Part 6 is finally here! 🎉 (6/6 feels so surreal to write.) I think this will be the last installment out of this mini-arc, but I definitely want to write more of these two in the future (+ have a lot very loosely planned, if I can ever get around to writing it).

Part 6 ft. fake dating, cold-induced exhaustion, and questionable decisions

You can read part 1 [here]! The other parts are listed in my [fic masterlist].

—

Yves isn’t sure what he expects.

He wakes up early to shovel snow from the front porch, makes breakfast, weighs his options over breakfast, and then—maybe ill-advisedly—texts Vincent before he heads out for work.

Y: tell me you got some rest last night! 

V: Of course

Y: more than 3 hours? 

V: Do you even need to ask?

Y: i’m sure no one would mind if you took the day off Y: give someone else a chance to be the most irreplaceable person in the room for a day!  Y: i swear i’ve never seen you take a sick day

V: No need. I’m feeling a lot better today

It’s said with such conviction that Yves thinks he has no reason to question it. It isn’t like Vincent to be outright dishonest, after all. If he’s claiming to be feeling better, he must be at least on the mend.

It’s for that reason that Yves resists the urge to go out of his way to check on him. The office building is spacious enough that neither of them has a reason to cross paths, usually, except potentially at lunch.

And either way, it’s nothing Yves should have to concern himself with—Vincent can take care of himself. He can, and he will, Yves thinks. Perhaps in the future Yves will be able to take him out for a proper dinner, as a way of showing his thanks. But until then, things will be back as they’ve always been, barring the unusual circumstances over the last few days. Yves will go back to regarding Vincent as nothing more than a colleague—as someone he cares about to the appropriate extent, as someone whose life he’s in only tangentially.

And Vincent doesn’t need anyone—least of all, Yves—to look out for him. Yves likes his coworkers, but he knows better than to confuse civility with friendliness. He and Vincent certainly aren’t close enough to be properly considered friends.

It’s with that reassurance that he goes about work for the first few hours of the day. It’s easy, as always, to fall into the flow of it. He’s a little more tired than usual—he finds himself stifling a yawn into one hand during the morning team meeting—but not quite tired enough to be nodding off, at the very least.

Work always feels longer when he’s tired, though it’s never too long of a stretch until lunch. As a general rule, he likes to tackle the more difficult work in the morning, after he’s had his morning coffee, and save the more structured, less demanding busywork for after lunch. It’s interesting, but it’s work nonetheless, and all in all, it goes by especially slowly. He very pointedly does not allow his mind to wander. Halfway through his morning, Laurent shows him some of the ridiculous emails he’s gotten from a particularly standoffish client, and Cara comes over to peek over his shoulder and laugh with him about Laurent’s businesslike, unwavering civility, and the morning goes by faster after that.

It’s only when he’s a few steps away from the break room that he hears—or, rather, overhears—

“I’m sorry,” someone says, from the other side of the door. It takes him a moment to recognize the voice for who it is—the new hire. Angelie. Right. It’s not that he means to eavesdrop, but he thinks it’s strange that she feels the need to apologize at all. It sounds like the kind of apology that she really, sincerely means—not one given out of thinly-veiled obligation, not one exchanged only as a business courtesy, and that makes him pause.

He wonders what it is that she thinks she’s done wrong. Maybe if he sticks around, he can reassure her afterwards—he knows how intimidating it can be to be new. “When I asked you for help, I didn’t realize how much work it’d be.”

“It’s— it’s ndo problem, snf-!” Whoever she’s talking to says. As if Yves doesn’t know immediately; as if Yves hasn’t been thinking—or rather, trying not to think—about said person all morning. “I’m used to it.”

“Still, if I had known how long it’d take—”

“It’s really okay, Angelie.” 

“You’ve been such a big help to me. I didn’t know until Charlotte told me you’ve been here all morning trying to—”

“It’s fine. This isn’t any sort of special circumstance. I’mb - snf-! - frequently here early. J-just a second—” For a moment, Yves wonders if they’ve lowered their voices to speak more quietly, but then the reason for the lull in the conversation becomes evident. Vincent coughs—harshly enough that, even through the wall, it sounds almost certainly painful. When he speaks up again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser than before. “Sorry. I— coughcough - I’m happy to be - snf-! - of assistance, really.”

“Thank you,” Angelie says. “I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. I think I’m good from here—but um, if you don’t mind me asking…”

She hesitates. For some reason Yves can’t quite parse, she sounds uncertain.

“What is it?” Vincent says.

“Um, are you okay?”

All of a sudden, the apology makes sense.

“What?”

“You— seem—”

“I’m fine,” Vincent says. 

“Okay.” A beat. “Do you need cough drops? I have a whole bag at my desk. I always get sick when I’m in new places, so—it hasn’t happened yet, I mean, but I wanted to be prepared in case it does. If you want any, I have a ton to spare.”

Yves hears the static whir of the coffee machine as it comes to life. 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m okay,” Vincent says. “Though, you should - hH… hh… hH-hih’GKT-! snf-!” The sneeze doesn’t sound relieving in the least, and the sniffle which follows seems as good as useless. “You should keep your distance.”

“Well, the offer still stands if you end up needing them later,” Angelie says, sounding uncertain. “Thanks again for all the help.”

“It’s no problem. If you run into any issues later, don’t be afraid to reach out.”

He hears footsteps, receding—Angelie is going back to work, he realizes. And, judging by the sound of the coffee machine, Vincent is still here, making his usual morning espresso.

Yves really shouldn’t interrupt. He should turn around and head back to his office desk. Really, it’s none of his business if Vincent is okay. It’s none of his business whether or not Vincent got to the office early today, as usual, despite working so late last night. It’s none of his business whether or not Vincent is feeling well enough to be here in the first place. Perhaps he should go back to his desk—perhaps he doesn’t need coffee as imminently as he’d thought.

Against all logic, he finds himself on the other side of the break room door.

At the sound of the door opening, Vincent looks up. Yves catalogs his appearance in silence. His hair is as neat as usual, his jacket ironed, his tie perfectly straight, but there’s an unusual flush high on his cheekbones, a paleness to his complexion.

“Yves,” Vincent says.

His voice practically cracks on the syllable, as if he’s just a few conversations away from losing his voice. He sounds so distinctly unwell, Yves realizes.

And he looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes are even more prominent than before, and when he lifts his elbow to his face to muffle a few harsh, breathless coughs into his sleeve, there’s an uncharacteristic sluggishness to the motion of it. When he lowers his arm, there’s a thin sheen of water to his eyes—from the sheer force of the coughing fit, perhaps. His eyes are a little red-rimmed.

Vincent sniffles, though the sound is so congested that Yves isn’t sure it’s made any difference at all. Past them, the coffee machine beeps to signal that it’s done.

Yves pushes the door shut behind him. His mouth feels dry.

“I wadted to - snf-! - properly thank you for last ndight,” Vincent starts. “I realize that—” His eyes water, and he blinks, reaching up with one hand to rub his nose. “That you - hH-hHih…” He veers away from Yves, steepling both his hands over his face as his shoulders jerk forward with a forceful, “hihH’GKT’ShhuH!” And then, just a few moments later, another - “hH… hiIH… HIIh’NGKTshHh!-!” The sneezes—even stifled—sound loud enough to grate on his throat. It’s no wonder his voice sounds off. “I realize that you ended up staying a lot later than you planned to.”

Yves stares at him. Is this really what Vincent thinks he wants to hear?

“And I apologize if I came across as…” Yves sees the moment Vincent’s gaze unfocuses. He sees the way Vincent tenses, cupping a hand over his face for another, “HIh’Gktt! Hh… hHh… hiih—!”

The look of ticklish desperation—his eyebrows creased, his expression slack—doesn’t let up, even as his breath settles. Vincent rubs his nose with the bridge of his index finger, sniffling again, as if to coax out the sneeze that his body seems so adamant on denying him—

“hiHH-’IksSHuhh! … hHIH… Hh… hh-hIih—HIih-TSCHhuuh! snf-!” A soft, almost imperceptible exhale. “Excuse mbe, I...” His voice practically gives out on that note, and he takes a halting step back, veering aside with another fit of coughs.

“You said you were feeling better,” Yves all but snaps, when he’s done.

Vincent looks off to the side. “I’m not as tired as I was yesterday,” he says. “So, in that regard.”

He turns aside to lift the coffee mug from where it sits on the machine. There’s a slight tremor to his hand when he picks it up, before he steadies it—indicative of one too many cups of coffee, perhaps—or, knowing Vincent, probably a lot more than that.

“In that regard?” Yves repeats. “So you’re feeling worse off in every other regard?” 

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so accusatory, but a part of him feels—betrayed, maybe. By the dishonesty of Vincent’s response, by the intensity of his own worry.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something more, but then he’s hurriedly setting his coffee down, raising both hands to his face, again, for—

“hiIH… HIIH’GK-t! Hh! Hih… HIih’IZSCHhuh!” A single, breathless, “Sorry,” and then - “hhH-! snf-…!” Yves watches his expression crumple as he jerks forward, his eyes watering. “hiIH-NGkt-! Hh…. HHh… hiIH-!... HH‘IIKTCHhuhH-!”

The sneezing fit is punctuated by another round of coughing, which all but confirms that all this sneezing is making Vincent lose his voice faster. 

Yves passes him a coffee napkin. Vincent eyes it for a moment before taking it, gingerly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Yves says. “You’re clearly unwell.”

“I’m fine. I had a couple calls this morning.”

“You didn’t think to cancel?”

“They were urgent.”

“And what do you think our clients would think if they see that you’re clearly coming down with something?” 

“I took medicine to suppress the symptoms,” Vincent says, glancing off to the side. “A few hours ago. It’s - coughcough - just starting to wear off.”

“I don’t get it,” Yves says, feeling the frustration build in his chest. “You’re not going to recover quickly if you keep pushing yourself.”

“It’s just a cold. There’s nothing I can do but wait it out.”

“There are plenty of things you could do. You could take a sick day, for one. You could head home early. You could even get more than a few hours of sleep, instead of—” Yves looks toward the coffee mug in his hands. “—insisting on taking cold medicine and keeping yourself awake with caffeine. Just how many cups of coffee have you already had this morning?”

“I’m fine, Yves. 

“As you’ve said,” Yves says, a little bitterly. “Though, even if you insist on lying to everyone else, at least you should be honest to yourself.” 

Vincent is quiet for a moment.

When he speaks, his voice is carefully even. “Is that why you’re so upset?”

“What?”

“It’s because I told you I was feeling better.”

Yves supposes that’s part of it. But another part of him is frustrated—with himself, first and foremost, for putting Vincent in this situation in the first place, for inconveniencing someone he’s already indebted to, only to have to watch from the sidelines, guiltily, with no way to help. Back then—with Erika, with crew, with university; with the cheating, and the aftermath; with the apartment hunting, with the start of his job, with everything else—Yves has always disliked the revelation that there’s nothing he can do.

“You’re free to lie to me,” he says. “I know we’re not close. But I care about you, which is why I asked.” 

“I don’t think you understand.” Vincent takes a measured sip from his coffee. His hand trembles slightly when he lifts the cup, and Yves has the sudden urge to take it from his hands. Vincent sighs. “Do you know why I told you I was feeling better?”

That seems obvious enough. “Because you wanted me to stop asking.”

“Because I don’t want it to be anyone else’s problem,” Vincent snaps. “Especially not yours.”

Before Yves has the time to fully process that statement, Vincent continues. “I don’t want my assignments to be work on someone else’s plate. I don’t want my health to be someone else’s problem. You already stayed so late last night—you went out of your way to get me dinner. How could I possibly ask any more of you?”

The sentence seems to grate unpleasantly against his throat for the way that he winces a little, turning aside to cough harshly into his fist. “I’m not feeling well today, but I knew you’d be worried if I told you. And how could I knowingly take up more of your time? After everything you’ve done for me already?” 

His sentence tapers off into another coughing fit, which he emerges from with another wince. It must hurt his throat to speak.

“I wasn’t being honest when you asked me how I was feeling,” Vincent says—finally an admission, but hearing it now doesn’t make Yves feel better at all. “But it would be selfish of me to make this any more of your problem than it already is.”

In lieu of responding, Yves takes the coffee cup from his hands and sets it down, gingerly, on the countertop. He takes another mug—unwraps an herbal tea bag from the cabinets, while he’s at it—and fills it to the brim with warm water, for the tea to steep. He stirs in a spoonful of honey. Steam rises from the cup in white wisps, and with it, the faint smell of chamomile.

When the tea is ready, he holds the cup by the rims, turning the handle outwards for Vincent to take. Vincent regards it with confusion, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, and for a moment, Yves wonders if he should clarify that it’s meant for him.

But then he takes it. Watching him lift the cup to take a sip—seeing the brief, miniscule flash of relief as his throat dips with a swallow—makes something tighten in Yves’s chest.

It takes everything in him not to cross his arms outright. 

“You are really a hypocrite,” he says. 

“What?”

“You helped Angelie, just yesterday. You helped me when I was just starting out. Both of us made our work—and our training, and our inexperience—your problem.” For all the things Yves has asked of him—for all the things he’s seen others ask of him, however inordinate—Vincent has never once complained. 

“You’re always taking on things for other people, because you know you’re capable of doing them,” Yves says. “How is it any different if it’s you?”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that.

“You’re harder on yourself than you are on anyone else,” Yves says, with a sigh. “Even if you tell me not to worry, I’m still going to worry about you. But it’s not a burden to me.”

Something in Vincent’s expression stills. 

“I know I can’t change your mind,” Yves says. “But you should get some rest—whenever you can. You’ve already done more than enough, I promise. I—or anyone else on the team—can take up anything that can’t wait until you’re feeling better.”

Vincent turns away, his shoulders trembling on an inhale, and Yves barely squeezes in a preemptive “Bless you,” before—

“Hh… hiIH’EKkTSHuhH! Hh… hh… HiIH’IIKKtsCHuhH! snf-! ”

He lifts his free hand up to cover, his eyes squeezing shut as he muffles the sneezes into his wrist. It’s a miracle that the tea doesn’t spill, Yves thinks.

When he emerges, a little teary-eyed, sniffling, he really does look tired. He says, “I don’t understand why you care so much.”

Isn’t it obvious? Yves opens his mouth to say just as much, only…

…Only, Vincent looks genuinely stricken.

“I like you,” Yves says, because it’s the truth. Because he wants, suddenly, for Vincent to know it. “Do I need any other reason?”

“That seems… impossibly simple.” “It is,” Yves says. For a moment, he wants to tell Vincent just exactly how simple it is, just how easy Vincent is to like.

“I didn’t intend to worry you,” Vincent says, looking off to the side. “I didn’t expect for anyone to be worried in the first place.”

Yves—who frequently worries about people, whether they want him to or not—laughs. “If you don’t want me to worry about you, you should hurry up and get better.”

At this, Vincent nods, contemplative. “Duly noted.”

“Which means getting some proper rest.”

“I’ll consider it.”

(Yves half expects that to be a lie. But when he gets to work the next morning, Vincent’s desk is unoccupied, for once, and there’s a small packet of cough drops leaned up against his desktop monitor—so he had asked Angelie for them yesterday, after all—and a stack of files set off neatly to the side, marked For Later.

Yves supposes he can deal with that.)

[sunflower73498]

Thoughts on Farima (and a bit of a contrast with Kristina) in ep 1-5

In season 3, Farima takes a bigger role. She’s been in the background since the very first episode as an employee of the royal family (a PR person of sorts?), and seems to have always had a substantial role in “managing” Wille. I have conflicted feelings about her. On the one hand, she’s the most functional adult in Wille’s life outside of school, and probably the one he interacts with the most - he seems more comfortable around her than he is around his parents. On the other hand, she’s employed by the royal court, by his mother, and it’s literally her job to “handle” Wilhelm on behalf of the court and its needs. 

In some ways, she’s a bit like the queen was in season 2 - she’s nice to Wille and gives him support and attention when it suits her goals - which are to maintain the monarchy and boost the image of the royal family. However, since she isn’t Wille’s parent and is just doing her job, this doesn’t particularly bother me like it does when Kristina manipulates him. This season, Farima generally acts more motherly than Kristina does, in that she seems more aware of Wille’s emotions and communicates with him in a way that is less confrontational and more designed to consider his feelings and anxieties. Yes, having a good relationship with Wilhelm is self-serving in that it makes her job easier, but considering that Wille has likely made her job much harder quite often in the last year, she still treats him overall kindly. 

She also picks her battles more carefully than Wille’s parents do. Wille insists that he will be the one to talk to Simon about public image - she respects that (she shouldn’t, Simon really needs more formal guidance and training and Wille, though I think he does mean well, has no idea how challenging the attention is for someone who hasn’t grown up in the public eye like he has). Wille asks for protection for Simon, she doesn’t push back or try to explain why that isn’t possible like I suspect Kristina would, she just does it. She doesn’t have the ability to change that Wille’s parents are asking him to step up and putting too much pressure on him, or that they both  decline to show up at his first foundation event, but she is there the whole time and agrees to send August back to school instead of the birthday dinner. 

Anyway, her job is supporting the court, which is sometimes counter to Wille’s best interest, but she does it with kindness and respect as much as she is able, and since she is not related to him and just doing her job, I don’t see anything wrong with this. 

I see A WHOLE LOT wrong with the queen considering her teenage son her employee, and putting that on the same level as being her son. Being one’s employee and one’s child are two radically different things, and while yes, Wilhelm is technically her subordinate in their work, he’s also a minor and her own child. When the two interests conflict, it should be the parent-child relationship that takes priority, not the other way around. 

Employees like Farima exist so that they can be the bad guy, and to allow Wille and Kristina to try to maintain the mother-son part of the relationship, only it seems a bit like Kristina has instead hired someone to mother her child when it isn’t convenient for her.