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seancekitsch · 4 years

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Out of the Rain: a Marko x Reader fic

Warnings: bloodplay goes without saying bc vamp, rough sex, dirty talk, semi public sex, telepathy?? me projecting my music taste on this fic again. drug use, fast and loose use of vampire lore bc when i write i am god and u cannot stop me. also can u tell i have like…. v clear descriptions of the setting like i used to work at the place im describing but its not in california

No one had come in for hours. What's the point of staying open? You dim some of the lights in the store, which is one of three head shops in Santa Carla, but the only one open late. You're not really sure why this is the only store that stays open, why everyone else if worried about the three am walk back to their car on a weekend night. You've never seen anything of suspicion, just sometimes that biker gang watches people shuffle out. That was almost comforting, though. People didn't like those guys, so no one would make you use your switchblade if they were around.

The bright while fluorescent lights of your typical daytime ambiance faded away, and now green light bathes you in the “mood” lighting your boss thought was a good idea. The green lighting reflects off of the glass counters, shining it back at the ceiling and making everything that much more green. It fits, you think with the overall vibe of the store. The stale scent of weed, gently and miserably covered up by some nag champa incense, always burning in at least four different spots within the store. You'd long since gotten used to the smoke in your eyes. The music does everything to add to the ambiance. You always have full control of the music in the shop, usually because no one else is willing to take the night shift in Santa Carla. In fact, most of the boardwalk shops had a revolving door of night shift workers. You never got why, something clearly spooks them that does not spook you. Whether that makes you brave or stupid, you dont know. Jefferson Airplane’s Surrealistic Pillow pumps through the speakers in the store. But I suppose no one knows, you're my plastic fantastic lover.

The rain batters the boardwalk outside, a roar much different than the typical hustle and bustle of drunk teens, of the cliques and crews that come in and out; the few that sit and snicker in the doorway, never entering. Some too afraid to be associated with the implication of being spotted in the shop. We sell jewelry and vinyl too, you always say, when they balk at the idea of being in the same room as a bong or incense.

But then there's the other group that stands and idles in the threshold, also not entering. It's that biker gang. Four guys, a girl, a kid. Maybe he’s the brat of the girl and the one who takes himself too seriously, but maybe not. She looks too young for that. They'd been hovering around quite a bit lately, always after dark. You’d spoken to them, at least the ones that are talkative. The hair metal wannabe and the cute short one. Paul and Marko. You knew the dark haired one was Dwayne, but all he ever offered you was a curt nod and a tight lipped smile, respectful but indifferent. They're nice, not worth the spooky reputation they have. Any time it's not just you at the shop, your boss tries to spook them away. Good thing your boss isn't here tonight, because one of them is prowling around the storefront in the rain. That is, if it's not your spliff induced haze playing tricks on you.

No, one of them is out there. Without his little pack. The cute one. Marko.

You walk over to the door, which you haven't had propped open since the rain trickled in as a drizzle at the beginning of your shift. At least he had enough sense to be huddling under the awning. Fuck, he’s handsome even when he looks like a drowned rat.

“What are you doing out here?” You scrunch up your nose as you ask.

“Y’know, waiting for you to show up.” Wanted a look at that cute ass.

You blink at him. Did he really just say that?

“Okay… well, you know it's raining out there, right?”

“I might,” he offers noncommittally, eyeing the spliff still in the hand that's not holding the door. If it were anyone but him, you'd probably get fired for it.

Why is he just hanging around out here? That's hella weird. His curls are getting matted to his forehead, slick with rain, his jacket starting to look a little sad.

“C’mon in, Marko. It’s too wet out here. You’ll fuck up your jacket.” You nod towards the interior of the shop holding the door open as he passes you.

Wrong move, sweet cheeks.

“What did you say?” What did he mean, wrong move?

“I didn't say anything,” he offers nonchalantly as he thumbs at one of the tapestries on the wall. A garish mess that’s supposed to be the worm from Alice in Wonderland, but it’s distorted by a botched tie dye job of dark muddy colors. Every time you look at it, you assume one of the day workers did it.

“No, you said something.”

“Do you want me to say something?” there's both a threat and an innuendo in his tone. Maybe you do, but you just laugh, a sharp exhale through your nose, and bring the spliff to your lips again as he follows you deeper into the store.

You jump up onto the counter next to the ash tray, easy reach for each time you need to ash.

“So why are you really here?” your eyes narrow at him, kicking your sandal off on the floor where it lands a few inches from his boots. He looks uneasy in the space, like for all the wild shit you assume he’s into, he might not actually belong in it. He sways a little to the music, perfectly in tune with the rhythm. You sway along too, and suddenly he fills the space like he belongs. He just needed someone along for the ride with him.

“Do you ever come around during the day, or just at night because I’m so fun?” You’re teasing him, but it’s a nice easy feeling between you.

“Not really a sun guy,” bullshit, he would look beautiful with a tan, “but I do drag everyone here just to see you.”

“Awww, all for me? Do you have a crush, Marko?”

It’s more than that. You hear the words clearly, but his smile doesn’t move. You kick the other sandal off.

“I can hear you, I don’t know how, but I can. I bet you can hear me too.”

I can. You’re wrong about the tan thing.

You straighten up, mind clearing as you blurt out your next question. Something absolutely stupid.

“So what are you, a vampire or something?” he laughs at you, but his big toothy smile doesn't reach his eyes. No, there's something predatory, extremely dark in his eyes. Otherworldly.

How could you guess?

“Well, that for one big fucking clue.” You ash the spliff for the final time, leaving the roach in the tray. You would think you’d be more surprised, more upset that you just found out vampires were real, and that you were in the same room as one. You have to say, weirder things are probably afoot in Santa Carla. Murder capital of the world can’t all be from some rowdy teens and a ten year old.

“You do those surf nazis?” is all that leaves your mouth. You kind of hope it was. They were the fucking worst. Racist, misogynistic, destructive. You’d had to threaten them a few times to leave your store on your shift.

“The—? Oh! Surf nazis. Yeah that was us. Ate a few of them.”

“Good for you. I mean— murder. bad. But they were nazis, and now they’re dead. so…” you trail off. Not really sure what to say next, but then you keep going. Remember everything you know about Marko.

“No, no I mean, it makes sense. Right? You and the guys only hang around at night. Aren’t vampires solitary hunters though? I don’t remember Dracula being in a frat.”

“They’re my pack. We take care of each other.” He says it with such fondness and devotion.

You feel a pang of jealousy run through you. You work alone for the most part, live alone, you’ve got friends but they’re all over the place. He belongs to something.

“And you're down with this?” he’s legitimately asking. You nod. You don't really have a choice, you're down or you get eaten, but like genuinely you are down with it. If he was going to eat you, he probably would have by now. There's probably a reason they've been hanging around the store, and in your sightline while you close up. You're putting things together.

“Like really?”

“Well, you haven't made me a kebab yet.”

He shrugs, frowns.

“Could still skewer you on something.”

Laughter erupts from your lips while you roll your eyes, music to Marko’s ears. This is why he took a shine to you, it's easy to get along with you, and you're not one of his brothers.

Something heavy falls in the room, and it's not the haze of the incense. He steps towards you, big blue eyes raking over your body, but always coming back to meet your gaze. He closes the space between you, easily fitting between your thighs; the rough patches of his jacket brushing against your bare skin where your shorts ride up. He leans in, like he's about to kiss you, and against all better judgement, you're going to let him.

You're going to let him.

The record skips. He holds out his hand, more like a gentleman than a biker gang killer, and helps you off the counter.

“Hold on, let me pick out a new record,” you turn without waiting for his confirmation, not at all surprised when Marko follows hot on your heels to the back room. Your boss’ office, the record room. Whatever you wanted to call it. His hands ghost over your arms as you push past the wooden bead curtain to enter the room. You can feel his presence close enough to touch. That's it, right where I want you. There’s his voice again.

He lets you actually pick out a new record. You slide it out of the sleeve and walk it over to the player. The static buzzes and pops as the needle finds the groove.

“Ocean Rain, you heard it?” No. He shakes his head, and you can feel it as he leans into your back.

“Echo and the Bunnymen. They've got a new album coming out this year.”

You turn to face him and his fingerless leather glove clad hands cover your cheeks.

He kisses you gently, tenderly. Not at all the way you’d expect. He’s eager, kissing like there’s something to prove. He licks his way into your mouth, tongue pushing your lips apart and you let him. His arms tighten around you as you kiss, tongues now greeting each other playfully. Your tongue explores his mouth, running along each and every tooth in his mouth. Huh, no fangs, you realize, and maybe he isn't actually a vampire. As if he reads your mind (maybe he does), he pulls away.

“They're, uh, hiding,’ he nods, almost to himself more than you. You nod as well, slow and uneasy, not quite believing him, but he pulls you back into a harsh kiss, more of what you expected. His hands roam your body as yours bury themselves in his curls. Still damp, but long and beautiful just as well. He shrugs the jacket off his shoulders, and his hands only briefly leave you to throw it and his gloves somewhere else, leaving him just in a thin white tank top. His mouth leaves yours to trail lower, kissing your neck. Your pulse point. Fucking irresistable. No, that's definitely his voice. Is this the end? Could be.

“I can smell you, hot stuff,” he moans into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You find yourself gripping onto his shoulders a little tighter, but he lets you sink. He guides you, again more gently than you thought he would; bare knees brushing the threadbare carpet floor before you plant yourself. You look up at him through your lashes and he all but bites back a groan.

“You gonna join me down here?” You lick your lips, waiting for something.

“Nah, I’m gonna let you have a head start,” there's a joke in his tone. You're learning that’s normal for him. He’s silent, or playing jester. It’ll be interesting when you let him fuck you. Shit, did he hear that?

“Quit thinkin’ so loud!” he runs an affectionate hand through your hair. “But yes, I heard you. Glad you're as eager as I am.”

That's encouraging. You take your time undoing his belt, connected to faded and soft leather chaps, not bothering to push them down his thighs before you move to the top of his jeans, teasing your fingers at the skin just above the waistline. He shudders under your touch, extremely reactive. Does he get touched like this often? Or is it just quick fucks? You don't want to think about who else he might be doing this with, focusing again on his body, and all of the offending clothing covering it. You unbutton them slowly, teasing. For a member of the undead, he seems to be out of breath under your movements. The zipper is pulled down just as slowly. You run your palms flat along the bottom of his stomach, to his hips before pushing his jeans down to around his ankles, hooking his boxers on your finger along with them. He’s beautiful, and you can help but stare. Hard, eager, and thick, greeting you with a small trimmed patch of golden blonde curls. You wrap your hand around the base.

You never expected a vampire to whimper, but that's exactly what happens when your tongue darts out of your mouth to lick the head of his cock. Quick, tentative little lick, testing the waters. Your tongue swipes across the slit at the tip of his thick member and his hands animate like you flipped a switch, rising up, going to your hair, rising up again, slamming down against the desk. Your boss’ desk. You lick a long stripe to the underside of his cock, paying close attention to the prominent vein there.

“So good, so good, oh you feel so-” he pants out, hands white knuckling the edge of the desk. Heat pools in your core, loving that he’s so vocal. Fuck, if he could just keep speaking. Your other hand moves to your shorts, sloppily and hastily undoing them and wiggling them down to your knees. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and sink down on it, taking him as far as you can, until you couch when he hits the back of your throat.

“You look fucking beautiful like that. Please move, Please move, you’re so fucking good at this.”

You do, starting to bob your head up and down on the length of him, hollowing out your cheeks and flattening your tongue against him, cupping and massaging his balls in your hand. Your free finds itself between your legs, rubbing gently at your clit, stirred and encouraged by his praise.

“Does sucking me off get you hot and bothered?” Yesitdoes.

You keep bobbing your head, rubbing your clit, eyes trained on his until his eyes squeeze shut. His cock twitches in your mouth.

“Don't wanna- don't wanna finish in your mouth,” he’s urgent, grabbing you by the chin and pulling your mouth off of his cock. He pushes you back by your shoulders, letting you guide yourself back to lay on the rug. He pulls your loose shorts easily off your legs and settles himself between your legs, too eager to bother with removing his boots and everything.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. Do you know how bad I wanted this?”

“Fuck me, Marko, dont say it. Just do it,” youre breathless under him, wanting nothing more than for him to be fucking you. He pauses.

“I dunno…” his thumb swipes up along your clit, drawing a whine from your throat, “For some reason I think you like it when I say things.”

You nod, knowing words will fail you. And he gives you what you want, lining himself up and sinking into you, groaning as he buries his head into the crook of your neck.

“Oh I knew your pussy would feel like fucking heaven,” he pants against your neck, pressing a harsh kiss to the underside of your jaw. He sets the pace quickly, unmerciful and fast, fucking hard and deep into you. His hands push up your thin tee shirt, and you can feel his sigh of relief when he gets a handful of bare breast. He doesn't have to deal with a bra tonight. You hike your knees up, opening yourself as much as you can to him, wanting him to fill you to the brim. He looks into your eyes while he fucks you, which comes as a surprise to you. Maybe it shouldn't. You wonder what it would be like to be a victim of his. Does he treat them well? Have fun with them like this? Or is he vicious? You don't know if you could picture him like that… vamped out.

“What does it feel like?”

“What?” he thrusts sharply, snapping his hips into you, making you yelp.

“To be fed on, but not to die.”

Are you serious? You hear him in your head.

YesIam. He thrusts like that again, earning an identical yelp, now coupled with your thighs squeezing him around the middle. You're close already, and he can tell.

He nods, a question; You nod, confirmation.

He pulls at the neckline of your shirt, already scooping so it doesn’t ruin, and exposes your shoulder. Somewhere non lethal. His other hand comes up to grip your jaw, covering your neck but being careful not to squeeze it. You hope he bruises your jaw, you realize. A physical way to feel him when dawn comes. He slows his pace to a rocking, grinding into you, staying deep.

Then he bites. Stars erupt behind your eyes, and it feels like your blood has turned to seltzer. Every nerve in your body is in overdrive as you moan and shake and come undone around his cock. You're the kind of girl that comes from the bite of a vampire, apparently. He doesn’t let up. You can faintly hear him moaning against the open wound in your shoulder, and you hope you taste good to him. He licks the wound a few times more, softly, carefully, like he’s trying to soothe you when he finally lets you come down from your high.

When he pulls back to let you see him, his features are gruesome, full vampire with sharp brows and cheekbones, pointed nose even that much more so almost birdlike. Fangs and bottom half of his face covered in blood.Your blood. He’s panting like an animal after the kill. But he doesn't scare you. Maybe he should, but he doesn't. It's just Marko, no matter what, and if he wanted to eat you he would have. Several times now. His hand finally releases your jaw, to wipe the blood from his face. He wipes his hand then on your face, covering you in your own blood, hot on his fingers and palm.

“Fuckin sexy,” he pants, voice deeper and distorted. His thrusts speed up, trying to find his own release as your nails dig into his back, maybe making him bleed as well. You feel the rug burn forming on your back, you feel tears in your eyes. It's never felt this good with other guys.

When he comes, he comes with a howl, buried deep inside you as he shouts and shivers then stills above you. Your chest is heaving, trying to regain yourself as his face slowly fades to normal, and he slumps down on top of you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, near the wound he tore open, now no longer bleeding. He mouths at any bare skin he can find, lazy half kisses as he spreads more mess and blood on you. Your fingers find his curls again, winding them around your digits as you stare up at the sickly green mood lighting bathing the walls of the room.

An hour later, Marko is helping you lock up early.

He makes sure to dump out all of the ashes from spliffs and incense, makes sure the vinyl is all in its right place while you make sure the register and inventory is all in its rightful place and order.

“You’re dangerous, you know.”

“Me?” you scoff, “That rich, coming from you.”

I’d do a lot of things I’m not supposed to for you. You kinda don't want to ask him what he means by that. For some reason that feels like a conversation you shouldn't have tonight.

He leaves the store before you, holding the door open for you and letting you lock the doors. He slings an easy arm over your shoulder, not bothering to shield either of you from the rain as he steers you towards your car. You can feel the rain cleaning your face, the blood flowing away and saving you the shower you were going to take before collapsing into bed tonight.

“Where’s your bike?”

“I flew here,” he says with that devilish smile, and you're really not sure if he's joking or not. Your arm sneaks its way into his jacket and wraps around his waist, holding him close as he makes sure you get home same. Marko makes you feel calm, in a way you didn't feel before you moved to Santa Carla. How long had he been waiting to make his move? And does this mean he and his brothers would be coming around more often? Maybe being more friendly towards you. Each step towards your car feels heavy; You don't want to go home alone without him, but somehow you know he won't come with you.

“Will I see you again?”

He grabs your car keys from your hand, and sticks them in the door handle. Of course you will.

Right. You just have to be near the beach at night. You know, where you work.

He kisses you full on the mouth, holding you close and tight, like you could slip away at any second. When he finally lets you go you pull away to be met with his face, full on grinning, his eyes still closed from the kiss. He doesn't look like a killer.

Marko watches you as you pull open the door to your car and more or less throw your ass into the seat. He holds the door as he gives you one last smile, and says:

“You know, you should never invite a vampire into your life. Renders you powerless.”

And he winks.

#marko lost boys x reader #lost boys x reader #marko lost boys #my work

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cruelfeline · 4 years

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Agh, it got so long I had to read-more it; no one look at this; I just had to get it out of my mind, but don’t look at it just ignore this and go examine a pretty nature photo; honestly these just keep getting worse why does this keep happening? And I hate dialogue. And I hate characterization. Ugghhh... just insert a Mermista groan here.

also a more mature Catra helping Hordak on his journey provides me with happiness don’t judge me

Please consider, a concept:

A few months have passed since Prime’s demise. Reconstruction of Etheria’s damaged settlements is well underway, and all parties involved have gotten... if not entirely comfortable with one another, then at least able to interact with civility. Enough so that, when Entrapta and Bow end up delayed on one of their interplanetary trips, Hordak is only moderately uneasy about heading off to Bright Moon on his own. Oh, of course he’d rather wait for Entrapta, but certain planned meetings (dictated by Etheria’s terribly inconvenient seasons) simply cannot be delayed. So off he goes, determined to maintain decorum and dignity and uphold his end of all relevant treaties. He is received by Glimmer, Adora, and Catra. The other Princesses are all otherwise engaged (with what, he cares little, though he is admittedly amused to learn that Mermista and Perfuma are occupied with an apparently disastrous seaweed-related snafu). So it is the four of them against a whole mess of administrative work.

The girls, for their part, are equally uneasy but likewise determined to proceed as usual (Adora and Catra seeming particularly determined). They meet Hordak’s reserved politeness with a tentative poise of their own, and the group’s work commences.

And for a number of days, it goes fairly well. Even Glimmer has to admit that, whatever anyone’s misgivings about how an Entrapta-less Hordak might behave, things are running smoothly. She maintains control of the meetings, guiding them through agenda after agenda, while Adora and Catra provide input based upon their recent scouting trips to Etheria’s various corners. Hordak rounds the discussions out with whatever technological information is relevant. Their sessions run long most nights (too long, if Catra were asked her opinion on the matter, which she pointedly is not), but they are productive. The four of them get an impressive amount of work done, and all without any tense moments or uncomfortable quarrels. One might even say that they are getting along quite well, all things considered.

In fact, Catra is nearly certain that, when Adora mentions appreciating the work of some Dryl-made construction bots in a seaside village, Hordak subtly quirks his lips in what a careful observer could term a smile.

So the three girls are legitimately stunned when, about three-quarters of the way through their intended time together, Hordak’s behavior abruptly changes. His calm demeanor turns sullen and tense. Previously comprehensive explanations gain a taciturn edge, eventually devolving into clipped, half-snarled responses and sneered refusals to provide clarification. More and more often, words are accompanied by the baring of red teeth and the angry glare of red eyes.

Glimmer is... less than pleased, but between her own determination to make this treaty work and Adora’s dogged, somewhat frantic optimism, she strives to maintain civility long enough to get through the last few days. But, well... limits are limits. And limits are surpassed when, one evening, Hordak furiously declares that he has lost patience with their “embarrassing incompetence” and, with nary another word, storms out of the conference room.

“That’s it! How dare he?!”

Glimmer promptly explodes, and Catra spends the next few minutes watching Adora try to quiet what is proving to be a very loud, very angry, moderately uncouth Queenly rant. It is in the midst of this rant that Adora catches her eye and, with a quiet groan and a nod and a mental wish of good luck, Catra slips away with Melog silently following at her heels.

“I guess this is better than dealing with Sparkles,” she mutters to herself as she stands at the door to Hordak’s temporary quarters. Beside her, Melog trills encouragement, and she sighs. They’re right, of course: between the two of them, Adora has more experience dealing with an upset Glimmer. And Catra... okay, so she doesn’t have “experience dealing with an upset Hordak.” Not... not good experience. But she worked with him for nearly a year. And, given what she’s seen, what she knows... she has a fair idea of what’s been happening. She’d been quietly hoping that it would work itself out, or that it wouldn’t become enough of a problem to cause trouble before they finished their work, but alas: it seems that that sort of luck just isn’t on their side.

Which, given the fact that Hordak seems to have the worst luck of anyone she knows, probably should have been something she’d seen coming.

Melog trills again, adding a gentle headbutt this time.

“Okay, okay... give me a second.”

She takes a breath, lifts a hand to knock, grimaces, and drops said hand. She clears her throat.

“Hordak?”

Nothing. She frowns and tries again.

“Hordak? Are you-”

“Leave.”

His snarl is all-too familiar, and even muffled through a door, it causes her hackles to rise, her ears to pin back, her tail to lash.

“Look, I just-”

“Go. Away.”

She grits her teeth, clenches her fists, and turns away, ready to return downstairs with nothing to show for her efforts but a bad mood. Next to her, Melog meows in protest. She rounds on them.

“What? If he wants to be a jerk about it, then that’s his problem! Besides, what am I supposed to do? Break down the door?”

And she resumes making her way back to the staircase, ignoring Melog’s continued protest (which, come to think of it, sounds fairly alarmed, but... well, what is she to do?) and... she freezes. The world around her is starting to shimmer. She knows that shimmer: teleportation via alien cat.

“Wait! I said-!”

And just like that, they’re in his room, and though Catra’s first instinct is to make her displeasure very loudly known, said instinct quickly fades at the sight of Hordak.

“Oh, damn it.”

From his place on the floor, crumpled in a sweating, trembling heap, Hordak looks up at the intrusion. His eyes widen, face twisting with fury as he prepares to shout what Catra predicts will be his trademark “get out,” only to choke up and curl in on himself as some sort of painful spasm races through him.

Once upon a time, this sight might have spurred Catra into a bout of cruel gloating, but circumstances are vastly different today.

Today, before either of them can really take stock of what is happening, she helps him up and half-leads, half-carries him to the corner sofa, depositing him with a strained grunt before taking a step back and giving him a moment to collect himself. Which he does while glaring at her.

For some time, the only sound between them is the ugly rasp of Hordak’s panting, then: “Get. Out.”

Ah. There it is. As expected. As anticipated. Catra’s ears flick at the command.

A part of her still bristles at his snarling, at his combative ire, at his accusatory glare... but a different part notices instead how that glare comes through dull eyes, how that snarling fades into exhausted panting, how he’s still trembling, even before his very unwanted audience. As the seconds pass, this part maintains its position at the forefront of her mind, until:

“You want some water?”

“...”

“...what?”

There’s a sudden lightness to her thoughts.

“I’m gonna get you some water. Just... stay there, okay?”

Melog punctuates her words with a happy chirp before providing the necessary teleport. A minute later, they’re back from the kitchens, glass of cool water in hand. Hordak remains where they left him, though he actually gives a bit of a start when they reappear. The momentary surprise disappears under a scowl as Catra holds the glass out to him.

He curls his lip. He doesn’t take it.

Catra remains steady. Next to her, Melog sits, tail waving a constant, slow path in the air.

Hordak bares his teeth.

“I do not require your pity, Catra.”

“Good, ‘cause all I’ve got is this glass of water.”

He gapes at her.

“Which, y’know, you should take. Because my arm is getting tired.”

His expression closes off again in another scowl (he never did see the humor in her sass, did he?), but after a few more moments, Hordak relents. Slowly, clearly trying to keep his hand from trembling too much, he takes the offered glass.

Catra sighs and, suddenly drained, sits down on the ground a few feet away from him, resting her back against the arm of the sofa. Melog stretches out beside her, and Catra turns her back to Hordak to focus on providing the desired belly rub. She swivels an ear towards him, listening for him to finish draining the glass. He does so.

She can hear that his breath has lost that ugly rasp, and a tightness in her chest that she hadn’t been aware of loosens.

“So,” she begins, trying to keep her tone casual, “do you... need to call Entrapta? Is it... is it your-”

“Entrapta is currently beyond the reach of our communication modules.” She’d steeled herself for another snarled response, but his voice is calm, almost quiet. “And no; it is not my armor.”

“...oh.”

A minute passes. Two. Catra starts to tentatively turn around, wishing to steal a glance, but Melog thrusts their head into her lap and refocuses her gaze downwards. Another minute passes, then:

“It... it has proven somewhat...” He starts, stops, starts again. Stops again. Something that is not pain chokes his words, and though she wants to somehow encourage him, a soft rumble from Melog compels her to wait.

“Even with the armor, there are times that I... have difficulties.” He is breathing quicker again, she can hear; not quite panting, but definitely breathing quicker. In her lap, Melog seems attentive but otherwise unconcerned.

“Particularly during periods of higher stress, or exertion. Though,” he suddenly hisses, and Catra hears claws scrape against fabric, “hardly anything about our current work should merit this... exacerbation.”

He falls quiet, and for what feels like a long while, neither of them say anything. Melog’s soft purring fills the silence.

“Sparkles is mad,” Catra finally says, “Adora’s calming her down.”

This time, when she tries to turn her gaze back to him, Melog remains quiet. She watches Hordak nod, sees his ears droop.

“My behavior has been... unacceptable. I shall go request an audience with Queen Glimmer and make an apology-”

“Uh-uh.”

He frowns at her.

“Oh, I mean, yeah! Definitely apologize. You were a jerk. But not now; you should rest first. I’ll go tell them that you’re not feeling great, and-”

His scowl returns.

“That is not necessary.”

She matches his frown with her own and scoffs. “Uh, according to what just happened, it is. What? You’re just gonna... pretend you’re fine and keep going?”

He looks like he wishes to say something less-than-polite, scowl deepening, but instead he turns away with a quiet huff. His ears droop even further.

“The terms of the treaty are fair, and it is my duty to adhere to them. This... lapse... aside, I am entirely capable of doing so.” He sighs and seems to will his ears into a more neutral position. “So yes: I shall ‘keep going.’”

Catra blinks at him.

“That’s... really stupid.”

He blinks at her.

“...what?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s stupid. What’s the point of it... pushing yourself like that when you’ve obviously had enough? If you need a break, then-”

Suddenly he snarls, he rounds on her, teeth and eyes glowing too-brightly, and she nearly jerks back. Melog tenses beside her but remains still.

“Then what?! I should inform the Queen, and she will suspend proceedings and accept needless delays for my comfort? That is... that is-”

He stops abruptly because she’s laughing, a dry sort of chuckle that might have infuriated him save for the fact that, when she notices his attention and stops, it’s to smile at him. Catra smiles at him, and the expression holds an honest sincerity that he’s never seen her exhibit before. His indignation fades; his aggressive posture deflates.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what she’ll do.”

At first, he only stares at her, as if uncertain that he has heard what he believes he has heard, but eventually Hordak swallows, glances away, glances back, presses his lips together.

“That is... highly illogical, given the circumstances. I am not... I do not...” His voice fades, and his ears all but wilt.

For the second time that day, Catra does something without thinking, settling herself into the seat next to him and placing a hand over one of his. It’s tense and cold to the touch; her thumb begins to stroke his knuckles without her realizing it. Hordak remains silent, lips slightly parted, transfixed. He does not even react when, on his other side, Melog presses their body gently against his leg.

“It’s a treaty, Hordak,” she begins, and her voice nearly strains for a moment when her brain catches up with her actions, but she steels her resolve and continues, “not a sentence. Not a punishment. I thought it was, at first. I figured it had to be, because of all we’ve done... all I’ve done. But it’s not.”

Catra remembers how she first felt, all those months ago, and she makes the connection between her old fears and his current ones, unconsciously pausing to squeeze his hand; her ears have pinned back, and her chest is suddenly tight again.

“It’s not supposed to... to hurt. For either of us. Y’know? I mean... I was out with the flu for a week a couple of months ago, and the worst thing that happened was having to choke down Perfuma’s gross herbal junk.” She huffs out a laugh, but there’s no amusement in it. “This...”

Now her voice does strain, and she has to stop for a moment before continuing. Beside her, Hordak is breathing quickly again and trying very hard to stop.

“This isn’t the Horde. Either Horde. How we feel matters. How... how you feel matters. So if you need a break, you get a break. ...okay?”

It takes him some time to answer, and in that time Catra realizes what her hand has been doing; she snatches it back just as he finds his voice.

“If... if you believe that your suggestion is... appropriate, then I shall agree to it.”

Catra lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The smile returns to her face, and she nods. Melog trills happily and rewards each of them with a gentle headbutt.

For what had seemed such a dramatic conversation, the aftermath is anything but. Catra and Melog return downstairs and tell Glimmer and Adora of what has transpired. Their reaction is as expected: the work is postponed, and Hordak is given leave to rest as long as is necessary, no questions asked.

He spends the remainder of that day and the next in bed, rising in the late afternoon to deliver a very formal, semi-awkward apology to Glimmer. She responds with a very formal, semi-awkward acceptance. Their working session resumes, though Hordak finds that he needs to excuse himself again after only a couple of hours. That evening, Glimmer has a basket of strawberry tarts delivered to his room. She also makes a point of ensuring that their sessions no longer extend into the late night hours.

Catra remains nearby, much to Hordak’s (admittedly only half-sincere) chagrin, and between her stubbornness and Melog’s perception, he is kept well-supplied with snacks, water, extra blankets and, though both refuse to admit it, friendly company. Adora spends her time trying to contact Darla; when she succeeds, Hordak happily accepts Entrapta’s enthusiastic check-in (and assures her that, yes, he is being provided an adequate amount of soup).

A few days later, he is able to rejoin the group in full capacity, and they finish their work with little harm done by their extended schedule.

Then it is time for him to return to Dryl (Entrapta arrives the next day), but before he boards his transport, he takes a moment to do something he’d once never imagined he’d do: thank Catra. Awkwardly, as seems is his communicative style this trip, but sincerely.

She grimaces slightly, refusing to meet his eyes, and scratches absently at the back of her head. Next to her, Melog utters a noise that sounds like a warbling coo, their mane glowing a faint pink.

“Yeah... well... better than you passing out and bringing the wrath of Entrapta down on us. Bright Moon’s still rebuilding, y’know.”

This elicits an actual laugh from Hordak, sudden and rather loud, and Catra fails to keep the surprise from her face as he regains control of himself and gives his final farewell with a small, genuine smile.

Despite Melog confirming for the world that she is blushing under her fur, Catra smiles back.

#all right we are keeping this despite it making me cringe #catra #hordak #pc:ac

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Victor’s Delicacy Date (Eng Translation)

🍒Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers!🍒

Note: This is a cancelled date which will unlikely come to EN :’(

More from this Collection: Gavin // Kiro // Lucien

The date begins with MC sitting in for a negotiation meeting between Loveland Financial Group (“LFG”) and Yuan Shan Company

The negotiation has been dragging on for 2 hours because both sides cannot agree on a price

Victor has been silent and no one knows what’s going through his mind

When he finally speaks, MC is startled because she has never seen Victor in full-blown work mode before

Lots of business jargon follow. Victor is basically really badass and shows he has done detailed research on Yuan Shan Company and knows that it’s not worth the money they are asking for:

Victor: You think LFG needs to rely on the little credit standing Yuan Shan has? Or do you think you’re in a position to discuss terms with me?

Victor: An LFG without Yuan Shan will still be LFG. Without LFG, what would Yuan Shan become?

Victor: I don’t plan to rescue a company that has decided to “commit suicide”.

Victor gives the representative of Yuan Shan Company another chance to re-consider, then leaves the room.

While MC is out for a breather, she overhears employees from Yuan Shan gossiping about Victor:

Yuan Shan Employee A: I heard early on that Victor is no-nonsense at work, but I never thought he’d be so…

Yuan Shan Employee B: He’s so domineering and arrogant, though you can’t deny he’s cool.

Yuan Shan Employee C: Sure, he’s cool, but if you were to live with him, the stress would be akin to shouldering an entire mountain.

Yuan Shan Employee A: What do you mean?

Yuan Shan Employee C: He’s basically an ice sculpture. I felt like I was going to suffocate in the meeting room… tch. His words are vicious! He’s so harsh! He clearly wants to swallow us up whole.

This lady… She actually gets it…

Yuan Shan Employee C: Also, I heard that last month, he fired an elderly worker who had been working here for five years because of some trivial reason.

MC: !?

Yuan Shan Employee A: Is that true? Don’t spread false rumours!

Yuan Shan Employee C: I already said I heard it from someone. Though… seeing him today, I wouldn’t rule it out as a possibility.

Yuan Shan Employee B: Just think about it. If he isn’t hard-hearted, how could LFG grow into what it is today in just 8 years? I also heard…

Their voices trail off, and I’m unable to hear what the employees say after this.

I originally saw Victor as just being plain overbearing, but I never thought…

MC starts getting flooded with memories of how Victor points out minor issues in her reports, his red-inked comments haunting her.

In the midst of her trembling, she sees Victor coming her way.

I panic and shift backwards, almost tripping because of my shaky feet. Victor quickly reaches out and steadies me.

At this moment, his black eyes, which look as deep as the sea, betray no hint of emotion. His frown, however, carries slight reproach.

Feeling shocked, I tear myself from his grip and jump to the side.

MC: S-sorry!

Before Victor says anything, he can only watch the girl’s retreating form as she hurriedly runs away.

Goldman: CEO, do you think MC is a little weird today, like she’s gotten possessed…

Victor doesn’t respond, only watching as MC grows smaller and smaller into the distance. He looks to be deep in thought.

MC continues to feel anxious as the afternoon goes on.

MC: Don’t think about it! Don’t think about it!

Victor: Don’t think about what?

Turning my head, I see a cold-faced Victor standing behind me.

MC: …!

Caught off guard, I am once again shocked out of my senses. With a ‘clang’, my lunch box falls to the ground.

Victor looks at the sight on the floor and frowns.

Victor: Why are you afraid?

MC: …Nothing…

I hurriedly squat to clean up the mess, but he reaches out to pull me up.

Victor: Come to the office with me.

MC: W-what do you want?

Victor doesn’t turn around, leaving me with the sight of his back.

Victor: There’s some wrong data in your report.

The curtains in the office are drawn and sunlight pours in through the window. The air is warm, but the only thing I feel is coldness.

The only sound in the room is the rustling of paper as Victor flips through the documents.

I stand in front of his office desk, like a child who has been punished.

After an inordinate amount of time, Victor finally speaks.

Victor: Do you have any questions for me?

I nod my head mindlessly, and then hurriedly shake my head.

In my heart, I mutter, “Weren’t you the one who came asking me about the wrong data…”

Victor: None? Very good. But I have a question for you.

Victor folds his arms on the desk and looks at me.

Victor: You’ve been avoiding me today?

MC: N-no I have not!

Victor: How so?

MC: …

I have nothing to say in response, and lack the guts to look at Victor. I stare at my toes.

I hear the sound of him getting up and his footsteps coming towards me. I feel his breath on my skin. I instinctively shift backwards, but he holds on to my waist to stop me.

I hear his voice from the top of my head.

Victor: Am I very scary?

I’m frozen to the spot, unable to answer.

The palm of his hand is slightly warm. The heat seeps through my clothes and onto my skin. I have nowhere to escape.

Victor: You look as if…

Victor pauses and lets out a sigh.

Victor: I let you sit in during the negotiation for you to learn. Not to let your wild imagination be used for things that serve no purpose. Ask me directly if you have any questions, instead of troubling your own IQ.

MC: …

Victor and his usual snarky comments.

I lift my head to look at Victor. His eyes lack the same coldness they had during the negotiation, but they carry an unreadable emotion.

This person… is he trying to explain himself because he can sense that I am avoiding him…

Victor: Do you still have any questions for me?

MC: …Yes, I have one question.

Victor: Speak your mind.

MC: …I heard that an elderly worker made a tiny mistake, one that could be ignored, but you fired him?

Victor: You’re very free today. You even have time to listen to gossip.

I duck my head slightly in embarrassment. Victor sees this and laughs in a low voice. I feel his grip on my waist tighten.

Victor: What else?

I shake my head.

Victor: Listen well. I don’t have the time to bother myself with trivial mistakes. Furthermore, firing someone requires legitimate and reasonable justifications.

I feel Victor releasing another sigh. After pondering for a moment, he continues.

Victor: As for the negotiation earlier… that’s a necessary technique.

He really looks like… he’s explaining himself to me.

Right now, Victor may not be gentle, but he doesn’t come across as aggressive.

Victor: Are you still scared?

With my face beet red, I shake my head again. Satisfied, Victor retracts his hand.

Victor: All right. Make a reservation at a restaurant then.

MC: Huh?

Why does he suddenly want to make a reservation? I haven’t even corrected the data yet…

Victor, as though reading my thoughts, continues.

Victor: Even though your data is strange, it doesn’t stump me.

MC: …

Victor: Don’t forget the restaurant.

MC: How about Souvenir?

Victor casts me a glance.

Victor: I’m very busy today.

I nod my head vigorously. He spent the entire morning on the negotiation, and having to cook at night… Even King Kong would be tired to the point of paralysis.

MC: I didn’t ask what kind of restaurant Victor wanted, or who he was going with…

MC leaves the office and looks for a restaurant on her phone. She finally decides on one and notifies Victor, who doesn’t reply. After a successful negotiation with Yuan Shan, he calls out to her:

Victor: Let’s go for dinner.

He says this naturally, but I don’t know how to react.

MC: …Don’t you have plans tonight?

Victor: You picked the restaurant yourself, so I should like it.

The restaurant is in a rather inconvenient location, so they have to walk quite a distance to reach it. MC is wearing an uncomfortable pair of stilettos. He notices that her expression is off.

Victor looks at my stilettos, takes my hand in his, and slows down his pace.

Victor: Idiot.

The temperature of his hand flows into other parts of my body. Although only a mere second passed, both my cheeks are already flushed. I unconsciously wiggle my fingers but his hand simply grips even more tightly instead.

Victor: Such thin high heels, are you trying to sprain your ankle?

MC: Of course not!

Victor: Then be obedient.

He doesn’t continue, leading me to the restaurant slowly.

MC: Victor, why did you suddenly invite me to dinner? I thought you were going to eat with some important guest, so I specially picked this…

…exorbitantly priced restaurant with a meal that will take hours to complete…

Victor: What, do you want to go somewhere else?

MC: …No need!

They proceed to have an evening of fine dining.

Victor: I didn’t expect that you’d be competent at picking out a restaurant.

MC: What do you mean by “didn’t expect”? It’s just picking a restaurant. My work is so much better than this…

The corners of Victor’s lips waver, but he doesn’t speak.

Under the warm yellow lights, I suddenly feel that the Victor in front of me and the Victor earlier in the day are two completely different people.

I ponder for a moment and decide to ask a question.

MC: Are the reports I give you really that bad? Is that why…

Victor continues ladling his soup, lifting his eyes towards me.

Victor: When I pick out mistakes, it means you have space for improvement.

Even though his answer is short, he says it seriously.

Their meal takes hours to complete.

While walking out the door, Victor naturally takes my hand in his.

Victor: Why is your hand so cold?

MC: Maybe the food we ate just now was on the colder side?

Victor: Let’s find a place to have something warm.

MC: Huh?

Did Victor not have enough?

The portions just now were quite small, and easy to digest.

It’s already late, so most restaurants would be closed…

I think for a moment.

MC: How about going to a food street for supper!

As predicted, Victor’s expression reveals a look of distaste.

MC: It’s really delicious… I always have wonton and spicy stir-fried river snail there with Willow and Kiki!

[Note] Wonton is a type of Chinese dumpling

Seeing how my eyes sparkle excitedly, Victor can only give in.

Victor: All right.

Victor parks his car outside the food street and they go to the store.

MC: Boss, I want a big portion of spicy stir-fried river snail! And two bowls of wonton!

Boss: Yo MC, you’re alone today? Where are the other two ladies?

MC: They’re busy so they can’t come. I’m not alone though!

I introduce the boss to Victor, who is standing behind me with a cold expression on his face.

MC: This… this is my friend Victor.

Boss: Ah, this lad is not bad, rather serious hahaha~ Lad, spicy or non-spicy?

Victor: Either way is fine.

Boss: This MC – she can’t take spicy food but always wants maximum spiciness, and even adds a layer of chili powder into the soup hahahaha~

A little embarrassed, I stick out my tongue.

MC: That’s only because your wontons and chili powder are just so delicious that I can’t do without them!

Victor looks at me, his voice carrying with it a rare smile.

Victor: Wouldn’t have expected you to have such a quirk.

MC: What “quirk”? This is clearly an interest… No, a hobby!

Victor arches an eyebrow.

Victor: Quirk. It means the person has an interest that differs from other people.

MC: Fine fine fine, and this CEO likes collecting small toys!

Victor’s expression suddenly falls. Meanwhile, I continue treading these dangerous grounds.

MC: For example, a cute lamp…

Victor: …

The food is served and Victor tries them.

Victor: I’ve never had such… interesting food in a long time. It tastes very good.

MC: Ah? … Which tastes better – this or the food from the restaurant just now?

Victor taps the bowl of wontons and points to the food in front of us, probably saying that the food here tastes better.

I smile, my eyes crinkling in happiness.

MC: Come to think of it, the best things I’ve eaten would be the food you make, and the food prepared by the boss here would be in second place.

Victor laughs lightly.

Victor: You dummy. Food doesn’t exist solely to pander to one’s tastes or to fill one’s stomach. There’s something more important - “companionship”.

MC: ?

Victor: It’s okay if you don’t understand.

MC: I understand!

Victor turns to look at me, a serious look on his face. I think for a moment before speaking.

MC: It means that when you eat with certain people, even delicacies can become tasteless. And when you eat with certain people, even cold soup can become excellent!

Victor: Although the way you express it is a little lacking, the idea not wrong.

Must Victor’s agreement carry with it a flavor of ridicule as well…

When I look up again, I notice some sauce at the corner of Victor’s lips.

He doesn’t seem to have noticed, taking his time to finish the food in front of him.

Seeing him like this, I let out a laugh.

MC: Victor, come here a little~

Victor: ?

Victor leans towards me.

I reach out to help him wipe off the traces of sauce. He is stunned for a moment, then grabs onto my hand before I can retract it. His warmth travels across my entire body.

Suddenly, time seems to have stopped…

Under the luster of the lights, the steam from the food rises. Victor’s face seems to fill my entire vision. I can hear the faint noise from the crowd, food stall owners shouting, the sound of food being cooked…

These sounds tell me that time is ticking on…

It’s just… me…

I feel a thin layer of Victor’s breath slowly encasing my surroundings. I can almost hear his heart beat. It beats with strength.

He looks at my shocked expression, and slowly opens his mouth.

Victor: Just now, you asked why I invited you to join me for dinner. I think you already know the reason.

Through the steam, I can see a rare tenderness in his eyes. As well as the seriousness that has never left.

Victor: I know people think I’m unreasonable, or even scary. But the last thing I want is for you to be that person.

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc victor #mlqc spoilers #love and producer #cncancelled

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classic80sand90smovieloves2 · 4 years

Text

Meeting and Dating Ricky Thomas

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

- You first met Ricky after moving into his neighborhood. Your parents thought that it would be a good idea to send you to summer camp while they got your new house ready so they asked around and settled on Camp Arawak.

- They mainly decided to send you there because they found out that Ricky; who was your age, would be going there. Your parents had asked the boy to take you under his wing since you didn’t know the place and he begrudgingly; up until he met you of course, accepted.

- He was expecting you to be young with the way your parents had approached him but as he stood at your front door watching you lug your bags down your stairs, well, lets just say you certainly weren’t a kid. He could immediately feel his spirits lift.

- Your father thanked him for looking out for you and you gave him a shy somewhat embarrassed smile. After saying goodbye to your parents, you turned and followed him to the bus stop, your nerves at an all-time high.

- Ricky is very pleased with the situation. His summer has certainly started out well. He introduces himself and starts making conversation the instant you’re away from your parents, asking you questions about yourself and all that good stuff.

- When you’re finally at the camp, he acts as your own professional tour guide, telling you all that you need to know, showing you to your bunk and telling you where you can find him. You thank him and head off into your cabin while a million different scenarios involving the two of you race through his head.

- Due to the nature of your meeting, Ricky has the perfect excuse to force himself down your throat. Come on Y/n, I’ve got the perfect plan for this activity. Hey Y/n, I’ll walk you to the building; you know, so you don't get lost. Y/n, those girls are jerks, come on, lets hang out all alone together over here.

- I feel like Ricky wouldn’t even ask you out, he’d just sort of assume that the two of you were dating from how much you hung out and how accepting you were of his; what he thought was obvious, flirtation. I mean he certainly wasn’t subtle about his interest in you either but you probably just thought that he was being friendly and that that's how all guys; or at least guys from your new city, acted.

- That was why it took you by surprise when; all of a sudden, he just started speaking like the two of you had been a couple.

“Hey Y/n, I was just thinking that maybe you’d want to go steady?” He spoke as though it were a completely normal thing to say, busying himself with swinging a stick back and forth as he did so.

- You were completely taken aback …but then it all clicked. The compliments and teasing, the constant company, the different places he’d taken you when you were all alone. They’d been dates. He had asked you out, it had just been so nonchalant that you hadn’t realized it wasn’t just another hangout.

- You liked Ricky so it wasn’t difficult for you to agree to his proposition, but even if you hadn’t liked him like that at first …were you not sort of in too deep to back out?

- He gave you a smile when you agreed, taking your hand and telling you to “come on” as he led you into the trees beside the trail you were on. He stopped when the two of you were perfectly hidden, placing his hands on your shoulders and pulling you into a kiss. Two romantic surprises in one day, how lucky were you!

- So that's the story of how you got your first kiss and found out that you had a boyfriend all in the span of a few minutes. Definitely a good one to tell to your future kids.

- Pda all the time. Touching you is always a good thing in his eyes and everyone around you being able to see that you’re a couple is just an added bonus.

- Literally everyone has to know that you’re together. You’re his! Arent they jealous? Look at how wonderful his girlfriend is! Hey, he said look not stare! Keep those eyes to yourself bastard!

- He likes to keep his arm around your shoulders whenever you’re walking or sitting together.

- Kissing in the woods.

- Pecks on the lips. They always make him smile.

- He genuinely has a hard time keeping his eyes off of you. You’re just so pretty and you’re his, he knows he’s a heartthrob but boy he feels like he got lucky.

- His kisses are somewhat clumsy but nice. They’re pretty much always gentle and chaste but you always have more than one so you never mind that they’re short and sweet.

- Lightly tugging at his hair when you kiss. You sort of do it absentmindedly but it drives him crazy, if you know what I mean.

- Handholding. It just feels natural to him. He’ll often reach for your hand in the dark whether you’re sitting and watching something or he’s walking you home.

- He likes being the big spoon when you cuddle, nuzzling his face into your neck and hair as he pins you close to him. He also likes when you face each other, your face buried in his chest as his arms wrap themselves tightly around you. Regardless of the position, you always feel safe in his arms which is exactly what he wants.

- Stealing one of his shirts to sleep in. You can’t exactly cuddle when you’re at camp so his shirt will have to do.

- Nicknames? Are you kidding. He’s got pages full of them.

- He never minds any of your odd quirks. He just accepts you for who you are.

- He literally cannot see you out in public and just not talk to you. Hanging out with his friends? You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a minute.

- Anytime you visit, he tries to usher you out of his house as quickly as possible. His mothers eccentricity sort of embarrasses him.

- Becoming friends with Angela and Paul.

- Getting to hear about all the shenanigans he got himself into with Paul. He likes being able to impress you with his stories.

- He likes walking you back to your bunk after dinner or the little gatherings that the camp has. Is it mainly because he gets a goodnight kiss? Maybe.

- Getting little handpicked flowers and pretty weeds.

- Going swimming together. He cant even hide his pleased grin when he sees you in a bathing suit.

- You allowed him to touch your boob ... once. It literally made his entire year.

- Arcade dates.

- Sneaking out to see each other at night.

- Not a lot of things scare or creep him out. He’s got no problem squashing a big for you or proving that there’s nothing there when something goes bump in the night. None of your teasing threats ever scare him either.

- Listening to him brag when he wins a game.

- Trying to get him to watch his language and keep out of trouble. I suggest using the argument of: well if you’re being punished then we can’t hang out together.

- He teases you a lot but it’s always good natured.

- Tricks and pranks. He likes messing with people but in your case, he does so nicely. He’ll also occasionally ask you to help him prank someone else which is a nice change.

- Sarcasm and smartass comments.

- He’s definitely the type of guy to say that he doesn’t understand girls whenever you say something suspicious or the two of you have an argument.

- He’s annoyingly good at persuading and guilt tripping you into doing something when he really wants it. They’re never anything bad or malicious, don’t worry?

- He has a habit of showing up at just the right time. It seems like he always just happens to be there when you need him.

- He’s good at comforting you, even though what he says is fairly juvenile. It’s all in the way he says it and the way he touches you.

- He may act like a jerk sometimes but he really does care about you a lot.

- He questions you about the guys he’s jealous of, asking you who they are and how you know them; or what you’re doing if you seem to be flirting.

- Some of the older guys at camp; the ones that he regularly pisses off, have definitely flirted with you just to mess with him. He’s still bothered by the fact that they managed to make you legitimately flustered.

- He makes sure to take care of you. Haven’t eaten? He’ll grab you something. Look tired? Did you get enough sleep last night? Someone upsetting you? He’ll tear their heads off and shit down their throats.

- No one is ever gonna hurt or upset you in his presence and outside of his presence. He’s always running to your defense and acting like your knight in shining armor. He’s protective when it comes to the people he cares about, it’s just a part of who he is.

- He’s definitely gotten into some fistfights in your honor and to protect you. He’s pretty much a powder keg when it comes to defending you.

- He’s got a temper which means two things. 1) You’ll have to learn how to calm him down properly or 2) you’ll have your fair share of fights.

- Fights can definitely get heated and blown out of proportion because of his short temper. Occasionally, he’ll insult you and/or you’ll break up but he always comes back and admits that he didn’t mean what he said.

- No matter what you were fighting about, he’s always able to worm his way back into your heart, even though he’s pretty bad at apologies.

- He’s not one for all that mushy gushy romantic stuff so he rarely says that he loves you. Instead, he shows that he does through his actions.

- The future is certainly going to be a bit ...turbulent, but he hopes that you’ll stick by his side for a while.

#80s movie imagine #80s movie headcanons #80s movie headcanon #80s movie imagines #sleepaway camp imagine #sleepaway camp headcanons #sleepaway camp headcanon #Ricky thomas imagine #Ricky thomas headcanons #Ricky thomas headcanon

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mallowstep · 3 years

Note

What characters in Warriors would you change by personality/development? Since there are a lot of Warriors that had lost potential, which ones do you think would've turned out to be AMAZING characters if they had more care given to them?

lmao i just did the one with bad end-of-arc stuff, so this feels fitting.

which, btw, i think these are different things, altho i won't be surprised if we see some repeats

i'm also going to do my best to not include too many background characters, because that's cheating. like yeah, sure, mossyfoot could have been a fantastic character but like she has like five lines in mistystar's omen, y'know?

and as before, if you want detailed discussion of anyone, send me an ask w one or two characters n i'll ramble on à la what i did for breezepelt anon.

okay, let's go! again, i'll be going roughly chronologically

silverstream. she could have been a lot. actually, silverstream novella would be cool? that would be fun.

sandstorm. idk. i just want to see her from someone else's pov, not fireheart. is she in redtail's debt? prob not signficantly

morningflower. i have so many questions. i want answers. i love her. she's so pretty.

deadfoot. i just. i just. he's. he's just. i want. i want. so much was set up in tallstar's revenge and yet. and yet.

until we get leopardstar's honor (and maybe even after, if it's bad), leopardstar.

related, mudclaw. we did get winds of change (which i'm still reading), so that's good! but i haven't finished it yet so it doesn't exist lmao.

mistystar. like. uh. her novella is bad? it's not bad the way leafpool's wish is bad; it's just not enjoyable, imo. but she suffers so much. i want to feel her pain; i also want to mercy kill her.

stonefur! my boy.

tallpoppy.

littlecloud.

BLACKSTAR. we got blackfoot's reckoning (which btw why is it tallstar's revenge but blackfoot's reckoning what? are we getting a blackstar super edition?)

sorreltail.

BRINDLEFACE.

ferncloud! god i love her. she's perfect.

is it cheating to say squirrelflight again? she barely fits on this list but as far as i'm concerned you could never give too much care to her. she's not really on this list i just love her.

ashfoot! ASHFOOT. i do like that she came up in crowfeather's trial tho! just haven't read it.

billystorm. he was in skyclan and the stranger a lot which was good, but i still think he deserved more.

all of the sisters. they're great characters, but you can't have too much of them. okay maybe you can, but we're not even close.

GOLDENFLOWER. GOLDENFLOWER. NUFF SAID.

oh, opposite! snowfur is a really well done character. she's given exactly the right amount of weight and time, very well executed. maybe i'm biased but i think they did a good job with her.

mothwing? uh, i just can't get enough of her but also i think while mothwing's secret made me sob like a baby i think she could have gotten a whole arc and i'd still be saying mothwing but also she deserves more and no we don't count tbc bc that's not my mothwing

WILLOWSHINE. WILLOWBBY.

the oots riverclan apprentices. they make it on this list bc (a) i gave them all personalities and (b) a lot of them have fucked up allegiances. hollowflight, rushtail, troutstream, mossyfoot: i honor you in one bullet point since you're way too minor to get your own.

millie. i haven't read the greystripe graphic novel, but i do try to focus on main arc content for these lists anyway. but millie. kind of.

a moment of silence for every apprentice and queen ever killed for a plot device. swiftpaw, shrewpaw, brindleface, badgerfang, smokepaw, coriander, and more i cannot remember: this one is for you.

moth flight. no, i know she got her own super edition i just. uh. this is a lil personal but as someone with adhd, reading her super edition made me cry. n i want more from her

fuccck okay so i don't remember anything that happened in avos that wasn't violetshine (violetshine) so my avos list is gonna be bad here but. puddleshine.

larksong, or w/e sparkpelt's mate was named.

like most of the great battle casualties.

half moon!

harestar

flametail and dawnpelt.

ANOTHER GOOD ONE: NEEDLETAIL. that's the first needle's name, right? i'm sorry i'm bad with this but anyway. needletail. she was very good. she did suffer a lot because her bonus chapters which. bs can i say. i cannot afford the b&n editions i don't have space or money for physical books. very bs. but needletail.

tawnypelt.

the guardian cats!

the other needle? needleclaw? is it needleclaw? that's a bad name lmao. people complain about twigbranch but like. at least twigbranch has meaning and i think it's cute. needleclaw is just. repetitive for no reason. what, leafstar, are you naming her after sharpclaw? yeah sure i definitely believe you smh.

all of leafstar's kits.

APPLEFUR.

velvet. i loved. just. also moonkitti's velvet is adorable. but legitimately, canon velvet too could have been interesting. mostly through her relationship (i.e., connection, not necessarily romantic) to alderheart.

ALL OF THE UNNAMED KITS.

any deputy who retired or died from normal events. any. deputy.

really the thing with warriors is when you have this many characters, every character is a chance to do something interesting.

like, uh, okay. let's look at birchfall. he's a great example for what i mean here because he's. he's not quite a blank slate but you can still write just about anything and say "look, it's birchfall."

i can make him a good father who dovepaw thinks about and misses in dovefeather:

"How are you?"

"I'm good. I miss all of you."

He purrs. "We miss you too. Whitewing and Ivypaw will be thrilled to see you." He studies her. "Has RiverClan been treating you well?"

"Yeah, I've been learning a lot." She waves her tail, excited. "I even learned how to swim."

Birchfall chirps. "Really? Imagine. My daughter, swimming."

"It's not as hard as it looks," she says. "And the water is warming up."

Birchfall licks her shoulder. "I'm proud of you, you know that? It's not easy to leave your Clan for so long."

just a cute lil convo i haven't posted any wip teasers in a long time.

but that doesn't make it the only way to write him. and i know that's obvious, but like! that's my point. there's almost infinite potential in warriors. i've read fics for canon characters but you feel like you're reading ocs, not in a bad way, they just don't have any personality.

i had to sit down and do character creation strategies for trout, rush, and mossy because they just don't have a lot going for them, canonically. i could have done anything.

so uh? yeah?

as always, thank u for giving me an opportunity/excuse to ramble

#ask #anon #mine #talk #dovefeather #long #essay

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avas-inner-demons-are-babies · 4 years

Text

Ohana

Ship: None (Though you may take implications as you please)

Summary: Leif has always insisted that he should be allowed to do things on his own. Well, now he’s on his own and honestly...he isn’t enjoying it. Perhaps a bit of new company can help him sort out his feelings.

A/N: Hey everyone! World’s most confused college freshman here, bringing you another MID fic that took waaay to long to get typed up. Legitimately, this has been sitting in my Google Docs for months, just taunting me. But there’s been a little less stresso in my espresso lately, so I took time to actually make myself sit down and get it done. I may not ship Ava and Leif personally, but their dynamic is just *chefs kiss*. I’ll never get over that whole “If you promise not to kill me then I won’t leave you behind.” “You’re with me till you die” scene. It makes me feel things. But anyways, this is nearly 14 full pages in G-Docs, and I hope you can all enjoy!

A/N 2.0: So apparently one of the cons of staying up late to finish a fic is forgetting to attach the actual fic itself to the post. My bad guys, here she be.

In his couple hundred years of living, Leif can proudly boast that he has done many, many things; some very common for Daemos of his age; others common to those much older than him; and there have even been a few select occasions when he has done things that even the most aged and experienced elders cannot ever claim to have done (getting exiled, befriending a prince, travelling dimensions to a world full of humans, befriending a human, living with a human, laughing with a human...the list seems to grow daily now).

However, out of all the various activities that he has taken part in throughout his life, he can safely say that people-watching has not been one of them. Back on Daemos, staring- like most other interactions, whether they be direct or otherwise- often resulted in battle; which, in turn, resulted in a lot of shouting and blood-shed. It was a silent show of disrespect and of challenge; and only idiots and warriors sought out battles willingly. And while the title of ‘warrior’ technically goes hand-in-hand with Leif’s recently earned place as a knight, the position is just that- recently earned. And despite what some may say, he is not an idiot. Considerate? Scholarly? Absolutely not. But street-smart and clever? Let’s just say he hadn’t become an infamous assassin by running solely off of reckless impulse and uneducated whims. But now, here on Earth, almost all of those skills have fallen into uselessness, and he can people-watch without any real concern for his life.

And by the Gods is he watching.

He is watching and scanning and listening and praying. Praying for a familiar face. Listening for the sound of a high voice discussing things of no importance, or for a loud, bratty complaint about anything at all; for a gentle-but-stern reprimand laced with patience, or a subtly nervous acknowledgement of some strange discomfort; even for a soft-but-proud observation of something completely obvious. Scanning for a flash of hot pink eyes or a bobbing carrot-top head of hair or a giant amidst the crowd of short humans. Watching so intensely for all of these things that the rest of the world seems to have filtered down into a watery hum.

To put it quite plainly, Leif is lost. Very lost in a very crowded place, with no idea where his group has vanished to or where he himself should (or even can) be. It had been fun at first; being able to do as he pleased; wandering wherever his whims decided to take him, stealing food from a group of small humans, kicking over trash cans, and just overall being a minor nuisance. But invigoration tends to fade very quickly when one is travelling a lot of unfamiliar terrain, and as it goes, so too does energy. It doesn’t help that they’d been at this “music festival” -as Ava had called it- for quite some time before he’d broken away from her and the others, and admittedly, he is starting to feel the strain on his feet from all the walking. In addition, the ridiculously large gathering of humans that bustle around him is beginning to leave him overwhelmed. And on top of that…

“...it’s starting to get cold” He pouts internally, suddenly rather grateful for the double-layered, long sleeve human shirt that Ava had gotten him. Ever since the Fall Festival, he’d noticed the air outside growing chillier by the day. It was starting to get to the point where their thoughtful human host unusually protective prisoner was considering going back to the Sacred Ma’all and obtaining them some “coats and hats and stuff”, to quote her specifically.

As a particularly nippy gust of winds arrives, lashing the tips of his ears as it dances through, he finds himself wishing desperately for these objects that he can not even properly picture.

Looking up at the sky, Leif can just make out the thin line of orange coating the horizon as the sun begins its lazy descent. Eyes narrowed, he decides to take a break. Plomping himself down on a nearby bench, he sighs, combing his fingers through his absolute mess of a mane.

“Ava promised.” He whispers, “She promised. They’ll be back. They have to come back.”

The city-dwelling regulars that skitter past him hardly spare a glance for the strange, mumbling man on the bench. It’s nothing they don’t already see on their daily commutes, and most would not blame them for their experienced silence. But Leif, who has no way of knowing what they know, takes their purposefully imposed ignorance as a personal offence. He feels segregated from their reality. Invisible.

Alone.

Leif hisses in a sharp breath as the word taunts him. Pressing his head into the palms of his hands, he represses a shudder. He should be used to this by now; being left to his own devices. How many times now has it been? How many betrayals and abandonments? Four? Five? More than one person should be able to count. He has been able to handle himself just fine before. So why now? Why now is he having such issues with finding his own way? He might call it ironic if he knew the meaning of the word.

“It’s because you got used to the cushy life.” A small voice in the back on his thoughts croons, “You liked being chummy with the Prince and his guard dogs. You liked that there was always food at the ready, and that you never had to worry where you were sleeping next. You liked the stability. The safety. And in time, you even came to like the laziness that this new world allowed.”

“That’s not true!” Leif barks back, not realizing how loud the proclamation was until several humans passing by wince and stumble as their paces quicken. He is sure to lower his voice as he continues to mumble to himself, “I can still take care of myself. I haven’t gone soft. I can do this.”

Taking in a long deep breath, he steels his will against the unpleasant thoughts racing around in his head. He bows his head and closes his eyes. When he opens them again a few ticks later, there’s a clear change. They’re collected. Focused.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do this.” He reassures himself, feeling some of that original vamped-up feeling return, “I’m a Daemos dammit! I don’t need some human to hold my hand! I’ll find my own way home! And then.-then I’ll kill them! I’ll kill them for leaving me!”

The mental pep talk does great things for Leif. Now enraged and brimming with confidence, breathing heavily and nearly quaking with the emotion of it all, he puts on a sneer and glares out into the crowd. His fingers flex as he summons forth his sickles, ready to swing them out at any unfortunate soul that crosses his path. He stands, his knuckles white around their hilts. The dying sunlight has no effect on him anymore. His goal is apparent in his mind. He is prepared. Determined.

He takes one strong, bold step forward…

...and is subsequently swept off his feet by the force of a group of teens pushing past him.

Nearly losing his balance, Leif’s arms flail in an attempt to regain his balance, and he immediately bumps into a young couple. As they turn on him with vicious glares, he steps away from them. Disorientation takes this chance to rush through his system. As he fumbles about, one of his sickles manages to catch on the shirt of a small child toddling by with his mother. Leif jerks one direction while the boy jerks in the other. A shirt sleeve tears, and the little one goes sprawling to the ground. An ear-piercing shriek explodes from tiny lungs. All heads turn in their direction. Wide-eyed Leif throws away his weapons and presses his hands against his sensitive ears. While staggering away from all the attention, he runs into yet another man who- being caught completely off guard- falls back into someone behind him. As the domino effect continues, the noise and panic cause the poor Daemos to go into full flight mode. Gritting his teeth, he gathers just enough control to take a flying leap over the top of the completely bewildered mob. He lands back near the bench and grasps it tightly to keep himself from falling to his knees. As he takes a seat once more, the humans are all glancing around and shouting at each other in offense. The child continues crying.

Thoroughly defeated, Leif allows his head to fall back as he slumps down into the wooden comfort. Then, he lifts it back up only to cradle it in his hands. The unwelcome tears brought on by pure fear sting at the corners of his eyes. Releasing a shaky sigh, he finally gives into the thought that he has so far been refusing to voice.

“I’m doomed.”

***

Soaring high above the head of one particularly shaken Daemos, a careless pigeon makes its way around the festival with ease. Drifting aloof above the sea of hundreds of singing and laughing humans, it follows the breeze along the street and down towards one particular block, where a vendor has been handing out pretzels. And at this moment, it just so happens that a young woman, with flowing dark hair and vibrant pink eyes, has just dropped the remaining half of her salted treat on the ground. The pigeon is quick to join several of its other brethren in tearing at the free meal to pieces, completely unaware that shock is what delivered this wonderful treat to them. Although, they learn very soon after, as said young woman lets off a loud, horrified shout. Grey feathers go flying as the band disperses in a threatened rush.

The group of men trailing behind the woman jerk in surprise.

“Princess Ava? What’s wrong?” The youngest, a concerned looking redhead, calls out.

Ava stares at her companions with a feverish look. Pointing at each of them individually, the others can hear her counting them, over and over again.

“One, two, three, four...two, three, four...three, four, four, four! Why are there only four of you!” Her voice raises in both pitch and volume, “Where’s Leif?!”

Her words seem to settle with them all at the exact same time. The tallest of the bunch, Pierce, begins flickering his gaze from face to face, searching for the former-assassin in the horde of people around them. Rhys, Noi, and Asch all turn off in different directions, then come back and share a look. They all focus on Ava, who has turned to the ground with guilt-ridden eyes.

“How could I...he was just with us not too long ago, right? Right?” Her frantic question is only met with uncertain silence from her companions. Rhys goes as far as to look away, nibbling on his ice pop, “Oh God. We have to find him! Leif!”

Ava begins pushing her way through the crowd, crying out to her missing friend. The boys stick to her like frightened ducklings as they mimic her steps. Their screams rise above the swell of music and voices.

“Leif, where are you!”

***

As his friends begin their desperate hunt a few streets away, Leif finds himself aimlessly ambling along through the park. He has discovered that there are less people back within these tree-sheltered pathways and he is grateful for it. He is on the hunt for something, although if he were asked he would not be able to say exactly what. Shelter? Company perhaps? A sign pointing home would be nice, but he can’t really read all that well, and he doubts that there is one around regardless. For a natural-born hunter, he certainly does have an awful sense of direction.

His fingers tap against his thigh as he walks. On occasion, he mumbles curses at himself for getting stuck in this situation. The night sky is clear and bright, and more than once he finds himself staring up at it, feeling as though the stars are laughing at his plight. Gaining a little comfort in the embrace of the shadows, he sticks to them, glancing over every now and again to see a straggling human stroll by. He passes the fountain where he and Ava had encountered the threatening ‘clique’;passes a large stone statue of some long-dead human frozen in time; passes what looks to be a small garden area, where brightly colored flowers glow in the moonlight.

Eventually, Leif reaches an area that he first assumes to be abandoned. The quiet and empty wrap around him like a blanket. His only company seems to be the soft glow from the scattered lampposts. The peace here cradles him in its arms and promises him safety. He’s almost relaxed, resigning to spend the night in whatever tree provides the most cover and warmth, when suddenly-

“Heya there compadre.”

Leif startles back several feet and does a neat little twirl to face the direction of the slow and kindly voice that had called out to him. How he had missed the strange human before him in his first look around is beyond Leif, but he certainly sees the man now. He sits leaning against the nearest tree with an air of remiss and a smile on his face. Upon seeing Leif’s reaction to his greeting, he puts his hands up in reassurance

“Hwoa there! Didn’t mean to startle ya friend. Just couldn’t help but notice that you were lookin’ a tad lost.”

“We’re not friends.” Leif interjects so instinctively that he nearly cuts the stranger off. Then, catching his own tongue before he says anything truly offensive, he reroutes with, “But...yeah, I am lost. I got seperated from my group a while ago and haven’t been able to find them since. And I’m not very familiar with your kingdom yet, so I can’t just go back home.”

Thanks to the poor lighting between them, the Daemos misses how the stranger’s eyebrows quirk a little at his self-correction (and yet not the use of ‘kingdom’?). But as he makes his way over to this new human, Leif does begin to take in the man’s overall messy and unkempt appearance. His long, auburn hair is wrapped up into an extremely makeshift ponytail, the length of which surpasses even that of Pierce’s or Ava’s. The many rebellious strands held back out of his face by a thick, green fabric headband that’s stretched across his forehead. It must have been made to match the long, tassled poncho that he wears, their colors the same. Beneath it, he only seems to have a miserably stained grey shirt, and pants so baggy that Leif can not imagine them being comfortable. His skin, which at first appeared to simply be naturally dark, is actually merely a deceptive tan which highlights every freckle, scar, and wrinkle. Leif is sure that if he were to touch the stranger, he might have an almost leathery feel to him. Teeth no whiter than a well-worn paperback fill in a broad smile that brings to life the creases around the edges of both the stanger’s lips and eyes. Eyes that are brown like a healthy farm soil, and seem to hold a level of spirit and life that Leif can never recall having seen in any other person before. It’s unfiltered blatancy is surprising to him.

“Well ahh, what’cha waitin’ for?” The stranger suddenly picks up the conversation, scooching slightly to the right and patting the ground beside him, “Come’n take a seat. We can vibe while the universe carries the train of life down its long tracks.”

Leif hesitates. The human before him might be a stranger, but he emits an image that reminds the Daemos of the forest spirits that could be found back in his own world. The Earth seems comfortable around him. If one squinted, it would almost seem as though the tree’s trunk and roots had warped to form a throne around him.

“He seems like a powerful sage. I should stay. Maybe he can help me.”

Nodding to himself more so than the man, Leif takes his place on the grass. This results in a wide, toothy grin on behalf of his companion, and being so close now, Leif is able to notice how one of his canines is missing.

“Joyous day! You’ll be the first bit of company I’ve had in a long time my fellow wanderer. Say now, what’s your name?”

“They call me Leif.”

“Leaf? The name of a freelancer. A young man born for travel and change. A soul that dances in the wind, its colors ever uncertain.” The man’s smile softens and his eyes stare off in Leif’s general direction, and yet seem to be staring at something miles away, “You and I, I’m sure we’re the same. I��ve had many a name myself, but most around here know me as Jingle. It’s a pleasure to meet’cha.”

Jingle holds out a hand and they shake. Leif has seen this done enough times on the tee-vee to be able to properly pull it off, even if he doesn’t quite understand the significance. Then, glancing over his shoulder, Jingle proceeds to reach back and pull, from behind the tree, a forgeign looking object.

The thing is clearly made from some kind of light and polished earth wood. Its beige surface has been very delicately carved with a swirling, wave like pattern that decorated almost the entirety of its pear shaped body. A large round hole rests a little ways above the bottom. Stretched taut up its middle and along the long arm protruding from the top are six silver strings, wrapped at both ends around small metal nubs. At the head of the arm are six knobs all turned in various directions. None of the silver pieces shine, and in fact seem quite well worn. Nearly all of the impressive wood surface is riddled with scratches.

Jingle positions the thing against his chest.

“What is that?” Leif asks, eyeing it with unease.

“This here is my trusty guitar Taylor. I know she isn’t much compared to those clunky metal demons they’re selling out there-” Here, he nods his head out in the direction of the still-ongoing festival, “-but she does me just fine. So long as I keep her pretty, she sings like an angel.”

“It...sings?”

“As sweet and humble a tune as you might ever hear. Here, have a listen.”

With his nimble fingers already poised to play, Jingle wastes no time in coaxing a tune out from the air. From the first pluck of a string, Leif finds himself utterly enraptured. Each swift movement of the human’s hand brings forth another new wave of sound so soft and breathtaking that the Daemos doesn’t even know how to process it. It is as if Jingle’s soul is completely in tune with the instrument in his grasp. Leif sits stunned, feeling the music tempt his very heart and bring prickles to his skin. A minute passes, and he soon finds himself lying completely relaxed against the tree trunk, eyes closed, and merely absorbing.

Jingle plays for some time, and for that time the two are in their own universe. It is very dark now, and Leif can feel his mind just starting to slip off in unconsciousness. His body is heavy. Connected to the very grass he sits upon by an unnamable force that he chooses to call exhaustion. When his company eventually brings the song to an end, it takes Leif a few moments to reconnect with reality. Green eyes blink several times, and turn to find that Jingle is already watching for his reaction.

“That was amazing.” Leif breathes in as soft a tone as he’s capable of.

“Jus’ like I told ya. Voice of an angel.” Jingle hums, parroting his earlier words. He shifts to place Taylor on the ground beside him. When he turns back, he finds Leif staring into the space above them with a small frown on his face, “My friend, what troubles you? The world weighs heavy on your shoulders tonight.”

“I’m not sure. I just…” Leif trails off, searching within himself for an explanation for the crushing weight in his chest, “I think I miss my friends. I keep wanting them to be here, but they probably already left. I don’t think they’re coming back for me.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes. Jingle peers off down the park path. Leif clears his throat in a battle against the tight feeling that fills it. He jumps when a gentle hand lands on his shoulder.

“Lighten your soul wanderer Leif. Everyone leaves sooner or later, but just because they’ve left doesn’t mean they are gone. Pray tell, what doubts whisper in your ear tonight?”

“Eh?”

“Why do you assume so quickly that your friends won’t return to you?”

“Oh. The way you talk is really weird, you know that?”

The human man only smiles at him, patience and expectancy in his eyes. He makes a light gesture with his hand, urging Leif to continue. And after several seconds, he does with a tamed sigh.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me that I cause more trouble than I’m worth.” The simple admission seems to close a giant force around his ribs. As it squeezes painfully, he finds himself emptying more words than he ever knew he had been filling up with, “I know I tend to go overboard most of the time, but I never- no, I guess just lately- I mean, I haven’t been meaning to cause problems recently. Everything is just so...so calm here, and I don’t know how to live like that. Back on- I mean, back where I’m from, peace and quiet always meant something was wrong, and we hardly go anywhere or do anything, and I just get so bored! I hate just sitting around and doing nothing, but it seems like that’s all the others want to do anymore. And I know I could probably just go out for a while on my own and burn some energy but your world is so big and I just...I don’t want to end up on my own again.”

He gives a forced and pitiful huff of laughter.

“Although I guess it’s too late for that now. I’m sure they probably already went home and forgot about me. They’re probably relieved to get rid of me.”

Leif hadn’t meant to let that flooding fear leak into his words. Or that harsh scratchiness of his throat, which left breaks in his sentences. The uncomfortable rhythm of his heart and the mild shaking must be showing through as well now. It makes no sense to him. He’s only felt this terrified once before- the day they had lost Ava at the Fall Festival. And although the circumstances now are similar, he can not imagine what it is about this strange human that seems to make those insecurities rise up in ten-folds. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have the others with him now. Maybe it’s because he really has no idea where to go from here.

The panic had set on him so fast the Leif didn’t properly notice it until it was being chased away by the strong and defendant strums of a guitar. The first twang brought him to a jerking halt at first. But as the singing notes continued, his mind returned to the harmless reality. He came back to find himself looking at the stars.

Jingle- as if noticing Leif’s inner plight- had picked up Taylor once again.

“It is not so easy to forget one’s friends.” He murmurs as he plays, “Do not so swiftly dismiss your own worth my snowy-haired partner. If the universe truly believes you were meant to be with these people you seek, then it will surely guide them back to you. And it sounds to me that affection has already been allowed to roost deep in your soul.”

The younger has nothing to say to that. He only closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and nods. Drawing his knees to his chest, he crosses his arms and lies down his head. All these new emotions are exhausting.

***

Ava slumps down against the frigid stone of the fountain, pulling her knees up and hiding her face in them.

“I can’t believe this.” The muffled moan that escapes her is full of pain, “How could I lose him? What kind of friend am I? God, he probably thinks we abandoned him.”

“I don’t get what you’re so worried about.” Asch harrumphs, doing a single lap around the structure before taking a seat on its edge, “We haven’t encountered anything dangerous since we’ve been here on Earth. Leif can take care of himself for one night. Why can’t we just go home? It’s cold out here and I’m tired!”

Despite his childish whining, he at least has the decency to look sheepish when she turns to glare at him.

“Well if that’s the case Asch, why don’t we just leave you out here tonight? You’re always going on about how you’re so much better than Leif anyways, so if he can make it out here on his own, then clearly you can too.” During her short reprimand, Ava stands and crosses the few steps between them. Her eyes hold a level of rage that the Daemos can never recall having seen on her before. And despite the fact that he could easily beat her in a confrontation- physical or verbal- he feels himself shrinking in shame before her petite frame.

With a satisfied huff, Ava walks several paces away. In the short time it takes her to regain her composure, her anger morphs instantly into guilt. Her posture slumps as she glances back at Asch, whose hurt expression is turned towards the concrete.

“I’m...I’m sorry Asch.” She sighs, “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know.” Comes the humbled response from behind her.

“I’m just really worried about him.”

“I know.”

The next few minutes are shared in silence. The other three Daemos choose not to express a word on the exchange just yet, only shuffling about in their own thoughts. There is a level of complete loss between them. No one wants to leave Leif behind-- but Asch isn’t the only one whose focus and determination is beginning to wane.

A particularly nippy breeze blows through, causing Ava’s already shaking body to jitter violently. In a second Pierce seems to simply materialize beside her and pull her sniffling form into a warming embrace.

“Perhaps Prince Asch is right. We should go for now.” He suggests quietly as she leans into him.

“But Leif-”

“-Will be easier to find tomorrow when it is light out.” Rhys jumps in, “We are all concerned Princess Ava, but Asch does have a point. It is unlikely that Leif has found himself in any sort of real danger, and even if he has, he is a trained warrior. None of us are suggesting we abandon our search completely, but we are all at our limits. Even if we were to find Leif tonight, at this rate we may all end up sick by the morning. Please, we will follow you no matter your choice, but think reasonably.”

There’s a gentle hint of pleading in his voice that prevents Ava from denying his claims outright. She looks between all of them in turn, searching desperately for some counterargument that never comes to rise. It doesn’t take long before she finally lets herself really take in the heaviness of her own body; the stinging left in her feet from walking for so long; the need to close her eyes and rest that is becoming harder and harder to fight away. The boys watch with patience as her mind wears itself down, and they don’t miss the surrender that wins over her stature. There’s a quiet breath, then:

“...fine. Let’s just go home.”

Dear reader, have you ever managed to convince someone you love to do something they don’t want to, only to be hit with a horrible wave of guilt when they give in and agree to go through with it? Have you ever wished you could travel back in time just a few minutes, if only to stop yourself from being so damn persistent? If so, then maybe you can imagine how the Daemos boys feel at this point in time. The deep disappointment they observe in Ava’s eyes as she pulls herself from Pierce’s arms is enough to make their very souls wince. Three sets of eyes meet as their minds change almost unanimously, and Rhys can tell the other two are waiting for him to come up with some sort of clever escape. And being the man he is, he complies.

“Well, ah-just a moment Princess Ava. We...we haven’t heard from Noi yet! A decision such as this should be agreed upon by everyone present, yes? And perhaps if he believes we should stay out. Noi?”

Rhys shifts, hoping to prompt Noi into insisting that they stay. But the younger Daemos- who has been noticeably absent from the entire conversation- doesn’t appear to have even noticed his name being called. In fact, he likely missed the discussion as a whole, seeing as how he stares off down one of the darkness-swallowed paths with fully focused attention. His amber eyes sparkle with wonder. In listening closely, one may have heard him humming.

Debate temporarily forgotten, Ava and the rest focus on him with quirked eyebrows and tilted heads.

“Uhh...Noi?” Asch beacons tentatively.

“Do you hear it?” Noi whispers in response, to all of them and yet no one in particular.

“Hear what?” Ava asks, frowning, “I don’t hear anything.”

Pierce steps forward and rests his chin atop her head.

“I hear it.”

“Me too.” Asch adds after a moment.

“Me as well.”

“Wait, seriously, what are you guys hearing? It’s just quiet for me.”

“It’s music.” Rhys says, “Different from what the humans at the festival were playing. It’s quieter.”

“Softer.” Pierce adds, and the scholar nods.

“Earlier there were voices too.” Noi finishes.

“Wait, voices? But who else would be out this la-” Ava’s eyes spark up wide. Before the guys can even hit the same realization she has, she’s already gone; taking off with flying feet and a new swarm of adrenaline buzzing through her veins. “LEIF!”

“Princess Ava!” A chorus of Daemos voices rise up through the night, and they sprint, one after the other, along her trail. Her voice bounces off the surveying trees.

“Leif!”

***

“Leif!”

Two men sitting beneath a canvas on moonlit leaves jerk their heads up in unison. The elder lowers his guitar and puts on a muted, knowing smile. The younger goes tense as he strains his ears for the echoes of the voice that had rushed at them in the night. His green eyes go wide as can be, quite literally glowing with hope. He places one, prepared hand on the ground…

“Leif!”

Springing to his feet faster than should be natural, he runs only a few paces forward.

“Ava?” He breathes. The sound of rushing feet pouding closer out of the darkness causes him to gasp and with the new air in his lungs he shouts out, “Ava! Ava, I’m here!”

Leif steps into the light just as his human friend barges into its threshold. He’s tossed off his already imbalanced feet as she tumbles with a football-tackle force into him. They go down together onto the rocky ground. Ava clings desperately to his shirt, as if afraid he will vanish into thin air at the impact. Before either have fully taken to their jarring landing, he finds her burying her face into his neck, sobbing almost hysterically with relief. Her sporadic hiccups seem to be contagious, and for the first time since quite possibly his toddler days, he finds himself holding onto another person like a lifeline and shedding tears that he hardly cares if others see.

“I’m so sorry.” Ava manages through uncontrollable gasps, “I’m so, so sorry Leif.-”

“It wasn’t your fault, I’m-”

“-I didn’t mean to leave you. I just turned around and you were gone and-”

“-the one who walked off. I’m an idiot for thinking-”

“-we looked everywhere for you! We almost went home-

“-I got so lost without you-”

“-I didn’t want to, but Noi heard you and I’m just-”

“-I’m just-”

“-So happy you’re back.”

The unorganized scrambling over each other’s apologies ends with synchronization. Still sniffling, Ava lifts her head from his shoulder and meets his gaze. There’s a pause. Then broad, toothy smiles replace quivering frowns, and their foreheads press together as they share a laugh.

It’s around this time that the other four Daemos reach their position, only to find their newly reunited friends on the ground, trying to hold back bursts of giggles. The picture absolutely throws them. More so because of Leif’s bubbly demeanor than Ava’s, though both are certainly a sight to behold-- with tousled hair and dusty clothes, goosebump rippled skin now detailed with red marks where they had slid against the concrete. And yet the two grin and carry on in that way that can only be done after one’s stress-forced sense has left them, their cares evaporating into thin air. Earth truly must be turning them soft, because the once strict and stone-cold warriors- upon surveying the scene- give genuine smiles of their own.

It takes a little bit of time before the pair actually settle down enough to sort themselves out and stand once again. Even then, Ava makes sure to link her arm with his, swearing inwardly to never let him out of her sights again. Leif on the other hand, does his best to recollect himself, not wanting to give the others any more reason to pester him later about the blatant displays of emotion. He hides his flushed face in his sleeve, pretending to wipe a smear of dirt off his face.

‘It’s nice to see you again.” Rhys says with only a hint of scolding behind his words, “Though if you ever run off like that again, you’re finding your own way home.”

“That’s fair.” Leif replies with a shrug of his shoulders. He doesn’t miss how Ava studies his reaction from the corner of her eye.

“Did you miiiss us?” Asch drawls mockingly, stepping forward with a smirk on his face. Despite the remark, he gives Leif a friendly knock on the shoulder- a habit he’d unknowingly picked up a few weeks ago.

Leif only scoffs, but it tells them all they really need to know. He looks downwards briefly and mumbles something that only the young Prince seems able to hear. Asch blinks in recoil, then replaces his cheeky grin.

“What was that?” He asks incentively, “I don’t think we all heard you.”

Leif growls a low growl.

“I said-ugh-thanks for...looking for me.” Then, adding on more softly, “It’s nice to know you guys actually cared enough to find me.”

“Well duh.” Ava’s response causes him to lift his head in her direction, “I made you a promise didn’t I?”

His mind flashes back to that day they were shopping for decorations. He’d almost convinced himself it was a dream.

“Yeah. I guess you did.”

“Besides-!” Suddenly, Noi appears in front of him, beaming in the friendly boyish way that used to get him mocked back on Daemos, “You’re one of us! No man left behind, right?”

“I-”

“Exactly.” Rhys cuts him off in affirmation, “Despite your chaotic personality and violent tendencies, you are still an important part of our group.”

“You-”

“Yeah.” Asch sighs, carefully selecting his next few words, “I’m not sure where we’d be without our healer honestly. And...I will admit that you’re the only one here who’s any fun to spar with.”

“Yes.” Finally, Pierce, “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

As Leif gapes at all of his friends in turn, something new solidifies within him. See, when Asch had saved him from execution all those years ago, the Prince had earned his life. And with that, over time, there came undying loyalty. But it was always saved for Asch alone. The others had been tolerable companions at most, at least until they got to Earth.

Then came along Ava, who unintentionally became their focal point. She was important to him- to all of them. But he wouldn’t have died for her. Not at the start. That problem arose when she became fond of them, and they- in turn- of her. It only took a couple weeks after Leif had admitted to himself that she was actually rather preferable company, that he seemed to swear away to her the same things he had gifted Asch. His life. His loyalty. Fresh off the line went his affection as well. And although at this point, he was close to the other Daemos, he still felt separate. A product of his own mind and the upbringing that was so very different from their own.

It’s taken until now for that last link to click into place. That camaraderie which he’d been lacking now swarms through his morals and rearranges itself among those mental pieces. He feels some of his outlooks shifting. Most importantly, a single, powerful thought plants itself in his mind and takes root.

“They want me.”

His chest swelling, the most Leif can manage is, “Thank you.”

The sound of quiet shuffling a few feet away accidentally breaks through the touching moment. The emotional bunch all turn their attention to a man standing like a startled cat beneath a nearby tree. Clearly, he had meant to scuttle away unnoticed.

“Who is he?” Noi asks.

“Oh that’s Jingle.” Leif tips his head in the direction of the musical man, who has gathered his meager belongings in his arms. At the mention of his name, he winces slightly and gives a wave, “He’s been letting me sit with him. He's pretty cool for a human. The way he talks is weird though.”

Now, Ava, the Earth and city specialist of the group, immediately recognizes Leif’s apparent companion as a member of a nomadic homeless community that had just taken its annual place in one of the far back corners of the park. She’d never spoken to the man in true conversation, but she can recall exchanging a few words with him last year after she’d heard him playing the exact same guitar he now cradles to his chest. He had an impressive talent that convinced her to deliver him several dollar bills and whatever meager change she managed to hold onto after her sparse commutes to the mall or grocery store. She can vouch for the fact that he does say some fairly strange things on occasion. However…

“Hey, you’re that chill guitar man I met last year.” She says, hoping to spark some comfort in his cautious air, “Have you really been hanging out with Leif this whole time?”

Jingle nods, shifting into a more permanent stance.

“You didn’t have to do that. But I’m thankful that you did.” She smiles warmly, “Honestly, I was worried he might have gotten himself into trouble.”

“It was no problem young miss.” Jingle makes the effort to reply, “I’d seen you all together early in the day, and happened to catch my fellow wanderer out on his own. He looked like he could use someone to hold him steady until his world righted itself again.”

“Ah...yeah. I don’t doubt that he did.” Digging into her pockets, Ava pulls out five dollars- the sole remnants of cash that was pretty much all spent on food, “Here, please take this. It isn’t nearly as much as you deserve, but it’s all I have.”

The older human steps forward to accept the money from her outstretched hand with a grateful expression. Immediately after pocketing it, he spins back around in the other direction and walks away into the night. Ava silently determines to continue her tradition from before if she can manage to find him again in the coming weeks. But before any of that-

“Come on you guys. Let’s get home.”

#aphmau my inner demons #aphmau mid #mid ava #mid leif #mid noi #mid asch #mid rhys #mid pierce #mid fanfiction #aphmau fanfiction #there's also a sort of OC in this one #Which is really just a humanized version of Jingle from Hamtaro #because #a- childhood #and b- he was exactly the type of character I wanted for this fic #there's also a hint of dance man from Wandersong in him as well #please forgive me #I just live for vibing nomad characters #Thank you all for reading!

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softluci · 4 years

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omg, hey, how r u, hi, so nice to see u; welcome to my 3AM (now 6AM bc miss hellsite deleted everything) ramblings (which i will try to make as close to the original as possible); this one’s gonna be a Doozy

now that ap testing is over and i have more time to care about literally everything else, i realize that i . i am So Bad at taking care of myself. like, so bad. and i actually realized this months ago but i didn't have this account months ago and i didn't think of this months ago so—

((i was debating whether or not to limit this to gen z but i know it isn't just us who do this; or maybe that’s wishful thinking and it Is just us, but idk, man,, i feel like millennials be doing this too))

sometimes, a lot of the time i just . don't eat . and i don't have a bad or difficult relationship to food or an eating disorder or anything like that, i just Don't Do It because i either legitimately forgot or i didn't feel hungry even if i hadn't eaten for a significant period of time (6-18hrs, we'll say, because i do lose track). like,, when quarantine started, i was in my room, door Locked, for 15 to 19 hours a day + i wouldn't leave unless i had to use the bathroom or shower. i only started eating and leaving my room more because my mom had to ask me to. oh, and this should be obvious, but i don't sit and eat dinner with my family either.

additionally, and this is Much More Frequent, i don't sleep. i know i don't sleep because i slept for nine hours today and woke up dazed and confused. when we had school, i would either sleep for 1-6 hours or just not at all. and then i'd go to school and not pack anything to eat :p. i actually think the longest i've gone without sleep is a full day. and i don’t have insomnia or anything like that, i just be Staying Up

so, with those things in mind, i've been wondering, like,, like how the boys would react to an m/c like that, you know?

like, okay, first of all,, there's No Way mammon is gonna let mc sit alone in their room all day. his emotional support human?? alone without him??? unacceptable. it just isn't happening. he would Literally break mc's door down if they tried to keep him out, unless they, for some reason, really, really, really needed to be alone, and even then it is a Tossup. and then not sleeping or eating? hello, what do you think this is? he would accommodate them for a little while by bringing them food and making sure they slept but after a while he would literally drag them out of their room because there is no way. there is No Way he’s letting them turn into levi. not on his watch

an mc like this would give luci an ulcer. a literal ulcer. why are you a human and playing with the limits of your body?? who are you, do you think you’re made of metal? do you realize you have classes to attend and that you’re surrounded by demons literally All The Time? you cannot be caught lacking (i.e. feeling faint or fatigued because you haven’t eaten in seventeen hours or slept in a day). he would bring food to your room so he could make sure you ate, but when it came to sleeping? get ready to literally be dragged/carried out of your room and into his because he has work to do and he needs to keep an eye on you because Clearly you cannot be trusted to take care of yourself. he would probably go as far as to stop doing work and go to bed so you have nothing to hold against him. can’t sleep at a regular time because of your nonexistent sleep schedule? that’s okay because, beloved, He Is Putting You To Sleep. how he does so is up to you; and if you try to play like you’re Fine??

“mc, it’s seven pm, when was the last time you ate?” “five.” “am or pm?” “...” “well, when was the last time you slept?” “i haven’t.” “MC.”

you haven’t slept in just over a day? baby, levi’s record is three. he would be absolutely terrible for an m/c like this; he would enable them So Hard. maybe he would bring them food (and that’s Snacks, not actual food), and Maybe he would tell them to go to sleep once or twice, but Other Than That? he can’t take care of himself for Shit either, sorry you had to hear it from me, leviastans <3

asmo,, you are worrying this man Sick. you haven’t eaten in fifteen hours? are you on a diet? no? you Forgot To Eat? how many hours of sleep have you gotten? one? you Think? oh, Maybe it was two? ah, yes, mc, because that is So Much Better. seriously, though, if you won’t eat, fine, but if there’s one thing you’re doing, it’s sleeping. you can’t sleep at a decent time because you have no concept of a sleeping schedule? sweetie. beloved. he is putting you to sleep, be it through relaxing self care or something else, darling, you are knocking out. and when you wake up, he’ll have a full course meal ready and he will literally feed it to you himself.

what’s that? you haven’t eaten since Yesterday and it’s three in the afternoon? oh,, you sweet summer child, beel is heartbroken. keep insisting that you aren’t hungry while you can barely stand and his eyes will fill with tears. you don’t wanna leave your room? fine, but that is the only thing keeping him from throwing you over his shoulder and going to the kitchen. he would literally bring you as much food as he could carry and only eat a little bit on the way back to your room. can’t sleep? not a problem, wait there while he gets belphie to charm your pillow. do Not worry, teddy bear beel always has your back MUAH

speaking of belphie,, tell that man you haven’t slept in a day and he’s stopping what he’s doing, dragging you to the nearest cushioned surface, and laying down with you; you’ll be out in No Time. and once you’re up?? he’s dragging you to the kitchen and you’re eating any and everything he puts in front of you, and he’s not leaving you alone until you’re functioning like a human and not a gremlin, or so help him, you’ll die a second time.

you’re like, op,, y did u put satan last?? i couldn’t think of anything for him until now, i Swear i love him, okay, Anyway, you haven’t eaten in almost a day? do all humans do that? no?? why can you Barely Stand??? do you need to be carried to the kitchen? he is so confused as to why you just Haven’t Eaten when that is a basic function that humans need to complete or else they literally die; now wait in your room while he brings you something to eat. you can’t sleep?? do Not worry, that man will curl up with you and read to you until you’re Knocked Out, which won’t take long because he has a calming presence and a soothing voice, sweetheart, u r in good hands

ok it’s 7AM and i’m contemplating doing the undateables,, should i do the undateables? i’m gonna do the undateables.

oh my god,, if luke finds out that you haven’t eaten in, eighteen hours and you haven’t slept in like twenty,, the way you’re gonna have to put in Work to convince him that you did those things of your own volition and the demons you live with aren’t starving or overworking you and No they aren’t forcing you to lie about anything. after you’ve done that, he is seeing to it that you eat something right away; it does not matter where you are, you are a human and you’re feeling Faint around literal demons, are you Dumb? are you Dumb of Ass?? come with him immediately before you hurt yourself or get hurt, he is feeding you and then you’re sleeping in his room and he’s Not taking no for an answer; don’t even think about telling him no, he’ll cry at you.

you cannot tell me simeon is not the doting/fussing type, okay, and he is appalled. Appalled. what did you just say. the reason why you don’t look so good is because you’ve been up since Yesterday and you haven’t eaten since then either? why? what do you mean you forgot to eat; what kind of human Forgets To Eat? oh, you didn’t forget? you just didn’t feel like getting up? you’re gonna give him an ulcer. if he doesn’t do anything else, he is getting you something to eat, you literally just activated every older sibling/parental instinct he has from luke being an angel. he will literally take you to the closest place with food, sit you down, and buy you whatever you want, and if you say you don’t want anything, he’ll buy you one of everything and give the leftovers to beel, do Not test him. and when you’re done eating, you’re taking a nap. where? anywhere. no one will disturb you so long as he’s there, you’ll sleep perfectly fine <33

dia is half horrified and half intrigued. you haven’t slept in how long? are humans supposed to do that?? NO??? like,, part of him wants to see how long you can last without sleep or food just to see the limits of the average human and part of him wants to feed you and make sure you sleep immediately. he would have to fight every urge to do the former, but once he did, you are eating everything he finds and you are sleeping for however long his Humans 101 manual says you should sleep for.

i am so thoroughly convinced that solomon literally would not care at all you have No Idea-

like,,, i just feel like he’d ask you if you were alright because you looked a little off and you’d tell him you hadn’t slept or eaten in a while and he’d first look at you like you were literally out of your mind and then depending on where you were, Maybe keep you company (read: make sure nothing happens to you) while you take a nap, or Maybe buy you food, or take you to the house or purgatory hall (whichever’s closer) because he wouldn’t leave you alone,, surrounded by demons, ever; let alone in your current state. ok wow maybe he does care what a sweetie

barbatos would literally. he would keep his ^_^ cool facade, but on the inside he would be Screaming. full throttle internal screaming that has been going on for centuries just got several notches louder because you can’t take care of yourself, i hope ure happy. you haven’t slept since yesterday? one notch. you didn’t eat breakfast or lunch? another notch. you feel faint? oH WOW REALLY??? I FUCKING WONDER WHY another notch. come with him. please come with him before he blows a fuse for the first time in 400 years because you think you’re an exception to the rules of being a human. he’s feeding you and putting you to sleep whether you think you’re fine or not; don’t argue with him, he already takes care of his immortal boss who is the equivalent of an excited child on most days or a troublesome teenager on others and he Does Not Lose Arguments.

ok it’s almost 11am goodnight now <3

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fangofthedawn · 3 years

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30 facts

hehe i wanted to do this too..

1. the title of “unremarkable great genius” is self-appointed to mimic the way sun wukong’s title of “great sage, equal to heaven” was an empty title too-... unfortunately steel said it enough that others eventually picked it up as a legitimate title which bothered the fck out of their superiors

2. their hair is dyed - it’s originally black, but after an unfortunate overtone accident, they just decided to bleach it

3. they prefer loose-fitting or layered clothing, so their b3 outfit is actually more comfortable than what they wear on the job (2-piece suit... they used to wear a skirt, but it’s more difficult to move in than pants unfortunately)

4. in high school they were a member of the kendo club and functioned as captain; they also studied martial arts at home, though, which is why they didn’t go to many team outings

5. on that note, they were neither popular nor unpopular in school; coming from a family of “exorcists,” but having a friendly personality (and demonstrating that they know how to hit things with intent and accuracy) people liked them but they weren’t particularly close with anyone until they entered the work force

6. their family follows something close to the shisei seido system (or the yakuza.. and swordsmanship schools) with one, main family and its several subsidiary families all banded together beneath the same clan -- steel has the privilege (?) of being a member of the Main Family, but this is also why (other than the fact that they’re only blood related through their mother) they have a different surname from both of their siblings

7. their biological father was a swordsmith working for the main family, and he initially taught them how to use a sword

8. i lied in chat earlier i think they should be allowed to be fluent in japanese (native) and mandarin.... with marginal proficiency in english (they’re still learning)

9. they’re technically engaged to a ningyo, although the entire thing was a sham in order to expedite their fiancee’s exorcism... unfortunately, being a total normie, steel cannot lift her curse and she does not know that yet :[

10. they can play the koto, the shamisen, and the piano with okay proficiency... they’re not super interested in music on the whole, though

11. steel is also proficient in archery, though they favor swords and their fists over using a bow

12. the organization they work for was previously covert -- their only clients were typically superstitious people, rich people, and rich superstitious people. of course, things are different now thanks to [something that will be on the worldstate doc], and steel is personally grateful for the opportunity to show off

13. on that note, they have a bit of a bad reputation among some in their field -- some respect the fact that they’re a complete normie who manages to stand side by side with other exorcists, and some find them a nuisance that makes “real exorcists” look bad... they don’t care either way. they think they are a delight :3c

14. they have little fangs!! and their nails are sharp!! ... tiger motif yyes..?!

15. the longest their hair ever was was floor-length and they had to cut it bc they were sitting down seiza in a dark room and almost gave one of their family’s attendants a heart attack... haunted mf...

16. they're scarily good at mahjong... they could’ve been invited to summit for it, if they bothered to do it seriously...

17. they’re very particular about their title! of course, they prefer “grand exorcist” as opposed to just “exorcist” but they are fully opposed to being referred to as an onmyoji -- because “the position no longer exists, and i’d rather not get in trouble for parading around with a title that doesn’t exist” ... even though ... (looks at point 1)

18. their way of speaking changes when they’re on the job, they tend to sound more dramatic... Exorcist Persona

19. of course, they’re a big fan of monkey/journey to the west, though in more recent times they’re an avid sasuke watcher !!

20. they don’t smoke and request others don’t smoke around them; they take their health very seriously !! on that note, they tend to limit their alcohol intake as well

21. while they represent the white tiger of the west, their associated element is fire, rather than metal

22. their mbti type is ESTP

23. their occupation puts them adjacent to ‘supernatural hunter,’ although they claim that things like silver, holy water, and wooden stakes are for lazy people -- “a katana should be more than enough”

24. their favorite movie is tampopo

25. they like golden snub nosed monkeys

26. they own a hatsune miku gatebox. it was a gift from a friend.

27. their family is very fond of epithets and monikers; growing up they were referred to as “crimson collateral” until eventually earning the name “fang of the dawn” part of the reason for this is because of the shiesei-seido stuff mentioned previously in addition to people disliking referring to them by their surname

28. they don’t save anyone’s number in their phone, so unless you put your number in yourself, they’ll respond to most texts with “who is this”

29. they buy and sell gacha accounts for extra spending money. they have not gotten in trouble for this yet but they should

30. steel’s siblings were the only ones to see them off before they departed for summit!

#ooc #sneakin these in.. for fun..-

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jackbabewang · 5 years

Text

Head over heels

Genre: Another nose bleeding ceo Jae, Fluff, Mature content

Word count: 5,818

Currently, in your mid-20s, studied for a degree in Administrative Assistant at a four-year college and working as a secretary in a major corporation. You have a good salary and excellent benefits, earning enough to rent an apartment of your own, but your workload may be more than you can realistically handle and no matter how motivated you are, it will be beyond the realms of human possibility.

Working with your superior, Jung Jaehyun, is more like a profession. There is always a sense of moral obligation to do more than the minimum laid down in the job description when the man himself works like a monster. You were prepared for the immense sacrifice as well had you accepted the offer. It was agreed.

With great reluctance, you have grown one hell of an addiction to caffeine, which is clear when you go without it for even one morning, like today. You feel foggy and crabby. None of the words seems to penetrate beyond your mind of half-conscious blank. The pen that is unfailingly in your hand, starting to draw elaborate doodles on a clean page in the notebook which is largely useless at this point.

Surprisingly, Jaehyun is not listening to the presenter as well. He has crossed and uncrossed his legs six times, peeked out the window eight times. His fingers plow through his hair, messing up the always-neat style he has probably struggled half the morning to achieve. The generality however appears to be interested in the object of the meeting, behaving orderly and attentive. Their intention is, of course, to impress their boss. However the man is probably scoffing inwardly at their obvious acts.

He is looking around, when out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. The strain on your face, your lips pressed tightly together, your body slumped almost sliding off the chair, as if your backbone has been pulled out through the top of your head. Amused, he brings his attention to what exactly you are struggling with and he sees your right foot: bared. Stretching on your toes, you try to snag your lone shoe but it is an inch out of your reach. And inside, you curse yourself to lose that annoying habit of swinging your feet.

He watches a moment more then drops his pen, letting it roll over. He bends and pretends to pick it up, catching you off guard as he picks up your shoe instead and holds it so you can slide your foot into it. You cannot quite comprehend of his gesture, and try not to think about it—even when his hand, lightly touching your ankle in turn, sent coils of heat twirling all the way up your leg and through your whole body. Nothing comparable to this has ever occurred which requires direct bodily contact with your boss, to be exact. You slightly choke on your own saliva, but refuse to look at him in the face, visibly embarrassed. In the meanwhile, Jaehyun glances at you the oftener, thus noticing your reaction of an interesting one.

Weeks have gone by, you never spoke of the incident, and he never brings up the subject either as though nothing ever happened, despite the tension that is sometimes evident in the way he watches you like he demands a “thank you” after the act and thinking you are a woman so ignorant, unmannered and … immodest. That thought troubles you more than the other, though.

Troubles always, somehow, never come to an end, never reach exhaustion; they are new every morning, one woman in particular is trouble herself—Park Sooyoung, the embodiment of your day-to-day horror. You have to admit, from head to toe, she is more beautiful than any female, including yourself in this workplace. She is gorgeous with a perfect figure and has all the attention of the men here, except for the one enclosed behind glass doors on the 45th floor. Mr. Jung, Jaehyun, is eye-candy extraordinaire. Or ‘sex on a stick’, which you overheard her conversation that day in the pantry.

The employee manual says, “Keep the dating scenes away”, as it is most likely to ruin the workplace or kill your career. She interpreted otherwise, eagerly looking for her dear ones. You do not understand her, her constant attendance at Jaehyun's office with a stack of papers which she claimed as her legitimate reason to meet the CEO. And every damn time, exercising intense self-control, you refrain yourself from laughing seeing her walk out a minute after with her ‘documents’ left untouched, indubitably not a single glance from the man.

Then you know you might be in trouble when the buzzer system, a companion to the intercom, alerts you with two buzzes to indicate that you are to come into Jaehyun’s office. Knocking twice as a courtesy and you enter after hearing his bid and shutting the door behind. You utter no word, make no sound as you cross the thick carpet. You know the instant you set foot in there is something about the air that gives you a bad feeling. The familiar prickle ripples over your scalp and spreads down your neck and shoulders. You gulp.

He stops, looks up, then back to the chaos on his desk. “Could’ve stopped her…” Phew!

“Yes, Mr. Jung. I should. Next time.” Your sentence breaks into phrase, phrase separates into words, you speak out like a robot, totally expressionless.

“No more next time, please.” He has never used the word before, rarely hear it from his lips, which sounds like an exasperating term because it shows the helplessness in him. “And put this away,” he orders, without lifting his head.

The bittersweet fragrance of coffee curls enticingly around your nose, the porcelain filled and still warm in your hand, whereas he has not even touched the beverage. Sooyoung needs to step up her game if she is ever so determined to get into his pants. Brown is the colour of the milky coffee that Jaehyun absolutely dislikes. He has them dark brew, no milk, no sugar, no creamer. You have tried it once and it tastes bad, it tastes awful as its poisonous-looking black. You switch the flat-out rejected beverage for the one to his liking and not so long after he finished with nothing left in the bottom of the cup.

He works all day, and you work all day. As the saying goes, “A good boss does not leave until after his last employee does.” But if it is the other way round, does that make you a good employee? Totally. The corporation has an extra busy month with the expansion to take all the business it can get. To demonstrate how busy it is, longer hours of work on the same day has been introduced. Even on a Sunday, you are with your friends having brunch when you receive a call to work where your boss has clearly heard the munching of food and clanking of silverware against China over the line. How sucks it is even when you have not drive today and given ten minutes to be there, you have to pay the additional for cab fare.

Inside, Jaehyun is leaning over his laptop and typing furiously. His fingers are almost a blur over that keyboard.

“Sorry, Mr. Jung. I’m—” you glance at your wristwatch, holding the tiny face of it between the fingers of your right hand and squinting, “—six minutes late. I was caught in a traffic jam.”

“It’s fine. Come sit.”

You do what he asks. You peek over his shoulder and see a screen full of words, you peer harder at the teeny-tiny letters and it takes a fraction of a second to realize he is doing your portion of work. Almost immediately you interrupt him, almost instantly you regret your harsh manner when he turns to you with eyes filling with confusion before his brows knit themselves together in concern.

“Move over,” his fingers wrap around your wrists, pulling your hands away from which you have shielded the brightness of the display.

“No, that’s my work. I should be responsible for it.”

“I don’t have time for this,” he warns.

You grumble right back, “Just this one, alright? And I’ll do the rest.”

“If you’re feeling sorry then stay until I leave.” Oh so easily he is keeping you captive, simply taking advantage of his position because he knows that he can. And of course, you will.

There is the occasional tap tap on a keyboard, turning of pages, then comes the restlessness where conversations are strained or non-existent. As you let the spin of the swivel chair stops on its own, it yields to face the spectacular turquoise tank behind the ornate desk where Jaehyun is sitting at. There swims a three foot long koi which his father bought for 1.4 million after a fierce bidding war at a fish farm in the city of Hiroshima. The bare tank with no gravel or decorations is built into the wall covered with white marble; its simplicity yet luxurious touching makes it a convincingly beautiful moving portrait. Staring at it for the rest of the afternoon, or a probable evening, is enough to elevate your somber mood.

“Mr. Jung—”

“Jaehyun,” he corrects. He has previously asked you to dispense with the “mister” treatment when you and him are alone in the office but you cannot drop the formality just because he said so. You have to maintain the dignity of his position and allegedly emphasize an atmosphere of collegiality.

Suddenly you are eager to initiate a conversation, “I like your fish tank. Salt water?”

“Fresh actually.” Right there. He is giving you the look again. “It’s a carp.”

“I know I sounded dumb… You don’t have to make it so obvious…” you mumble under your breath, but he heard you nonetheless.

The sky has sunk nearer to the horizon and everything is deep red. Your Sunday is like an ordinary weekday and ordinary rounds of filing, opening and sorting the mail, verifying facts and assembling data—which you have gotten everything complete by now. However the workaholic’s compulsive ass stay rooted to his leather seat, as if he is growing right into it. Only when you call out to him for food does he excused himself from the havoc on his desk, reluctantly. It fascinates you most of the time how he actually listens to you when it comes to reminding him to drink, to eat, and never not to eat, because he always, always got carried away and forego meals. At some point, you are like his mother for real and feel an obligation to take care of him his health; while it only increases his dependency on you. Pretty sure you can accurately state his likes and dislikes with the certainty that you understand him better than he understands himself.

Two years of working with Jaehyun, you have never once put your foot in his pantry and you assume he never does too. It fills with the distinctive smell of those new things untouched by humans; pristine white cabinets reach to the floor and ceiling, bisected by a tasteful granite countertop and subway tile backsplash. The warm glow from the overhead lights giving the place a cozy, homey feel (and hiding layers of dust). Rather, you will work in here instead of facing the boring office neutrals 24/7.

You eyed him as he slurps his bowl of jajangmyeon and chomping down the strands of noodles with his front teeth. He resembles a rabbit eating like that but in all honesty you are hyper aware of the black sauce being splattered on his white shirt.

Or what he thinks about the food, “Do you like it?”

He ponders momentarily before answering, “This thing is unhealthy.”

Well, you are unhealthy for your unhealthy eating habits!

Jung Jaehyun, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, is made for fine dining and ridiculously expensive food anyway. What will he even see in these cheap Chinese food?

“How about this— Try this—” Fried dumplings dipped into the red sauce of tteokbokki topped with a piece of kimchi. You pick up the salivating fusion with your chopsticks, before you know it, he leans forward and captures the heaping amount in a huge mouthful. It then follows by approving nods and satisfied hums, all the while your mind comes into play. Purposefully, you ignore the jolt of awareness, even though it twists you up like a pretzel.

“What’s the matter?” he asks. “Do I make you nervous?”

The hell is he talking about. His speech is all but business-like and you are internally freaking out at this cheeky side of your boss.

“N-No…”

“I think I make you nervous.”

“You don’t make me nervous,” you reiterate. Collecting yourself, you pick up overlapping circles of sliced radish and pop them into your mouth only to feel the choking burn of vinegar at the back of your throat.

“Why do you shy away every time our shoulders brush?”

“I don’t like being crowded.”

“You didn’t seem to mind so much before.”

“That was different.”

“What was different?” He wears an open grin of amusement, enjoying every second of your embarrassment.

As you continue to stuff your face, you glance over at him, and caught him staring at you. You look away for a moment, then look at him again. “What are you looking at?” you ask through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says. “It’s just that, I’ve never seen you dressed in casual clothes.”

You are always in a buttoned-up white blouse, black pencil skirt and matching fitted blazer. “Right, and I get tired of wearing the same thing all the time.”

While he has always dressed in fine shoes and classy suits, you have never before, indeed, seen him like this either—oversized cotton-poplin shirt and black ankle pants. Though someone else may look like a baggy, slouchy mess in the outfit, he looks like a whole meal. This Jaehyun radiates comfort and soothing kindness that for a minute you have forgotten about him being your boss.

“Well, you don’t look so bad yourself.” You tell him and he grins in that lopsided way.

Yet a man has his pride. So you add, “Ugly as ever.” The comment itself is certainly a rude way to speak to your boss and instantly you regret it, but he does not seem bothered anyway.

“I may be ugly, but I’m still better looking than you,” for which he retorts quickly. “Say. Why don’t we skip work tomorrow?”

You blink, taken aback by his idea, but in truth you desperately want to stay home and shed your responsibilities and act as lifeless and unrestrained. “We can’t skip work.”

“C’mon,” he whines, “I know you’re fucking tired of this shit.”

Though once again taken aback by his unusual words and speech patterns—which you can only assume the filters of polite society is not working when he is overtired—his facial expression implies reference to something else. But why the teasing tone?

Then it hits you. Your Twitter account, where you have been very active the last few weeks, as a platform to express your thoughts and emotions on working tons of overtime. Your rants are so insane that it is as if someone has pixelated your brain. The ungenerous, unladylike words blurted you regret them.

“You stalked me!”

“It’s not my fault that your profile is public.”

“Why would you even search my profile?”

“Just checking out what my employees been up to.”

He speaks about it so nonchalantly. You almost roared at him.

“There’s a meeting tomorrow morning with Mr. Kee,” you remind.

He groans only at the utterance of the name of the presenter. Recalling what has occurred in the last conference, he resents waking up early to another yawning dullness, however he chuckles at the reminder of the little interaction between you and him. That brings a pleasant recollection and something to look forward to. Under the table, maybe games of tic-tac-toe, dots and boxes, or maybe, just maybe he can play with your fingers. He stares at your hands to savor the lingering and wonder if you know how incredible they are. Hands like that—small and soft-skinned next to his—should be pampered. He can spin a dream of what those hands will feel like on his flesh.

Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling falls over him as he says, “I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“What?” you ask.

“Dinner. Food.” A few seconds lapsed, and he says, “It seems that I’ve been eating alone a lot lately, and I’d like some conversation with good food.”

“I have plans for—”

“You’re not married, are you?” he asks.

“Me? No, I’m not.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Involved?”

“No,” you answer, a little offended.

“Then let’s have dinner.” That’s it?

“Like… on a date?” Stupid, stupid, stupid, you tell yourself. Dinner. That’s it. You know that you are not supposed to overthink it as a romantic appointment, not with him. Perhaps, he wants to talk about the company’s cash flow in a private setting, or he wants to inquire on the status of recent projects, or he wants to find out which projects are running. Perhaps, deep down, you want to casually talk about everything over good food, as a friend for the least.

“A real date?”

Date. He likes the sound of it, oh he likes it even more when you are the one clarifying it.

“There’s such a thing as a fake date?”

You roll your eyes at him.

“Call it a date then, as you wish.” And you resist scoffing out loud at his cockiness, while there is bursting red upon you the shyness of a young girl.

Hours elapsed upon return to work, but the ambience is more calm, peaceful and comfortable in the moment. Presumably Jaehyun had quelled his distress with food as he is adorable high-spirited than ever. The once deadly dull office is now filled with music of Cigarette After Sex’s and Frank Ocean’s, such that you poke fun of him being an emotional teen, while you secretly enjoy the songs as well.

By the time Jaehyun finally shuts down the computer, though the files are left open on his desk, it is already midnight. With a groan, you sink in the fact that you still have to wake up early tomorrow as per usual.

At the sound of it, Jaehyun turns to you with a raised brow, “What? Don’t want to leave?”

For a minute, he looked unusually handsome and resplendent, marked by deep-set brown eyes, little indentations in his cheeks. He is teasing and it does not help with how awestricken you already are by the look he gave you. For a second, you stand rooted to the spot with nerves twisting your insides; Jaehyun holding the elevator door open and waiting.

His fake cough brings you sharply back to your senses. “Oh, no— shit— sorry,” a smile pulling at the edges of your mouth with false gaiety.

The elevator comes to a stop. Later taking larger steps than you usually do and out to the ground floor lobby, there he cocks his head, confused, “Where are you going?”

“I’m not driving today. I’ll take the bus home. See you tomorrow, Mr. Jung.” You bow and wave in a polite manner but he is quick to stop you from taking more steps away.

“I’ll give you a ride. Come in.”

“It’s fine. The bus station is not so far away.”

And just like that the both of you end up arguing at a distance over the way to get yourself home, with him still pressing the ‘open’ button that his finger is most likely indented at this point.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” his eyes stern as he scolds (but with no harshness in his voice) yet you then are aware of this mistaken outburst of his and so you quickly step inside. His lips curled up in a victorious smirk unnoticeable by you, a clear winner once again.

Jaehyun drives this maddeningly slow pace when the road is not even under congested conditions at this hour. Inside this four wheels, you seem to get strangely awkward with all the fidgeting of fingers on the seatbelt despite being on the same ride for multiple times. But those times were with his private chauffeur as well. Have you talk about the Jung Jaehyun drives one-handed? Because that is freaking hot. Spicy.

Things take off another note—when the next morning you arrive with a cup of hot, steaming coffee and your favourite cinnamon sugar donuts on your desk. Judging that you appear to be showing up behind schedule for sleeping in—the reason being so, it is better not to be reminded of. You run a list of names in your head to figure out who that ‘secret angel’ could be. Aside from your only friend in the workplace, Chaeyong, who received maternity leave a few months ago. You hardly associate with the rest of the employees due to your position that you only need to deal with one person. And that only person seems to have been watching you the second you walk in, however, there he is sitting in his office, eyes trained on the documents from the night before.

It is of infrequent occasions he has the shades rolled up.

The said meeting with Mr. Kee goes by smoothly with the respective project itself taking form now and the next thing you know—you are sitting at a table of two in a fancy Italian restaurant located within the affluent area of central Seoul. You are still unable to stir the reality that the ‘date’ is actually happening, judging that Jaehyun could have or should have brushed it off when both are time-poor during the day. Here you have him twirling a glass of red liquid by its stem mindlessly and show no signs of initiating a conversation. It is frustrating at first, but you think that there is a need to make the most of the night when you could have been eating cheeseburger and greasy food back at your little chamber.

Unfortunately, what should have been a long-winded conversation dies down fast with Jaehyun answering questions by questions in straightforward and short factual answers instead of throwing the ball back to you in effort of prolonging. You bet your entire fortune that Jaehyun is a mo-ssol (one who has never dated since birth), judging the way he speaks in a manner so expressionless like a piece of log, so stubborn. All those meetings or business events do him no good.

Sigh. You have to do everything yourself around here.

It almost takes you off guard when he asks, “So… tell me about yourself.” You definitely knows him very well but it was never the other way round. Your heart beats with odd little jerks at the thought of his possible interest in you. Now, you do not want to give yourself a false hope of it being a romantic interest otherwise.

To make things easier, you suggest on the game of “I Like”, to which he shrugs and says, “Okay.”

You begin, “I like… visiting zoos, scented candles and everything chocolate.”

“That’s odd.”

A weird combination indeed but, “That’s how the game goes!”

“Well… I like…” he ponders for such a long time, as if mulling over the merit of finally revealing the side of him that you never knew of, nonetheless, “I like… turntable, pistachio ice-cream and Batman.”

Your chuckle comes in response at his last item, “Batman, really?”

“Hey, never judge someone’s favourite superhero!”

“Whatever,” you mumble a, “Superman is way better,” under your breath to which he catches on immediately and a childish bickering breaks out from then on who is the best superhero.

After paying the bill and a bit of you whining, “I don’t want to go home… It’s cold, dark and lonely, and cold…” after wine after wine intake. Jaehyun takes you back to his place and things escalated from there. You kick off your heels attempting to slide across the marble floor in bare feet, stumbling forward you slam him against the wall while still holding on to him.

Though genuinely surprised, he cannot ignore your eyes like cataracts producing the hazy look, blush tingeing your cheeks from too much alcohol and every inch nearer you get he finds himself having trouble refusing your anything. Letting your index finger, delicate, almost like a feather, trace the arch of his eyebrows to the tip of his nose and along his pouty lips.

“N-no… We can’t do this…” he groans in protest, holding onto a dangerous slippery rope that is ‘lust’. He finds it completely wrong to take advantage of you in this drunken state, but you seem to not care at all as you slide closer to him stepping on his sock clad feet. Your narrow rib cage with the pillowy softness of your bosom pressing against his chest, so alluring with your breath mingles with his own—that is his last straw.

He inches a hand downward and wraps itself around your waist as he gathers you close capturing your mouth with his in a dance of sorts, tasting with tender, tantalizing nips and slow strokes of his tongue. Feeling—yes—the excitement of his racing heart and the ragged edge of his breathing. You are so generous, so giving, so primally female. He has never done this before, but his body reacts, it is taut and hard and humming with impatience.

You ease his suit jacket off his shoulders and it drops on the floor behind him. Then he twists around, shuffling to his room until he falls backwards when his foot hit the edge of the gargantuan bed. Straddling atop him, you curl your hands into his pristine shirtfront and surrender to the consuming heat of his kiss. In semi-consciousness, your fingers flick open the buttons. He weaves his fingers into your silky hair as you continue to undress him. He spins your bodies around again, this time having his hips nestle their way between your thighs.

You want to touch him. You want him to touch you—all over—but all he does is touch you with his mouth and feed you kisses while devouring your good sense. He growls low in his throat as he abandons your mouth to drag his lips along your jaw. He licks at the delicate skin of your throat and closes his teeth on the tendon joining your neck and shoulder, sending sensation shooting through your body like a hot bolt of lightning. You shudder, half expecting your head to explode.

“Jaehyun… it tickles,” turning into a giggling mess when he slides his lips over your neck, kissing from the front to the sides to the back. He chuckles boyishly all the way and those giggles turn into breathy sighs, gasps when he lingers on the tender skin behind your ear. You moan, moving restlessly against him and nearly combust when the long, thick ridge of his arousal presses against you. Right where a painful, empty ache blossoms.

Every stitch of clothing removed and your entire body gives a single shiver as he enters with perfect precision, penetrating slowly all the way inside. He is so tender, so gentle with each thrust, making you cry out in blinding ecstasy and only crave him more. He revels in the new sensations of you enclosed around him so tightly, and how good your bare skin feels against his. It is a level of heaven he has never known existed.

“Oh God, you feel so good,” he curses under his breath, closing his eyes as he savors each moment rising towards his own orgasm, “Want to come inside you, is that okay? Can I?”

You cannot even form an answer properly with your mind fuzzy with absolute pleasure that adds to your intoxication, giving him a weak nod and clenching around him so he is moaning your name loudly. As you both reach the edge and shatter, you hold onto each other and squeezing whatever is there to reach out. Breathing deeper and faster, hearts pounding in your chests, laying there limbs tangled for quite some time.

Your internal clock wakes you up at eleven and you glance around trying to assimilate something of your surroundings. Your eyes, squinting in the sunlight that dance through the large windows. Your body, dressing in a pair of silk pajamas that is of luxuriousness you will never possess. Immediately, you head in the direction of what you assume is the bathroom. And your reflection, astonishingly clean and tidied up of the makeup from the night before besides the remnants of waterproof mascara and some semi-permanent “stains” on your skin.

Jaehyun looks to you popping out from behind the wall like a thief, his eyes falling to the shirt you are wearing and the corners of his lips twitch upward at the sight. You have not acknowledged his presence yet as you continue marvelling at the large apartment until you hear a soft chuckle from a distance. You shriek, there sits your superior at the dining table with a tablet propped up in a case.

“W-we’re… late for work,” you blurt out awkwardly, glancing at the clock on the wall.

There is a short pause before he speaks, “Well, good morning?” and tells you that he has called in to say that you are both away on a business trip. Skipping the fact that you are walking funnily.

The tips of his ears a cute shade of pink and it hits you, “D-did we…?” Such a stupid question when your neck and chest all over have hickies that match the big one on his clavicle. Boy, were you wild last night. He only answers with fake coughs and avoids looking directly at you.

Your eyes squeeze shut with a heavy sigh upon an internal breakdown. How are you supposed to maintain a great performance at work when the embodiment of your disaster is only a few feet away. Things will never be the same. Heck, it was never the same since the incident from a month ago.

“Please tell me I didn’t do anything stupid…” if sleeping with your boss is not dumb enough. You just have to be reminded about it over and over again. Is there any way you can shut down your brain or even better, trade it with someone else?

“...besides dragging me around by my necktie,” he mumbles, the shade of his ears intensifies and spreading to the column of his neck. Anyways, “Are you hungry?”

You are about to reject and scram off to your apartment just to hide this enormous feeling of embarrassment you are suffering at the moment but heaven does not help you. Your belly rumbles in hunger and he is instructing you to take a seat.

The smell of lightly burnt toast with a side of eggs and delicious bacon as well as the aroma of caramel coffee makes your mouth water. Though it is just a combination of simple brunch menu, he manages to get the job done perfectly and you are inhaling the food with a childish grin. The humiliation from before has whisked off and thrown to the back of your mind, replacing with the appreciation of having someone to fill you up instead. Wait— that sounds wrong. You choke on food and on the air itself at such polluted thought.

“Are you okay?” he rushes to your side giving gentle pats on your back.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just—” you find yourself going red again when you see that maroon mark on his skin.

His hand finds purchase on your head, stroking endearingly, “Don’t get all shy with me now. You’re practically all over me last night.”

Right when you are getting mushy from the affection, he has to add that so you remove his hand and sigh heavily, “Mr. Jung—” his brows furrow at the formal address, “Maybe we should just forget about the whole thing—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he interrupts, “I’ve seen the way you look at me and you should’ve known better. I would’ve transferred you to another department if I were so against it but I kept you by my side, didn’t I? You knew that I could hardly work with anyone else, I am stubborn at times and couldn’t even take care of myself, but the fact that you are always there when I need you… You understand me more than myself and you’re…” he heaves a sigh of overwhelming relief for finally getting off these words from his chest, “You’re just amazing…” There are sparkles in his eyes with the utmost sincerity.

Oh my Lord, is this a confession? Is it? This is a confession!

“So… you took me on a date to fuck me?” Your mind chooses to betray you at the very moment, being equally submerged by the revelation.

“I’ve never said that.” Bending, he leans closer, “But we had a great time. True?” and kisses your lips you stiffen unprepared. Seeing that you did not answer, he adds, “I don’t mind going for another. If you’re down for it too.”

Things do change afterwards. The atmosphere of that particular 45th floor of the office building has now blossomed with bubbles of pink. Jaehyun has the shades rolled up ever since and sometimes sending you flirty gazes. It is surely distracting but you do the same and never fail to grasp the chance just staring at him in awe and thinking, “Oh, this handsome man is mine!” The oftener he catches you watching and the intercom goes, “Missy, get back to work.”

Even so, Sooyoung still pay her regular visits. As she finally leaves his office, you are called over immediately and the first things you say, “What does she want this time?” not realizing your tone of speech.

He grins, victorious, “Were you jealous all this while?”

With a scoff, “Jealous my butt.”

“Had I known…”

“What?” What are you gonna do? I dare you!

“I would’ve kept her in longer,” he says nonchalantly, though you are fuming with his ridiculousness (knowing that he is only teasing). But still!

He is quick to catch your wrist when you turn to leave, and tucks you in the warmth of his embrace. Your nose filled with the scent of him. His cologne makes you think of green, grassy meadows covered with yellow flowers. So fucking good.

“Mr. Jung, it’s against the rules— Keep the dating scenes away,” you warn in a stern voice, feigning annoyance from his previous remark.

He leans closer instead and invades your space, capturing your mouth in a scorching kiss like he has been holding himself back for hours.

“My rules, my way.”

#nct jaehyun #jung jaehyun #nct scenarios #nct smut #nct fluff #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun smut #pardon me I have no idea what I'm writing #this has been sitting in my draft for quite awhile

591 notes · View notes

ibijau · 4 years

Note

Worst engagement AU! What lxc uncle think nhs behavior?

Worst engagement AU

I could have just answered but I’m procrastinating on stuff so...

1 Qingheng-Jun does not like the idea of an arranged match, but Lan Qiren insists. He points out the need for a strong alliance, the old friendship with Qinghe Nie, the casual aggressions of Qishan Wen against its neighbours, the mounting disrespect against its allies.

He does not mention that, left to their own devices, people in their family have a tendency to choose horrible spouses for themselves. He doesn't say that he wants something safer for his nephew, one of the boys he's raising because their father decided to shroud himself in guilt and sorrow rather than do his duty to them and his sect.

He knows he doesn't need to voice it to be understood.

Qingheng-Jun does not like this, but he agrees to take Lan Xichen to Qinghe. When he comes back, he has an engagement contract in hand. Lan Xichen's future is set, and he will be protected from his own passions.

It does not occur to Lan Qiren to ask for details about that Nie boy. He doesn't really matter.

2 Lan Qiren is simply not prepared for his sweet, hard-working, obedient nephew of thirteen to go through teenagehood and all the moods it entails. He keeps hoping to be spared from it, but it's all in vain.

While returning from a visit to Yunmeng Jiang where Lan Xichen was brought along to learn the ropes of his future duties, they stop at an inn. Lan Xichen was pensive all day but it's when they retire for the night that he finally explodes into teenagehood.

“There must have been better options,” Lan Xuchen says as they get ready for sleep, and while they were not talking about anything, it's easy to guess what he means. “If we need an alliance with Qinghe Nie so badly, why not Nie Mingjue?”

“It would be inconvenient for two sect leaders to marry,” Lan Qiren patiently points out.

Thankfully, Lan Xichen sees the logic of this. He also gets that this eliminates Jiang Wanying, who will someday rule his own sect. The same goes for Jin Zixuan, although since he’s in his own arranged engagement since longer than Lan Xichen, he could never have been an option anyway.

“Sect Leader Jiang’s ward then?” Lan Xichen suggests, removing the last of his outer layers. “If they adopted him, it would have been a perfectly respectable union.”

That idea gives Lan Qiren pause. Wei Wuxian was mostly kept at a distance for their visit, but he's heard rumours. He is not looking forward to teaching that child, and he would not want him to permanently live in the Cloud Recesses, not if he's anything like his mother.

“The Jiangs would never have adopted him,” Lan Qiren explains in a dry voice, unwilling to share certain details to his nephew of just thirteen. “And without a formal adoption, he is not a fitting spouse for a sect leader. He’s just a servant’s son.”

“Nie Huaisang is the son of a… a dancer! At least Wei Wuxian’s parents were both cultivators, shouldn’t that count more?”

“Nie Huaisang is the legitimate son of a sect leader. His mother’s weaker blood is unfortunate, but compensated by his father’s.”

Lan Xichen ragefully folds his clothes. He’s doing such a poor job of it that they’re sure to be wrinkled in the morning. Rebellion. Teenagehood.

“Then… then the Wens! Why not…”

“The Wens only marry within their own sect, or with their most faithful dependant,” Lan Qiren cuts him, getting impatient. “Gusu Lan will not submit itself to their authority. They were never an option. Neither is anyone else. You will marry Nie Huaisang, secure us a good alliance with the second strongest sect in the country, and that’s it.”

“I don’t like him.”

Lan Qiren sits on his bed, glaring at his nephew. Why do young boys always make things so hard?

“This is not about personal affections, Xichen,” he scolds. “You’re old enough to understand these things now. We need a strong alliance with another sect. It should fall on your father, he should remarry but… you know how he is.”

Lan Xichen looks struck, but nods. If Lan Qiren feels the absence of his brother, the burden of a duty that should not be his, he can only imagine what the situation is like for Lan Xichen, always kept at arm's length by his surviving parent.

Lan Qiren sighs, and motions for his nephew to come sit next to him. Lan Xichen obeys. Teenagehood has not fully gotten him yet.

“The Wens are starting to have dangerous ideas,” Lan Qiren explains patiently. “There is no way of knowing if it will come to a war or not, nor when that war might happen. But Gusu Lan cannot be left without friends, and Qinghe Nie wants to have support from somewhere that would be less exposed to Qishan Wen so they have a place to fall back to if they are attacked. You can see why that would be important, can’t you?”

“Why me? Why not Wangji?”

“His time will come as well, but for now you have to do your duty. The marriage will not happen for many years and even when it does, it will not have to impact you so much. You will continue living as you had before, with Nie Huaisang in your house… or not. If it turns out you two are too incompatible, we will give him his own quarters far from you, and you will see him no more than a guest. But this is important, Xichen. Our sect needs you to accept your responsibility so we can all live a little safer. It is a small price to pay.”

It is a lot to ask a boy of thirteen, but in spite of his newly discovered capacity for rebellion, Lan Xichen eventually nods.

Lan Qiren feels proud of the boy. If they can kill any sentimentality in him, he'll be a great sect leader someday, unlike his father.

3 Although Nie Huaisang is now a guest in the Cloud Recesses, Lan Qiren has given him as little thought as if the boy were still in Qinghe. There is simply too much to take care of, between helping Nie Mingjue find his footing, keeping an eye on Wen Ruohan, internal affairs in Gusu Lan, pleas for help against evil, and his current batch of students.

Once or twice, Lan Qiren does check on the boy, if only because his work is abysmal. Each time, Nie Huaisang trembles like a leaf and swears he'll try harder. It's a little concerning, a sect leader's spouse should have a little more backbone than this, but he's still young and there are also advantages to a quiet, obedient husband.

They are well into the second half of the school year when Lan Xichen comes to find his uncle and tells him that Nie Huaisang is being bullied by some of the other boys, possibly quite violently.

"Jin Zixun had his sword near his face!" Lan Xichen explains. "Nie gongzi says they were just playing but he'd been crying! I tried to make him complain against them, but he protected them!"

"If he doesn't ask for justice, there's little we can do," Lan Qiren points out.

"He's an idiot. Does he think I'll come save him each time?"

Lan Qiren shoots his nephew a warning look. It's no secret that Lan Xichen bears his fiancé little affection, but until now he's always been smart enough not to devolve into insults. This is a worrying development, even more than whatever cruel game Jin Zixun has invented this time.

"Be kind, Xichen."

"I'm trying. It's just hard to be kind to him. Whether I'm nice or not, he still looks at me with fear, so what's the point?"

"If kindness were always easy, we would not need so many rules about it."

His nephew pinches his lips and keeps silent, which is apparently the latest expression of teenagehood in him. Certainly it is better to say nothing than to speak unnecessarily, but Lan Xichen pushes that a little too far lately.

That day Lan Qiren is too busy to deal with such rebellion, so he just dismisses his nephew. But the situation is concerning, and he starts paying more attention to what's happening with Nie Huaisang.

It quickly becomes clear that, indeed, Jin Zixun has chosen the boy as his victim. It is equally clear that Nie Huaisang is aware of it, and flees from him as much as possible. The boy is not completely stupid.

It is more alarming to see Lan Xichen consistently avoiding his fiancé, often going out of his way not to cross his path and have to so much as greet him. No wonder then that someone like Jin Zixun feels free to act however he likes with Nie Huaisang.

Lan Xichen, when confronted about it, denies it. He says he does not want to create problems for Nie Huaisang by showing him too much favour, so nobody will be able to say he only passed his year because the Gusu Lan Sect was treating him more kindly than other students.

A flimsy excuse if Lan Qiren ever heard one.

It's a shame, almost, that Nie Huaisang’s efforts are starting to pay off. If he failed his exams, he'd have to stay another year in the Cloud Recesses. It would give Lan Qiren time to devise something so those children learn to somewhat get along. Love is neither expected nor desired for their match, but they need to be able to work together.

It is really too bad that Nie Huaisang is doing better in class lately.

Deceit is against every rule of Gusu Lan of course, but rules have been bent before. Nie Huaisang is clearly used to failure. How bad could it be if he failed again?

4 Bad.

It’s very bad.

At least now, they know that Nie Huaisang can show some character when needed.

5 It is evident, from the moment he steps again into the Cloud Recesses, that something has changed in Nie Huaisang during the few weeks he returned to Qinghe.

Some of the change is physical. He’s gotten a bit of a growth spurt, even if he’s still fairly short. The way he carries himself seems to hint that he has gained some muscle as well, meaning his brother probably punished his failure and outburst by making him train intensively. He no longer looks like such easy picking for whoever will be the chief bully this year, though perhaps that has less to do with teenagehood finally catching him and more with the way he looks at everyone and everything around him as if he’s ready to fight them if they say one single wrong word.

It’s not a bad development, Lan Qiren decides. After all, that’s an attitude very typical of Qinghe Nie, so it’s only normal that Nie Huaisang is giving signs he will develop into the same sort of strong man as his father and brother. And considering how well Lan Xichen gets along with Nie Mingjue, it’s certain that he will start liking his fiancé a little better now that he isn’t so meek. Combined with the weekly meetings that Lan Qiren has ordered for them, everything will sort itself out.

6 Nie Huaisang refuses to meet with Lan Xichen until Lan Qiren orders him to in person, and then debates how long those meetings are supposed to last until lan Qiren tells him that he has to stay for a incense stick’s time.

Later, Lan Xichen tells him that Nie Huaisang left the instant the stick finished burning up. His barely contained indignation is rather amusing, considering just days before he was complaining he did not want to spend any time with Nie Huaisang.

7 Somehow, Nie Huaisang appears to have become friends with Jiang Wanyin, which is excellent. Intersect friendships will serve them well in the future, if (when) the Wens make their move, and Lan Xichen has never been the best at making friends. If Nie Huaisang can do that for the both of them, he’ll already have done his part in the marriage that is to come.

It’s a little more concerning that Nie Huaisang seems to get along even better with Wei Wuxian, who is quite likely the worst trouble maker that Lan Qiren has ever had the displeasure to teach. But Nie Huaisang has shown in the past that he is a good, obedient, dutiful boy, so nothing bad should come out of this.

8 “Alcohol? In the Cloud Recesses?”

Nie Huaisang manages to stay as emotionless as his two friends, but his heavy blush betrays him.

9 “Breaking curfew to go to Gusu?”

Nie Huaisang blushes less this time.

10 “An indecent book!”

Nie Huaisang schools his features into perfect surprise, and doesn’t blush at all.

“Really? Who would dare?”

“You, apparently. The person from whom it was confiscated said it actually belonged to you.”

Nie Huaisang gasps, one hand on his heart, the very picture of wounded innocence.

“Master, I would never! I know the rules of the Cloud Recesses too well, and I know as well that my brother would never approve of me owning such books.”

“So it is no concern to you if it is destroyed?”

The half second of hesitation on the boy’s face is enough to confirm that he is, in fact, guilty of being the owner. Books like this don’t come cheap. And yet, Nie Huaisang manages to smile as he gets into a passionate discourse about the need to protect the youth, and how he simply doesn’t understand how anyone could ever taint their own mind with that filth.

Lan Qiren is more impressed than he would care to admit.

11 Lan Xichen looks so shaken when he returns from the river that his uncle worries something went wrong.

“What were they doing, then?” he asks.

His nephew startles at the question and opens his mouth a few times, but can’t seem to get any sound out. He’s looking rather like a fish. A goldfish, with the way he starts blushing.

“They were just playing,” Lan Xichen eventually manages to say, carefully avoiding his uncle’s eyes.

“Playing… how, exactly?” Lan Qiren insists, doubt creeping in his mind.

Lan Xichen’s blush deepens.

“Just swimming and splashing each other,” he squeaks in a very odd voice. “Nothing forbidden, or I would have intervened.”

Ah.

So that means all this blushing and awkwardness is Lan Xichen’s own fault rather than that of Nie Huaisang and his two friends.

Teenagehood.

It always ruins the best people and turns them stupid for a few months, a few years if they’re unlucky. Lan Qiren had hoped that his nephew, like him, would be spared the most embarrassing parts of it, now that the rebellion phase has calmed.

That’s not a mess Lan Qiren wants to deal with. He sends his nephew away, reminding him to not skip his mediation time.

He’s going to need all the meditation he can get to survive that mess.

12 Wei Wuxian leaves the Cloud Recesses in disgrace. While it is always annoying to have failed as a teacher, Lan Qiren is glad to see him go. Without his bad influence, Nie Huaisang and Jiang Wanyin are sure to get in less trouble now.

13 Well, at least Jiang Wanyin gets in less trouble.

14 Lan Qiren notices how Lan Xichen looks at Nie Huaisang when he thinks nobody is paying attention, how he now makes subtle efforts to find himself on his fiancé’s path when possible. He notices as well that Lan Xichen has bought some different incense sticks during his last trip to Gusu, sticks that burn a little more slowly than the old ones.

If Lan Xichen has to start falling prey to the sentimentality that plagues their family, Nie Huaisang is perhaps not the worst option out there. For one thing, they are already engaged, Qinghe Nie is a strong ally, Nie Huaisang is smart even if he has a strong aversion to cultivation matters, he is on friendly terms with the young masters of several sects small and big at this point.

It would be fine, if Lan Qiren didn’t see how Nie Huaisang is now the one who’ll walk away if he spots Lan Xichen nearby, how he instead exchanges looks with some of the other guest disciples (sometimes even with Lan disciples).

Lan Qiren thinks of his brother, so many years ago, constantly watching a girl who never spared him a second glance until he became her only chance to stay alive. He had hoped to spare his nephews from this pain. He tried so hard to make them reasonable, to teach them to put their feelings aside, all for nothing. Lan Xichen somehow manages to have unrequited feelings for his own future husband, and Lan Wangji… the least is said on that matter, the better.

Lan Qiren wonders how he managed to fail those boys.

Perhaps there’s just a curse on their family. He’ll have to seriously look into that.

15 Lan Qiren takes his poor, inebriated nephew by the shoulders. It takes a few seconds for Nie Huaisang to let go of Lan Xichen’s hand, and there’s something unusually serious to his expression.

“You won’t punish him, right?” Nie Huaisang asks after some hesitation. “It’s not his fault. We tried to make it so he didn’t drink anything, but somebody spiked his tea and tricked him. It’d be unfair to punish him.”

“I’m surprised you care,” Lan Qiren states, perhaps more abruptly than he should, but… it’s been a long day, and seeing his nephew in this state is not helping.

“Of course I care,” Nie Huaisang replies after checking around. They are, in fact, alone, but he’s right to be prudent.

Lan Xichen startles at the answer, and smiles so brightly that Lan Qiren feels a little embarrassed on his behalf.

“You really do?” Lan Xichen asks, trying to get closer to his fiancé, only to be kept in place by his uncle. He doesn’t appear to notice. “I’m so glad! I care about you so much, Huaisang!”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes go wide at the enthusiastic declaration. Lan Qiren has dealt with that boy enough to tell that for once, his surprise seems genuine.

Who knows, there might still be hope for this to not be a complete disaster after all. They still have a few years to sort themselves out, if they’re not too stupid, if they can just stop behaving like such teenagers...

But that’s a consideration for later. Right now, Lan Qiren’s only problem is to get his drunk nephew to bed before he embarrasses himself any further. He thanks Nie Huaisang and starts pulling Lan Xichen away, grumbling against the boy’s lack of cooperation and coordination.

When he looks behind as they turn around a corner, he sees that Nie Huaisang still hasn’t moved one inch. It’s hard to say from so far, but his expression seems serious once more.

With a little hope, a little luck…

Only time will tell.

#xisang #nie huaisang #lan xichen #lan qiren #mo dao zu shi #yes I know puberty is a better word than teenagehood but I feel teenagehood conveys a different emotion so that's what lqr is using here #worst engagement au #jau writes #Anonymous

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itsbenedict · 3 years

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Two-Faced Jewel: Session 11.5

What Does a Moth Sound Like?

A half-elf conwoman (and the moth tasked with keeping her out of trouble) travel the Jewel in search of, uh, whatever a fashionable accessory is pointing them at. [Campaign log]

Last time: the party returned to Barley to deal with a few loose ends while their hired muscle dealt with the biggest, scaliest loose end. Between that session and the next, we had a brief mini-session to wrap up one of said ends we'd left unwrapped- what exactly is up with the Kanthalga family?

(Also included: a conversational omake between Looseleaf and Saelhen, pictured courtesy of @drazelic, Looseleaf's player.)

After their encounter with Kensa, Oyobi tries to talk the party into going to the tower and helping the Deathseekers kill the dragon. Her brilliant plan of "stab it in the brain before it can cast any spells" has some flaws, though, and they patiently explain the plan's many flaws and strike a blow against Oyobi's sense of invincibility.

They also ask Malath a few questions, trying to get to the bottom of her odd discomfort with the idea of the dragon as a culprit and the presence of Deathseekers.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "When we spoke before, you asked us whether the dragon was green. I regret that I still cannot answer, as I have not seen it, or heard any news on the topic from the deathseekers. But you seemed... concerned that it might be a green dragon. Is there any reason that such a dragon might pose a particular threat to your town?" Benedict I. (GM): "Mmm. I don't know if you've heard, but... going on thirty years ago, there was a town to the east called Grain." "It was attacked by a green dragon, and the elders... as the dragon had words with them, they had to be remanded to the custody of their gods." Looseleaf: Oooh, that is harsh. Benedict I. (GM): "In the ensuing chaos, the miscreants who now inhabit Wheat set fire to the town and fled further east." "The survivors of the disaster fled west, and established Barley here." "If that same dragon still has its sights on our people, we could be in grave danger." "We refused to submit once, and it very nearly destroyed us."

As far as they can tell from their questioning, Malath isn't hiding any dark secret- she's just sort of a control freak, who's nervous that her control over the people might slip. Plus she's worried that if the dragon is provoked and comes to town, she- as the current elder in charge- might suffer the same fate as Grain's elders.

Saelhen... isn't satisfied with this. Something seems wrong about Malath Kanthalga- Thalath wouldn't try to enlist their help rescuing Kensa for no reason. She takes the party to the general store, in hopes of catching Kensa on her nightly delivery.

Kensa arrives as expected, but when she sees Saelhen there, she makes her delivery and tries to leave, rather than sit at the loom as is her custom. She seems afraid of Saelhen.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I don't intend to keep you from your work. Though I did have a question I wanted to ask you, dear. If you'll permit me one." Kensa Kanthalga: "...A question?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "Of a sensitive nature, possibly. Something vouchsafed to me by... someone you might know." Kensa Kanthalga: She looks less afraid and more confused, now. And after thinking a moment... "...oh." She actually looks a little angry, now. "That makes sense." "He sent you, didn't he?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Okay, the conclusions she's reached here... may or may not be correct! "Under what I am starting to think may have been false pretenses." Kensa Kanthalga: "What did he tell you? Did he say I was being brainwashed?" "I don't need to be rescued from my duty by someone who abandoned his!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "More a very general concern for your person than anything --" Ah, there's the word that raises her hackles, duty.

Having somewhat misread the situation, Saelhen is unpleasantly surprised to find that Kensa seems just as devoted to the teachings of Diamode as Malath is, and has no interest in fleeing. She seems contemptuous of her older brother on the basis that, uh...

Well, the Goddess of Family, who's all about having kids and living a very prescribed sort of life path inside strict gender roles, is- as might be unsurprising- a bit of a homophobe. The party never met Thalath's boyfriend (who works the night shift at Wheatley Inn- they never stayed the night there), but there are several reasons why the place isn't popular with the locals.

Saelhen is caught kind of flat-footed here- she can tell something's still not quite right, but she doesn't have the kind of cultural context to unravel this level of baggage.

Luckily, she brought along an ersatz cleric of Diamode, and so... Orluthe is able to spot the missing piece of the puzzle.

Orluthe Chokorov: Orluthe, in the back, has been looking increasingly uncomfortable. So far, he's had his stole and cap stowed away, so as not to be recognized as a cleric of Diamode. He's now taking them out and putting them on. "Hey, um, miss?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen... legitimately forgot he had those. Kensa Kanthalga: Kensa turns and notices him- possibly for the first time. "Oh, ah- Mr., um..." Orluthe Chokorov: "Chokorov," he says. "I'm..." He holds up a hand, and points at a tiny circular scar around his pinky finger. "You have one of these, right?" Kensa Kanthalga: Kensa looks down at her hand, and you can see- yes, she has a matching scar. Saelhen du Fishercrown: Well. That's novel information about Orluthe. Religion check to... I mean, we know the finger-cutting thing. I guess a "what does this mean, it's not like these two have disowned anyone" check. 13 - RELIGION (2) Benedict I. (GM): With a 13, you know that only a parent needs to cut off their finger- but you're not sure what happens with sibling relationships. This might be something related- like you don't have to cut your finger off all the way? Some sort of signifier that the connection has been severed, though you don't know the finer doctrinal points. Orluthe Chokorov: "My older sister," he says. "Four years ago. We all had to get the mark." Kensa Kanthalga: "Wait, but..." Orluthe Chokorov: "You didn't want that to happen to you, too, right?" "You can't stand up to a power like that. You'd never win, right? If I tried to defend my sister, my parents would have two missing fingers." "You have to pretend, right?" Kensa Kanthalga: "Why... no, it's... I really...!" Orluthe Chokorov: "Feels that way, doesn't it? For a long time." Kensa Kanthalga: Kensa looks terrified- like for the first time, someone's seen right through her. Orluthe Chokorov:"It's not a betrayal of your family- of your duty- to... have love." "There's nothing in Diamode's teachings about the mark, you know? Neither of us had to take it." Saelhen du Fishercrown: ...well. That's a... new consideration. Kensa Kanthalga: Kensa's on the verge of tears, looking like she's about to bolt. "N-no, I- I really... want to... I have to..." Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen is right back to Steal This Child Town. "...wait, do you seriously mean that the finger-cutting thing came after the scripture?" Orluthe Chokorov: Orluthe nods. "I mean, the finger-cutting is... it's a punishment. You're not supposed to disown your children. It's not like you can do it and then you lose the finger and then you're all square and it's fine." "And when parents scar their kids' fingers to make them share in a punishment for a sin they didn't commit... Diamode doesn't want that." "I should know," he says, gesturing to his vestments. Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...well. Thank you, Orluthe." Saelhen's face is hard. "I was previously under the impression that I had misunderstood a culture which is strange to me." "But now it sounds as if... I haven't, quite." Kensa Kanthalga: Kensa's makeup is starting to run. "What... what do you know? I- I wanted to... if I could've... I couldn't..." "What do you want with me?!" "I had to, okay? I have to!"

Orluthe having successfully exposed Kensa's fear and dissatisfaction with the situation, Saelhen proceeds to talk her around to trying to leave. It's pretty touch-and-go for a little bit, but Kensa's mind is made up when the party mentions that they're going to be passing through Corolos. Apparently, there's something there she really cares a lot about...?

So they're going to need a few days for Kensa to prepare to, uh, run away with a bunch of strangers. That's- this is technically kidnapping, right? This isn't something you should do in real life? This is kind of bad? Hm. Well.

Anyway, they've got some downtime here in Barley while the Deathseekers do their work and Kensa prepares to leave. And- well, later in the campaign, there was a flashback to this time period, so I'm going to cover that scene here.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: So: days in the past (but not many)... It's Cassie Zeishus's inn, and Saelhen is brushing up on her card tricks; she's let herself get rusty, just a bit, ever since she left... Well, since she got to Oyashio, anyway. She's cutting a borrowed deck at one of the inn's tables, downstairs, flicking cards from hand to hand, then up her giant poofy sleeves. Where's Looseleaf? Looseleaf: Probably sitting around outside, doing her whole 'fix-things-up' gimmick! After the early burst of things-to-fix, though, business has dried up a little. There's just not that many broken things left to fix that people need help with after a while! Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen is... bored, she decides, for a reason. She can't evaluate how impressive her card tricks/cheating techniques are without a proper audience! She knows how they work already! So she leans out the door. "How goes the repair work?" Looseleaf: "It isnnnnn't," Looseleaf says back. "I think that there's not much repair work left in Barley at all!" "I've done too good a job and my business has dried up. This is why you never peddle perfect cures, innit." Abruptly, she gets up from the carpet she'd gotten Orluthe to roll out for her- the one from Lumiere's tower. "Boooored." She rolls it up. "I demand entertainment."

Saelhen decides to entertain Looseleaf by performing a card trick... and proceeds to roll a natural 1 on her sleight of hand check. She completely fucks it up, and Looseleaf- who had to be convinced to put money on the wager- earns herself a silver piece.

Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...I lost the card." "So I'm going to have to replace that for Cassie. On account of her deck being a card short." "Your card, specifically." Looseleaf: "Hhhhokay." "Wow, you're actually serious, aren't you." "I thought this was still part of the bit, but, if you're serious, you know the card's on the underside of your shoe, right?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "I just want to reassure you that I'm good at this, Looseleaf --" Looseleaf: "I thought you'd stepped on it because, y'know, part of the trick." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "No, I already checked there --" Saelhen finds the Hierophant stuck to her instep. There's a beat. Then she blushes furiously, in what looks like actual mortification. "Oh damn it." "I haven't done that since I was sixteen, what the hell..." Looseleaf: Looseleaf laughs. It doesn't sound like her usual laugh, and you can only tell it's a laugh because she's bowled over laughing. The actual sound of the laughter sounds like- trilling chirps with a hint of vibration, a distinctly insectile sound. "Oh gods," she says while somehow still laughing simultaneously, "that was- I'm so sorry about how much I'm laughing, Saelhen-" She's still moth-laughing. "Please understand that your status is no way diminished in my eyes and you are still every bit as much of the cool conwoman you always were in my eyes- oh my gods I'm going to die laughing."

Saelhen, intrigued, attempts to use her preternatural skill at impressions to try and copy the laughter, which Looseleaf finds freaky-deaky.

Looseleaf: "Yeah, if you really want to imitate mothspeech what you actually need are the standard instruments. Your throats are not cut out for the kinds of vibes we naturally talk with." "No offense- your throats are perfectly nice, I mean." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "I'm aware my throat is lovely." "What do you mean, standard instruments? Some kind of... pipe, or flute, or something?" Looseleaf: "The Standard Instruments," she says, this time with an intonation so that Saelhen can tell it's words with Capitalized Letters, "are... sort of like a flute, yeah, except instead of working like a woodwind it's more like, a bunch of little flutes with flaps of springy metal at the end, so when you blow through the flute the flaps vibrate and you get a sound that's way closer to the range of sounds we make, and it doesn't hurt your throat nearly as much. The Standard Instruments for imitation mothspeech." "Alternatively, if you knew spirit magic, we could have just taken you to the Archive of the Ever-Living Voice, but that's not really an option..." Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen attempts to imagine this. "So, ten harmonicas glued together." Looseleaf: "Yeah pretty much." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...that last comment sounded alarmingly practical, in its concerns, Looseleaf." "Are you proposing to teach me, here?" Looseleaf: "How dare you imply that I would ever let slip the magical secrets of my people to an outsider who knows nothing of our ways or our culture why I am absolutely offended and ha ha I'm just messing around." "If you want to learn mothspeech," Looseleaf hesitates for a moment. "...Well, we should get started by trying to put together, as you put it, ten harmonicas!" "...Does this town have harmonicas?" Benedict I. (GM): This town totally has harmonicas.

So it looks like Looseleaf is going to be teaching Saelhen the language of the mothfolk!

Looseleaf hesitates, though. "...You know, learning mothspeech is- well, it's not likely to be useful, you know?" "There's, like, no chance you're ever going to get to really put it into use with anybody other than me." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...it is a bit obscure, isn't it?" Saelhen looks contemplative for a moment... then cracks a grin. "Which means that absolutely no one will know when I insult them." "Beyond their range of hearing, even! Oh that'll be such an easy way to blow off steam, dear, I love it."

After a shopping trip to assemble the device that substitutes for having moth mouthparts, they have a nice time bonding over linguistics. Building the thing is tricky, but... Saelhen gets a good roll!

Looseleaf:"...Y'know, trying to reverse-engineer an instrument just from how you saw it once is... more difficult than I thought it would be." Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen expertly pulls two pieces together. "This and this, yes?" Looseleaf: "Yeah, make sure you leave extra length on the tubes- I don't know exactly how long they have to be so we might have to cut them down a little to fit... The day continues. Looseleaf teaches Saelhen a whole plethora of fun insults in mothspeech. Things like, "You must have had a hole in your cocoon while you were pupating, because your brain clearly leaked out during your metamorphosis." "Remind me what instar you are again?" And, her favorite of all, a surprisingly terse noun that apparently translates to "immature child who sticks two feathers on their forehead and thinks that means they have the antennae of an adult."

Saelhen manages to nail the pronunciation pretty quickly, and adds Mothfolk to her list of languages.

The conversation turns to Elvish (Looseleaf is shocked to learn that Oyobi has been being rude this entire time!), and Saelhen's upbringing in Kanzentokai.

Looseleaf is shocked by Saelhen's quick mastery of the language- and of Tabaxi, and Halfling, which are apparently languages she speaks.

Eventually, Looseleaf decides to make a wager with Saelhen. The stakes: if Looseleaf can fool Saelhen with a card trick of her own, Saelhen has to teach her Thieves' Cant. If she loses, she'll have to tell Saelhen how she did the trick- a standard "is this your card" situation.

Saelhen gets a 21, and Looseleaf then has to explain that she was able to track the card via... spirit-linking. Which she then has to explain she's been doing to the bracer.

Looseleaf: "I'm trying to use this as a, uh, lighthearted segue, to confess to the fact that I've soooorta actually had a tracking magic thing set on you, like, since we met." "I'm hoping that's not, un- discomforting for you, since you said, you liked the whole suspicion thing I had?" "But, yeah, uh, I was totally suspicious of you the whole time, and my first response to seeing someone I pegged as a conwoman trying to con the university out of a magic item was, to, put a tracker on the magic item." "Which is that bracer. I know the position of that bracer, at all times, as long as it's within ten miles of me; further than that, and I know the direction it is relative to me." "I'm coming clean because- well, I guess, we're friends now actually, and you should know about the fact that I'm technically tracking your movements. And also because I want to give you the option to tell me to fuck off with that shit, if you want to." "I think that keeping the tracker's still a good idea, on a practical level, though, because of the, uh, use-case, where, a scary badguy chops your arm off to take the bracer, like that way we could still get your arm back and get the bracer back and I'm also rambling because I'm nervous that this is the end of our friendship aha." Saelhen du Fishercrown: Saelhen has gone very still. Like the hackles-up bristling from earlier, except... a lot less movement. "......" Looseleaf: "Look, if you want me to turn it off I'll turn it off!" Saelhen du Fishercrown: And then she very deliberately settles back into motion, with barely even a little bit of shaking hands! Deep deep breath. "...you make a good point. "About the, bracer tracking." "I am..." "Fine, with it." Looseleaf: "Iiii am not convinced you are fine. You seem like you are in fact very emotionally distraught about it," Looseleaf says with caution. "I could... put a tracker on something that's not the bracer, for you to hold, of your own volition?" "Really, at this point, I'm less scared of you running off with the bracer, and more scared of something happening to you because of the bracer." Saelhen du Fishercrown: "...with a condition." "Which is that you do not tell anyone that you can track things, or, if you have to reveal your hand, that you don't tell anyone that you can find me." Looseleaf: "...You don't want to be found, by... something or someone that wants to find you?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "In general, no." "...I'll tie something around the bracer. Or place a coin between my skin and its surface, or something. You can track that." Looseleaf: "Okay. I'll try my best to not tell anybody about my ability to find you. Except unless I have very good reason to believe that, I dunno, a dragon has abducted you and if I don't find help for you then you're dead, or something like that. Is that fine?" Saelhen du Fishercrown: "That would be fine, thank you. And I forgive you for... the initial... situation."

It seems... Saelhen really doesn't want to be found, by someone. I wonder who?

Still, the two of them manage to talk the issue over like adults, and grow closer as friends- so that means everything is probably fine, there's no secrets anymore, and absolutely nothing else is going to go wrong in the town of Barley.

NEXT TIME: END OF DAYS!!! HOMICIDAL INTENT!!! THE SINISTER MACHINATIONS OF THE SHADOW-MAYOR OF WHEAT!!!

#twofaced jewel #tfj log

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 3 years

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Twenty Eight

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

March 25th, 1999

“Toby?” Remy asked.

“Yeah, Rem?” Toby asked, and Remy’s heart ached at the familiar nickname.

“Why don’t you write anymore?” Remy asked. “You would write all the time before Christmas, but now it’s Spring Break and you haven’t even written once!”

“Oh...uh...” Toby cleared his throat. “I just thought our parents knew you better than I would, since I’m not here, you know? And I trusted their judgement, and...yeah, I didn’t want you to obsess over the letters.”

“I don’t obsess over the letters!” Remy objected. “They help me get through the rough patches, yeah, but I don’t obsess over them! Haven’t you gotten any of my letters?”

Toby tilted his head to the side. “You’ve been sending letters?”

Remy felt a little piece of him die inside. “I bet Mom’s been stopping the mailman from sending them to you somehow,” he grumbled.

“What?” Toby asked.

“Never mind,” Remy said. “You can just...not write. I won’t bug you about it again.”

“Remy...”

But Remy was already running up the stairs to hide in his room.

April 27th, 2001

Remy woke up the morning after his mother showed up with a pit of dread in his stomach. It was barely dawn yet, and Remy crept out of his room to the living room where there were two windows which looked out to the parking lot below. He peeked out of one of them, and sure enough, he could recognize the shape of his parents’ sedan, sitting on the edge of the street. He couldn’t see his mother inside, but as long as the car was nearby, she was around. He snuck over to Emile’s room and was barely inside the door before Emile was grumbling and sitting up. “Remy, what time is it?”

“It’s early, I know,” Remy said, wincing. “But my mother is outside.”

“She’s what,” Emile said. Fury entered his voice as he declared, “I’m calling the cops.”

“No! Don’t! Please!” Remy exclaimed. “I swear she’s not that bad! If I just talk to her for five minutes she’ll leave! We can go out together if you want, but we don’t need to call the cops!”

“Remy,” Emile growled. “She’s terrorizing you, and stalking you. That’s not okay. I’m calling the cops.”

“Emile, please!” Remy begged. “You don’t have to do that!”

“Yes I do!” Emile practically bellowed.

Remy jumped a good six inches and all the blood drained from his face. Emile’s eyes widened and he stood, approaching Remy, but Remy just backed out of the room before running to his own, closing it with his whole body and trying to keep his breathing steady. Emile and Kim had both taught him techniques that could keep his breathing calm and even, but they didn’t seem to be working right now. All he could focus on was Emile’s yelling, echoing over and over in his head. His face was on fire as tears scorched his cheeks, and Emile was knocking on Remy’s door. “Remy! Remy, I’m sorry, please, let me in!”

Remy whimpered and pressed his hands against his ears. Much as he would love to let Emile in, he was also terrified that if he did so, he would be in massive trouble. He had spoken out of turn, he had argued against what Emile wanted, and Emile had gotten angry because of it. That usually meant the second Remy gave in, he’d be getting at least an earful, if not someone unintentionally hurting him.

There was a pounding at the front door, and Remy flinched. Was his mother making a reappearance this early? It was probably barely six in the morning! Footsteps went to the front door, opened it, and there was rushed mumbling that Remy couldn’t make out. He strained to listen closer, and heard words such as “abduction” and “search” and “press charges.”

Remy’s breathing wasn’t getting any better. He buried his head in his knees. If his mother had gone to the police claiming he had been kidnapped...he was going to throttle someone.

Emile yelped and then there was more knocking at Remy’s bedroom door. “Mister Picani?” a gruff voice asked.

“If my mother is the one who called you, I’m not leaving this room!” Remy screamed, voice cracking. “I’m a grown-ass man, she cannot dictate my life!”

“Son, we need you to come with us,” the man said. “You’re safe, you don’t have to lie to anyone about how old you are.”

Remy growled and moved away from the door, grabbing his wallet from his nightstand and pulling out his ID from one of the front pockets. He opened the door an inch and saw a heavily-built man on the other side, wearing a police uniform. He offered his ID out. “I’m of legal age,” he snapped. “I don’t know what my mother told you, but this is my ID.”

The policeman took it, examined it closely, and scrutinized Remy. “You still need to come with us, son,” he said.

“On what grounds?!” Remy snapped. “No, seriously, on what grounds?! Am I not allowed to split rent with Emile over there?” he asked, nodding to his boyfriend. “Am I legally required to go to college? Are you a truancy officer?” He huffed, “I don’t care what my mother told you, I’m not. Going. Anywhere.”

“We need to verify your age, Mister Picani, and ensure that this isn’t a fake ID,” the officer said.

“Okay, I don’t know what my mother told you—”

“—You’re not coming with us,” the officer finished, grabbing Remy roughly by the arm. “Kid, I’ll handcuff you if I have to.”

“Bite me,” Remy huffed, trying to wrench his arm free.

The officer’s nostrils flared as he asked, “Care to repeat that comment?”

“Remy. Remy!” Emile exclaimed, from where he was barricaded from moving by another officer. “Don’t fight back on this one, I’ll come pick you up from the station as soon as they realize your mother was lying about you being seventeen and a runaway.”

Remy bared his teeth at the officer. “I’m a grown-ass man! You can’t tell me that you seriously believe I’m seventeen!”

“I’ve seen kids taller than you at sixteen,” the officer replied. “March.”

Remy was dragged, kicking and screaming, out of his apartment and into a waiting patrol car. He was unceremoniously thrown in the back, and he fumed in silence all the way to the station. When he was dragged into the station, his mother was waiting for him, and judging by her face she had been crying to some officer or another. “Remy!” she exclaimed, rushing over and trying to hug him.

“Get off me!” Remy exclaimed, shoving her away. “Why would you leave your car outside Emile’s apartment complex and come to the police claiming I was a minor?!”

His mother stared at him in shock, and he just kept his arms crossed, and his teeth bared. “An explanation would be nice,” he threw the words back in her face.

“Remy, you of all people should know that you can’t run away from your responsibilities!” his mother chided. “Your father and I were so worried!”

“Of course you would see it that way,” Remy breathed, before laughing. “Bite me, mother! I’m nineteen years old, I know what I’m doing with my life, and you are not going to be a part of it!”

His mother turned on the waterworks and suddenly everyone in the station was glaring at him. His mother kept wailing and trying to hug him and he kept shoving her away until the officers who had brought him in dragged him to a holding cell, presumably to stop a fight in the front. It wasn’t the classiest place he had ever been in, but it was away from his mother, so he could relax just a little bit. Two other guys were in there with him, one who looked like he was recovering from a bender, and another who Remy had no idea what he might be here for, but who had tattoo sleeves all up and down both arms. “Nice tats,” he said.

The man tilted his chin up at Remy. “Thanks. You mind my asking why you’re here?”

“My mother’s a nut job?” Remy laughed incredulously. “Claimed I was seventeen and a runaway because I dropped out of college and didn’t call her over Christmas.”

The man roared with laughter, causing the drunk to glare at the both of them. “Wow. That’s...certainly something,” the man said. “I’m here because my girlfriend and I got in a fight, and I was angry enough and stupid enough to punch the cop trying to get in between us.”

Remy grimaced. “Ouch.”

“Tell me about it,” the man said. “I really hope they just give me a fine and not, like, jail time.”

“Me too,” Remy said. “My...my friend and I got in a fight this morning too, before the cops showed up at our door.”

“Your...friend?” the man asked.

“Well, yeah. He and I split rent. We’re having some issues and frequent arguments about keeping the place clean, but at the end of the day, he’s still a friend. It’s just hard to remember that sometimes.” Remy leaned against the wall and sighed. “But my mother likes to ruin everything good I ever find for myself in the world, if it doesn’t fit her vision of what she wants for me.”

The man winced. “Oh, she’s one of those,” he said with distaste. “I hate those. The kind where if you so much as bring up getting a tattoo, they’ll start screaming that you’re ruining your life, that this isn’t what you want when in reality it isn’t what they want. I hate those types.”

“Mhm,” Remy hummed. “She’s... the worst.”

“You look beat, kid,” the man said.

“I look how I feel, then,” Remy mumbled.

The man checked by the door but no one was standing there. “You should probably get some rest, kid, especially if your mom tries to get to you.”

“Like I could sleep when she knows where I live,” he laughed.

The man shook his head. “I know it seems like the end of the world, but if you make it clear you want nothing to do with her, sooner or later she’ll back off.”

“You’ve clearly never met her,” Remy sighed. But even as he said it, he was already drifting off to sleep from exhaustion.

When he next woke up, it was to the door of the holding cell opening with a screech. “Mister Picani,” an officer regarded him coolly. “Please come with me.”

Remy stood and followed, somewhat confused. He was led to the lobby, and handed his ID. Both Emile and his mother were waiting for him on opposite sides of the lobby, and the officer said. “The ID is legitimate. Our apologies for disrupting your morning.” And with that, the officer left.

Emile and his mother were both starting to talk to him at once, but Remy just watched the police officer leave. When he couldn’t even pretend to be distracted anymore he sighed, looked between them, and winced as he realized he was still in his pajamas and had no shoes, and he’d have to walk outside like this. He held up a hand and Emile paused in his tidal wave of apologies, but his mother was still going on her tirade. He sighed and gave Emile a look that roughly equated to do you see what I have to deal with? and Emile snorted, nodding.

His mother paused at that, looking between the two of them. Remy took the opportunity to say, “Yeah, I’m going back to Emile’s place, Mom, and there’s nothing you can do about that. I’m not going home with you, I’m not doing whatever you want me to do to ‘redeem’ myself in your eyes, and you can’t stop me.”

“You’ll never get Tobias’ number,” his mother threatened.

Remy laughed, and even though it felt painfully fake to him, his mother looked shocked. “Oh, I doubt that Toby would even want me calling him, Mom. After all, I only ever pestered him about everything, isn’t that what you said?”

Emile visibly twitched, fingers clenching and unclenching in a strangling motion at his sides.

“Don’t bother either of us again, Mom, Emile needs his time to study and I need to actually work if I want to uphold my half of rent,” he said. “Come on, Emile, let’s go. I still need to get my shoes from yours.”

Emile looked down, seemed to notice Remy’s bare feet for the first time, and snickered as he said, “Yeah, I can’t imagine walking around barefoot is accepted at work. Let’s go.”

They walked out of the station in minorly strained silence. “I’m really sorry for yelling,” Emile said once they were in his car.

“It is what it is,” Remy said with a shrug. “Not like I’m going to break up with you over it.”

“Remy, I traumatized you. I...that’s not okay,” Emile said, glancing over at Remy.

Remy shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Emile,” Remy said. “Give me some time and I’ll forgive you. It will take time, but provided you’re willing to give it to me...”

“Of course,” Emile said.

“Then it’s no worries,” Remy said. He bit his lip. “I really wish I could call Toby.”

“I’m sure you guys will find each other one day,” Emile said. “I doubt he’d just...give up on seeing you ever again.”

“I hope you’re right,” Remy mumbled, moping as he stared out the car window. “I just...could really use his support right about now.”

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

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Hello again, everyone! This is a long one so let’s dive straight in.

We open up on Fox who, like everyone else in this novel, is upset about one thing or another. In his case it's that he wound up watching a club/gambling house (the exact nature of the establishment is murky) with Coco instead of patrolling the more lively restaurant and club district (even though this place, as said, is referred to as a club at time). Which, to be fair to Fox, is a legitimate complaint when you're blind and can't really do the whole "watching" part of the activity. Initially he believes that Coco must have a good reason for choosing him... “Unless he’d done something to get on her bad side."

In fact, this is such a likely possibility that Fox begins questioning Coco on where everyone is (a convenient way to let the audience know too), what they were assigned to do, and whether that assignment came about due to petty revenge. He complains that Team SSSN has gotten all the "fun stuff"—are you doing a job or goofing off, Fox?—but Coco reassures him that they're not being rewarded and he's not being punished. It's just that any other combination didn't sit right with her. Would Fox have enjoyed going off with Sun? No. If Sun was paired with another would they have wanted to watch Neptune? Not really. Does Fox even trust Sun? Not as of yet:

"I don’t know Sun yet. Not really. I guess I don’t trust Team SSSN to not mess things up for us. They’re sloppy and off-balance right now.”

Coco follows this up by saying that Scarlet and Sage get to guard the Academy wall because she doesn't want Scarlet near Sun after their argument at the group therapy meeting, and he himself is "too zealous" about protecting the Academy. So it's just easier not to fight him. “If we don’t want them to get in our way, or worse, raise a big enough stink that we can’t continue our investigation, it’s better to keep them involved in a limited capacity.”

Now, there's a lot to unpack in that statement and I'm not particularly impressed with any of it. First, it bears repeating that we're now four chapters in —about 60 pages in my PDF—and we're still dragging Team SSSN to the shattered moon and back. I'm not claiming that, as Fox says, they're not dealing with stuff right now, or that their emotions are clouding their skills and perception (I called Sun out for that just last chapter), but I certainly question the "friends" who discuss those problems in such a smug manner, rather than wondering if and how they might help. Thus far, the criticism of Team SSSN serves only for Team CFVY to continually paint themselves as the superior group. They assume that, unless handled delicately, SSSN would inevitably "mess things up" because they, at their core, are a worse team than CFVY. These comments exist only to boost CFVY's ego. Thank the gods we're not like that.

This is the same Coco who thought that she knew something about regaining the trust of her team. But does she extend any sympathy and understanding here? Nope. It continues to amaze me how often RWBY writes characters going through very similar, difficult circumstances and yet so few of them admit to those similarities, let alone act on them.

Second, in a franchise rife with themes about earned trust and manipulation, it's worth acknowledging that Coco moves everyone around, including her own team, based on pretty unsubstantiated emotions rather than logic. As someone who has done nothing but insult Sun to his face thus far, she hasn't exactly earned his trust either, yet she's willing to prioritize this assertion that he'll "mess things up" over the best choices for this mission. Meaning, Fox initially thinks that Coco, as a brilliant leader, has a persuasive reason for giving him this task. We learn she doesn't. He then thinks Coco gave him this task as a form of punishment. She didn't. So what are we left with? Coco claims she gave her orders based on her and Fox being able to chat (yay telepathy), but her explanation says it’s really about what she thinks SSSN might do, rather than what she knows her own team can do. At the end of the day (or night in this case) we've got the blind guy on stakeout using his telepathy to keep her entertained, rather than taking the mission he's both better suited for and enjoys more. Coco spouts a lot of stuff that sounds like leader-ly strategy, but in the end she made these calls primarily because she doesn't like SSSN.

So why are they working together again? Because the plot demands it? I wish the novel had done more to justify this partnership other than, 'If we don't let SSSN help they'll rat us out because they're terrible like that.' If the teams hate one another this much just let them work apart. Otherwise, please start the process of having them grow and begin to appreciate one another. As it stands, we have a few buddy-buddy moments that imply they’re “really” friends when the rest of the novel has done little to demonstrate that. It’s confusing at best and uncomfortable at worst, in the same way that watching the group happily invite Oscar to the movies after volumes of ignoring/attacking/using him as an Ozpin scapegoat is uncomfortable. It’s weird. I’m glad it exists, but how did we get here?

However, this growth isn’t going to happen tonight because Coco likewise ensured that no one is mixing. As Fox points out, "conveniently enough, this way you don’t have to break up our team, or mix them and us.” Nor has Coco broken up the usual partner teams of Sun and Neptune, Scarlet and Sage. Anyone who follows my other metas know that I'm waiting for the webseries to mix up RWBY and JNR more (thank you, Volume 8 preview), or at least have Blake work with someone other than Yang and Weiss work with someone other than Ruby, so I was disappointed to see this same trend not only repeated here, but celebrated by another character. Though not as overt as some of the problems in Volumes 6 and 7, this is what I mean by RWBY introducing conflicts but doing little to resolve them. It's a decent setup to pit SSSN's problems against CFVY's bias—When will Sun apologize to his team? When will Coco acknowledge that her intense criticism of him is born far more from assumptions than proof? When will both teams extend a hand to one another that isn't done in the name of self-preservation?—but thus far it's nothing but setup. And the longer it goes on the less a single scene of growth can stand up against that. The less space we have for that growth, period. This is my problem with many villain redemption arcs: a few episodes of contrite behavior cannot emotionally outweigh whole seasons of horrific actions. It's a presumed redemption based on audience expectations, rather than something we see earned throughout the course of the story. For me, there has to be a certain amount of time and effort put into that change. The worse the actions, the more time and effort needed to, if not absolve them, at least get everyone to a point where they can be set aside. Before the Dawn feels like a very mild case of this, in that I'm wondering how long everyone is going to act this way towards one another before things start getting better. The longer it goes on, the more I expect of the story in order to dig the characters out of it. Though serviceable, a scene like "Then Sun realized he was pushing everyone away and Coco realized she'd been too hard on him, so they both decided to change. Maybe for persuasive reasons, maybe not. The end" isn't emotionally engaging. The disagreeable characteristics across this cast are numerous, yet RWBY doesn't feel like a story where I'm suppose to dislike everyone in an entertaining way—a la Mean Girls.

Thus, I'm wondering when we'll actually start the work of getting me to like this group more/getting them to like each other more, as well as how much of that work we’ll see overall.

Right, I've blathered on about this quite enough. The story (unconsciously I assume) continues to emphasize how expected it is that Coco would give awful jobs to teammates because she's annoyed with them, which doesn't say great things about her leadership, but that at least is something I could easily see a teenager with that kind of power doing. She and Fox round out the list of bad jobs by mentioning that Velvet and Yatsuhashi got stuck with grimm watch, "the duty of the low-rent Huntsmen who worked loosely with local law enforcement to help keep the peace." Given how they discuss this, the implication seems to be that this is an insulting job to give their teammates, which is hilarious considering that these four aren't even huntsmen yet. They're second years! 'What'd they do to deserve a job for low-rent huntsmen?' asks the guy who isn't a huntsmen at all yet.

We learn though that there has been a rise in grimm across the city. How did Coco get that information?

Coco laughed. “I snuck into [Professor Rumpole's] office.”

“Coco!” Fox said.

“Don’t lecture me, Fox.”

Fox smiled. “How dare you do that without inviting me,” he sent.

I get it. I honestly do. It may not seem at times that I understand that a story about a bunch of students has to find a way to get those students involved, or that these students, as teenagers, will do stupid things, that as humans they’ll even do horrible things... but surely there's a way to achieve all this without having our heroes constantly treat their allies in such a callous, disrespectful manner. Breaking rules is not inherently a bad thing. Some rules are unfair and upholding them does more harm than good. Some rules, while important from one perspective, can be broken without any serious repercussions. I never had a problem with Harry, Ron, and Hermione constantly breaking their curfew because kids sneaking out of bed isn't hurting anyone (overlooking the potential of the magic castle hurting them, but I digress). The rule exists for reasons like "You need enough sleep and are unlikely to get that unless we make you" and "A bunch of 11-year-olds shouldn't be left unsupervised in the magic castle" and "Learning how to follow some simple rules and listen to your guardians helps build basic skills needed for adulthood" but really? At the end of the day the Trio breaking that rule—particularly for good reasons like "We suspect nefarious Dark Lord shenanigans are afoot"— is far from the end of the world. Harry Potter also has the added benefit of making the adults actually useless and/or indifferent a lot of the time. We had a story where the kids, more often than not, were the last line of defense.

Rumpole? She is not useless or indifferent. Two chapters ago we established that she is conducting an investigation, Team CFVY just decided that wasn't enough because they want to be involved. And breaking into her office to snoop through her desk? That's not a harmless crime! Beyond the fact that Coco is looking for info she's not allowed to have and finding additional information she's not supposed to have, that's a serious breach of privacy. Clearly neither of them have enough respect for Rumpole to care about that though. Casual rule-breaking like that should be reserved for characters who have failed to earn the respect of the characters or the audience, demonstrating a lack of ethics that (arguably) justifies whatever they get. Basically, the Umbridges and the Lockharts of the world, not the Rumpoles who—far as I have seen so far—have done nothing but take their students seriously and adhere to not unreasonable expectations like, "Please don't get involved in something that might get you killed [cough-Sun taking on three goons-cough] and/or don't ruin the investigation I've already started." Or, at the very least, have the characters feel contrite and guilty about what they felt they had to do.

Why do I like these characters again? It would at least be more satisfying if the story acknowledged that the vast majority of our cast has turned into anti-heroes. I'm fine with that story! But not the one that claims it's "necessary" that our "classic" heroes pull stunts like breaking and entering, theft, lying, etc. without actually providing compelling reasons for those actions. Let Coco break into Rumpole's office, but do the work first of convincing me why she should be involved in this in the first place, why this info is necessary, and why doing that to an ally is necessary too. Kindhearted heroes should have a different reaction to unnecessarily breaking their instructor’s trust than laughter and jokes.

In considering how Before the Dawn intersects with the main webseries, I think it's also worth highlighting that casual line about how more grimm are getting into the city: "There’s been a rise in incidents of Grimm wandering into the city lately." That was one of the major conflicts of Volume 7 and one of the things the fandom uses as a means of mapping Ironwood's downfall: grimm were getting into the city and he failed to stop it, ergo he's a terrible leader, ergo he’s a terrible person, shooting Oscar is something I’d expect of him. Yet the same thing appears to be happening in Vacuo and, thus far, the story isn't interested in giving it the same gravitas. How are the grimm getting in? If the situation is bad enough that Theodore is sending both huntsmen and students to deal with it—“So that’s why Theodore’s been sending more students out lately, clearing the immediate area of Grimm"—isn't he a failed leader as well? Either one of these perspectives work, just not both at once. Either grimm attacks are an inevitable result of living in Remnant and the people deal with them without assigning undo blame, or both headmasters should be facing heat for failing to keep this from happening. So I'll be interested to see if this comes up again and, if so, how. Because right now Coco and Fox are treating it like a casual occurrence, whereas Volume 7 painted it as a serious failing.

We finally learn that Coco and Fox are watching this club because there are two huntsmen gambling inside instead of out doing their job. Except maybe they're off and just like gambling? How do they know there are huntsmen inside to begin with? Or, if they're unsure of that, why are they staking out this specific club? Did they pick one at random because clubs have been associated with the baddies? I feel like I'm constantly playing catchup with this novel. Details are mentioned like Meyers introduced them earlier (he didn't) but then those details still fail to help me make sense of the scene or the characters’ motivations. As I mentioned in the last recap, I never have both pieces of information: what exactly the characters are doing and why they're doing it. Fox and Coco's entire conversation revolves around Fox not know why they're here or what anyone else is up to, but instead of answering his questions we get pieces of information—huntsmen, clubs, grimm attacks, the Crown—that don't easily fit together but are presented as if they do. Then the plot just lands in their lap. Meyers never needs to explain why Coco took the time to stake out this particular club out of an entire city's worth because, of course, it just so happens to be the club where something nefarious is going on. Once they're chasing two baddies it's too late. We've moved on.

Before we get into that chase though, I'd just like to point out the exceedingly odd anti-huntsmen sentiment in this chapter. subtle, but there. As mentioned previously, we have a potential dig at low-rent Huntsmen and the kinds of jobs they do. Then we're told that

"Nothing much happened in Vacuo, and when there was an argument or a crime, people tended to sort things out on their own—with their fists. But when it came to Grimm, Vacuans depended on Huntsmen to fight their battles for them."

This one is admittedly me reading into things a bit (in case anyone missed it: I don't hold this novel in particularly high esteem lol) but "fight their battles for them" is usually a phrasing meant to carry another subtle insult. You need someone else's help and that's bad. Which makes a certain amount of sense for Vacuo's focus on strength, but I wonder why the huntsmen are getting brought into this for... doing their jobs? The explicit purpose of huntsmen is to fight grimm, so it's pretty weird to have a line that implies any negativity for them doing that. Oh, you need huntsmen to fight your battles? How horrible. Even though the huntsmen as an institution exist to fight those battles. It's like saying the first department has to “fight your battles” because you’re not capable of putting the fire out yourself. It carries an implication that, ideally, huntsmen wouldn’t be needed at all. Not because grimm go away, but because people would be able to fight grimm... even though, again, that fantasy already exists within the huntsmen. It’s just weird.

Finally, Fox outright theorizes that maybe there are more grimm because “the Huntsmen are getting lazy" and I'm just ????? You want to be?? A huntsmen??? What is this characterization? At best it reads like Meyers forgot that this group playing detectives are training to become a part of the institution they're criticizing. At worst it reads like the team simply believes themselves to be better than other huntsmen for undisclosed reasons. Like there are normal huntsmen doing grunt jobs and being lazy, and then there's Team CFVY who experienced A Battle and consider themselves vastly more experienced as a result (despite others like Scarlet trying to remind them that they're still only students). I doubt Coco and Fox will come to realize this, not unless something in Before the Dawn really knocks them down a peg, but I honestly wonder in these recent installments why most of these characters want to be huntsmen at all. It’s a job that requires adhering to a hierarchy of authority, obeying the laws of the kingdom you're in, and working closely with what allies are available to you. They don't seem to want any of that, but nor do they frame this as a flawed institution that they hope to improve: “Huntsmen do have a reputation for being lazy, but we’ll fix that once we get our licenses.” As it stands, they want to be vigilantes, getting praise for their deeds but being able to break the rules whenever they please.

Their theorizing is interrupted though when two huntsmen exit the club. How does Coco know they're huntsmen? Huntsmen don't wear uniforms and lots of non-huntsmen folk carry weapons... I simply don’t know. But these two offer to walk one of the gamblers home, considering he's won a fair bit of lien that night. Fox gets interested because their auras are bright enough that he can see them and they're identical, which isn't normal.

But wait. Back up.

Can everyone see auras? Obviously we as the audience can, but the RWBY folk in-world potentially can't, not if Coco doesn't see how "vivid" these auras are herself. Fox is the one providing this information and Fox is the one who needs to track the huntsmen when they flee. This ability seems to be unique to him.

Why can Fox see auras then? That's not his semblance and, far as I can tell, it isn't logically a byproduct of telepathy (like how healing is a byproduct of Jaune amplifying aura). Honestly, it feels like 'The blind character has a special way of seeing the world' trope without actually explaining what that special way is or where it came from.

Why is Fox emphasizing that he can see the auras? The implication is that they're so powerful he, the blind guy, can actually see them... but how is he 'seeing' them the rest of the time? This isn't the first time Fox has been aware of someone's aura because he informs Coco that they're not normally the same color, but if these auras are unique because he can see them, what's happening every other time he comes across non-identical/powerful/weird auras? Does Fox just feel them somehow? Is it a non-visual sense and strong/weirdo auras propel it into sight as well? I'm very confused by all of this.

Regardless, it quickly becomes clear that these huntsmen are actually kidnapping the guy. Fox uses teamspeak to call everyone to him... including SSSN. So much for this remaining a secret until Fox trusts them! It would be one thing if Fox was forced to cast a wide net, but far as I can tell there's nothing stopping him from taking an extra two seconds to just contact his team. In the span of about a day in-world we're given two different explanations here. First it's

Velvet whispered a description of what they were seeing to Fox, avoiding teamspeak for SSSN’s benefit. No one found out about Fox’s Semblance until he trusted them enough to let them in on it.

then it's

Velvet jumped in. “It’s Fox’s Semblance. He’s telepathic. And he likes surprising people with it.”

So which is it? Does Fox treat his semblance as a closely guarded secret in an effort to protect himself, get an edge in battle, all that jazz, or does he just like waiting to spring it on people as a practical joke? Because if it's the former, Team SSSN haven't done anything in the last couple of hours to suddenly earn Fox's trust. Nothing we're shown, anyway. Rather, we just finished a conversation where Coco basically goes, 'You trust Sun?' and Fox's response, though somewhat noncommittal, basically amounts to a, 'Nah.'

Well, SSSN knows now. Everyone starts heading Fox's way while Coco interrupts the two huntsmen in the midst of their kidnapping. The kidnapee, a merchant, blurts something about not being helpless and Coco threatens to leave him.

"Coco had a real sadistic streak sometimes. Just one of the reasons she and Fox made great partners."

Hello, friends, family, and people of the internet: am I insane for thinking this is not how you write heroes? It's one thing if you're using "sadistic" as an obvious exaggeration—Coco playfully teases Velvet about her supposedly awful clothes. She's got a real sadistic streak—but threatening to leave someone to be kidnapped because, what? People need to act helpless enough for her to deem saving? Who writes their supposedly classic hero like that and then makes her partner go, 'Haha yeah she's mean. That's why we're friends :D'

Real badasses are kind and I stand by that.

Of course, the merchant immediately backtracks and Coco demands his release. Sun and Neptune arrive, recognizing the two huntsmen as the goons that Sun fought. There's some talk about a "She" who they're expected to deliver the merchant to and Velvet—again—brings up the rescue.

“You mean the ones we rescued Sun from?” Velvet asked. “Come on!” Sun sent.

Recurring jokes like this are only good when 1. The characters are established as actually liking one another (otherwise they're not jokes) and 2. It doesn't come up every other chapter. When the chapters are roughly ten pages each.

Before a fight can start though the goons give up, dropping the merchant and making a run for it. Fox is sent after them. He uses his ADA machine to navigate his surroundings, which is a detail I really like and appreciate. He's blind. There's no reason why he wouldn't use accessibility tools to assist him. So well done there.

The goons disappear into an abandoned building that ADA identifies as a former dust refinery. There's also a comment about how tall it is compared to the other buildings in Vacuo. Fox loses them because of the number of people inside—all those auras blending together—and, like the goons themselves, a lot of those auras "seem the same." Velvet and Yatsuhashi arrive to assist Fox... but their assistance amounts to Yatsuhashi trying and failing to cut down the door with his sword?? Then all those potential baddies know they've found the super secret hideout. Well done.

They're lucky they just asked for a password. Which, of course, the group doesn't know.

With more time to observe the mass of auras, Fox drops the bombshell that he thinks one of them may be Professor Rumpole's. The group quickly decides that she must be conducting her investigation, but the other obvious possibility that they don't seem to realize (yet) is that she's working with them instead. If Rumpole does end up evil or something I just want to say that my previous points still stand. It’s not okay for the group to twist her 'Don't get involved' into a 'Well, she just doesn't want us to get caught.' Not okay for Coco to sneak into her office and snoop on official reports. Sometimes people will retroactively absolve characters of bad decisions because much later the person who bore the brunt of those decisions turns out to be bad... but the characters didn't know that at the time. The Lockhart and Umbridge examples above work because they were introduced as terrible people who were then later revealed to be even worse than the characters previously knew: Lockhart moves from an inept, overbearing idiot to a con artist erasing others' memories; Umbridge moves from a cruel instructor to a torturer whose rhetoric aligns with the Dark Lord's. Rumpole? Far as the group knows she's done nothing but assist and teach them.

So the three are just standing around, wondering what to do and what it all means. Coco calls Fox only for Fox to immediately hang up on her because everyone is already using teamspeak. Why bother to call in the first place? I don't know. But they fill Coco in and she decides not to ruin Rumpole's (presumed) investigation. Which is good! Yes, Coco does it partly for self/team-serving reasons

Coco shut the idea down quickly. “If we interfere in her investigation and blow whatever she’s doing, we’ll get worse than detention. She’ll probably kick us out of Shade. And we’ll have ruined the usefulness of the information she’s gathering. I say we give her time to do her thing.”

but if fear of expulsion gets them to make a smart call, I'll take it. Besides, as Coco herself points out, they now have some leads to follow. They can continue their investigation without diving headfirst into the danger pool. Like Yatsuhashi apparently wanted to do. Attacking the door with his sword.

(Seriously what was the plan there? Cut open metal, barge your way inside, and take on a massive group yourselves—two of which you already know attacked Sun? It's an Experience™ to be in the heads of teens who think they're hot shit, but act so, so dumb. Admittedly this is something to praise about Myers' writing: of course the personal PoV of these characters is going to contrast reality. What they think they’re like and what an outsider sees will often differ.)

Coco goes on to reiterate that the merchant was "rude" about being rescued, threatening to “report us to the headmaster, once he found out we’re only students, not licensed Huntsmen." Which yeah, that's a dick move. Coco was awful for threatening to leave him, but if a bunch of kids saved me from a kidnapping I wouldn't threaten them with punishment because they're not the police. The implication is that he's xenophobic, given that he was a little too interested in how they're from Beacon/Haven and would only talk to Sun. Coco is "smug" about it.

Note the pattern again: Coco threatens something horrible, later the guy is revealed to be an asshole for unrelated reasons, so she's smug about her actions. See? He deserved what he got. But that's not how this works. If I walk up to someone and randomly punch them, then it's revealed they’re a criminal, I don't get to act all pleased that I spotted an asshole and took action early. I still punched someone without provocation. For anyone, but especially for a hero, ‘They were vaguely sort of mean/rude to me’ is not a good justification for objectively cruel acts. I’m looking at you, RWBY and Witcher.

More important for the plot, Coco reveals that the merchant doesn't have a semblance and the club owner claims the two goons really are huntsmen—though who can say for sure. With little else to do, Coco makes plans to return to Rumpole's office tomorrow.

“And snoop around some more?” Fox asked.

“No,” Coco said. “I’m going to ask her some questions.”

I suppose that's an improvement? I cannot possibly express how not engaging this mystery is though. It's vaguely confusing and feels all-around cobbled together. Every action the group has taken so far hasn't just been unnecessary (I prefer heroes who have a good reason—or at least perceive they have a good reason—for getting involved when others are already working to solve a problem), but it’s also dependent on coincidence to a frustrating degree. Even in a story where I know and accept and welcome some coincidence to move the plot along. But this? Sun gets involved because he follows a woman when he doesn't actually know if she's in trouble or not, but of course she is. Then they stand around a wall until the story drops a crying girl in their lap, because of course a person will have gone missing the second they need a lead and are in the perfect place to receive one. Then Coco seems to pick a club at random to stakeout, because of course that will be the one club where our two huntsmen/goons will be trying to kidnap someone new. None of their intellect, knowledge, or skills lead them to the next phase of the investigation, with the exception of Coco breaking in to steal info about the case. Obviously RWBY is not meant to be a classic mystery, but as a massive Sherlock Holmes fan this is a slog to get through. We have no compelling reason why the group is investigating and the investigation itself isn't teaching us anything compelling about them. This could have been the place to demonstrate how a huntsmen's skills go far beyond just throwing a punch. Instead we see... what? That Yatsuhashi can try to break down a door and say "Ow" about it? At least the webseries gave us two faunus donning grimm masks to sneak into the extremist, faunus-only meeting. Comparatively that's a leagues better investigation than the one we’re getting here.

Am I surprised? No. Do I still hope that this book will improve? Always. We'll see what Chapter Five gives me.

Until then! 💜

#rwby #rwde #BTD Recaps #Before the Dawn #mymetas

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silvokrent · 4 years

Text

Slings and Arrows

Some wrongs cannot be righted. It’s a lesson Pietro learns a lifetime too late.

[The rise and fall of Dr. Arthur Watts, M.D., PhD.]

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number—” The rustle of papers was followed by a sigh. “—test number sixty-four. Initiating.”

The monitor on his desk whirred to life. Pietro watched the numbers on the holographic screen climb as the program ran the simulation. Thirty seconds without anomalies. A minute. He knew better than to get his hopes up, but the longer the systems operated without rejection, the harder it was to suppress the mutinous optimism at the back of his head. Maybe, this time, he’d finally found the right—

The monitor let out a dejected-sounding beep, and the screen flashed.

Insufficient variables. Analysis results too unstable for implantation.

Only when he slumped back in his seat did Pietro realize how tightly he’d been gripping the arms of the chair. He tapped at his scroll and activated the audio function.

“Test number sixty-four was unsuccessful. The simulated Aura was deemed too structurally unstable to survive grafting to a biotechnic lattice. Recommend recalibrating the values for ω, λ, and ρ to increase viability. Describe what mistakes were made.” Pietro contemplated the scroll in his hand, before lifting it to his face and smacking it into his forehead. Repeatedly. “My mistake was deciding to pursue a degree in bioengineering, followed by the even bigger mistake of my alma mater handing me a diploma. All other setbacks are incidental. End recording.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Pietro called up the diagram from earlier. The hologram cast his office in various shades of blue light that, while it had a calming effect on him, unveiled the minefield of loose papers, folders, and post-it notes that had become his workspace.

For a moment, he considered setting aside a day in his schedule to reorganize his desk. Only when he couldn’t find his calendar did he remember why it had gotten so bad in the first place.

His calendar was buried somewhere underneath.

Brokenly, Pietro stared at the untamed bed of chaos before him. On one hand, he needed to clean his desk. On the other hand, incineration was faster, and the chemistry lab had a blowtorch.

“You look desperately in need of this,” said a voice from behind.

The unexpected drawl startled Pietro out of his thoughts. He swiveled around in his chair to the sight of Arthur Watts leaning against the doorframe, a steaming mug in each hand. Judging by the amused smirk, he’d been there for some time.

“Arthur!” Pietro minimized the program with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

His friend stepped inside and carefully kicked the door shut with his heel. He strode across the room and reclined into the vacant chair opposite of him, ankle propped on his knee. He held out the second mug. “Kuo Kuana roast. Extra cream, and enough sugar to give you every cardiovascular disease known to man.”

Pietro accepted the offered drink, and for a moment simply held it to his face. The aromatic scent was blue water and white sand, and it never failed to make him nostalgic for the coast. He let out a long, quiet exhale that took some of the tension from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, “but how did you—?”

“I saw the lights on under the door and took an educated guess,” Watts said. He took a draught from his own mug before continuing: “The janitors left at the end of the day, and no one else is unhinged enough to stay after hours.”

Pietro arched a brow. “Apart from you?”

Watts snorted. “I had a meeting that I couldn’t reschedule.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“I made the mistake of postponing one too many times. They couldn’t be dissuaded.”

They lapsed into companionable silence. Pietro indulged in his coffee while Watts picked up a folder and flipped through it at random.

The company was a welcome respite, and not just because it came bearing gifts.

Their office arrangement had started off rather unextraordinarily, all things considered. Handing off paperwork, returning a piece of equipment, passing along department memos—the sort of banal normalcy one would expect between colleagues. Pietro hadn’t begrudged the unexpected interruptions from Watts (quite the opposite, in fact), and Watts never protested when Pietro ventured into his space long enough to drop something off.

Only a few months after becoming acquainted did Pietro notice the shift in their interactions. It had been subtle at first: an animated conversation during a faculty meeting that led to Pietro following Watts back to his office to continue the topic. A request from Watts for a second opinion on a patient chart, which led to Watts loitering in Pietro’s office long after he’d humored him. A day where Watts had cleared his schedule to allow Pietro to vent about his latest experiment following an incident in the labs.

It hadn’t taken long for the intrusions to devolve from legitimate reasons to half-contrived pretenses. The reed that broke the Dromedon’s back had been a memorable afternoon where Pietro’s office door swung open, and Watts—bag strap slung around one arm, a stack of documents tucked under the other—announced that he needed somewhere to hide from his interns, and no one would think to look for him here.

There were, admittedly, more unconventional ways to start a friendship, though Pietro hardly minded. Especially not after Watts had treated him to dinner as an apology for the inconvenience.

It was an aspect of their relationship Pietro was both fond of and deeply appreciated, though he was tactful enough to not comment on it aloud. Watts wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. (Though the steaming mug in his hand begged to differ.)

He watched as the other man returned the folder to its original spot in exchange for a file.

“No luck, I take it?” The question was as much rhetorical as it was a tacit invitation to brainstorm. Pietro gladly accepted.

“I had a thought after yesterday’s meeting: ‘What if it’s quantitative rather than permutational? Maybe we only need to adjust the inputs rather than the sequence.’” He shot a rueful glance at the monitor. “You can imagine how that went. It feels like the answer’s staring right at me and I’m too stupid to see it.”

“If you were stupid”—Watts turned the page, not bothering to look up—“we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.” He took another sip from his mug. “Sleep-deprived, on the other hand…”

“Can you blame me?” Pietro asked.

This time, Watts did look up.

“We’ve been at this for six months and have nothing to show for it. We’re running out of time.”

Watts set the file down. “James never stipulated a deadline,” he murmured.

“No,” Pietro agreed, “but he’s not the only person we have to justify ourselves to.”

“If this is about the lien, I wouldn’t fret. As long as our funding comes from the military, they’re not going to pull the plug.”

Pietro frowned at the drink in his hands, at the contemplative reflection that mirrored his own. “James may have greenlit the project, but that doesn’t change the fact that the military budget comes from tax revenue. The other councilors get a say in how that money is allocated. And if they think our research is a waste of public resources…”

An uneasy quiet fell between them, and it was telling that Watts didn’t immediately refute him or attempt to assuage his concerns.

For lack of anything constructive to say, Pietro sighed. “For thousands of years we consumed willow bark as an analgesic. When people learned that salicin was the culprit, a chemist learned how to make it from scratch. Pharmacies around the world now manufacture and distribute that medication to millions of people.” He leaned back into his seat. “How is it that we figured out how to make an artificial compound, but we can’t figure out how to make an artificial Aura?”

“Well—” Watts motioned with his drink in a vague sort of gesture. “That might have something to do with acetylsalicylic acid being a synthetic chemical, and Aura being the manifestation of the soul. They’re not exactly analogous.” He stroked his chin. “It would also be remiss of me not to point out that up until a few centuries ago, pneumatophysicists were regularly executed for heresy. It’s not as if we have the breakthroughs of our predecessors to build upon.”

A weak, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. Reflexively, Pietro combed through his hair.

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it?” Frustrating might have been putting it charitably. Pietro still had half a mind to fetch that blowtorch.

A knowing look crept across his handsome features, though Watts deigned only to shrug in response. Obstacles and setbacks were held in a similar estimation to success; they seldom bothered him. Nonetheless, he offered, perhaps by way of consolation, “Nothing worth doing is ever easy.”

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for possible,” said Pietro, “and right now, we’ve hit a dead end.”

The holographic diagram from earlier rematerialized over his desk—a simulated Aura field superimposed atop the three-dimensional render of an android. He parsed through the accompanying schematics with a wave of his hand, calling forth and highlighting relevant segments of data.

“We know that Aura is related to the sum product of a person’s neurological pathways, because it’s the same system responsible for generating consciousness.” Pietro activated the synaptic filter. A branching web of neurons lit up the hologram in tandem with the Aura field. “Here’s the problem. Functionally and behaviorally they’re similar, so you’d think replicating one system would mean the simultaneous generation of the other, right? But it doesn’t work like that.” His brow furrowed. “Not only is Aura’s reliance on this system facultative, but it verges on metaphysical. It means that we’re missing something. You can break down the physiology of the CNS and PNS into all the various electrochemical signals, but the second you try to do the same thing with Aura—”

He dismissed the hologram with a flick of his wrist, and slumped in his chair.

“I’m starting to think James picked the wrong proposal,” he quietly admitted. “At least yours didn’t hinge on reconciling a decades-long conflict between pneumatophysical models and—”

“Self-pity doesn’t become you.”

The brusque statement startled Pietro out of his rambling. It only took a second of being subjected to Watts’ flat, unimpressed stare before Pietro ducked his head.

Watts snorted under his breath. “For better or worse, the general picked your proposal. You have an obligation to not fail, so I suggest you pull yourself together.”

Embarrassment quickly faded to mild annoyance. “You’re as sobering as a cold shower. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Watts’ expression softened. “Sometimes a little cold helps to clear the head.” There was thoughtful pause before he unhooked his ankle and leaned forward, elbows braced against his legs. “You know,” he began, “success isn’t always contingent on understanding.”

Coming from the man who actively condemned ignorance, that surprised him. Pietro stilled with the mug halfway to his lips. “True,” he conceded, lowering the coffee back to his lap. “But I don’t think we’re in a position to trip over the answer like it’s a sleeping cat.”

Another pause followed, longer than the one that preceded it.

“What if we had a way to circumvent it?”

“What do you mean?”

With a soft thunk Watts set his mug on the desk. “Your proposal requires grafting an Aura onto a mechanical vessel. It never specified where that Aura came from,” he said. “Whether it was artificially created…or acquired from somewhere else.”

He laced his fingers together.

“Someone else, perhaps.”

He’d been told more than once that he had a terrible poker face. Clearly that hadn’t changed, if the way Watts pursed his lips was anything to go by.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m not suggesting we go abduct people and harvest their organs in a back alley.” He rolled his eyes. “I would hope you’d have a somewhat higher opinion of me.”

“You have a way with words, Arthur. A questionable and slightly terrifying way with them.” Pietro fidgeted with his tie. “Let’s, for the moment, ignore all of the potential obstacles involved. Like receiving an extension on our funding to cover any unanticipated costs. Or getting approval from the Atlesian Ethics Committee to perform an unregulated and untested surgery on a patient. Or even finding a candidate who would willingly consent to such a procedure. Even if we hypothetically resolved all of those issues, we’d still be left with a problem.”

“Only the one?” asked Watts. He arched a slender brow. “Very well, I’ll bite. Enlighten me.”

Another frown tugged at his lips. “Even if we found a way to perform such a surgery, removing even a fraction could be fatal. You can’t survive without Aura.”

“That’s not, strictly speaking, true.” The mug had made its way back into his hand. Watts idly traced the rim with a finger. “I’ve treated patients with Chronic Aura Degradation before. It’s not uncommon to see cases where up to 45% of the Aura was eroded. And in every one of those cases, the patient survived with weekly EMF-DS therapy.”

Pietro shook his head. “You, better than anyone, know that ‘survived’ isn’t the same thing as ‘cured.’”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “Forgive me if I insinuated otherwise. I only meant that regular treatments resulted in a negligible impact on their quality of life.”

“I’m not denying that.” Only when Watts stilled his hand, and began circling the rim in the opposite direction, did Pietro realize he was staring. He snapped his head up and cleared his throat. “But that’s an archotheronotic disease. You’re talking about using Auratic intercision to create a manmade version of CAD. There’s no telling what that would do to the donor, or if the amount of Aura donated would even be enough to sustain an entirely new person.”

Watts conceded with a sigh. “It’s just a thought.”

It wasn’t the most outlandish thing Pietro had heard—the staff breakroom regularly churned out weirder ideas on a weekly basis, and gods knew he’d contributed to quite a few of those himself.

Still…

“I’m not opposed to alternatives,” he replied at last, “but I can’t imagine anyone condoning a surgery that mimics a Grimm-based illness. The controversy alone would be a nightmare.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.”

Watts made a noncommittal noise as he stood.

“Scientific progress has always been controversial. What matters is how we deal with it.” He lightly clapped a hand on Pietro’s shoulder. The residual warmth from the mug lingered; it was oddly soothing. “Do me a favor, and try to get some rest?” He smirked, and the hand retreated. “Sleep on my suggestion. See if you’re not better disposed to it in the morning.”

Pietro sipped at his coffee, eyes crinkled in amusement. “I’ll pass on the sleep for now.” He motioned with the cup. “Keep these coming though and you might just persuade me.”

Watts let out a low chuckle. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned on his heel for the door, tossing a parting glance over his shoulder. “Good night, Pietro.”

Pietro smiled into his drink. “Good night, Arthur.”

“—has to be something we haven’t thought of yet.”

“We could give the pneumatograph another go. Run the Dust vortex generator with different configurations.”

“And waste more Dust in the process. Repeating the same tests isn’t going to get us any closer to generating an Aura.”

“Okay. Well, what about Grimm exposure trials? We could map out field fluctuations and look for any biopenumatic discrepancies.”

“After what happened last time? We’d be lucky if the Grimmoire loaned us a bloody paperclip, let alone a Boarbatusk. Try again.”

Will pulled a face as he crossed out a line on the clipboard, before tossing the pen back to Watts. He cast the cages lining the wall a glum look. “I guess we could go back to rodent models,” he said.

The mice Pietro was feeding began to squeakily protest. He lapsed into momentary silence before agreeing, though not without some reluctance. “It couldn’t hurt.” Not in the technical sense, anyway. But if the thought of their work regressing back to animal trials didn’t sting a little. Given the dwindling list of alternatives, however, he wasn’t about to object.

One of the mice nosed at his hand, and Pietro obligingly scratched it between the ears. “I’ll fill out the requisition forms. It shouldn’t take more than a day to get the approval.”

“As long as the technicians remember to give us an Aura-active batch,” Will added. “Last time they forgot.”

Their conversation petered out, replaced by the high-pitched din of the mice and the clink of the pellets in their food bowls. Pietro sealed the latch on the enclosure and placed the dispenser on the nearby counter, thinking.

“Even in a worst-case scenario, if the rodent models end up not working out, we could always repurpose our findings for later studies. Once the Penny Project is over”—though whether or not they succeeded, he chose not to theorize on—“if we can get the grant money for it, well, who knows? Apothymetics is relatively uncharted territory, and it’d be a shame to see all those mice go to waste…”

Watts slowly lowered the chart in his hands, and pinned him with the full intensity of his stare. “You want to run tests…on the mice…to see if you can unlock their Semblances,” he said. He broke apart his sentence as if he were running it through a translator.

Pietro shrugged. “It’s theoretically possible. If an animal can unlock an Aura, by extension it should be able to acquire a Semblance. Haven’t you ever wondered what that would look like?”

Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to speculate on the possibilities of the hypothetical. Sometimes, he liked asking questions because it was fun to see what sort of face his friend would make. Watts had yet to disappoint.

He watched with delight as Watts squinted his eyes, as if the mere idea were an affront to common decency. “No,” he said, “I haven’t wondered what that would look like. Perhaps my imagination isn’t as vivid as yours, but I’d rather not contemplate the horror of a 700-kilogram polar bear learning how to run at Mach 1, let alone a lab rat.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Arthur,” Will chimed in, in a voice far too casual to be anything but. “Think of all the possibilities. Telekinetic service dogs. Self-cloning chickens.”

“We could solve world hunger,” Pietro said. This time he was unable to suppress a grin.

It took a second for Watts to register the look on his face; his expression evened out, and he let out a loud sigh. “Stop enabling him, Will. He doesn’t need a co-conspirator.”

“I thought you were my co-conspirator,” said Pietro, feigning a look of wounded betrayal.

“No. I’m your impulse control. And I seem to doing a rather poor job as of late.” Watts jotted something on the chart in his hands, his brow momentarily furrowed in concentration. “Those mice are supposed to be euthanized anyway. I doubt they’d let you repurpose them for another project, even if you pitched it as a financial incentive.”

Pietro considered. “I can be persuasive.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

Will set the clipboard next to the dispenser and leaned back, his amusement tempered with intrigue. “I know you were kidding—mostly—but eventually, someone else is going to ask the same question, and they won’t be. Sooner or later, it’s going to be proven or disproven.”

“With any luck, they’ll disprove it,” Watts replied. “It’s already bad enough when people unlock their Semblances.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure Huntsmen need those.”

“Huntsmen, certainly. Their line of work requires it.” Watts glanced up from the chart. “The average person, on the other hand, would frankly be better off without.”

“Come off it, Arthur. I know we’re supposed be scientists and demystifying this stuff, but…” Will shrugged. “You can’t deny that it’s a little exciting for someone to try and imagine what their Semblance might be.”

“Oh, no, you’re absolutely right. It’s very exciting when someone with no training accidentally unlocks their Semblance, only to discover they now wield the power of fire, and proceed to give themselves a second-degree burn.” He clicked the pen, and pocketed it in the folds of his lab coat. “That was last Tuesday, by the way.”

Will crossed his arms. “I take it you wouldn’t want to find out what yours is?”

“If I was going to do something that permanent and that irrationally stupid, I’d get a tattoo on my left—”

A scroll dinged. Will jumped like a tasered cat, and fished through his pockets until he found it. “It’s Meg.” The sudden tension eased from his shoulders as his eyes darted over the screen. “She just wanted to let me know how the appointment went.”

Pietro’s eyes lit up. “How is she?”

“Good. She’s due in another nine weeks.” Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from his scroll. “Since I need to call her, now seems like as good a time as any to take a lunch break.” He started for the door. “I’m heading to the cafeteria. Do either of you want anything?”

“Pastrami on rye. Toasted,” Watts called after him.

“If they have any tuna salad left, I wouldn’t say no,” Pietro added.

Will gave a parting wave as he slipped out the door, the scroll already held to his face.

There was a brief silence, filled by the squeaks of tiny mice.

“So.” Pietro side-eyed the other man. “Where did you say you were putting that tattoo?”

Watts swatted him with the chart.

With nothing else to distract them for the time being, Pietro dug out his scroll and consulted his schedule.

“Busy this afternoon?” Watts prompted.

“Nothing too exciting. The hospital wants me to review some patient files and see if I’d be willing to consult on them. And around three I’ve got an appointment with a new client needing cybernetic optimal implants. The insurance company approved her for a fully-integrated interface, similar to the model James has.”

“Which reminds me…” Watts turned his attention to his own scroll. “I need to notify him about his follow-up. His prostheses are due for inspection.”

“Good luck getting him out of his office.” At his inquiring look, Pietro elaborated: “The Vytal Festival’s next month. He’s been busy overseeing the travel arrangements for his students.”

“Damn it. I forgot that was coming up.” Watts pinched the bridge of his nose, before skimming back over his calendar. “Well, at least I’ll have one appointment today that won’t be akin to pulling teeth.”

“Oh?”

“A new client by the name of Rainart. It seems he needs treatment for acute Dust poisoning.”

“Collier?”

“He didn’t say.”

Pietro tagged a file on his scroll and dismissed it from the queue. “We’ll need to meet with the rest of the team and make sure our schedules are coordinated,” he stated. “I think tomorrow would—”

“Hold on.” He hadn’t realized Watts was reading over his shoulder, and didn’t register the proximity until he felt a puff of air on the side of his neck. The sudden presence startled him. “Go back to the last tab.”

He shot him a puzzled look, but obliged him all the same. “This one?” He tapped the screen and enlarged it.

“Why did you pass on this case?” asked Watts.

Pietro peered at the text. “‘Name: Mia Atelier. Age: 19. Patient is in a hypothermia-induced coma and has been unresponsive to all attempts to resuscitate.’” He frowned. “There’s nothing I can do that the hospital staff haven’t already tried, I’m afraid.”

Watts took a step back, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he returned to his scroll. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Phase-II trial of Auratic synthesis, test number seventy-one. Initiating.”

The monitor gave a powerful thrum as the simulation booted up. Other than the pneumatic hiss of the internal fans, their silence was uninterrupted. A hand reassuringly squeezed his shoulder, though Pietro didn’t bother to find out whose it was. He didn’t dare look away.

As quickly as it began, the program aborted. An all-too familiar error message flashed counterpoint to the readouts on the screen.

The team let out a collective sigh.

Pietro willed himself through the motion of activating the audio function on his scroll.

“Test number seventy-one was unsuccessful. The recalibrations based on the gravid murine analysis didn’t provide the missing variable for the Aura simulation. It’s possible that the in-utero pneumatographic scans failed to identify the unknown factors necessary for generating and implanting an Aura. Recommendations for subsequent tests are…” It dawned on him midway through that he didn’t know where to go next. “…The team will reconvene to discuss further options. End recording,” he finished.

For lack of anything better to do, Pietro buried his face in his hand. Around him the voices of his colleagues stirred, their chatter sounding strangely far away.

“I really thought we had it that time.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. We modeled it after a gestating animal. What the hell could we have possibly missed?”

“Maybe the issue is what we’re modeling. What if we replicated the scans on a more complex organism?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure the guys in obstetrics would love that. ‘Can we borrow one of your patients for nine months? We just want to run some non-invasive tests.’”

“Hey, Will, how do you feel about offering up your firstborn child in the name of science?”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest we go down to the pub on Baker Street and put our funding to good use.”

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to do that after you succeed, not before.”

“What about you, Arthur? You’re being unusually quiet.”

Pietro peered up from between his fingers to where Watts stood, inspecting the hologram of the simulated Aura field. Light from the projection struck the side of his face, carving out the angles in shadows.

“I think,” he said, “we should consider alternatives.”

It wasn’t an opinion shared by the majority of the faculty, but Pietro liked the distance between the buildings.

Admittedly, there were drawbacks to the layout. For example, when back-to-back classes were scheduled on opposite sides of the campus, it was fairly common to see students and professors alike sprinting between lecture halls.

Personally, Pietro enjoyed the sweeping courtyards. The altitude of the city meant a steady supply of brisk air, along with an unobstructed view of the stars that no amount of light pollution could diminish. If nothing else, the long walk between buildings gave him a chance to declutter his thoughts after hours spent cooped up in his office. Given the excuse, he gladly jumped at any opportunity to walk the grounds.

Not that he really needed the excuse, he mused, as he approached Watts’ office.

Pietro went to knock, only to be stilled by a snippet of conversation that filtered through the door.

“—understand your concerns. Rest assured, the surgical theater is still reserved for then. I spoke with the administrator at the medical center this morning, and received confirmation for the private transport. Everything else has been taken care of.”

Pietro was careful not to cause too much of a disturbance as he slipped into the chair across from him. Watts greeted him with a nod, before turning his attention back to the call.

“Certainly. We can discuss your daughter’s treatment plan afterward. I’d rather not burden you with undue stress in the meanwhile. If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

He set aside the scroll on his desk. “You’re here earlier than usual,” he noted. “Either something went extremely well, or horribly wrong. Which was it?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” The joints in his shoulder popped as Pietro stretched. “Remember those parts I ordered? The shipment was delayed another week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I presume there’s a silver lining?”

“Well,” he said, “the original plan was to spend the next three days working on the rotary cannon for the Colossus prototype. But seeing as that’s no longer possible…” He leaned forward, hands clapped on his knees. “I know you’re not usually a fan of ‘that hideous blood sport,’ but the doubles rounds start tonight and the matches have been pretty good so far. Everyone’s getting together later in the staff breakroom to watch. The betting pool this year is pretty sizable, too.” He offered a sheepish grin. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

Watts smirked. “Of course not.”

“But—if you’re still opposed to watching the Tournament—” Pietro shrugged. “My weekend’s free. We could make plans to do something. If you’re interested.”

Watts inclined his head, green eyes half-lidded in thought. After a pause he averted his gaze to his hands, neatly folding them atop one another. “As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, I have a flight this evening. I’ll be out of the capital for a day or two.”

That caught him off-guard. “You didn’t tell me you were heading down to Mantle.”

“That’s because I’m not. I’m heading to Argus.”

“You’re leaving the country?”

“Hardly. With how much the city relies on trade with Atlas, it might as well be part of the kingdom.” He dismissively waved his hand. “But, yes. I’m overseeing a procedure there.”

It took Pietro a moment to conceal his disappointment behind a consolatory smile. “Well, what can you do.” He scoured his brain for any recent mention of traveling during the last few conversations, and surprisingly drew a blank. “I’m guessing this was last-second on your part. A new patient, I take it?”

“Something to that effect.”

“Well”—Pietro hopped to his feet—“if you’ve got an airship to catch then I won’t hold you up. I’m sure you want to get out of here and pack.” He quirked a brow. “Just so you know, I’ll be very upset if you don’t bring me back a souvenir.”

Watts rolled his eyes. “I’ll stop at the hospital gift shop on my way out,” he drawled, without a hint of sincerity.

Pietro laughed. “I’ll hold you to it.”

He made it as far as the threshold when a voice called him back: “Pietro.”

Watts was shuffling a stack of papers on his desk—a pointless gesture, with how meticulous his workspace already was. He spoke without meeting his gaze: “When I return, I’d like to discuss some ideas I had for your project. I might have found a solution.”

His pulse quickened. “Are you—are you sure?” Pietro asked.

The rearranged stack was pushed off to the side. “I will be after tomorrow.”

When he got the news a week later, Pietro stared out his office window, and didn’t move for a long time.

“That girl’s blood is on your hands.”

“Don’t you dare say I took a choice away from her.”

Pietro hesitated outside the imposing metal doors. Announcing his presence would have been the right thing to do—something he should have done ten minutes ago—but a sense of dread, morbid curiosity, and some other nameless instinct stayed the impulse. Instead he leaned closer, only just able to discern the pair of muffled voices on the other side.

“She was dying. What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for the hospital board to convene and debate the ethics? They would have wasted precious seconds wringing their hands and fretting over indemnification, while I had a chance to save her life.”

James’ voice was taut with the tension of a fraying rope. “And you failed.”

“People die from surgical complications every day,” Watts snapped. “We can’t save everyone. But we can try, and I did. She may be dead, but the contributions her death made have advanced our understanding of—”

“‘Contributions’? Do you hear yourself?”

Pietro nearly forgot to breathe in the deafening silence.

“You didn’t do this out of some misguided altruism,” James said. “You did it to satisfy your own curiosity.”

“I did it because she was running out of time and options. A transfer of consciousness by incising her Aura and siphoning it into a receptive vessel was the only way to ensure her survival. What other options were there?”

“Hospice.” The word was ground out through clenched teeth.

“If you’re waiting for me to grovel to you for clemency,” said Watts, “then you’ll be waiting for some time. I did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, really? Is that you why you had your patient shipped to a hospital in another kingdom so you could perform an illegal surgery?”

Pietro flinched.

“As I’ve explained to you numerous times, the procedure is illegal under Atlesian law. Mistral, on the other hand, has no such qualms when it comes to the implementation of pioneering medical research.”

“Hiding behind a loophole doesn’t change the fact that you manipulated her emotionally-compromised parents!” A fist slammed against the desk. “You knew they were desperate, and you knew they would say yes if there was even the slightest chance they could get their daughter back. Their consent was based solely on the premise that your theoretical procedure might work.”

“It’s not theoretical anymore.” The words saturated the air, like the ozone that preceded lightning. “I proved that it can be done. My efforts, while unsuccessful, weren’t a failure. We can take what I learned from her death and repurpose it—”

“That’s enough.”

Pietro recoiled from the shout. Then he realized what he’d done, and quickly repositioned himself next to the door.

“Did you know…” Shoes scuffed over the tiled floor, across the sunken dais. “During the height of the Great War, Mantle oversaw the detainment of captured soldiers. In time, their wardens saw little benefit in expending resources on them if there wasn’t some use for all of those people.” The pacing stopped. “Eventually, Mantle did find a use for them. They were experimented on. When the war came to a close, hundreds of people had perished. The textbooks never fail to recount that.”

Watts took a steadying breath. “What they often conveniently omit is that many of the technologies we have today were born from those experiments. Analgesics, psychotropic drugs, new surgical tools…and neuroprostheses.”

A pause.

“The metal grafted to your body exists because prisoners of war bled for it. You can’t ridicule my work and absolve yourself of hypocrisy.”

When James’ reply came, it was dangerously soft: “For better or worse, we have that technology.”

“For better or worse, we could have had one more,” Watts retorted. “How does condemning my choices justify yours?”

James exhaled through his nose, and his tone evened out into something approximating his regular speech. “Because I don’t condone the loss of lives, or the dehumanization of people. I didn’t participate in the atrocities that brought us those advancements.”

“No. You only benefited from them. Tell me, James. How many more people do you think will suffer needlessly in the future because you stymied my research? Inaction will deprive future generations.”

“Whereas action will slaughter the current one,” James shot back. “The ends don’t justify the means. You know that. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gambled on asking for forgiveness over permission, had the girl actually lived.”

Neither man spoke into the yawning chasm that filled the space between them.

“…I didn’t want her to die, James.” An unfamiliar emotion crept into his voice.

James sighed. “I didn’t call you here to debate your motives. What’s done is done.”

When Watts spoke again, the question was accompanied by unease: “Then why did you arrange this meeting?”

“To discuss the consequences with you.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“Not presently, no,” James said. “The Council hasn’t formally issued any charges, and they won’t until they meet to discuss the matter in-depth.”

“If I’m not being arrested,” Watts ventured, “then what consequences are you talking about?”

The general’s reply was delayed. “I spoke with the Medical Board. Your license has been suspended.”

Pietro’s blood ran cold.

“On what grounds?” His voice was nearly inaudible.

“Malpractice.”

“You can’t place me on probation for a law I didn’t break—”

“Arthur.”

The interruption killed whatever momentum he’d gathered. When no more protests were forthcoming, James continued: “It wasn’t my call.”

Another gap in the conversation followed, shorter than the ones before it.

“If the Board’s intention was to simply strip me of my license, they could have easily done so without involving you. If the Council plans to do nothing yet, then this meeting is a waste of our time.” His confusion faded, replaced with wariness. “Why am I really here, James?”

“…I want you to understand,” James began, “that I arranged this meeting as a courtesy. I didn’t want you to be in the dark about events going forward—”

“Why am I here?”

Pietro could picture James steepling his hands, tightening his jaw.

“As you’re aware, the Penny Project is a classified military project. Your surgery appropriated that research, and you performed it on a civilian.”

“My research”—Watts bristled—“was based on an archotheronotic disease. Where I drew my inspiration is irrelevant.”

“The other councilors might not have letters after their names, but they’re not idiots. They saw the parallels. It’s not a coincidence that your procedure and the project both focus on Aura.”

“The difference,” Watts spat, “is in the intent. The project’s goal is to create an Aura from scratch. Mine was to separate and transfer an already-existing one. If we can separate a host’s Aura and place it within a new receptacle, then that proves we can also remove a portion of it and do the same.”

“Even if you’re right, that doesn’t change the fact that the girl’s parents went to the media and took their story public,” James said. “Soul-based research is already controversial. How long do you think it will take for people to start asking questions? That’s a scrutiny we can’t afford right now.”

The chair legs scraped over the ground as James stood.

“The reason why I called you here is because the Council believes that your actions jeopardized that secrecy. The unauthorized disclosure of classified military intelligence is a potential security breach. Which is why, until they conclude their investigation, your passport is being revoked and you will be confined to the Kingdom of Atlas.”

James sounded tired.

“The charge they intend to level against you is treason.”

Nervously, Pietro rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame.

“Arthur? May I come in?”

Watts stood with his back to the room, an outstretched hand removing several books from their shelves. At the sound of his name, he stiffened. “If you must,” he answered flatly.

“Thank you.” He was careful to avoid tripping over the boxes stacked by the entryway as he closed the door behind him.

The other man had never been particularly materialistic, but even so, his decorating was far from sparse. Awards and accreditations had hung from the walls, while shelves with medical tomes lined the perimeter of the office. Occasionally, projects from the lab migrated into the room, and had taken up tablespace by the windowsill where a lone bromeliad sat.

It was jarring to see those possessions packed away.

Watts didn’t immediately turn to face him. Instead, his head sunk between his shoulders. “…Are you here to yell at me as well?”

“Yes. No.” He ran a hand through his hair. A thousand different thoughts colored his mind like a fractured kaleidoscope. There were plenty of things he wanted to say, each worse than the last. Pietro ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside. “Look, I’m upset, but right now you need a friend, not another detractor.”

“How considerate of you.” His words were devoid of inflection.

“I’m not going to pretend I know how you’re feeling right now, but I still think you should—” Pietro glanced at one of the cardboard boxes on his desk, only to do a double-take. “What are you doing?”

“Vacating the premises.” Watts resumed packing. “Seeing as I’m no longer tenured, the institute felt this room could be put to better use.”

“I already know that. That’s not what I meant.” Pietro gestured to the lacy scrawl on the side of the box—Free to whoever wants it. “Why are you getting rid of your things?”

“I have no reason to keep them. It’s not as if I’ll be able to use them again for another employer.”

“You don’t know that—” Pietro began to protest.

“No one in their right mind would hire me. And that’s assuming I won’t be spending the rest of my life behind bars.” He folded the box flaps with slightly more force than necessary. “Seeing as you’re already here, help yourself to whatever you like. I’ll be taking the rest of these downstairs to the breakroom, once I’m done. I know Will was always partial to my microscope.”

“I’m not taking your things!” Pietro let out a long, deep exhale, forcing himself to calm down. “I want to talk to you.”

“Very well.” Watts finally turned to face him, and Pietro was struck by how ill he looked. A gauntness clung to his features, though whether from a lack of food or a lack of sleep, he couldn’t say. Stubble had begun to creep in below his jaw, and his clothes were far more disheveled than he could ever recall them being. “Talk.”

It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. “You need to get a lawyer.”

“And what good will that do me?” His eyes were dull. “Even if the odds weren’t overwhelmingly stacked against me, what lawyer would touch my case?”

“I’m sure someone would, if you asked around.” Pietro hated the idea, but he willed himself to say it: “What about Jacques Schnee? You’re acquaintances, right? The SDC settles lawsuits all the time, so they’ve got to have legal experts on retainer. Maybe you could arrange something with him—”

“If you think I’ll let myself be indebted to that myopic narcissist—” As quickly as it flared, the fire in his eyes faded. Watts’ posture folded in on itself as the anger drained from him, leaving only fretful cinders behind. “I’m sorry,” he said, with a hard blink. “I was out of line.”

Pietro worried his lower lip. “What can I do to help?” he asked. “Do you want to go out? Get something to drink?”

“I—” Watts cut himself off with a sigh, and shook his head. “No. Thank you. I have plans to meet with one of my former patients later. He wants to discuss alternatives for his Dust poisoning, seeing as his treatments have been…discontinued.”

Pietro cast his gaze helplessly about the room, trying to think of something. With an unpleasant lurch in his chest, he realized that he couldn’t. “I’ll leave you to it, then?” he said.

“That would be for the best.”

Despite the overwhelming urge to protest, Pietro turned to leave. He stopped with his fingers on the door handle, and glanced back. “You’ll come and get me if you need anything, right?”

Watts opened another box, and began writing on the side. “Of course.”

Save for the occasional fleeting glimpse, Pietro saw little of his friend over the next two weeks.

While his presence on the campus was a necessity, Watts seemed to be doing what he could to minimize it. Only the administrators—who refused to speak about it—and his former clients—who spoke too much about it—spent any length of time with him. His public avoidance did little to deter the gossip, which varied in accuracy and failed to account for all the details, given the clandestine nature of his termination. It didn’t help that Pietro staunchly refused to contribute to it, and told off anyone bold enough to press the subject.

When their paths did cross, Watts didn’t linger long enough to chat. He had a faraway look on his face, and his appearance was unkempt.

It worried Pietro that he no longer seemed to care about himself.

It was early into the evening when Watts visited his office.

“Forgive me for the intrusion.” Pietro glanced up from his paperwork to see Watts hovering in the doorway. Strangely, he was carrying the bromeliad. “Might I steal a moment of your time?”

“Certainly!” Pietro pushed aside the document stack and gestured warmly to the chair. To his dismay, Watts remained standing. “What can I do for you?”

Watts adjusted the potted plant in his arms. “I was wondering,” he began, “if I could ask for a small favor.”

“Go ahead.”

Pietro didn’t know what to make of the unexpectedly calm expression on his face, so at odds with his recent emotional state.

“I need someone to look after this for me.” Watts took a step forward, and set the plant on the edge of the desk. “If it’s left unattended for a day or two it’s not an issue. Any longer, though, and it begins to dry out. The care required for it isn’t overly involved; the soil simply needs to be misted with distilled water every so—”

“Wait a second,” Pietro said. “Why does it sound like you’re going somewhere?”

Watts hesitated. “I’m travelling to Evadne for a few days.”

Pietro started to rise. “Arthur—”

He held up a hand. “I’m forbidden from international flights, not domestic. The southern coast of Solitas is under Atlesian jurisdiction, is it not?”

Slowly, Pietro sank back into his chair. “It is,” he agreed. “But why are you travelling now?”

Watts closed his eyes. “I want to see the coast one last time.”

He frowned. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

His friend didn’t comment. He merely stared at him.

“Fine,” Pietro relented, “I’ll watch it for you. But just so you know, I’ve killed plants before.”

His lips twitched in a faint smile. “That’s quite all right.”

Pietro reached forward to move the pot, only to be taken aback when his hand was intercepted by Watts’. The contact startled him, so much so that he didn’t react when Watts lightly squeezed.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Pietro forced his jaws to move. “For what?”

“For more than I care to admit.”

The hand retreated.

“Enjoy your trip, Arthur.” Pietro tried to sound cheerful. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Watts opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He dipped his head in a polite nod, before turning on his heel.

He wasn’t sure why he was here.

It was the second day after Watts’ departure for Evadne. The office was unrecognizable without any of its usual décor—walls now stripped bare of his possessions, floorspace empty save for the generic chairs and desk pushed off to the corner. The open space was dissonant with Pietro’s memories of the many times he’d spent in this room, either with other members of the team, or by himself. Almost as soon as the thoughts formed, they were accompanied by a pang of nostalgia. His fingernails dug into his palm.

Adjusting to the new normal was a prospect he dreaded, not just for the uncertainties at play, but simply because he didn’t want things to change. In truth, Pietro didn’t know what the Council’s verdict would be.

And he would have been lying if he said the thought didn’t keep him up at night.

It was as he was looking around the room that he noticed something glint in the waste bin. Intrigued, he bent down and pushed aside the crumpled papers partially obscuring it. When he lifted it from the bin, Pietro was surprised to see his reflection staring back at him from the plaque’s glassy surface.

The Atlesian Institute of Technology is honored to present the Rigel Award to Arthur Watts in recognition of his contributions to the fields of archotherology and pneumatophysics.

“I know things are bad right now, Arthur, but you shouldn’t just throw things like this away…” He’d been at the reception where the award had been presented; it had been a milestone in Watts’ career.

Carefully, Pietro wiped away a smudge with the hem of his shirt. A stubborn resolve seized him.

“It’s not breaking and entering if you have the spare key,” Pietro told himself, as the lock clicked.

The first thing he noticed, as the apartment door shut behind him, was the immediate onset of cold. Ice cold. The sort of chill that settled in a person’s lungs, and caused their breath to fog as they gasped for air.

“Gods above.” Pietro wrapped his arms around himself. “I know you like it cold, but this is ridiculous. What’s the temperature in here?”

Not intending to trip his way through the room, Pietro reached for the light switch.

Nothing.

“The bulb must have blown out.” He resorted to the flashlight on his scroll. Mindful of where he stepped, Pietro moved into the hall where the thermostat was. The last thing his friend needed was to return to a drafty apartment.

Understandably, he was confused when he tapped the screen, only for the thermostat to not respond.

“Surely this isn’t broken too…?”

A nagging suspicion prompted him to reach for the next light switch in his path. The hall remained dark, even after Pietro flipped it several times.

Something wasn’t right.

The next three lights he tried remained unresponsive to his attempts. Pietro stopped in the kitchen, his scroll in one hand, the glass plaque grasped loosely in the other. What else wasn’t working?

His gaze fell to the sink. With a slither of incredulity, Pietro turned the handle on the faucet.

It was cold, granted, but not cold enough to freeze the pipes. And he refused to believe that all of the utilities simultaneously stopped working. Even if they did, Watts would never have knowingly allowed them to remain in disrepair.

His mind discarded one possibility after the next, trying to identify a pattern, an explanation.

Pietro lifted the plaque to eye level.

For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why he’d want to get rid of something so important. It was a question he’d have to ask him when he came back—

His eyes widened.

Glass skated over the tiles as the plaque shattered against the floor. Pietro fumbled with his scroll, cursing, as he bolted back down the hall.

James answered on the second ring. “Pietro? What—”

“Where are you?” he gasped.

“The Academy,” he said. “Is something—”

“Meet me in your office!” The door slammed shut behind him. “We need to stop him!”

“And you’re sure about this?” James gravely looked on as Pietro paced.

“Why else would he have gotten rid of his things?” He gestured wildly. “He already believes his life is over. He had no reason to keep them.”

Those words had taken on an entirely new meaning, one that made Pietro feel sick.

“I understand, given the circumstances, how you would've arrived at that conclusion. But is it possible you’re wrong?” He spoke with the calm, patient authority of his rank, with a pragmatism meant to ease. All it did was agitate Pietro even more. “Arthur is a lot of things, but suicidal? It doesn’t seem—”

“You haven’t seen him the last few weeks!” His voice shot up an octave. “He’s hardly eating, barely sleeping, he isolated himself from nearly everyone. I knew he was depressed, but I didn’t think…” He trailed off, at a loss for words. “James, please. We need to do something.”

James leaned back into his desk, hands braced against the edge. “We should consider every possibility before we act.”

Pietro halted in his tracks. “What other possibilities?”

“Consider what you’ve just told me. He disposed of his personal belongings—things that would have encumbered him. He distanced himself from other people—social contacts that would have tied him to the kingdom. He canceled his utilities—lien he no longer has to waste.”

Pietro turned to face him. “What are you suggesting?”

“Given the pending criminal charges, it’s possible that he’s trying to flee the kingdom.”

Pietro tensed.

“Think carefully about your last conversation.” James watched him closely. “Did he indicate that he planned on coming back?”

Mutely, Pietro shook his head.

“If he wanted to leave without drawing attention to himself, Evadne would be the logical choice,” he said. “It’s a small town on the water frequently used as a stopover between the interior cities and Anima’s northern coast. It has a comparably smaller military presence, and most of its visitors are tourists. He won’t look out of place. And if he’s brought lien with him, it wouldn’t take much persuasion to stow away on an airship or a boat. Dust smugglers regularly make use of those tactics.”

Pietro started to shake.

“Both possibilities are upsetting in their own right, and I’d prefer for neither to be true. But the evidence isn’t something we can just ignore. Right now, the latter seems more likely. I didn’t notice—”

“Of course you didn’t notice!” Pietro shouted. “You were so busy trying to end his career that you didn’t realize you were ending his life!”

His words echoed around the room. In the stunned silence that followed, Pietro continued to yell.

“‘I want to see the coast one last time.’ That’s what he said to me when he left! He didn’t mean before he was arrested; he meant before he died. And why wouldn’t he? What did he have left? Either he was going to waste away in a cell, or he was going to spend the rest of his life unable to rebuild it. No one in the medical community will speak to him, no one on the team will look at him—” He doubled over with a strangled cough. “I know what he did was wrong. I think it’s wrong. But I don’t want him to die because of it! I don’t want to be right, but with everything I’ve seen we can’t wait around to find out if I’m wrong. James, please, we have to—”

A hand fell on his shoulder. Pietro wheezed.

“We’ll find him.” James’ grip tightened. “I can have an airship ready in ten minutes.”

The night was alive with the weaving bands of the auroras.

A distant part of his mind tried to find comfort in the emerald and indigo light, as it rippled through the sky amidst a backdrop of stars.

“We should be there in a few hours.” From the seat across from him, James consulted his scroll. “Our ETA will be about 6:00 AM.”

Pietro turned away from the window. “What are we going to do when we get there?”

“I have a special operative who’s currently stationed in the area. Her name’s Caroline. I radioed her as we were boarding. Her team’s going to meet us when we land and help with the search.”

He nodded.

“Before Arthur left”—James glanced up from the screen—“did he tell you where he was staying?”

“No, I’m sorry,” he replied. “He didn’t.”

“That’s all right.” James returned to his scroll. “If he checked into a hotel, the transaction will be on his bank statement. I should have access to his account history in a minute.”

“James.” Pietro steeled himself. “If I’m right…about…” He drew in a shuddering breath. “How are we going to handle this?”

“It depends on what we find, and what—condition he’s in.” James’ face was pinched. “The plan is to make sure he’s not a danger to himself or anyone else.”

“‘Anyone else’?”

James’ expression darkened. “I’ve seen situations like this before, with soldiers and Huntsmen. Sometimes they lash out.”

Suddenly, Pietro was grateful for his friend’s long military career, and the experience that came with it.

That went doubly so a second later when his scroll chimed, granting him clearance.

James read over the information as it poured in. “Well, this confirms what we already suspected—he canceled his utilities a few days ago.”

“Did you find out where he’s staying?”

“Let me see—got it. I have the name and address. It’s…” He scrolled through something on the screen. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Pietro leaned forward, trying to get a better look. “What is it?”

“Right before he left, he emptied his account.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Hang on. I might be able to trace where it went—” James trailed off.

“What is it?”

“He—” James peered at the records. “A large percentage of it was made out as a check. To the Ateliers.”

Pietro didn’t speak. If he opened his mouth now, he’d vomit.

“The remainder appears to have been withdrawn, though I’m not sure why.”

The cabin was mercifully silent as James immersed himself in parsing through the records. With nothing to do and only his thoughts to preoccupy him, Pietro returned to the window. It was several minutes before James spoke again:

“It’s going to be a while before we land. Try to get some sleep.”

When he trusted himself to not be sick, Pietro answered. “I’m okay, James.”

It was a lie. And judging by James’ expression, he didn’t believe it either.

“General Ironwood.” A woman of remarkably short stature saluted them. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Likewise, Caroline.”

She fell in step beside him while her two subordinates took up positions at the rear. For every one step James took, Caroline had to take three.

“Anything to report?” he asked.

“We’ve been monitoring the building from afar for the last half hour. We haven’t seen Dr. Watts enter or leave.”

James didn’t comment. Rather, he quickened his pace.

“Do you have any orders for us?”

“The manager will be expecting us, although she wasn’t fully informed as to why. I want you and your team to start in his room, then sweep the premises while we interview the staff.” He stopped with his hand on the glass doors, and gave her a hard stare. “Do not, under any circumstances, harm him. If the situation becomes dangerous, you are to either deescalate it or wait for me to join you. Do I make myself clear?”

She grimaced. “Yes, sir.”

A woman with a sheet of long, violet hair stood waiting for them in the lobby. “Welcome, General Ironwood. Dr. Polendina.” She offered a shallow bow. As she rose, she registered the accompanying operatives, and her eyes flickered with unspoken questions. “How may I assist you?”

“We’d like to speak with you, along with any staff that may have interacted with one of your guests.”

The manager glanced at Caroline. “Are we in danger?”

“No. Not likely,” said James.

The manager didn’t look reassured, but she didn’t protest. “Very well. Please follow me.”

She guided the small group to the front desk where the receptionist sat, their eyes wide in bewilderment. “May I have the guest’s name?” she asked.

“Arthur Watts,” James said.

Without prompting, the receptionist keyed in the name. “Uh. He’s in room 3A.”

James turned to the manager. “May I have your permission to send my team upstairs?”

“Go ahead.”

He nodded. At once Coraline and her subordinates dispersed.

The manager waited until they’d filed into the elevator before she spoke: “You said you had questions for me?”

“Along with any staff that interacted with him,” James clarified.

“I’ve interacted with him.”

The receptionist seemed to regret that decision the moment three pairs of eyes turned on them. Nevertheless, they continued: “The guy with the mustache, right?”

Pietro’s pulse stuttered sharply. “When did you last see him?”

“This morning. He left over an hour ago. Said he was going for a walk.”

It took every shred of willpower Pietro had to not run out those doors.

“Did he leave with any belongings on his person? A bag, perhaps?” James asked.

The receptionist shook their head. “No, sir. Just his wallet and his room key, like he usually does.”

Pietro swapped a look with James, before turning back to the receptionist. “What do you mean by ‘usually’?”

“This is the time when he usually goes out. He stops to talk to the receptionist—well, me, I guess—and then heads out for a few hours. Comes back around noon, grabs lunch in the dining hall, heads back upstairs. Goes out again around five o’clock, and comes back some time after seven.” They gave a helpless shrug. “I—I guess he has a routine.”

Some of the tension left James’ shoulders. “It’s possible Arthur did in fact come here just to destress,” he said.

What should have been a reassuring thought made Pietro want to sink into the ground in mortification. He could only imagine what Watts’ face would look like when he returned to the hotel, to find that Pietro had brought along the entire cavalry. All because he assumed his friend had a death wish.

Pietro was dragged out of his pity party by James’ next question: “Do you remember anything specific about his behavior? Anything that might have looked or sounded strange?”

To his surprise, the receptionist looked guilty. “Well…” They glanced at the manager.

“Whatever it is, you’re not in trouble,” she said.

The receptionist hesitated a second longer, before heaving a reluctant sigh. “You get a lot of guests in a place like this, right? So you don’t always remember all of them. Not unless they stand out in some way. He…” They paused. “He’s been nothing but polite and friendly to all the staff.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly noteworthy,” James observed.

The receptionist fidgeted. “No, it’s not that. It’s not just that. He tipped us well.” They swallowed. “Like, really well.”

The lingering dread from earlier resurfaced. “How much did he tip you?” Pietro asked.

They averted their gaze. “Ten thousand lien. Each.”

The dread beat savage wings against his ribs.

Out of his periphery, James stepped off to the side with a finger pressed to his earpiece. A second later his face went unsettlingly blank. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to speak with my team.”

Pietro dimly registered his departure. He looked between the two hotel staff, his mind frantically scrambling for an explanation other than the one he didn’t want to hear. “Did he say anything?” he asked. Begged. “Anything that you might remember could help."

They considered his words with renewed thoughtfulness. “When he’d come back from his walks, I’d ask him how he was—the regular sort of small talk you’d make with guests. He told me that he went down to the beach. When I asked him, ‘Did you do anything while you were there?’ he said, ‘Not today. Perhaps I will tomorrow.’”

“Pietro.”

James had returned.

Coraline and her team hurried through the lobby; he could just make out “mobilize search-and-rescue” being barked into her earpiece as they rushed past.

He regarded Pietro with pale, haunted eyes, before slowly holding out his hand. “I’m sorry.”

A note hung from his fingertips.

After four days of searching, Arthur Watts was declared dead.

James scrubbed at his face. “I already told you, Camilla,” he sighed, as the doors slid open, “I’ll have it resolved once I—oh, Pietro. I didn’t realize it was you.”

Pietro managed a weak smile. “Disappointed to see me?” he asked, as he strode into the room.

“Relieved, actually.” James set aside some manner of document he’d been working on. “I was half-expecting another lecture.” Pietro accepted the tacit invitation to join him, and eased into the chair. “What can I do for you?”

Pietro tapped his fingers against the armrest. “I need a favor. A big one.”

“Why do I get the impression I won’t like what you’re about to ask me?”

“Because you won’t.”

Predictably, James wasn’t amused, but he didn’t try to bodily throw him out of the room, so that was a good start. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”

This conversation had sounded so much easier in his head. Pietro contemplated which option to take, before deciding on the direct approach: “Did you ever look over the report Arthur wrote after the surgery?”

It was brief, but Pietro didn’t miss the flash of regret James very neatly concealed behind unwavering calm. He steepled his hands. “I did,” he answered.

“Did you see the post-op notes?”

“I did.”

“But did you read them?” he pressed.

There was a hint of humor in his reply: “I read them to the extent I could understand them.”

Pietro braced himself. “I took another look at his work on Auratic intercision. He did it, James.”

When the other man said nothing, he hurriedly launched into his speech. “Even though the initial attempt failed, he managed to deduce what went wrong during the procedure. I won’t waste your time with all the technical mumbo jumbo, but I did the math. Split-Aura transfer is possible.”

He held James’ gaze. “We can finally build Penny.”

For a moment that stretched into eternity, James remained silent. He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened them again. “You want my permission, to use the same research that nearly got him arrested, to complete your project.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Pietro said.

“I can certainly appreciate the irony, if nothing else.” He narrowed his eyes—thoughtfully, not in anger. “This wasn’t an idea you came up with overnight. It’s been nearly two months. Why did you wait this long to bring it up?”

“It’s as you said: it’s been two months. The last of the journalists have retired the story. People are no longer fixated on the proceedings. No more controversy, no more public backlash. The scandal died with him.” It hurt to say, but Pietro pushed onward: “Synthesizing an Aura has proven impossible, but now, we have a viable alternative. We can’t bring Mia Atelier back. But perhaps we can give someone else a chance at life.”

He waited.

At last, James nodded. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding left him. “You have my permission.”

“Thank you,” Pietro said.

“There’s just one problem.”

James regarded him intently. “The procedure requires a donor, does it not? You need a volunteer.”

Pietro straightened. “You’re looking at him.”

It had been a while since he last had the chance to sit and diagram.

A combination of blueprints, tablets, and holographic projectors were scattered about the desk. Other than the sleepy hum of the generator, and the scratching of pen against paper, his office was silent. The ambiance gave Pietro a pleasant rhythm to work to as he alternated between mediums.

He was in the middle of diagramming the thrusters when a voice spoke up from behind: “Burning the midnight oil?”

Pietro gladly accepted the mug James offered him, as he occupied the empty seat. “Just getting a little more work done before I call it quits.” He grinned. “I just finished the template for her skeleton. It’s on the tablet to your right if you want to see it.”

“This one?” James picked up the tablet in question.

“Swipe left, it’s the first file.”

The device lit up in his hands. James made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat as his eyes darted across the screen.

“What do you think?” Pietro asked.

“I think”—he continued to skim through the files—“I picked the right proposal.”

He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear those words until he felt a hot, stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes. He tried to discreetly dab it away.

Not discreetly enough, it seemed. James shot him an inquiring look.

“Oh, don’t mind. I’m just a little sensitive right now.” Pietro ducked his head. “It’s not every day you get to become a father.”

James wore a knowing, if somewhat bemused smile, but he was considerate enough to not say anything. He turned his attention back to the files in his hand.

“A lot of those are aesthetic mock-ups. I haven’t finalized anything, so if you want to throw in your two cents on the design input, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Did he know?”

Pietro’s hand stilled over the parchment. When no elaboration was forthcoming, he lifted his head to deduce one for himself.

His pulse beat painfully beneath his skin.

The file on the screen was one of the earliest drafts for Penny’s design. It was also one of the only files to have received a color palette. Red hair hung in thick curls about her pale face. Her cheeks were flecked with freckles that contrasted just enough to be visible, just below her eyes.

Eyes that were a very familiar shade of green.

He didn’t say anything for several moments. He debated saying anything at all.

But there was no judgment on James’ face, no hint of contempt in his voice. Only sympathy.

“No,” Pietro answered. He let out a tired sigh, and set the pen down. “And he never suspected. I made sure of that.”

“You didn’t want to tell him?”

“I wanted to tell him for a long time." He closed his eyes. "I’ve spent the last four months regretting every day that I didn’t. And on every one of those days, I wondered if telling him would have made a difference.”

“It’s not your fault,” said James.

“I know.” Pietro reached for the photo on the edge of his desk, and gently lifted the frame into his hands. It was the last picture the team had taken together. “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”

He lifted his eyes to the file in James’ hands, to the image of the young girl staring back at him.

“But maybe, through someone else—someone new—he can still be here.”

“Dr. Watts?”

Watts lifted his head from the chart he'd been reviewing.

At the entrance of his lab stood Hazel, his expression as impassive as ever.

“We have a meeting to attend.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Watts smoothed down the front of his coat. “Tell Salem I’ll be right there.”

Guess I've got some explaining to do. For anyone curious about my RWBY worldbuilding and headcanons:

Pietro not being disabled prior to the start of the series - We have no confirmation of this in canon, but I think that donating a percentage of his Aura to Penny has slowly chipped away at his health. I based this partly on the fact that in the show, the areas on his body where his Aura has been excised most prominently are over his legs and lower torso. If donating too much of his Aura is fatal, then it stands to reason that there are intermediary complications between points A and D - loss of mobility in his legs, chronic respiratory illness, worsening vision, and so on.

Archotherology (Gr. archo-, ruler, + -thero-, beast, + -logy, study of) - The study of Grimm.

Pneumatophysics (Gr. pneûma, soul, + -physics) - The study of the soul and its physical manifestation, Aura.

Apothymetics (Gr. apo-, derived from, + -thym-, soul, + E. -ics, from [?] Gr. -ikós, pertaining to) - The study of Semblances; a subdiscipline of pneumatophysics.

Auratic disease - An adverse condition that typically affects a person’s Aura, and by extension, their Semblance. Auratic diseases are generated by plague-type Grimm, and then transmitted to people through proximity. Watts' research simulated an Auratic disease, which is why Pietro later acquires a manmade version of CAD. You can click here to read more about them.

Evadne - A coastal city in southern Solitas. Named after the Greek figure Evadne, the wife of King Argus.

17 notes · View notes

let-it-raines · 5 years

Text

Catch Me If You Can (39/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: thank you to @resident-of-storybrooke for literally everything, to @imagnifika for this banner, and to all of you for all of your support on this story and on others. I never expected to get quite so attached to this one, so I like that you guys are too. Misery loves company and all that. lol.

I hope you enjoy the last real chapter. The epilogue will be coming soon! ❤️⚾️

(If there’s any weird formatting, hop on over and read on AO3. Tumblr is being funky with my formatting.)

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40

-/-

Outside, thunder rolls, quickly followed by a flash of lightning that illuminates the bedroom.

It’s raining.

Raining.

On the final day of the World Series.

Fuck.

Emma jolts up in bed so quickly that her head gets a little dizzy, all of the blood that’s supposed to be in other parts of her body very obviously in the wrong space, and she has to shut her eyes to keep from throwing up while the sound of rain continues to pitter outside, a continual drip that she doesn’t want to be hearing.

It cannot rain today.

After a few seconds, when Emma’s head feels normal again and not like she’s about to feel dizzy enough to fall down even without standing, she opens her eyes and twists to the side to make sure that Killian is still sleeping.

He isn’t.

In fact, he’s not even in bed.

For a moment, Emma wonders if she should bother to go and find him or let him be by himself wherever he is in the apartment. He was understandably quiet on the entire way home and through dinner last night, and she could practically see all of the gears turning in his head. There’s an unwritten list up there of how he wants to pitch to each and every batter on the Dodgers today, and Emma is almost positive that Killian is currently going through it and changing his game plan over and over again until he perfects it.

Considering the fact that her phone says it’s three in the morning, Emma is thinking that she needs to drag Killian back to bed. He may not fall asleep, but he can at least stay in bed so that his body gets a little bit of rest. Maybe he’ll fall asleep. Maybe he won’t. But it’s worth the effort.

Sighing, Emma pulls the thick covers off of her legs and adjusts her pajama pants so that they’re not hanging below her ass from where they shifted in her sleep. She doesn’t bother turning any lights on, the city and the storm bringing in enough that she can see without it, and after walking out into the hallway, Emma doesn’t even have to look in the spare bedroom or the gym to find Killian.

He’s sitting on the window seat in the living room, his legs pulled up to his chest and his cheek resting against the window as he looks outside, very obviously awake.

Killian is going to stress himself out far too much.

Quietly, she makes her away over to him, and while he doesn’t say anything to acknowledge her presence, he does let his legs fall open in obvious invitation for her to join him on the seat. She does, slowly adjusting herself to make herself comfortable while Killian wraps his arms around her stomach so that the warmth of his palms permeates over her skin to warm her from the chill of the apartment. It’s November in two days, but New York is already cold.

There’s a brush of scruff against her cheek followed by the soft press of lips against the underside of her jaw before Emma sees the reflection in the window of Killian resting his chin on the top of her head.

His fingers tap against her stomach in a pattern that she doesn’t recognize, but she doesn’t mind. She may have come out here to convince Killian to come back to bed, to get some rest so he won’t be like a zombie out on the field today, but there’s something almost soothing about watching the rain fall down to the ground to cover the street under the florescent lighting of the street lamps. Even with the thunder, the sound of rain is relaxing, and Emma can understand why Killian was out here being consumed by it.

(She’d still prefer the rain to stop.)

“What are you thinking about?” Emma whispers.

“You.”

“Liar.”

Killian chuckles, something deep in his belly, and she can feel it reverberate throughout her back from where he’s pressed up into her. “I mean, at this particular moment I was legitimately thinking about how good you smell, but no, I haven’t been thinking about you and the softness of your hair the entire time.”

“Damn. I thought our deal was that you always had to think of me and nothing else. Don’t you love me?”

Killian squeezes her stomach. “It’s too early in the morning for you to be so cheeky.”

“Says the man who probably never even went to sleep.”

“I did go to sleep,” he sighs, and Emma watches his eyes flutter closed in the window. “I maybe woke up an hour or so ago to use the restroom, and my mind just…it didn’t bloody turn off. I have changed mine and Al’s game plan at least seven times.”

Wow. She knows him so well. It’s almost a little ridiculous. Not that she’s complaining.

“Let’s…” Emma hesitates, not sure what exactly what to say that she hasn’t already said. “Let’s talk about something other than baseball, okay? We will talk about it after we’ve gone back to sleep and gotten some rest, but for now, this apartment is a no baseball zone. So, talk to me about literally anything else.”

His fingers keep tapping against her stomach, and Emma moves to place her hands over his, a silent reminder that she’s right here and not going anywhere. She may have run before, may have not known what to do when he lied about his shoulder and his accident and everything that came with that, but she’s not going to run now.

This entire relationship has been terrifying, but she’s glad that she took the leap. They’ve conquered some big freaking mountains.

“I’ve emailed someone to see what I need to do to finish my degree.”

Emma almost jolts forward so that she can turn to look at him, but Killian doesn’t let her, holding onto her that slightest bit tighter so that she loses a little bit of her breath.

“When did you decide to do that?”

“A couple weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Wasn’t sure if I was going to go through with it. I’m…I’m still not sure when exactly I’ll go back. The woman said they could arrange online classes for me, and they can help arrange a different schedule. I don’t know if I’d start during the off season and see how many credits I can finish before next season starts up. Or maybe I’ll go all year round even while playing. I could always wait until I’m retired, but I don’t exactly want to do that.”

Emma tries to take it all in and figure out the best way to respond to him. This is obviously something Killian has thought about a lot. There’s not a reason in the world for Killian to have to go back to school. He’s not going to be a physics teacher or professor any time soon, if at all, so this is obviously something he’s decided to do for himself just to have as an accomplishment.

Killian deserves to get to do things for himself.

“I think you’ll figure out exactly how you want to do it, babe. I’m really proud of you for doing that.”

“It’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Too bad.” She pats his hand again and shifts her head back so that she can kiss the underside of his jaw. “I’m proud of you. Unless this is some kind of long con to actually become professor Jones so that Will can’t say it mockingly anymore.”

He chuckles, and she kisses his jaw again. “Damn. You’ve foiled my plan.”

“I knew it,” she yawns, unable to cover her mouth with her hands. “You know, when I graduated from college, I got some kind of fancy ink pen that I never used. They gave them to all of the journalism majors. What do you think they’d give physics majors? Calculators?”

“No, because we’d already own a hell of a lot of those. I might need to get some new ones, though. And possibly find some old books and go through them. It’s been almost a decade. I’m not sure I even remember anything.”

“We can go back to school shopping for you. We’ll have to take a picture of you in your cute little outfit with your backpack on your shoulders. I’ll put it on the fridge and everything.”

“You realize I’m doing this online so I’ll just be wearing my regular clothes sitting on my ass in here. I may not even wear clothes while I’m doing it.”

“Well, I can still put that picture on the fridge, but we’ll have to take it down every time someone comes over. No one needs to see that much of you.”

Killian practically purrs in her ear as he trails hot kisses down the side of her neck, and it sends chills down her spine and up over her skin. “You certainly do. You could see it now if you want to.”

Emma brings her bottom lip between her teeth and tries to rein in any budding arousal. “As tempting as that sounds, you and I are both deliriously tired, and I really only came out here to get you to come back to bed…to sleep. We should go do that.”

Teeth bite down onto her neck. “Fine. That seems like the sensible thing to do, and as an almost college man, I have to be sensible, right?”

“Or binge drink and then study all night for a test at the last minute even though you had weeks to study for it?”

“Do people still do that?”

“I think so.”

“We’re really old, Swan.”

“Yeah,” she sighs as she stands from the bench and pulls Killian up with her, “but I think we’ve still got it.”

Emma easily falls back asleep, especially when Killian closes the curtains and turns on the box fan to drown out the sound of the storm outside, and while she doesn’t really know when Killian fell asleep, he’s slumbering away when she wakes up, his breath coming out in small puffs and his hair falling over his forehead. The weight of the world isn’t on his shoulders right now. He’s not thinking about what he’s got to do today or not do today, and Emma hopes that he sleeps as long as he can.

Hopefully right up until he needs to eat breakfast and go to practice.

But hopes are not always reality, and in reality, Killian wakes up a little past nine and all of the tenseness in his body returns. She can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way that he carries himself as he does some stretches to loosen his body up before making breakfast and getting on with his morning routine. She’s terrified, her stomach absolutely in knots, but she’s not going to tell him that. Emma is sure that he’s aware that she’s in this and wants this for both herself and for him, but she’s not going to tell him and put any extra pressure on them.

It’s more than just one man out there. It’s more than just Killian, but Emma understands how Killian works. If they win, he won’t take any credit for it. If they lose, it’ll be entirely his fault. She’s sure he’s talked himself into thinking otherwise, but his brain will revert back to that.

The storm in the night seems to have disappeared, the streets beginning to dry even if large puddles of rain water are left in dips in the cement, and according to all forecasts, it should be dry enough for them to play today. There are supposed to be light sprinkles, maybe a scattered storm or two, but it’s all sunshine when the game is scheduled to start. If there are any delays, Emma hopes that they aren’t long.

Killian may very well lose his mind.

(She may too.)

He’s currently showering, and while she hasn’t been keeping track of how long he’s been in there, it’s been long enough for her to curl her hair. She’s entirely sure that the humidity is going to cause it to frizz and fall flat, and the network will probably have her hair constantly attached to a curling iron and hair spray until her hair is like a bird’s nest of tangles and product.

Whatever it takes to look good on TV today, right?

She’s supposed to wear a dress or a skirt, something form flattering and attractive for television, but since there are no technical rules as long as she stays dressed, Emma completely ignores that suggestion in favor or her favorite jeans, a pair of trusty boots, and one of Killian’s jerseys, buttoning it up and tucking the front into her jeans. She’ll have to put on a sweater later to combat the cold, but she doesn’t want to do that just yet.

It’s ridiculous, but putting on the sweater means it’s time to go and she’s just…she’s not ready. They need a little more time.

“Are you wearing my jersey?”

Emma jumps and clutches her hand against the chain around her neck that’s visible with the way the jersey is buttoned up. She did not hear the shower turn off or hear Killian open the bathroom door. But considering he’s standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped low around his waist, he obviously did.

“Yeah?”

“What about – ”

Emma shrugs, a smile stretching across her lips. “Fuck them. I don’t give a damn about what anyone has to say. I can do my job while also dating you. It’s not a mutually exclusive thing, and today is a big day. If I want to wear the jersey, I can wear it now.”

Both of Killian’s brows rise high on his forehead, but he’s smiling too as his arms cross over his chest so that his muscles bulge the slightest bit. “I think this is the most attractive you’ve ever been.”

“Because I’m wearing your jersey? I thought we’d gone over that before. I – ”

“No,” he laughs with a shake of his head. “Because you’re saying fuck ‘em to all of the people who we both know will say shit about you wearing that. I personally think they should all pull the sticks out of their asses, but then what would they have to talk about?”

“Happy things?”

“Nah, that’s too boring for them.” Killian walks toward her, a definite swagger in his stride, and the cool tips of his fingers come up to touch her cheeks as he cups her face and brings his lips down to move over hers, slowly and thoroughly kissing her until she can’t breathe. It’s the good kind of breathless, though. “I don’t know if I’m going to kick ass today, but I know that you are. It’s pretty much undeniable.”

“You’re going to kick ass. Think it into existence, twenty-nine.”

“Yeah, but I don’t…I don’t know. I – ”

Emma sighs, and she swears it goes all the way down to her bones. There’s only so much she can say. At the end of the day, Killian has to be the one to believe in himself.

“You know,” she starts as her hand reaches up to her neck so that her fingertips ghost over the cool metal again, “about two months ago I had this really big thing happen to me, and I don’t think I’d ever been that nervous. Well, that was until my idiot boyfriend decided to play with an injured rotator cuff because he was too dumb to say something to anyone.”

Killian playfully rolls his eyes, but she sees his jaw tick. Still such a stubborn ass.

“Anyways,” Emma continues as she reaches up to unclasp the necklace, grabbing onto it and the ring before guiding her hand up to his where they’re still resting on her cheeks. Killian’s blue eyes widen so that she can see every color in them, and they get the slightest bit bluer when she places the ring in his palm and closes his fingers over it. “I was given this really beautiful, special ring so that I had a reminder that someone was cheering me on even when I couldn’t hear the cheers. You had this for a lot of years. I think you might need it back.

Killian’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down before he starts shaking his head from side to side, his eyes closed so that black lashes land against his cheeks.

“No, no, no. I’m just…no, Swan. I’m not taking it back.”

“It’s your mom’s ring.”

He opens his eyes then so that she’s consumed by the blue even as he steps away so that they’re no longer touching each other. Has she done something wrong?

“Aye, my love,” he mumbles even as he opens up the chain and wraps it around her, easily clasping it back so that it hangs around her neck once more. “It was my mom’s, but I gave it to you. I’m not taking it back. It’s yours now.” Killian smiles at her, the soft one that makes his eyes crinkle that she’s come to know as her own, before bringing his closed fist to his chest and tapping right over his heart. “I know right here that people are cheering for me. I know that my mom, my family – I know that you are cheering for me no matter what happens out there today.”

Emma’s not crying. She swears that she’s not crying and that the tears in her eyes are allergies or something, but that would be a lie. It would because she loves him a ridiculous amount, and she’s proud of him over everything that he’s done and been working toward lately.

He’s a good man with a good heart, and he deserves all of the world.

Stepping forward, Emma reaches up to tuck his wet hair behind his ear as her thumb traches over the apple of his cheekbone. “I love you, and I don’t care what Liam or Elsa or Addy says. I’m your biggest fan in that stadium today, and I promise I’ll be cheering you on no matter what happens. Tonight, win or lose, you and I are celebrating, okay? We’re going to sit in our pajamas stuffing our face with all of the food that you’ve been stress baking, and we’re going to drink copious amounts of alcohol.”

He arches his brow. “This sounds unhealthy.”

“You’ll have either won or lost the freaking World Series. I think we deserve a little unhealthy.”

“I think you might be right,” Killian chuckles, dipping his head down to slant his lips over hers. “I love you too, by the way. I’m probably going to tell you that a lot today.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“I don’t believe that at all.” He winks, and Emma swears that her heart flutters. “I’m going to get dressed, and then we can go to the stadium, okay? I want to get my practice in early in case it does rain again.”

“Yeah, sounds perfect.”

-/-

The stadium is nothing like it was yesterday morning. There’s no empty field that’s covered in morning dew with a quiet air around it that allows someone to simply sit out there and think about the history of this place that’s happened before and the history that’s still to come both for the team and for each individual player and for those who love them. People are bustling everywhere. Vendors are already in their stalls, executives are walking up and down the hallways in their suits, heels clacking along the tile, and players are seemingly everywhere. Emma wasn’t quite expecting anyone to be in the clubhouse, maybe just a few people, but they’re all watching old tapes, eating food, stretching, and bouncing strategy back and forth.

It’s like being thrown into chaos with no hope of getting out, but Emma manages to when Ariel pops up out of nowhere with a bright smile on her face that only broadens the moment she sees Emma.

“Perfect.” Ariel claps together her hands. “Just the couple I was looking for.”

Emma points to herself. “Us?”

“Yep. Things are about to get really crazy today, and I need the two of you to pose for a picture before we forget. It’s just perfect that you’re wearing his jersey.”

“Why do you need a – ”

“Just go with it, Swan,” Killian laughs as he wraps his arm around her waist and tugs her closer so that Emma can rest her hand on Killian’s chest. “When it comes to A, it’s best to obey.”

“That sounds like a great motto.”

“Kind of like a cult, though.”

“Just a little bit.”

“Shut up,” Ariel groans as she lifts her phone in the air. “And smile, I mean. Don’t look like I’m forcing you to do this.”

“But you – ”

Emma doesn’t get to finish her sentence before Killian is squeezing her hip and making her squeal as he brushes his lips against her cheek so that his scruff scratches at her skin like the asshole that he is.

But at least he’s an asshole in a good mood.

“Perfect,” Ariel sighs. “Now, Emma, I need you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s about to get even crazier in here, and I’m saving you from the madness.”

Emma doesn’t even get a chance to tell Killian goodbye or good luck before Ariel is dragging her by her forearm out of the clubhouse and down the hallways of the stadium going on and on about everything that’s going to happen today like Emma doesn’t already know. Of course, there are several things that Emma didn’t know. Apparently, her plan for she and Killian to go home and eat junk food and get drunk isn’t really going to happen. He’s got press obligations that far exceed anything that she does, and then there’s usually some kind of team celebration that they all do together. It could be moved to the next day, but that’s usually reserved as an off day before the city does a parade and other celebrations and…

This is only if they win.

Emma points that out, and Ariel immediately corrects her and says “when.” She’s convinced that they’re going to win, and she will not take any other kind of thinking around her. Positive vibes only.

Emma and Killian are totally going home and eating junk food and possibly getting drunk before falling in bed. To sleep. Everything else can wait. And if it can’t, fine. They’ll deal with that and do all of the celebrations and be happy about it because it’s a really big deal, but at some point in the next week, they’re both locking the door, turning off their phones, and then not letting anyone or anything bother them.

Unless it’s the food delivery guy. He can bother them.

But that’s it.

She’s gained approximately ten new wrinkles on her face in the past two weeks, none of them coming from being a year older, and Emma very much needs the season to be over for her own sanity.

Without a doubt, she’ll start to miss baseball in no less than two weeks.

Ariel Fisher, however, lives and breathes baseball and managing baseball players and quite possibly being the most supportive woman on the planet – and that includes Mary Margaret Nolan and her continual positivity – and even if the Yankees sucked, she would somehow cause them to win by her willpower alone.

Emma has known her in a personal capacity for over half a year now, and she’s still not used to all of the never-ending energy. Ariel probably had a full night’s sleep last night. Or maybe she didn’t sleep at all, and she’s in that stage of sleep deprivation where everything is heightened and you’re hyperactive.

Emma would bet on the latter of the two.

But Ariel does eventually finish talking once they’ve made it far away from offices and weight rooms and restaurants up to the suites that Emma is so familiar with now. She’s also familiar with all of the people waiting inside. Killian’s family doesn’t joke around when it comes to baseball. There is no reason for them to be here this early, and yet here they are.

And suddenly Ariel has disappeared, probably off to talk someone else’s ears off.

“That isn’t rain.”

“That most definitely is rain.”

“Anna,” Kris sighs as he and Anna stand at the windows looking out to the field, “that’s rain. It’s this thing that happens when – ”

“I don’t need a science lesson. I need it to stop.”

“I’m pretty sure the entire team is doing some kind of rain prevention dance downstairs because I think we all need it to stop.”

Everyone turns to look at her like they didn’t hear she and Ariel come in.

“Emma,” Lucy shouts, scrambling up from the couch to run toward her and tackle Emma in a hug that’s quickly joined by Addy.

“Hey, girls. Are you guys excited?”

“I’m bored,” Addy sighs out, which is not at all what Emma was expecting.

“Bored? How can you be bored?”

“Because I want the game to start! It’s taking too long, and we’ve been in here forever.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Liam tells Emma as he walks over to her and scoops up his daughter while bending to kiss Emma on the cheek. “But we’ve been very impatient with waiting even though whining isn’t going to speed up the game time.”

“So it’s been a fun morning in your house then?” Emma asks.

Liam rolls his eyes, and even though he and Killian don’t look too much alike, she can see the resemblance there. “Joyous. And from my chat with Killian this morning, I can tell it was about the same at yours with the sleepless night.”

“Well, it is a big day today.”

“Just look up the weather forecast, Anna,” Elsa groans as she moves to rest her head against the countertop. “It’s supposed to rain in the middle of the game. We have known that the entire time, but the sun is literally coming out. It will be dry enough to start play on time.”

Emma arches her brow. “Was Elsa the one not sleeping?”

“Yeah,” Liam mumbles as he adjusts Lucy on his hip, “yeah, she was. She and Addy sat in the living room all night because they couldn’t sleep. I expect them to crash soon.”

“I’m fine,” Elsa promises even as she takes a sip of coffee out of the largest mug Emma has ever seen. “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine. Where in the world did Ariel go?”

“I have no idea. She was here and then she wasn’t. I’m not even sure why she pulled me away from the clubhouse. It’s all been a bit of a blur.”

“Her nickname could be The Blur or something ridiculous like that. She’s always zooming in and out of rooms.”

“How’s Killian?” Anna asks as she steps away from the windows. “Is he freaking out? Has he tried to run away yet?”

Emma’s hand reaches up to toy with her necklace, moving the ring from side to side and choosing not to worry about the weather any more than she already has. “He’s fine. He’s freaking out, but he’s fine. All he needs is for the game to start so he can stop psyching himself out.”

“I want the game to start too,” Addy whines once more as she falls out on the couch and throws her arm over her eyes.

“Darling,” Liam laughs, “have we ever considered that we made her too big of a fan?”

Elsa shrugs. “I don’t think we ever even had a choice.”

Emma stays up in the suite talking and eating cheeseburger sliders and drinking hot chocolate for the next hour, and it’s enough distraction that she doesn’t really think about what’s going on and the nerves radiating deep from her stomach and out to every inch of her. That only really begins when she has to officially start working, leaving the suite to walk to the ESPN booth and get her microphone hooked up to her and prepped for the start of the game. They have her hair curled again, just like she thought, and Isaac and James most definitely eye the jersey she has on. Emma ignores them, even if she does put on her sweater and take the raincoat the network offers her, and leaves the booth to go find the spot they have saved for her behind home plate.

People are filling the stands, a hushed murmur covering the stadium as the sun continues to peek through dark clouds, and Emma’s eyes are stuck on Killian as he continues the last of his pre-game warm-ups.

This exact day last year was one of the craziest days of her life, and she doesn’t think any of it could compare to this.

“You look like you’re going to vomit,” Jeff murmurs as he sets up the protective cover over his camera.

“I kind of feel like I am. Don’t date someone on the team. It’s too much.”

“I think I’m safe in that department.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he laughs, and Emma doesn’t miss the rare smile on Jeff’s face. “You ready to go?”

Emma adjusts her earpiece. “Yeah, I’m ready to go.”

-/-

The Dodgers score on Killian’s first pitch.

A home run right off the bat – literally – and Emma feels the collective groan around the stadium in her bones. That is not what was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a strike, then two more, and an out. Easy as pie, right?

(Killian would tell her pie isn’t actually easy.)

But that’s obviously not how things are going to go today.

Sports have really got to be a little less dramatic. Her nerves can’t take it. Can’t things just be simple? Can’t they have gone back to the beginning and have won in four straight games instead of losing enough so that they’re in game seven of the World Series?

“If” doesn’t exist, especially in sport, Emma reminds herself. That’s what Killian would tell her, and that’s what she has to remind herself.

It only works a little bit.

One pitch at a time. It’s how Killian is going to be out there, and it’s how Emma is going to be sitting in the stands talking back and forth with the guys up in the booth thinking the same thing. It’s kind of hard to think that, though, when there’s a continual string of near hits and misses and Isaac and James up in the booth won’t stop being so damn negative that it makes Emma want to scream.

The score is 1-0 in the top of the third inning. It’s not the end of the world.

The looming dark sky overhead is kind of making her think that way.

“I’m too nervous, Rubes,” she mumbles while Killian winds up his arm to throw a pitch. There’s two men on base, both due to errors from King. She’d feel petty and a little glad if she didn’t need him to play well for the team. “Tell me about wedding stuff. Distract me.”

There’s static in her earpiece before Ruby’s voice comes in. “We’re getting married on a beach with no clothes on. Don’t worry. We can get waxed on the bachelorette weekend, so we’ll all be as smooth as babies.”

Emma huffs. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m hysterical,” Ruby corrects, and a part of Emma knows that Ruby and Graham might legitimately get married like that. “We haven’t planned any more than what we talked about last week. Small, intimate, and then a killer party with good food and drinks. Finding a location is hard. Everything is so expensive.”

“Destination wedding?”

“How is that cheaper?”

“I’m sure you can find a really inexpensive place in Nebraska or something.”

“You can get married in Central Park for one hundred dollars,” Jeff adds in, and Emma snaps her head away from the game to look at him. He shrugs his shoulders. “What? I know things.”

“I think the one hundred dollars is only if you want to get married in a certain spot, though,” Ruby sighs. “We’re going to keep looking. Graham said that he’d ask some of his buddies at the precinct if they knew of any spaces. It doesn’t have to be pretty since I know Mary Margaret will work her magic to make it that way no matter what.”

Killian’s pitch lands right in Will’s glove, and the umpire calls the batter out. Thank goodness. She doesn’t know what she’d do if someone else got on base. Then they’d be loaded with no outs, and things would pretty much be screwed from here on out.

Emma reaches over into her bucket of popcorn (she bought the jumbo size because she is stress eating) and stuffs a handful into her mouth instead of eating one or two at a time. One piece falls out of her mouth and down her shirt, landing somewhere in her bra so that she has to pick it out.

“You’re on the jumbotron right now, Emma,” Ruby giggles.

“Ah, fuck,” Emma mumbles as she looks up to see there be a replay of her digging in her shirt. “I hate everything.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“Me eating is like a running joke this season. I don’t get it.”

And she doesn’t really have time to get it before there’s the thwack of a ball against a bat straight past first base and away from everyone.

Shit.

It’s not good. Not at all. The two runners already on base get home, and the batter manages to make it to second.

It’s 3-0, and this is not at all how today was supposed to go.

Emma’s lungs are doing that thing again where they’re not taking in air, and there’s not enough popcorn in the world to make any of this better. If the tick in Killian’s jaw is any indication, she knows that there’s no one in the world more pissed at what’s happening than him. They don’t have anything together, and if they don’t get it together soon, they’re going to run out of time.

And then the sky opens up, little droplets of rain falling and landing on Emma’s nose, and that saying “when it rains, it pours” seems oddly appropriate right now. Her sadistic sense of humor is about to get worse.

They can’t lose. They can’t. she won’t allow it.

The rain keeps falling, a steady downpour of water, but it’s not enough to call for the rain delay. Not yet. And Killian is able to strike out the next guy and then get the third out of the inning with Eric catching the hit.

And just like the rain, the play stays steady. It’s not spectacular baseball by any means, mostly just a sludge match as everyone tries to keep their hands dry and the water out of their eyes, and the score slowly improves. Lance hits a good ball to get two RBIs, making it 3-2, and they manage not to allow any runs in the top of the fourth inning.

Good.

They’re creating chances. That’s what matters. They’re creating chances, and Emma can continue to eat her soggy popcorn while she freaks the hell out about what’s happening and continues to try to act like she’s a professional and not overly invested in the outcome of this game like she’s got money on it.

It’s the bottom of the fourth inning now, a chant of August’s name moving across the stadium so that it shakes in anticipation, and the bases are loaded. There are also two outs. Emma’s not saying that this could be the thing that changes the momentum of the game, but if the way that she’s gripping onto Jeff’s arm is any indication, she knows that this could change the momentum of the entire World Series.

“Come on, Booth,” Emma yells out as her free hand hits against her thigh, the wet denim clinging to her skin. “Be smart. Watch the ball.”

August obviously doesn’t know how to follow instructions because then it’s a swing and a miss.

Strike one.

There’s no chance for a strike two because while the rain has been sprinkling for the past hour, it’s pouring now. Jeff is mumbling about his camera and the cover not doing enough, but all Emma can focus on is all of the players running inside to the dugouts and fans shuffling inside while an announcement comes over the speakers that there’s an official rain delay.

An hour ago, she would have welcomed it. They didn’t have any of the momentum then. They do now.

This isn’t how things are supposed to be going.

Fuck.

-/-

“So how long is the rain delay going to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“But can you find out?”

“I can’t control the weather, Emma.”

“But you know things that we don’t, David,” Emma groans as she paces back and forth in a tunnel in the stadium, her hair frizzing around her face and her jeans completely soaked through. “It’s been an hour. Are they going to call the game? Are they going to continue it? This is agony.”

“You need to calm down.” Emma looks over to David with raised brows, and he holds his hands up in the air. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to say that to you, but you’re going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep worrying like this.”

Everyone they know is going to give themselves a heart attack, apparently.

“I know, I know,” she sighs, reaching up to hold onto her necklace and quieting down as some people pass by the two of them, probably looking at her like she’s a crazy person. “I’m nervous. This is really hard. I just…I want to be allowed into the clubhouse so that I can see him. He’s going to be freaking out. I just know, and I – ”

David walks toward her and places his hands on her shoulders while he looks down at her with a soft, reassuring smile on his face. She’s sure that he would hug her right now if she wasn’t soaking wet.

“Killian is fine, sweetheart. You are fine. We’re in the fourth inning. There’s still five more to go, whether it’s finished today or tomorrow or a week from now. They have time to come back. You, however, need to be back in hair and makeup because you’re supposed to be doing a clip on SportsCenter in fifteen minutes to fill the dead air time.”

“Shit. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I couldn’t get a word in. You were kind of having a meltdown.”

Emma practically has to run down the hallways, which doesn’t help her appearance at all, and she’s sure that here makeup is streaky and her hair a wild mess that can’t be tamed, and the entire world can probably see her bra underneath her jersey right now. There’s not a hell of a lot that the makeup department can do, especially without a change of clothes besides a dry raincoat to replace the one that got soaked through, but they try their best before she’s standing in front of a plain backdrop inside the stadium talking back and forth about what’s going on in the game, breaking it down inning by inning in a way that she hasn’t had to do quite some time.

Considering she does it all with last minute notice and no notes in front of her, she thinks that she does a damn good job.

None of that really matters, though, because right as they’re wrapping up the segment, they get the announcement that play will resume in the next twenty minutes.

It’s time to play some more baseball.

Emma shouldn’t have eaten all of that popcorn because her stomach is most definitely churning with nerves.

They can do this. They have to. They will.

-/-

August immediately gets struck out, and the fourth inning ends with the Yankees still down 3-2.

The next two innings are scoreless for both teams, and Killian wraps up his game after that. He played well. It wasn’t his best, the weather and the nerves probably impacting him, but she’s proud of him.

She’ll be proud of him no matter what.

And she really wishes that the network wanted her to do a mid-game interview or let her go into the dugout just so that she could see him and tell him that in person, but they seem to be determined to only allow her to stay on the sidelines by herself.

Emma: I love you, I love you, I love you.

Emma: You’re my favorite player (and person) no matter what, and I can’t wait to see you when this game is over and you’re holding that trophy.

He texts back almost immediately, and he must have his phone out on the massage table.

Killian: Will you go out with me if we win? Or if we lose?

Laughter bubbles up inside of her, and it’s the first time all afternoon that she’s felt this light.

Emma: Only if you ask me out on live television like the asshole you were when you did that last year.

Killian: I think I can do that.

Her stomach flutters again, and even though this is kind of the biggest game that Emma has ever watched in her entire life, her eyes keep switching between her phone and the game. It’s pretty much the only way that she can stay calm and keep getting air into her lungs without one of them collapsing and her having to go to the hospital.

This game is going on forever. Literally. Each inning is longer than the last, and the sun is beginning to set over the horizon so that the remaining gray clouds disappear into the dark of night. Florescent lights fill the stadium, lighting up the crowd and the players, and Emma can’t stop shivering, especially with the remaining dampness of her clothes and the chill that’s whirling around. It’s got to be forty degrees out here at the most, and if it weren’t for Mary Margaret brining down her coat for Emma to use, she’d turn into an icicle by the end of the game.

Probably before the end of the game.

Today is obviously going very well.

It’s not just Emma, though. The crowd is starting to get a little delusional now too. The game has been going on for over six hours now, the last three completely scoreless, and everyone is getting restless and antsy and probably very, very drunk.

Some rum or whiskey or several shots of tequila is sounding really good right now.

She can’t have any of it.

And she’s moved on from popcorn to copious amounts of hot chocolate to keep her warm.

It’s now the bottom of the ninth in what could possibly be the last inning of the game and the end of the season, and they’re still down by one run. It’s almost exactly what happened last night, and Emma’s dentist is going to hate her for how much she’s grinding her teeth.

Just one run to tie it up. One more to win the whole damn thing.

Easy, right? Right.

“Fuck,” Emma mutters underneath her breath, unable to keep the thoughts inside. This cannot end up like last night. They’re so damn close. They can do this.

Eric settles into his position in the batter’s box, his hands moving up and down his bat until they’re in the right spots, and Emma would probably give up her entire salary to know just what Ariel is doing right now up in the suite. She’s got to be losing her mind.

Emma is kind of losing hers.

One. Two. Three.

The ball flies off of Eric’s bat, straight down past third base so that it practically paints the line, and Eric is off like a cheetah, quickly passing over first base and turning so quickly that he nearly falls on his way to second base. Emma stands, unable to stay sitting down, and she can’t even hear herself yell over the roar of the crowd as Eric slides against the dirt to mark up his uniform and have his fingers touch second base right before the ball gets to him.

Safe.

Holy shit. They have a man on base.

And August is up next. God, she hopes that he doesn’t choke again. There’s been a hell of a lot of pressure on his shoulders in the past two days, and he’s crumbled underneath it after having some really big opportunities to close things out. As good as these guys are at playing in the moment, the past does have the ability to creep up around them and wrap around their neck to pull them back to the past so that they can’t move on.

August has to move on.

One. Two. Three.

Strike.

Shit.

One. Two. Three.

Ball.

Okay.

One. Two. Three.

Strike.

Fuck.

Emma cannot do this. She absolutely can’t. It’s too much. It’s all too much, and she has to bend down to put her head between her legs. She knows that her phone is going off, that she’s got texts and calls and emails, but she can’t look at any of them. If it’s something for work, Ruby will speak into her earpiece or Jeff will say something.

This is the worst. Who likes sports? This is just the worst.

One. Two. Three.

The ball thwacks against August’s bat, and it flies toward left field. Emma is positive that it’s going to go over, absolutely positive that it’s going to be a home run and that they’re about to win this game. But then it hits against the wall, and suddenly it’s back in play. It’s not a home run, not quite, but it’s enough to have Eric round third and run toward home, his body barreling as quickly as possible before he’s sliding through the dirt once more so that it flies up around him.

Safe.

3-3.

Holy fucking shit.

Emma can’t hear. She can’t. The crowd is that deafening, and while Emma isn’t jumping up and down, her knuckles are going white as they grip onto the sides of her seat. All she can focus on is the way that Eric runs straight into Killian just outside the dugout, the two of them jumping up and down and hitting each other’s backs and asses as every other member of the team surrounds them in a celebration that sends chills down her spine.

Her cheeks are warm for the first time all night, and Emma has to force down the emotion in her throat.

It’s not over.

But that’s a good thing. They have the chance to do this, to win this now, and Emma’s heart is pumping blood faster than it ever has in the entirety of her life. It may very well beat out of her chest.

She doesn’t even care.

The high comes down five minutes later when King is easily struck out, putting their first out of the inning on the board, and even Emma isn’t petty enough to want Arthur King to do poorly when him doing well is good for the team. She’s petty. Just not petty enough.

Will Scarlet, though, deserves the entire world, and all of the organs in Emma’s stomach shift again when he steps into the box and adjusts his helmet. Sprinkles of rain are falling down from the clouds and spitting against Emma’s skin, but it’s not enough to stop the game. Not yet. The momentum is with them again, the game and the championship on their bats, and Emma has never known Will to be scared of a little rain.

One. Two. Three.

A swing and a miss.

Strike One.

One. Two. Three.

No movement. Deep breath inhaled.

Ball.

One. Two. Three.

No movement.

Strike Two.

“Damn,” Emma mumbles under her breath as she tightens the jacket a little further over her arms, her legs shaking and tapping enough to power the electricity in all of the Bronx. She’s going to break the chain around her neck for how tightly she’s tugging on it. It’s fine. It’s all fine.

It’s got to be all fine.

The water is spitting a little harder now, Emma’s vision getting a little bit blurred, and it’s taking everything in her not to stand up right now so that she blocks the people behind her. Ruby is chattering in her ear cursing or hoping or something, her phone is still going off, and Jeff has to be complaining about how much Emma is crushing his forearm.

She doesn’t care.

Because Will is standing in position again, and he’s ready.

One. Two. Three.

There’s a sharp blow when the ball makes contact with the bat, and while the rain and the stadium lights make it hard to see, Emma already knows that the ball is going over the back wall and into the crowd.

Gone. It’s gone.

It’s freaking gone.

Will Scarlet is an absolute legend.

The Yankees just won the World Series.

Killian just won the World Series.

Everything is so loud around her, cheers reverberating and shaking the stands so that Emma can literally feel sounds, but she has trouble focusing on any of that over the sound of her heart pounding in between her ears and Ruby yelling in her earpiece that Emma has to get down to the field.

The field.

She has to get down to the field, and somehow, she does. Jeff must have carried her there or pushed her or something. It’s a madhouse, one Emma can’t navigate, and she knows that she’s supposed to be doing some kind of interview, preferably with Will, but there’s no way for her to find anyone. It’s a mass of players all huddled together and jumping up and down as coaches and wives and children all join in, the rain coming down even harder than earlier.

All Emma really wants is to find Killian and kiss him like she’s never kissed him before.

That’s saying something.

Emma sees him standing ten feet away from her on the outskirts of a pile of men embracing each other in happiness, his hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it for the past two hours and his smile so large that it reaches his ears. He looks beautiful, ethereal almost, and Emma can scarcely breathe looking at him after pushing through so many people to find him.

That’s when he sees her through the people and the rain and the unending joy.

Killian pulls his arm up to tap his closed fist over his heart, and Emma’s heart stutters at the movement before a slow grin stretches across her lips while she reaches up to tap her fist over the ring and her heart.

She was cheering him on the entire time.

One. Two. Three.

Emma takes off toward him, ignoring Ruby in her ear and Jeff behind her with the camera, and in six strides, she’s pressing up onto her toes and wrapping her arms around his neck, holding onto him so tightly that her feet come off the ground and Killian’s hands scramble for her ass, barely holding onto her as he lifts her in the air and swings her back and forth as they both get covered in the continual downpour of rain.

She can hardly see, the water far too much, and when she cups Killian’s cheeks and slams her mouth into his, he tastes like water and spearmint gum and quite possibly all of the happiness in the world bottled up into one human being.

Kissing him and being here with him is everything she ever wanted and everything she never allowed herself to dream.

“Fancy seeing you here, Swan,” Killian laughs, his mouth still pressing against hers.

“What are you talking about, Jones? I was right here last year.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, the grin the most infectious thing she has ever seen, “but I think I like this year a hell of a lot better.”

“Can’t wait to see how you try to top this next year.”

Killian throws his head back in in laughter, his skin covered in rain, and he finally puts her down on the ground so that her feet sink into the soft grass below her, arms still wrapped around Killian’s neck so that she’s close enough to see the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his lips.

“You know what, my love? I think I’m good staying right here in this moment for now. We can figure out the rest later.”

-/-

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