#which seems more useful than watching something across several days and retaining nothing

[normalbrothers]

i realized i lost my ability to watch movies on the 'puter even if that's where the most movies are, but my plan to go to the cinema every other week is a good compromise, tbh, the programme in my city sucks, but there is the occasional screening of something interesting (both old and new), so i'll keep my eyes on that

[xknivesandpensx]

Like Pieces of a Puzzle

Chapter 3

Summary: What if Harry wasn't the only extra student called upon to participate in the Triwizard Tournament? Far from the most popular candidate, Draco not only has to take on the trials but also deal with his unexpected feelings for Hermione. Will he be able to face the challenges as well as follow his heart?

Chapter length will vary. I'll be referencing both the books and movie versions. Some things from what I've previously written will be mentioned, all of which you can find here.

And for those who asked to be tagged: @dayane245love

The air held a slight trace of humidity, the wooded area retaining a distinctive earthy scent. Large pools of water persisted from the night’s rain, leaving little to no dry places along the trail. Trampling feet splashed their way along (although many skirted around) as they followed Hagrid through the dense forest. The overall atmosphere appeared dreary and downright mind-numbing. But Draco got a feeling the latter had nothing to do with the weather.

Sleep evaded him for the majority of the night, leaving him far more temperamental, almost coming off capriciously brisk in attitude depending on who decided to speak to him. Especially, given the reason he tossed and turned so frequently.

He still refused to admit it, even to himself.

Draco forced his attention to focus on his present surroundings. The uneven ground, the sound of endless chatter, how he absolutely hated this class.

If able, he’d erase it entirely from his schedule. Dropping the elective came to mind several times, but far be it for him to attempt something different.

Arithmancy seemed too difficult, his grades hardly hitting spectacularly high to begin with, the theoretical nature of Study of Ancient Runes lacked practicality, he couldn’t get away by guessing there, and he wouldn’t dare take Muggle Studies based on standards alone.

So, that left Care for Magical Creatures and Divination, which he easily managed to glide through if his predictions came off morbid enough to allow Trelawney to go off on a random digression.

During any other lesson, he’d sit at a table, attempting to pay attention only for his thoughts to wonder elsewhere. Here he stood on his feet, tempted to roll his eyes regularly.

In addition to their teacher, having the Gryffindors join the Slytherins for yet another year irritated him greatly. Harry eagerly rose to defend Hagrid, Ron commenting along in added agreement. And of course, Hermione never kept her mouth closed on the matter either.

Second class of their first day and he already felt ready to go back to bed.

They had to feed Blast-Ended Skrewts. The creatures smelled like rotting fish and their appearance came across as some disformed scorpion or shell-less lobsters. He still didn’t see the point of them, their usefulness a mystery. The dull quality of Hagrid’s sessions were anticipated by now, but raising those things over the course of the year, he thought it nothing less than a waste of time.

He purposely stayed a short distance from the crates, of which a couple of students circled, unwilling to grab a handful of frog livers in hope they’d take to eating them.

Plus, the only open space happened to be right next to Hermione. He still felt a little off whenever he caught himself looking at her. Being directly near her seemed far from appealing.

All the same, his eyes gravitated towards her despite his preference to look anywhere else, almost lured in her direction. He watched, for no more than a few fleeting seconds, how her cheeks dimpled when a smile overtook and laughter rang from her lips.

Ron said something to cause the reaction. Probably another stupid joke or funny comment, nothing Draco assumed took many brain cells to come up with.

His attention veered after Dean let out a complaint of getting his hand singed, his arm retracting swiftly from the Blast-Ended Skrewt’s reach.

Lavender too announced her grievances, sounding disgusted by them and regardless of Hagrid’s attempt to explain the creature’s general nature, Draco let out a huff, sauntering a couple of paces forward.

“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive.” Sarcasm rolled off his tongue effortlessly, tone set in a typical degree of harshness. “Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting and bite all at once? They are ugly little things, aren’t they?”

“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean they’re not useful,” Hermione snapped, unable to ignore the rudeness of his comment, even if she agreed in means of their harmful propensities.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Draco mentioned, his signature sneer in place. The butterflies in his stomach irked him so much he forced out another bout of cutting words. “But then again, you’re always so eager to stick your nose in other people’s business. Perhaps you want some attention. Waving your hand in the air doesn’t seem to quite cut it anymore, does it? To think you’re so desperate for it, you’re even seeking mine now? It’s quite sad, really.”

Why he chose to go there specifically, he’d never know. Maybe it had something to do with the fact of how she kept snatching his attention and not the other way around.

Hermione’s face grew hot under his scrutiny. His frosty assertion hit in a rather demeaning fashion, she found herself unable to produce a hasty comeback.

“Nothing to say, Granger? That’s a first,” he jeered. “Probably best to keep it up and spare us the torture.” There was something, a particular aspect he noticed which gave him reason to pause. Did the warm weather cause her cheeks to appear flushed, either that or a blush bloomed before his very eyes.

The emotional display caught him off guard, but it mostly sent a wave of confusion to overtake. Draco suddenly became very aware of the students around them, many eager for him to continue, others staring him down. Sure, Hagrid’s observation remained on the crates, so what? Did they expect him to further antagonize her or possibly her silence mystified them as well?

Crabbe and Goyle were a step behind, as per usual, hovering too close. Normally, he’d keep going, persistent in his hounding until satisfied (if not interrupted beforehand).

Hermione took a breath, for once she wished to act like a child and shove him in the chest. Clearly, for the sake of her self-respect and dignity, she restrained. “If anyone’s in need of acknowledgement it’s obviously you.”

“Oh, please. I’m a Malfoy, as if I need any help in that area.” Honestly, at this point he almost wanted either Harry or Ron to intervene. At least then he’d have reason to break their bickering spat before it escalated. Luckily, liberation from their conflict came quickly.

“Enough bickerin’ you two,” Hagrid interjected, finally noticing the lack of students around him as he appeared rather busy attending to his Skrewts. “We’re in the middle of class, are we not? Now ev'ryone gather round.”

Grateful for the escape, Hermione hurried to rejoin the others.

What a great comeback. What she wouldn’t give to stop herself from feeling anything towards him. She was only thankful he hadn’t come even closer, then she might’ve gone all wide-eyed like Ginny used too around Harry.

As Hermione went past a group of Slytherin girls, she felt a pair of hands collide with her arm, shoving her off balance. A loud splash muffled a surprised gasp as a rush of cold, murky water made contact. The puddle sunk surprisingly deep, soaking much of her clothing.

“You did that on purpose,” Hermione coughed out, a bit of water still lodged in her lungs. She went to push herself upright only to feel a sharp wrench of pain in her wrist as her fingers sunk into the wet dirt.

Pansy hovered over her, a satisfied grin on her face. “I don’t know what you mean. It was a complete accident.”

Hermione turned red with embarrassment once an eruption of laughter sounded, it froze her in place for a moment far too long. It shouldn’t surprise her to see Draco chucking alongside everyone else, though she couldn’t know he practically had to compel it out of his throat.

Not because he particularly felt bad about joining in. He simply wanted it to feel normal, to laugh until his ribs hurt from the hilarity of it all.

“A Mudblood in the mud. Exactly where you should be, if you ask me,” he attempted to add, yet not a single ounce of satisfaction registered.

“You’re going to regret saying that, Malfoy!” Ron advanced, soon held back by Dean and Seamus. Of course, he witnessed Pansy’s part but he thought twice about lunging at a girl. He was, however, more than willing to tackle Draco. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Harry rushed over, after giving Draco a rather unpleasant look, and extended his hand to Hermione. She slipped into him after being pulled up, leaving traces of dirt on his uniform. “You okay?”

“You mean besides being totally humiliated?” she asked almost angerly. Hermione unlatched herself from his arms and ran her fingers through her hair, frowning at the mess.

Draco became deaf to Hagrid’s voice nearly booming in the background the moment he spotted a glassy reflection of tears in her eyes (not that she’d let herself cry in front of everyone) as Harry attempted to help wipe away the mud from her face. Ron complained in a grumble off to the side, though he appeared hesitant to touch her, almost unhappy Harry managed to first.

Guilt slammed into Draco’s chest seconds later, an incessant, nagging throb beating so apparent it caused him to lose all sense of a smile. Never had he felt bad about making fun of anyone. A tiny part of his mind even started to whisper some vague drivel about apologizing for his callous behavior.

As if he’d ever.

Next thing he knew, Hagrid sent Hermione and Harry back to the castle to clean up minutes before class itself ended. And if he believed eating would satisfy his hollow stomach, he was rather mistaken. Lunch came next and not only did he not see Hermione, his hunger disappeared completely. Even the sweets and cakes he received in the morning from his parents, all of which he couldn’t wait to enjoy later on, lost their appeal.

He heard from behind, as Harry explained Hermione’s absence to Ginny in a somewhat hushed tone, about how she went to Madam Pomfrey for her wrist then straight to the library. Apparently, she wished to avoid any probable mockery from her fellow classmates. Fred and George got a little rowdy about it, otherwise Draco stopped listening.

All in all, the very fact of not receiving detention for calling Hermione a Mudblood in class worked out well in his favor. Hagrid noticed, but he got out before any reprimanding happened, not that he couldn’t inform Snape. Draco very much doubted the possibility.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Goyle asked, noticing the way he pushed his food around on his plate instead of taking a bite.

“Shut up, Crabbe,” he impertinently rejoined, not paying any mind to who spoke to him at all, his temper already tampered with too much for the day.

“That wasn’t me,” Crabbe muttered, reaching over for a piece of chicken. His arm nearly knocked his cup over, threatening to spill its contents across the table.

“Like it matters.” He provided a glare, daring him to say another word. When the two settled on their meal once more, Draco took a sip of pumpkin juice.

He usually looked forward to the hour break in between classes, but his mind kept hounding him with more nonsense. Draco could practically hear his father chastising him for undergoing the slightest implication of guiltiness.

Specifically, when it centered on someone Muggle-born.

He glanced at the bruise he received for unintentionally eavesdropping. Maybe Lucius cut above severe punishments, but he never shied away from harsh reminders. And he didn’t need another.

Pansy sat across from them, her brows furrowing from his somewhat unusual behavior. “Why are you in a mood? I thought you’d be happy.”

As if she specifically mortified Hermione for his benefit. Knowing Pansy, perhaps that was her precise motivation. Though in truth, she naturally detested Hermione and likely took the opportunity when it came.

“I’m completely thrilled, can’t you tell?” he asked, a thin level of exasperation clinging to his voice. Draco pushed his plate aside. “I’m going to the common room. Alone.” He stressed the last word, forcing Pansy to sit back down.

The last thing he sought was her company or anyone else’s for that matter. Leaving the Great Hall, he passed Professor Moody along the way, taking note on the way his artificial eye followed him until he crossed into the hallway.

He got the impression their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher didn’t see him in a very high light. He knew those types of looks all too well, at least the readable one from his good eye.

Draco shook off the notion and kept a steady pace, intent on avoiding the very direction of the library. He didn’t want to see Hermione or even think about her, so how did he find himself walking past shelves of books mere minutes later?

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2021 #4: Baleful

“It’s the damndest thing, ma’am,” the young dragoon said as Aeryn looked over the reports. “Ser Alberic looked over the reports, went all pale, mumbled something about needing some fresh air, and then just...left.”

“And you have no idea where he’s gone?” She asked.

The young elezen shook his head. “I...I am ashamed to say none of us thought to follow him for a moment, and by the time Clarisse stepped outside to ask if he was all right, he’d vanished. The sentries say he Jumped away.”

That made her raise an eyebrow. Alberic did not often employ the methods he taught anymore. “Two days ago, you said.”

The young man nodded. “We just...don’t know what to do, or where to go. We thought perhaps you might.”

“I’ll try,” she said, gathering the portfolio again. “May I take this?”

He nodded. “I made that copy just for you, ma’am.”

She smiled a thanks and stepped out of the barracks and into the cold, sunny streets of the Observatorium. The portfolio had been about attacks from remnants of Nidhogg’s Horde, old fighters who didn’t want to accept the peace and still fought bitterly against Ishgard and those of Hraesvelgr’s brood who allied with the city-state.

The main concern was the ringleader of this particular surge of activity; an ancient red dragon called Avengret, last active around the time Ferndale was destroyed and thought killed at the time. Apparently she had merely slept and recovered, and had awoken very recently. Not originally a member of Nidhogg’s brood, she had not been compelled to awaken right away when he called for the final verse of the Dragonsong War.

She was the best place perhaps to start, but Aeryn needed to know more. If she couldn’t find Alberic, then another source of information about Avengret was needed.

—-

Gullinbursti raised his head as Snowlight landed nearby. “Ahh, Aeryn; to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She smiled sheepishly. “I wish it were a social call,” she said apologetically. “I need help finding a wayward Dragoon instructor.”

“Oh?” He stretched, scales rippling in the sunlight shining over Bahrr Lehs. “I don’t know much about Dragoons. Tend to avoid them.”

“You know of Ser Alberic Bale?”

“The previous Azure, of course. A bane to us all during the war.”

“He’s gone missing; so far as we can tell, of his own volition. He received a report of one of Nidhogg’s generals, a dragon called Avengret who was thought killed at Ferndale but has resurfaced. I thought you might know of her since, well…”

“Since she is of Ratatoskr’s brood,” Gullinbursti said quietly. He looked off into the sky for several long minutes.

“I...don’t want to ask you anything that might harm your kin. I’m just worried for Alberic and what he might do.”

Gullinbursti seemed to recall she was there, suddenly looking into Aeryn in a way that almost made her fidget. Finally the old dragon sighed. “...Leave it, Warrior of Light.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Send someone else to find your missing man. This is not an adventure you should accept. Go home.”

“I promise, I don’t want to hurt one of you—”

“I would kill Avengret myself were she here,” Gullinbursti said bluntly. “She is a dangerous creature of honeyed words, the sweetness hiding the poison, distracting from her claws. The great love she once bore for mortals was twisted irrevocably when our mother died, and all she wishes is vengeance. Do not involve yourself.”

“You know I can likely face her; she can’t be more powerful than the First Brood.”

Gullinbursti growled. “There is more at stake than your prowess, Champion. Send someone else. Trust me.”

Aeryn grit her teeth. “I do trust you--but you must also trust me, Gullinbursti. And I can’t leave Alberic out there. If you don’t tell me, I’ll find another way.”

The dragon let out an exasperated growl-sigh, then shook his wings and roared. Moogles and Temple Knights around the plaza jumped and stared. Gullinbursti glared down at Aeryn. “Stubborn as ever! Very well. On the southern edge of Coerthas, in the Eastern Lowlands near where the hills make way for the Shroud, are the ruins of a small village. Hard to find, but you’ve always had a keen sense for the hidden. To the east, across the old sheep paths, is a ruined tower. You may find answers there. You may not like them.”

Aeryn frowned, but nodded. “Thank you, Gullinbursti.” She bowed for the elder, and then turned away.

Tarresson was watching, alerted by the dragon’s outburst. “Everything all right?” He asked as Aeryn returned to her chocobo.

“Alberic’s rushed off without a word, and now Gullinbursti is reticent to share what he knows of the dragon I think Alberic’s chasing.”

“Oh?” Tarresson raised a brow as he stroked Snowlight’s neck.

“Have you ever heard of Avengret?”

The former count let out a long, low whistle. “Afraid I have; I thought that bitch was dead--pardon my language. If Alberic’s looking for her…” Tarresson huffed. “She had some part of the Ferndale business. It could be that he’s seeking a bit of closure. Unfortunately, I cannot help with where to find either of them; I am sorry.”

Aeryn nodded and swung up onto the saddle. Tarresson grasped her arm. “If you must, return to us here; we’ll think of something. I’ve a bad feeling about all of this; please be careful.”

“Always,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. He nodded and let her go, watching as she and Snowlight flew off.

————-

She must have come this way before, but the snowfalls made it difficult to tell.

The border outposts were of some help, in outlining the region and offering a warm place to stop, have a drink by the fire and check the maps. An old knight pointed out a watchtower she thought perhaps the one Gullinbursti had mentioned.

“Just beyond what little’s left of the village of Fawn’s Hollow,” she said. “Was a nice place once. Calamity saw the last of its few folks leave, though.”

Aeryn frowned, something familiar stirring. She shook her head. “Thank you, I’ll check into it.” She bundled up again and retrieved Snowlight, despite the chocobo’s protests to remain in the warmth of the outpost. They made their way across snowy fields and woods to what was left of the village.

A lump formed in Aeryn’s throat from an emotion she could not identify as she navigated the ruins of the village. This close to the Twelveswood, the snow was thinner, sometimes even melting entirely, so the shape of the old town was easy to follow. Most of the buildings were gone, burnt and broken in the Calamity or soon after, no one left to stop the flames. She found herself pausing before a low stone wall, the boundary of someone’s yard once perhaps. Her head whipped around at what she thought was the sound of a familiar laugh, but it was just the wind moaning through the old bell tower, the only part of the chapel to remain.

Shaking her head, Aeryn continued east, finding the hint of sheep paths even through the snow; flocks gone wild, and other animals besides, retained the habit and followed the old path.

Snowlight’s swift stride soon brought the tower into view. Ruined even before the Calamity, it was an older design missing the hallmarks of Dzemael construction of the last hundred and fifty years. Even with the fresh few ilms of snow on the ground, it seemed far too cold and quiet.

Snowlight warked unhappily, flapping her wings as Aeryn dismounted. “Shh, it’s all right,” Aeryn said, stroking the chocobo’s beak. “I feel it too,” she admitted, turning to face the entry she could see, a swollen old door, half off its hinges.

It took a good deal of effort before the old door budged, crashing from its place, the sound like cannonfire in the too-quiet woods. Aeryn winced and held still, listening for anything that might have come to investigate the noise.

Nothing.

She wasn’t sure if that was better, or worse.

Aeryn stepped into the ruin, Snowlight hesitantly following behind her, feathers puffed and ruffled. The entire tower seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something--or someone, perhaps. The halls had not seen habitation for some time, everything cold and damp, the air heavy with frosted dust.

The rooms opened into what should have been the center of the tower, but now exposed to the sky. There were signs it may have once been a dragon’s roost, but so long ago there was no trail here to follow.

Still, there were also signs the tower had been inhabited once, possibly by any heretics following said dragon. Avengret’s profile said she tended to gather followers, nurturing them into shock troops for the Horde.

As she searched, Aeryn thought of the nearly-mindless dragons that had thrown themselves at Ishgard’s defenders numerous times, scaly forms littering the Steps of Faith. She shivered.

Snowlight perked up and whistled, calling Aeryn’s attention to the entrance. There was the sense of movement and sound. Woman and chocobo dashed for cover behind fallen masonry, Aeryn’s rapier drawn.

A moment passed and a familiar red-clad figure stepped into view, confident despite his caution, his own rapier drawn and tail lashing. “I know someone’s there,” he growled.

“X’rhun?” Aeryn called back, a part of her smugly satisfied to see him jump in surprise as she stood from behind the masonry. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, my dear,” he said, laughing hollowly as he put away his sword and focus.

“I asked you first,” she teased, sheathing her own weapons as she walked over to him.

It wasn’t difficult to note the strain in his usually easy smile. “I’m here on behalf of Ser Alberic, in regards to my occasional work aiding the Holy See with their heretic reintegration project.”

“I’m looking for Alberic,” Aeryn said. “His students called me when he left abruptly a few days ago, and hasn’t been heard from since.”

X’rhun pinched the bridge of his nose and swore softly to himself in three different languages, all of which the Echo picked up and made Aeryn blush. “They weren’t supposed to do that; I doubt he thought of that, damned fool.” X’rhun let out an exasperated breath. “Well there’s no cause for alarm; Alberic and I are working together, and I assure you he’s quite safe. You may tell his students not to worry.”

“From everything I hear of this dragon he may be pursuing, ‘safe’ seems relative,” Aeryn said, crossing her arms. “You might even need an Azure Dragoon.”

“Well I’ve already got one,” he replied dryly. “I assure you, it’s naught we can’t handle. You can easily return to your latest round of saving the world,” he tried to tease, but her Echo still caught the unease he tried to hide.

“Rhun,” she said, quiet and flat. “What the seven hells is going on? First Gullinbursti tries to tell me to leave, now you’re doing the same. Alberic left without any word--and I get the feeling that was meant to keep me out of things, except an enterprising pupil decided to risk sending a message anyway. Please, just...tell me.”

He was quiet for a long moment, tail flicking behind him. “I wish I could,” he finally said. “But I made a promise.” He sighed. “It’s a complicated mess, my dear, and Alberic is taking it personally. Which is why I’m here to help him.”

“I’m taking this personally,” she snapped, hands balled into fists as she stepped closer. “This whole thing seems strangely familiar and everyone’s trying to keep me away and won’t tell me why and I swear if you just tell me to return to Mor Dhona—”

Snowlight kwehed in distress as she forced herself between Aeryn and X’rhun. Aeryn reeled back, looking from her bird to X’rhun, struggling to keep himself calm--though her Echo caught his whisper of concern as her temper had started to fray.

Aeryn covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said warmly, his hands on her shoulders now. “I’m not making this easy and you’ve already seen enough to make you curious. You’re concerned for Alberic, and rightly so; he’s a stubborn old knight looking into something dangerous. But I need you to trust me for now. I will tell you what I can, when I can--and I will try to get him to do the same.”

There was something he wasn’t saying, an unspoken line, but she wasn’t sure what. Aeryn let her hands fall and looked at X’rhun. “I do trust you,” she said. “But I’m not leaving. You don’t have to tell me anything, but I am going to help.”

He looked about to protest, then sighed again, shoulders slumping as he laughed helplessly. “I know there’s no dissuading you. Very well; I suppose we shall see what happens from here. Now, have you had the chance to explore this tower?”

She nodded. “There’s nothing of interest that I could see.”

“It’s been too long since she’s roosted here, and all her followers have moved to other locations as well,” X’rhun mused. “Let’s return to camp, then, and plan our next move--the sooner we put this place behind us, the better. It feels…”

“Like it’s waiting for her to return,” Aeryn said. “Like we’re being watched though there’s no one here. The place itself wants us gone.”

He nodded. “Just so. Shall we then?”

She followed him out of the tower, to where his own borrowed mount waited. Snowlight huffed in relief as they exited, shaking out her feathers.

Aeryn spared one last glance at the ruined tower as she mounted Snowlight to follow X’rhun. The old building sat still and dark, and she shivered as they rode away.

[kaialone]

Kirby Planet Robobot Translation Comparison: Facing Mecha Knight

This will be a comparison of the original Japanese version and the US English localized version.

Specifically, this will cover the cutscene where Kirby encounters Susie for the second time, and ends up battling Mecha Knight.

You can also watch this cutscene for yourself in English and Japanese.

For the comparison, the usual points apply:

Bolded is the original Japanese text, for the reference.

Bolded and italicized is my translation.

Italicized is the official NOA translation.

A (number) indicates that I have a specific comment to make on that part in the translation notes.

As you read this, please keep in mind that with translations like these, it’s important not to focus on the exact literal wordings, since there is no single “correct answer” when it comes to translations.

Rather than that, consider the actual information that is being conveyed, in which way, and why.

--

Meeting Susie Again:

Secretary Susie:

おーお〜 いーだいな ハールトマン〜

Oh, great Haltmann~  (1)

Noble Haltmann, we adore him

Secretary Susie:

おーお〜 いーだいな ハールトマン〜

Oh, great Haltmann~

Noble Haltmann, we adore him!

Secretary Susie:

永遠にー 果てなくー 栄えよ〜

May you prosper, unending, for all eternity~

Every day we wish him glory!

Secretary Susie:

……おっと、 たいへん しつれい いたしました。

...Oh dear, how terribly rude of me.

Oh! Pardon me.

Secretary Susie:

われらが カンパニーの すばらしい社歌、

「銀河に名立たるハルトマン」。

That was our company's marvelous theme song,

"Haltmann, Famed Across the Galaxy".

That was our company's wonderful theme song, "The Noble Haltmann."

Secretary Susie:

ついつい 口ずさんで しまいましたわ。

I was just overcome with the urge to sing it to myself.

Sometimes I just find myself singing it out loud. It's so catchy!

Secretary Susie:

さて… また、お会いしましたね。

Now then... It appears we meet again.

At any rate, I must say, how nice to see you again.

Secretary Susie:

秘書スージーでございます。

It is I, Secretary Susie.

I'm Susie, but I'm sure you remember me.

Secretary Susie:

そうそう、 ワタクシ 最近…

Oh yes, just recently...

Let me tell you a story.

Secretary Susie:

とーっても ステキな 方に お会いしましたわ。

I met with the most wonderful person.

Not long ago, I met someone who impressed me very much.

Secretary Susie:

いさましくて クールで、 ハイレベルな剣士様…

Valiant and cool, a truly high-class swordfighter...

He was strong and full of confidence... A knight of the highest order.

Secretary Susie:

で、せっかく お会いできたの ですから、

And, since I was fortunate enough to meet him,

I was so impressed...

Secretary Susie:

ちょっぴり全身カイゾウして…

I have subjected him to just a tiny full-body reconstruction...

I gave him a complete remodel!

Secretary Susie:

わが社の セキュリティマシンと させて いただきました。

And given him the privilege of being a security machine for our company.

And I hired him as a company security guard.

Secretary Susie:

ウフフ…

Uhuhu...

Heehee! I wonder what you'll make of him?

Secretary Susie:

お気に めして いただける かしら？

I wonder if he will be to your liking?

Please allow me to present...

Secretary Susie:

プロダクトNo. M-７１１０、 「メタナイトボーグ」よ…

Now, Product #M-7110,  (2) "Meta Knight Borg"...

Model #M-7110. Mecha Knight...

Secretary Susie:

おゆきなさい！

Get to it, please!

ENGAGE!

Translation Notes:

I translated the lyrics that Susie is singing here directly, so they don’t go exactly with the melody in my translation, but they do in the original Japanese.

There’s actually a Japanese pun in Mecha Knight’s product number. The number “7″ can be read as “na”, the number “1″ can be read as “i”, and the number “10″ can be read as “to”. When put together, this spells out “naito”, which is a Japanese transliteration of the English word “knight”.

--

Comparisons & Thoughts:

This cutscene is another one without many differences.

If you were to really pick it apart it’s arguably a bit looser than the previous cutscene, like having Susie add a few extra comments, but nothing big.

We do get the first mention of the Haltmann Work Company’s theme song, and there is a lot to say about that.

-

Now, the company’s theme song is hard to talk about without directly addressing details that will come up later in the game, so keep that in mind.

First of all, in English, the song is simply titled “The Noble Haltmann”, whereas in Japanese it’s called 銀河に名立たるハルトマン/Ginga ni Nadataru Harutoman.

I choose to translate the Japanese title as “Haltmann, Famed Across the Galaxy”, but it could also be translated as “The Galaxy-Famous Haltmann” or the like.

So, there’s a bit of a difference between the titles here, with the English version feeling a bit more grounded and reserved in its worship of Haltmann, but that’s not all there is to it.

The Japanese title of this song is a subtle reference to the Japanese title of the “Milky Way Wishes” mode from Kirby Super Star, where it’s known as 銀河に願いを/Ginga ni Negai o, which roughly translates to ”A Wish Upon the Galaxy”.

The reference is definitely intentional, considering how Planet Robobot features several important callbacks to Milky Way Wishes.

The English version lacks such a reference, but it might have been difficult to come up with one, even if the localizers noticed this detail.

Next up, there’s the song’s actual lyrics, and that’s where things get a bit muddy in English.

Basically, in the Japanese version of this cutscene here, Susie is singing the first line of the song. In the next cutscene, she will sing the second line.

Then, the pause screen during Haltmann’s battle will show the full lyrics of the entire first strophe. And lastly, the final unlock of the game is the music video that features a previously unseen second strophe.

Because of that, in the Japanese version, the player ends up slowly being shown more and more of the song as they play through the game, culminating with the music video.

It’s clearly supposed to be an important build up, considering it’s also the main theme of the game that was specifically written to represent it and its story.

The English version is a lot less consistent with the song and its lyrics.

Here in this scene, Susie is singing “Noble Haltmann, we adore him! Every day we wish him glory!”.

This doesn’t match with Haltmann’s pause screen and the music video later on, where the first line is given as “Noble Haltmann, we adore him, kingly lord of time and space!“, instead.

To make matters more confusing, the former actually goes better with the melody of the song, it seems.

The English version of Haltmann’s pause screen description also only features part of the first strophe, rather than all of the first, and the lyrics that Susie will sing in the next cutscene are taken from the second strophe, which isn’t supposed to come up until the music video.

It’s kinda messy, honestly.

I can only assume this is a result of how game translations usually work.

Things like the text from in-game dialogue, the text from in-game menu screens, and the text from additional extras like the music video are normally internally stored in different places, and often you end up with different people having to translate them, with very little context.

Note that I wouldn’t blame the translator(s) and localizer(s) involved here, because they can’t really help their working conditions.

But whatever the case may be, as a result the English version lacks the neat progression of slowly getting to know the song, the way it’s presented in the Japanese version.

-

With all that general stuff out of the way, let’s have a closer look at the lines Susie sings in this specific cutscene.

In Japanese, she sings “Oh, great Haltmann~ May you prosper, unending, for all eternity~”, while in English she sings “Noble Haltmann, we adore him! Every day we wish him glory!”.

Just like with the song’s title, the English version of this line is a bit more reserved when it comes to practically worshipping Haltmann.

It’s not even like it’s not revering him, it’s just that the Japanese version goes even further with it.

But translating lyrics like this is also something that’s especially difficult, since you need to match the melody of the song, so more differences are to be expected with those.

-

Really a minor thing, but I want to point out this section:

And, since I was fortunate enough to meet him,

I was so impressed…

I have subjected him to just a tiny full-body reconstruction…

I gave him a complete remodel!

And given him the privilege of being a security machine for our company.

And I hired him as a company security guard.

In the Japanese version, the way Susie says that she gave Meta Knight a “tiny full-body reconstruction” is of course a bit of a joke, talking about something so drastic like it’s just a small little thing.

The English version doesn’t retain this directly, but it gives Susie’s dialogue a similar energy here, having her declare that she gave him a complete remodel like it’s something to be excited about.

A bit of a stronger difference is the fact that Susie says she made Meta Knight a “security machine” in Japanese, rather than a “security guard” like in English.

In the Japanese version, there is a stronger impression of Meta Knight being literally turned into an object or product as far as Susie is concerned, and that that’s a good thing in her eyes too.

In English it’s more like she makes him an employee against his will.

-

Finally, Mecha Knight’s product number “#M-7110” is a pun in Japanese, as I explained in the translation notes above.

I think it makes sense that the English version didn’t try to adapt it and just kept it the same, because in English you just have a lot less to work with as far as number puns go.

I can’t help but wonder what might’ve worked though, perhaps something like “#M-98”?

-

And that’s it for this cutscene.

Not a whole lot of differences here again, but more subtle differences are starting to crop up and will continue to add up over time, and we will get to that later.

I want to say that I do really like the localization in this one though, particularly the way Susie’s “swooning” over Meta Knight is written.

It stays close to the original without sounding awkward in English, and captures the basic mood the original version was getting at.

All in all, pretty good.

And with that, feel free to check out the next part!

--

< Previous Part | Start | Next Part >

--

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Partners {7}*

OA Zidan/Zeeko Zaki x Reader

Warning: Cursing, Angst, Drama, Action, Multiple POV changes, Talk and Mild depiction of Sex Trafficking, Racism Implied, Possibly Triggering Content, Character Drugging, Violence, Groping, Implied Blood, Plot, Mild NSFW, PLENTY OF WORDS

Words: 9k

Summary: You’re a damn good FBI agent in your own right. It is definitely partly to do with how well you’ve been trained and partly to do with you not letting anything or anyone distract you. You have a six-year plan that you’re fast-tracking for four. After being transferred from your office in Tampa, you’ve been sent to New York, which you’ve labeled the “big leagues.” Your first day there, after being introduced to your new partner OA Zidan you realized you’ve moved out of the frying pan right into the pot of distraction. A year later and your growing attraction for your partner still hasn’t been snuffed out.

Note: This is a first for me writing about a TV show and interjecting into it. Let’s see how this goes. I hope you guys enjoy this. As always, thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this please, LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG. ❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

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~~~~~~~~~~~

The slinkiness of the dress was not missed by you. Your fingers noticed it once you pulled it from the shopping bag. It was a pretty dress. You checked yourself in the mirror of the bathroom again, turning in every direction so you could see how you looked in a dress you probably would have chosen for yourself in Miami. The black sequins looked good against your skin, and the accent gold chains around your neck that draped down your body between your breasts made them look even more inviting than usual. You wondered who’d picked this dress. While you looked good, if you had to run, it would probably be a matter of time before you had a nip slip or a full-on boob pop out.

You took a deep breath, released it, and leaned closer to the mirror to peer deeper into your eyes. Your nerves were beginning to get the better of you.

 “You can do this, Y/N. You’ve done this before. It’s not a big deal. You know the drill.  You. Got. This!”

 Taking a final breath, you stepped back, rearranged the neck of the dress, checked your make up then nodded to yourself, pleased at the final product. As you walked out of the bathroom and down the hall of the JOC, you tried to mentally psych yourself up. It had been a year since you’d done any undercover work and the nerves never really went away. Once you stepped into the common area where all your coworkers centered, one by one, the eyes drifted to you.

 From the right, you heard a whistle. When you turned, it was Scola.

 “Agent Y/L/N.”

 You rolled your eyes then scoffed.

 “Watch it, Scola.”

 He lifted his hands in defeat as you walked up to Jubal, Kristen, OA, and Isobel. OA’s eyes slowly raked along your body, taking in every detail.

 “This is as good as it’s gonna get,” you joked.

 “You look incredible,” Isobel complimented.

 “Eh, it’s just a dress. By the way, who picked this out?”

 “That would be Kristen’s handiwork,” Jubal said with a smile as he bumped his shoulder into Kristen’s. You picked up on the way she smiled back at him before she focused on you.

 “I see I picked right. I knew you had what was needed to carry it.”

 “All right, all right,” you pushed out, trying to change the subject. “Are we ready to move?”

 “Yes. We’re meeting our informant at a pickup spot near the heights. Let’s move people,” Jubal drilled.

 Everyone went into motion, preparing to leave. The elevator ride was chatter filled as Jubal, Kristen, and Isobel listed things off from the file you had to remember. While your brain was functioning and focused on them, your body was also functioning and focused on OA, who was beside you with his hands clutched one over the other in front of him while he stared at the dial. Though he wasn’t looking at you, your body could feel the energy coming off of his body, and it was responding.

Once you piled into the van, you situated as Lim began explaining the intricacies of the few gadgets you wore, including mics in your diamond earrings, surveillance cameras embedded into the golden chains of the dress, and two chip trackers inside the ring, and an emergency explosive. You were impressed, and you let him know it. Lim was adorable. He always looked surprised to hear a compliment on how well he did his job or that someone noticed. You always made it a point to tell Lim how good of a job he was doing. You believed it was necessary to praise people when they deserved it, especially if you saw it.

 You tried to retain the information you read in the files, along with the faces you saw. You knew the key to undercover work was memorizing as much as you could. Your success in Miami was because you were good with retaining information, thinking quickly on your feet, and solving things with small details that others would not have thought of. Your nerves were beginning to pick up, and you knew it was because while you’d been in a similar undercover situation before, this was a different monster. Whereas the sex club was a dangerous environment, it was a closed environment. With this operation, many variables would be left up to chance, and that were ever-changing. That meant more risk.

 You tried not to look at OA. You didn’t want to give him any indication that you knew he was right and that this was too dangerous. Your father’s words echoed in your head.

 “In this world, because of the color of your skin and your sex, you have to be twice as good and work twice as hard to get to where others would easily get to. You have to never show weakness. They will look for it because you’re a woman.”

 Clenching your jaw, you straightened your posture and did your best to clear your mind. This assignment wouldn’t break you, thought to yourself over and over.

 Fifteen minutes later, the van pulled up at the meet location that Jubal’s informant would come to get you to add to the shipment of women. After Lim checked that you were good with how the gadgets worked and were comfortable operating them, he gave you a comforting pat on the shoulder, a gentle squeeze, and a soft smile that spoke of his confidence in you. As he made a move to get out of the van, he stopped and came back to you.

 “Can I say something I’ve always wanted to tell you?”

 You nodded.

 “Since you came to join us here, I’ve admired you. I think you’re smart, smarter than a lot of people I’ve worked with. You’ve impressed me more times than I can count, and I’m not in the least worried about you knocking this out of the park. Remember how badass you are.” He added a wink that made you smile.

 “Thank you, Ian.”

 “Anytime, Y/N. You’re—you’re great—you’ll be great.”

 With that, he walked out and closed the doors behind him, leaving you and OA. You couldn’t help but smile. He was sweet.

“I think Ian’s got a crush,” OA uttered slightly under his breath.

 “Oh, stop it.”

 He approached you with his arms held out to you. Once he was close enough, his hands latched onto your waist.

 “Should I be worried?”

 You snorted then rose to meet his eyes. “You tell me. Should you?”

 OA studied you for a few moments before he answered.

 “I don’t know. Maybe I should.”

 The warmth from his hands was working to calm some of your nerves. You sighed out, placed your hands on his forearms, and then traced patterns into his exposed skin.

 “Don’t be jealous.”

 “Ya know something; I didn’t think I was a jealous man—before now,” he replied.

 You stared at each other, neither of you speaking. After several long moments, you looked down. OA tipped your chin up, so you looked at him.

 “I feel I have to say something right now,” OA began.

 You quirked your eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

 “You look—incredibly gorgeous.”

 Slowly your lips spread into a wide smile that got wider and wider.

 “I can’t believe the first time I see you like this is for a sting operation rather than our first date.”

 The butterflies began fluttering in your gut, making your knees go weak. You slouched back on the cold table that lined the side of the van. OA’s hands slid down to your hips and squeezed. The action did nothing for the fluttering in your belly, but it helped to stabilize you.

 “Well—maybe you’ll actually get that first date if you get the balls to finally ask for it,” you teased.

 OA’s smile began small until you were staring at his perfect teeth. With no hesitation, he lowered his lips to yours for a sweet kiss that he took control of. His lips trailed down your jaw and back to your ear where be nibbled and licked along its shell. With every lick, the butterflies in your gut fluttered more rapidly, and with every nibble, your sex throbbed. You couldn’t believe you were getting turned on at a time like this.

 “Are you okay?”

 His whisper against your ear made you sigh. It was the question you were dreading. Mustering as much gusto as you could, you put on a tough exterior.

 “I’m fine. As I said, it’s no big deal and nothing I haven’t done before.”

 The more you spoke, the less you believed your own words. When you looked at OA, he didn’t even look to believe your words.

 “You don’t have to play tough with me. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lying and when something isn’t as it seems.”

 OA moved his hands from their place on your hips to buckle behind you at the small of your back. His long fingers splayed across your bare skin, making any cold shell you were trying to wear melt away. You sighed again.

 “Okay, I am nervous, but it’s jitters. Everyone gets em’.”

 OA kissed your forehead and kept his lips there for a few seconds. “I know you can do this. It’s never been a question of if you could. It was always, should you? I know you’ve got this because you are the most incredible agent that I’ve known in a long time. You’re smart, quick on your feet, charismatic, and don’t even get me started on what an amazing profiler you are. Plus, your right hook and roundhouse is a thing of beauty.”

 You giggled, then lowered your head to his collar. Even in heels, he was still slightly taller than you. His chuckle vibrated against your forehead, and the tension in the van automatically decreased. When your laughs subsided, you bit your bottom lip and thought about your next words carefully.

 “If this goes south,” you began before OA pulled you back so he could look at you.

 “It won’t.”

 “If it does,” you tried again.

 OA cupped your jaw and slid his thumb along your lips until it was in the center, silencing you.

 “It won’t. You got this, and I have your back. We all do.”

 For some reason, that touched you more now than it ever had before. He always had your back, and so did the team. That was what a team was. You tried to keep your emotions in check, but the longer you saw the compassion in his eyes that felt more and more like something more intimate than compassion, the more your emotions went haywire. You crushed your body to his for a hug. Resting your cheek against his chest, you listened to the drum of his heart, hoping it would soothe you as it had less than twenty-four hours ago.

 “Let me get this out, Omar,” you whispered, feeling your heart race.

 “If things go south, I want you to know I have loved every single minute that I’ve been your partner. Thank you for making me a better agent, and thank you for helping me see sometimes following your heart can lead to great things,” you said, somehow able the keep your voice from shaking.

 Before you could slow your racing heart, OA pulled you back again and crashed his lips to yours, making it race even more. You happen to open your eyes at the same moment he did, and while your lips danced together, your eyes spoke words that had been left unspoken in your heart.

 It took just seconds for OA’s hands to drop to your hips again and yours to begin to quickly fight with the belt he wore. As OA squeezed your hips and moaned against your lips, you managed to free him of his belt and undo the buttons of his pants. When OA’s hands slipped to your backside, he gripped it with such a roughness you knew his need and how closely it mirrored yours. His hands quickly pulled at the fabric of the dress, inching it up over your hips to reveal your thonged ass to the cold surface of the table.

 Finally free of his pants, he turned you, so you now faced the wall of the van. You bent forward, bracing your hands on the table as OA freed his member. When you felt him rub himself against your slit, you shuddered and anxiously anticipated the feel of his intrusion. As he slowly slid into you, connecting your bodies inch by inch, one hand gripped your hip, and the other covered your mouth in time to muffle the deep moan you let out.

 OA sucked in a shuddered breath, then groaned. Once he was buried to the hilt, he circled his hips, making goosebumps erupt all over your skin. OA lowered his lips to your shoulder, bit down on your flesh then began thrusting in and out of you. While his movements were slow, the force with which he rocked into you was intense. Within seconds he’d sped his movements and the force that he flicked his hips. With every move forward, it was powerful enough to have your entire body jerk from it. In no time, you’d begun rocking along with him. When he retreaded, you did too, only to slam back onto him, taking all of him.

 You could tell your movements were driving OA crazy because of the tightness of his grip on your body. He hovered over your back and went to your ear.

 “Habibi,” he whispered. “Aikhtar,” he groaned. “Eshq,” he panted.

 It took those three words to bring you to the horizon of your orgasm, and he must have known it because he sped up, slamming into you, filling you completely. It only took a few thrust and the cup of his large hand against your sex for you to whimper. As his fingers strummed your pearl, heightening your arousal making you more desperate for your release. It wasn’t long before OA was marking you as his from the inside out. 

Slowly both of you came down from your euphoric cloud. Your breathing evened out, the tremble of your body slowed, but your heart still pounded, and you knew it was just for him. Within a few minutes, OA had you dressed and presentable again, and when he was the self-controlled and professional Agent Zidan again, he pulled you against him.

 “I’m going to do everything and anything needed to make sure we get to have that date,” he said while gazing into your eyes with such intensity you knew he meant the words he spoke. “Anything,” he repeated for emphasis.

 Before you could speak, there was a knock on the van, signaling that the informant had arrived and it was showtime. OA pressed his forehead to yours for a few seconds, then kissed your nose before he backed off. You turned to the table, looking into the purse you had, and reapplied your lipstick. When you were sure you were good, you and OA hopped out of the van to join the team with them none the wiser.

 “I really wish we could put a wire on you, but I think you know what we can’t,” Isobel said.

 “I get it. I’ll probably go through a strip-search,” you filled in. Once you said it, you heard OA grumble.

 “We have the jewelry surveillance, so you’re not alone in there. We can’t talk to you, but we can hear and see what you do,” Jubal assured.

 You nodded as you went over the file one last time. Over your quiet surroundings, you all heard the signal. You gave them a nod being careful not to look at OA before you walked away from them. You didn’t think you could handle that. After taking a few steps, though, you looked back at him. He stood there with his arms crossed across his broad chest with the deepest scowl on his face that accompanied his tightly clenched jaw. Deciding to test the tech, you said the one thing you knew you could that only he would get.

 “My back, your back, we got that.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~

 -OA-

He hated this more than he hated the stares he got his first few weeks at Quantico. Those weeks were a different hell. It was a hell that tested everything he knew about himself and how who he was would connect to his work—if it could connect. Because of his culture and heritage, he got a lot of flack. He’d had to work twice as hard to prove himself even though he’d done two tours in Iraq and had earned his dues and proven himself as an asset. This hell, though, it gripped his heart tighter than anything else. He wondered if it was because what he had to lose was just way in life. If he failed, he would have to live with the shame. Now, if this failed, he’d have to live with much more. Regret. Heartbreak. They were two things he didn’t want any part of. It was your fault.

 He’d fallen in love with his partner. It was the first rule in the book. The first rule that was drilled in his head in every line he went into. In the Rangers, it was don’t get involved with your peers or form any personal or intimate connections with informants or those in the field. In the DEA, it was, go by the book and don’t get involved with anyone on any level. He’d learned how challenging and intricate undercover work was there. Here he was after all these years and all his life experiences throwing the book away, setting ablaze first, though.

 He listened to the informant drill you on everything you needed to know as he walked you to the truck you’d be in. In the back of the van with Isobel, Kristen, Jubal, and the rest of the team, he felt like he was sitting on pins and needles, but he couldn’t show any of it. He knew if he showed too much concern, it would raise curiosity about your relationship's true nature. He had to remain calm and neutral enough for a partner and not venture into the realm of the concerned lover.

 You were so good that as the truck drove with you in the back, you sang a song in French. It wasn’t just any song, though. You fed them intel of everything that was around you, how many other girls were in the back, their descriptions, scents, and any other piece of information that would help with the case. Everyone around him looked pleased, and he knew Isobel was relieved. You were showing in less than an hour why you were the right person for the job.

 “She’s got this,” Jubal said aloud while nodding his head and snapping the rubber band against his wrist, a nervous tick he’d noticed when Kristen was injured in the hospital.

 At the thought of Kirsten, he looked across to her. she was sitting with Ian, and the two were talking closely, most likely about the case, but it made him look back to Jubal for his reaction. The look on Jubal’s face didn’t give much away, but being a good profiler, he picked up on a few things. Jubal didn’t look to like how close they were. He wondered then if you and he weren’t the only ones who were fraternizing.

 The puzzle gave him something to occupy his mind instead of him worrying and thinking of worst case scenarios, and he was glad for it. After almost forty minutes, your reporting notified that the truck had stopped and everyone was being led out.

 “Here we go, people,” Isobel notified.

 The tension in the van returned tenfold as everyone’s attention went to the screens. He tagged the route the truck had taken thanks to the tracking devices you wore and calculated the quickest route to you in case things went south. He watched the feed you expertly gave. You made sure to turn in every possible direction so you could give them a quick lay of the land. Every angle Ian and Kirsten tagged, they let out an audible “yes.” You were making everyone’s job easier.

 You were led into a large house. The interior was decorated richly. The techs worked to make connections with everything in the feed, artwork, photos, and even furniture. Any of it could lead to a break. You stopped for a second, then bent forward, bringing a clear photo of four men into the frame.

 “Get that picture scrubbed. I want to know everything about all of them, even their childhood pet’s name. Come on, people. Let’s get Y/N out of there in under twenty-four hours,” Jubal drilled.

 The van came alive with chatter and activity, and he focused more intently on the feed. With his fingers steepled underneath his bearded chin, he tried to stay present.

 “File in here, ladies. You know the drill. Inspection.”

 He clenched his jaw, hating what that sounded like. He continued watching the feed. He took in the details of the room and guessed they were holding the women in a basement. The women around the room were all dressed in their best. He’d clocked bruises on some and small injuries on others. Having worked an undercover case like this one, he knew the ones with small injuries were probably the older ones that had been acquired over a year ago while the ones with bruises were newer. In situations like these, the older ones, because of their wear and tear, were abused more. They were usually kept on reserve for those with particular tastes. They were deemed the expendable ones.

 When the men approached you, they brought you into another room where two men were waiting. Once they laid eyes on you, they whistled and made catcalls at you.

 “Wow. We have an exotic one.”

 “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

 “Dulce,” you replied.

 “Ah, you were brought in with Snake, part of the special shipment from Florida. He said very good things about the women in that shipment.”

 The man approached you and slowly walked around you before he stopped in front again.

 “Where you from, honey?”

 “I can be from anywhere you like.”

 “she’s good,” Isobel voiced. “She knows giving men like that control means appeasement.”

 “So you’re a people pleaser, huh.”

 “Absolutely sugar. I please people,” you replied.

 The men laughed together before exchanging glances.

 “Well, Dulce, we gotta search you, so be a good girl as I—sample the goods.”

 He watched the man approach you. He didn’t know if he could stomach watching, but he didn’t look away.

 “Ah, very nice.” He sounded like the sleaziest of perverts, and his anger flared.

 The air in the vibe went from tense to uncomfortable. They all knew what was happening. He was glad he couldn’t see your face. As soon as he thought it, you were moved, and you now stood in front of a mirror, and your reflection was now what he saw. The man in a burgundy button-down and black slacks was before you—on you. He walked behind you then brought his hands around to cup your breasts.

 “Son of a--.”

 Clenching his jaw, he continued watching. The sleazeball's hands slid down your abdomen.

 “Everyone look away,” Isobel ordered.

 He did not. When he saw the asshole’s hand creep to your crotch, he was ready to end this whole thing. The look on your face was a detached one. You didn’t look as if it phased you.

 “Hey! What’re you doing? She’s for the boss. No one is to touch her.”

 The informant came into the frame just in time before the perv groped you any further.

 “I’m sure Boss would want us to make sure she’s clean.”

 “You’re just trying to get your rocks off. You know how he feels about the first touch. Should I tell him that you dirtied his entertainment for the night?”

 The two men faced off, but the informant didn’t back down.

 “You’re lucky you’re so high up, Snake.”

 “Shut the fuck up. Know your place. You, out.”

 You walked to the door with Snake behind you. While everyone else in the room released a relieved sigh, he didn’t. This was but a tiny victory. There would be many more tests and close calls before the night was done.

 “I’ll get you to the bathroom upstairs. It is next door to the office. You have three minutes. Use them wisely. I’ll be back to bring you to them.”

 A little while later, you walked into the bathroom and released a breath. He could tell you forgot about the camera on you as you allowed your nerves to show—just a little. He wished he could be there to help in any way you’d let him, but he wasn’t. He even wished you could hear him. After a fifteen or twenty second reprieve, you were sneaking out the bathroom door to the office next door. Once inside, you began rummaging through cabinets, drawers, folders, and even the trash, giving them a glance at anything you came across. You moved so quickly that each analyst worked on each piece of data your lens came across.

 “I think I found something,” you said, opening a folder with the letters “NDB” tapped across its cover. You flipped through the pages giving them two or three seconds each page to capture it in a screenshot.

 “Yes, Y/N, that’s it,” Jubal cheered on.

 “That has to be a record with getting in,” Isobel said more to herself than anyone else.

 “It looks like these are future plans. I have names, dates, locations, pictures even.”

 “That’s all we need, right,” Kristen inquired.

 “I mean,” Jubal began.

 “No. while this is good, we need a clear shot of them all in the room and to hear talk about any attack as well as get them in some sort of incriminating situation. With that, we got 'em dead to rights,” Isobel clarified.

 “Fuck!”

 It was an outburst he hadn’t expected. He’d been trying to hold it together, but the thought of you being there any longer really was not sitting right with him. the eyes in the van trailed to him. No doubt they were shocked to see him lose his cool. No one said anything about it, though. He watched as you snuck out of the office after putting everything back to make it in the bathroom. Once the bathroom door clicked shut, Snake was there to retrieve you.

 “Change of plans. You girls are meant to be eye candy. Sort of like a look but don’t touch event. He likes to use this as his foreplay. Keep a cool head, and remember you’re not trying this on for the day. You live this. Act accordingly.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~

 -Y/N-

Snake led you into another part of the house that was filled with girls and about ten men that were being entertained by the chosen girls. You looked around, clocking your exits and the possible escape routes first, then took inventory of the girls and finally the men. Snake left your side but not before giving you a stern look as if to remind you that your life was not the only one at stake here. You didn’t need a reminder.

 Your encounter in the room was a quick reintroduction that woke your ass up to the real dangers that you’d now found yourself in. Back in Miami, you’d found yourself in a similar situation, and the only way you were able to get through it was to detach from it. You mentally put yourself in the frame of mind of a different person and became them. It made it easier. You knew it was what you would have to do now.

 “Dulce, Dulce, Dulce, Dulce,” you whispered to yourself before you took a deep breath and slowly released it. When you did, you decided to fake it until you had it. Your first move was to take a lap around the room. You still had to locate the SVU agent on no intel. The department was reluctant to share any information for fear of a leak because of the case's sensitive nature and how long their agent had been undercover. So you were running on nothing but the assurance that if possible, they would make contact.

 One lap turned to two, but before you could do a third, one of the men approached you, cornering you.

 “Why hello. I haven’t seen you before.”

 You pasted on a sugary sweet smile and leaned against the wall. “Oh, no? I’m new.”

 The man smiled, giving you a chill.

 “I like new. I like to break in the new thoroughbreds.”

 He grabbed your wrist and began dragging you through the room. His grip was tight, but you didn’t make a sound. You could see he was dragging you toward a couch. From the corner of your eye, you saw one of the girls watching you. Her long brunette hair framed her face, and her plum-colored lipstick gave her a youthful glow. Before you could take in any more details, the man dropped onto the couch and released your wrist.

 “Dance.”

 You hesitated, caught off guard by his actions and the command.

 “All right, darlin, no need to get rough.”

 You swayed from side to side in front of him in slow movements using the time to formulate a plan. Slowly you turned your back to him as you began winding your waist. It was then you noticed a dangerous looking man across the room also watching your every move. Snake approached him, whispered, and nodded in your direction. Bingo, you thought. Adding to the show you were putting on, you trailed your hands along your body and beginning at the outer parts of your thighs, up along your hips. When you reached your stomach, you brought them up to cup your breasts, all the while staring at the man across the room. Turning from him and back to the younger gentleman on the couch, you smiled, bit your bottom lip, and winked.

 “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?”

 You nodded.

 “Do you know what naughty girls get?”

 You shook your head.

 “This.”

 The man gripped his appendage and shook it for emphasis.

 “Come get this cock, slut.”

  As he lunged for you, you saw Snake approach. He whispered to the man before he made contact, and the look on his face went from lust riddled to fearful. He straightened his clothes, then walked away.

 “he says get a glass of champagne and sit.”

 You took the glass of champagne that Snake offered you and sat on the now empty couch. You knew that you had him on the hook. You’d expected it to be more work than that. For the next few hours, on the couch was where you remained. You watched every immoral thing the men did to the women and sat through it all. The first hour was difficult because every injustice you saw you wanted to remedy, but by hour two and three, you’d found a way to tune it out.

 A few hours later, you were brought over to the boss. You recognized him from the pictures in the files. His eyes roamed your body, taking in every detail. It was a full two minutes before he spoke.

 “You name.”

 “Dulce.”

 He chuckled. “Ha, the Spanish word for sweet. Are you sweet?”

 “That’s for you to find out, I guess.”

 No words followed. The way he looked at you made your skin crawl. It was the look of a true psychopath. He was the worst kind, though, a hypocritical one, one that sought to subjugate that which he hated. He preached up and down how whites were the superior race, and any others were inferior and seen as dirty, but here he was eying you like he planned to give you a thorough cavity search knowing damn well your skin was not white.

 You took in the details and learned his ticks. From the way his jaw flinched every few minutes to the way he held on to the arm of the chair, you knew he was trying to hold tightly to something inside of him. Men like this often had a secret side to them.

 “Sit.”

 Doing as you were told, you sat. He continued his conversation. Again the girl with brunette hair caught your eye. She was watching every move you made, and that fact alone told you she was the SVU agent. It was a hunch, an unproven one. The mention of an attack had your attention going back to the man seated beside you. His hand came out to clasp your upper thigh. His fingers between your crossed legs holding on as if he owned you. Men like him always thought people were property to own, use, then trade.

 “Just make sure everything goes off without a hitch. We’ve worked too long for his, and too many lives have been lost for it all to be for naught.”

 “Don’t worry. As we speak here, they are setting up the event location. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have our victory. That is why we’re here tonight—to celebrate.”

 You hoped those in the van got that.

 “Maybe it’s time to take your turn,” one of the men suggested.

 The Boss’s eyes landed on you before he brought them to his hand on your thigh. “Soon. You go sit there,” he ordered.

 You stood and walked over to the brunette who’d been watching you for the last few hours and sat beside her. You didn’t want to give yourself away, so you said nothing. In undercover work, you never knew who had flipped. Pretending to be someone else twenty-four-seven took its toll, and many blurred the lines forgetting who they really were. You didn’t know if she was one of them. If she were, she’d give you up in a heartbeat.

 Instead of giving yourself up, you decided to play it cool and observe. One way or another, she would show who she really was. The scene before you quickly got old. No one touched you or the Burnett you sat beside. It was like they all knew their place and didn’t even dare question it. They didn’t touch you, but they sure watched. You’d caught so many of them eye-fucking you it was seriously making you sick. For a second, your mind ran on OA and if he’d seen the scene in the backroom. As quickly as your mind dashed to him, you forced it away. Clear head, you reminded yourself. The easiest way to end up dead was to lose focus.

 A middle-aged man in grey suit pants and a matching grey button-down that was unbuttoned one too many buttons stopped in front of the two of you. He smiled and eyeballed the brunette first, then you.

 She kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes. “Keep walking, Pete. Even you’re not dumb enough to touch one of Lowball’s treats. You know he likes them clean, and you also know what he’ll do to ya if he sees one print.”

 This so-called Pete rolled his eyes, sighed, then walked away mumbling something underneath his breath.

 “Loser,” she finished.

 That was when your eyes met.

 “You’re new.”

 “What of it?”

 She smiled, then continued chewing her gum.

 “What’s your name, sweetie?”

 “Dulce.”

 “Ah, I like sweet things.”

 She trailed her pointer up over your exposed knee until it made it’s way to the hem of your short dress. Once there, it lingered, seductively tracing the hem.

 “Your print doesn’t count?”

 She smiled, then leaned to your ear. Her lips were close enough for you to feel them.

 “Nope. He likes to watch. Take a look.”

 You slyly glanced to the one she’d called Lowball, and sure enough, he was watching the two of you like a hawk on his perch.

 “See. He gets off on it, especially if the new treat has to be broken in. Do you?”

 You turned to look at her, your lips were centimeters apart, but you didn’t back down.

 “Do I what?”

 She smiled, bit her bottom lip then spoke. “Need to be broken in.”

 You slowly smirked then bit your own bottom lip. Two can play this game.

 “Depends on who’s doing the breaking,” you replied.

 The brunette smiled, then closed the gap between you, pressing her lips to yours. Before you knew it, she was taking charge of a sultry kiss. She rolled her tongue around yours then sucked. As she did, you felt her hand cup your breast. Your first instinct was to pull away, but you also knew that was the wrong instinct. This was a test. You allowed her to kiss you, then battled her for control. After a minute, the kiss was still going, but once you thought of it, she pulled away, sucking her bottom lip.

 “Was I your first?”

 You gave her a faux shy smile. “No”

 She smiled wider.

 “Hey, lowball. This stallion is a certified good time.”

 She looked away from you for a few seconds and looked to Lowball before she smiled wider.

 “Let’s go.”

 You allowed her to lead you by the hand through the room filled with sex and drugs until you were in a hall. Neither of you spoke, and when you looked behind you, there was Lowball with his eyes on you.

 “I’m Tommi, by the way,” the brunette said with a smile.

 Soon you walked inside of a bedroom that was made of luxury but built for a sleaze. The room was filled with glass and leather. It even smelled like leather. The more you walked into the room, the more detail you took in. The linen on the bed was black silk, and there was even a mirror above the bed.

 “Go get ready, Tommi. Let me have five minutes with this beauty.”

 Your gut tensed, and Tommi hesitated, looking at Lowball.

 “Aww, you’re going to have fun without me, daddy?”

 Her whine was loud. Lowball smiled.

 “Don’t worry, angel, I promise you’ll be here for the fun stuff.”

 Tommi glanced at you, then back to Lowball, then shrugged as she walked to another door inside the bedroom. Before she closed the door behind her, you noticed her hand making fists in a staggered pulse pattern. Instantly you recognized it as a common sign you’d learned at Quantico. It meant you’re not alone or among friends. Tommi was the undercover agent with SVU. You looked to Lowball who stared at you as if he were trying to figure you out and unnerve you. You wouldn’t let it work.

 “Dulce, cute name. how are you going to prove it?”

 “The easiest way to find out if something is sweet is to taste it,” you teased, uncrossing and crossing your legs again. 

His eyes dropped to them, and that was where they remained. After too long, he stood and walked over to the bar. You heard the clinking of glass and crystal and anxiously waited for either him or Tommi to come back in. when he turned to you again, he held two glasses filled with a brown liquid. When he sat again, you watched him dig into his pant pocket and come back out with a small clear packet with white powder inside of it.

 Fuck, you thought. Many perps who operated sex trafficking rings liked to string their girls out before spending time with a perp. The gossip was the drugs always made the girls more compliant and easier to take advantage of. You watched him pour the contents into one of the glasses. Your stomach fell.

 “Oooh, daddy, now we’re really starting this party,” Tommi interjected as she crossed the room dressed in a sexy burgundy lingerie set.

 “Mmm, you look, wonderful angel,” Lowball complimented.

 He held out the glass that was substance-free to Tommi and held the one that he’d just laced to you. You hesitated. You knew precisely what the plan was after you drank that, and depending on what it was, you had thirty minutes before your choices would no longer be your own.

 “There are two ways out of this room, Dulce. Covered in, or filled with my superior cum or dead. Your choice,” Lowball informed.

 Tommi caught your eye. She sat on Lowball’s knee, rubbing his arm, but her eyes were dark.

 “Take a ride with me, Dulce,” she chimed.

 Sighing, you took the glass and swirled the liquid around, examining how undetectable whatever it was he’d poured in was. You downed the drink in one rise and tried to keep from vomiting. Shit was about to get real, you thought.

 Lowball smiled then stood, making Tommi stand as well.

 “Good job Dulce. I knew you’d see it my way,” he said before he walked away to the door.

 “I’ll be back in as much time as it takes that to kick in. You girls have some fun.

 The door closed behind him, and you gasped. Tommi was beside you in seconds. She dipped a little lower to come face to face with your earrings.

 “She’s just ingested Rolong. It’s a nastier version of Rohypnol these assholes craft themselves. You have thirty maybe forty minutes to figure out a way to grab control of this sting, or else your girl will find herself in a situation she won’t be able to avoid.”

 She looked at you, and though she looked relatively calm, you could still see some sort of panic in her eyes.

 “I have this.”

 She dug in her cleavage and pulled out a syringe. You had no idea how she’d concealed it for its size.

 “What—what is this?”

 “It’s adrenaline. It’s not much, and it won’t have a big of an impact as I’d like, but it will help with the effects. It’ll buy us maybe fifteen minutes,” Tommi explained.

 “Fine.”

 You held out your arm, giving her permission to inject you.

 “It’ll work better to your thigh.”

 Tommi pulled up your dress to find the right spot, then lowered the needle. Before she inserted the tip into your skin, she looked back at you. You gave her a nod to proceed. The injection's sting was sharp, and it felt as if it continued to go for so long.

 “Here we go,” Tommie whispered before she administered the medical cocktail.

 The burn in your thigh began almost immediately. It was a burn that increased, a burn that intensified until it felt like a terrible muscle spasm without the pain. Once the burn subsided, you could have sworn you felt the drug course through your body. It could have been your imagination or the effects of the other drug you’d ingested. You didn’t know.

 “In a minute or two, you’ll feel like you’ve stuck your finger in a socket. Try to remain calm. Remember, when he returns, he will be expecting you to be disoriented and pliable. You have to play along, or he will know something is not right. Do you understand me?”

 You nodded though your head felt heavy, and you felt as if you were about to topple over any minute. The woman in front of you was no longer clear or alone. There looked to be three or four of her. You tried to snap yourself out of it, and that was when you felt your heart begin to race. It began beating ten times faster than it had before. The only other time you recalled it beating like this was with OA. You heard Tommie speak again, but you didn’t quite understand what she said. It sounded muffled and distorted as if her voice was from a static transmission.

 “Come, you have to be ready by the time he gets back,” Tommie said.

 She walked over to the bench in the bedroom and returned with a black two-piece lingerie set along with a pink robe. This was not new to you. Men like these liked to see their prize displayed in as little clothes as possible. You dressed with Tommi’s help. With each passing minute, you felt the effects of both the adrenaline and the drug. Also, with each passing minute, your movements became slower and slower.

 Once you were changed, you looked at yourself in the mirror, and you looked ready to seduce any man. You staggered to the bed and then dropped onto it, unable to even carry the weight of your own body anymore. Tommi sat beside you and opened her mouth to say something but the door suddenly opened. Tommi laid on top of you and whispered for you to play along. She nuzzled your neck while caressing your thigh.

 “Don’t let me interrupt. I think I’ll watch for a moment,” Lowball said.

 Tommi looked at him and smiled. “I have a better idea. Let me entertain you while the Rolong takes full effect.”

 She stood and walked to Lowball, who was seated a few feet from the bed. The sound of loud pop-rock filled the room, and Tommi’s hips moved along with it. You laid there feeling as if there was a war going on inside of you. Two impulses were fighting for control. One impulse wanted to lay there, do nothing and stare at the ceiling that had begun spiraling as if it were a kaleidoscope. The other impulse wanted to get up and dance as if this were the last night you would be alive. Your limbs didn’t know which to listen to. Every time your muscles twitched to stand, your upper body refused to obey.

 Your brain found it next to impossible to think of one thing. It continued to jump from topic to topic, making you dizzy in the process. You tried to fight against the effects of the roofie you’d been given. You tried to aid the adrenalin pumping through your body, trying to work as a diluting agent. Several times time felt as if it lagged. It felt as if even your blinking was slowed, taking forever to close your eyes and open them again.

 When you felt the bed dip, you didn’t know how much time had passed. It felt like an eternity. Looking to your right, you saw Tommi. She came to your ear and whispered.

 “We have ten minutes,” she whispered before she climbed on top of you then pulled Lowball into her embrace. You laid there watching, becoming more and more unsure of what was happening.

 “I think she’s ripe for the plucking.”

 Tommi giggled, then looked down at you.

 “I think we’d have a better time making her watch first. She needs to know what you like, daddy.”

 He looked to be contemplating things, and as he did, his eyes roamed over your body, taking in every detail. You felt a hand slide down your body, beginning at your neck and down the center of your body until it reached your navel.

 “I like that idea.”

 With that, he pulled Tommi to him, leaving you there to watch and listen. Your being must have felt how precarious your situation was because a strong will to fight overcame you, giving you renewed energy.

 “I’ve changed my mind.”

 Lowball pushed Tommi aside and climbed on top of you, burying his face in your neck.

 “The best way to learn is to do. She will catch on quick if she wants to live.”

 Almost as soon as his hands began roaming your body more vigorously, screams could be heard, but Lowball didn’t budge. When he heard the sound of a gunshot and glass shattering, he rolled off of you, dropping to the floor beside the bed. The room began to fill with smoke.

 “Stay here,” Tommi shouted.

 Everything seemed to move in slow motion, but real-time at the same time. You desperately tried to keep up.

 “Snap out of it, Y/N. Get up. Get up!”

 Though you were trying, your limbs were not obeying you. The sound of gunshots became louder and more persistent. Coughing, you tried to focus on making yourself get up. You tried to will your body to cooperate. Clenching your jaw, you screamed.

 “Get up!”

With much effort, you rose then bent forward until you were able to sit up straight. Instead of celebrating this small feat, you willed yourself to stand. You stood then tried to steady yourself. Before you could take a step, someone barreled into you, taking you to the ground. That was when your muscle instinct took over. You swung a punch that connected with someone’s jaw. Not waiting for them to retaliate, you began fighting back, not knowing who you punched. When you felt knuckles connect with your face, it had a strangely sobering effect like a second injection of adrenaline.

 You rolled onto them and proceeded to punch, not stopping. You felt a gun to your back. Before pausing, you punched the person underneath you once more. When you did that, the person behind you tried to grab you but got your robe instead, pulling it clear off you. As they did that, it gave you reprieve enough to do one of the tricky moves you’d learned at Quantico, which allowed you to flip the perp over your shoulder to land on the ground. You scurried around for the gun, praying you found it in time, especially with the fog in the room. When you grabbed it, you used the butt of the gun to slam down into the face of whoever was unlucky enough to find themselves your adversary.

 You stood and staggered to the door, then leaned on it trying to catch your breath. You checked the magazine in the Glock you held. Satisfied, you took a few more breaths trying to overcome your debilitation.

 “Let’s go, Y/N. You’ve got this.”

 You pushed yourself off the door then proceeded to go through the hall, fighting every step of the way. Every few moments, you leaned against a wall to catch your breath. A few gunshots sounded behind you, making you crouch and aim backward to clip the kneecap of one of the despicable men who worked for Lowball. When they reached for their weapon, you shot again, seeing the bullet puncture their chest. While they pushed out their last breath, you continued on.

 Getting to the stairs that led downstairs, you found bodies littered along the way.

 “Stop right there!”

 In front of you, the same man from the inspection stood there, pointing his pistol right at you.

 “Ha, of course, it was you. I knew there was something off about you.”

 “Guess you should have trusted your gut. Lower your weapon, and we’ll offer you a good deal,” you countered.

 “Not a chance.”

 “Listen dickhead. Do you hear that? That silence says your side has lost, and mine has won.”

 He lunged for you, and his shoulder knocked the wind out of you as he took you down, making both of you tumble down the stairs. You felt each step the entire way down. When you’d finished tumbling, you laid there, unable to move.

 “You bitch!”

 He climbed on you and wrapped his hands around your throat, and began squeezing. You gagged and coughed. It was then that the roofie took the strongest hold of you. Your entire body felt heavy, and even the thought of clawing his eyes out was too much. Every time you lifted your hands to do the job, they only plopped back down. You knew you were seconds from blacking out and seconds from death.

 He pulled one hand away, reached into his shirt pocket, and uncapped a needle with his mouth.

 “Let’s see you survive this!”

 He stabbed the needle into the side of your neck that he held with one impossibly strong hand. You screamed as he injected the substance into your bloodstream and, in the same breath, managed to reach the gun that was a few feet away from you and mustered enough energy to aim at his gut. A gunshot sounded, and the man’s movements above you paused for a moment before he tried to begin again. It was enough of a pause for you to take better aim with the gun, this time releasing another bullet in the center of his chest. He slumped forward enough for you to overpower him, but still, he fought. You rolled onto them and released one more bullet right in the center of his head.

 It was then you shouted out before you dropped onto him, then flopped to your back to stare at the ceiling. The sounds of gunshots around you slowed to only a few every so often. You didn’t know how long you laid there. It could have been five, ten, or more minutes. When you felt able, you sat up and stood, using the wall to hold your weight.

 With the gun in hand, you walked through the large home. You felt half-dead, and you knew it was whatever he’d injected you with. Your steps became slower and slower. Your movements more and more lagging. Still, you continued pushing through door after door, trying your best to fight. You slowly pushed through yet another door and found bright scope lights and red laser dots on your lingerie-clad body.

 “Freeze!”

 You tried to raise your hands but only made it halfway.

“Y/N!”

 Hearing OA’s voice, your body finally gave out. Before you touched the floor, OA was there, engulfing you in his arms.

 “I got you, baby. I  got you,” he whispered.

 You felt him tapping your cheeks, making you look at him blearily.

 “Are you hurt?”

 “Help me up.”

 OA used his strength to stand you up. Kristen was to your side in seconds, and in a few more seconds, OA had draped his FBI jacket around your shoulders before he scooped you in his arms. Unable to fight the drugs in your system any longer, you passed out sure of your safety in OA’s arms.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

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[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Volume 8 “Ultimatum”

Welcome back, everyone! We had an unexpected break last week due to the horror going on in Texas. I'm glad we did. Not because of any salty "RWBY is bad right now yay free Saturday" feelings, but because keeping to a schedule for a fictional webseries should never take precedence over peoples' safety. I can't believe I need to type that sentence out, but it's true! Over the last seven days I've seen fans who are not merely disappointed by the mini hiatus (understandable) but outright hostile towards the crew because they... were ensuring everyone survived during an unprecedented emergency? Yeah. Given the highly critical nature of these recaps — including today's! — I want to be clear that my thoughts towards Rooster Teeth's creative choices are distinct from any thoughts about the crew itself, including the most basic forms of compassion like, “I sure hope everyone is okay over there.” In an age where it has become horrifically common to harass creators and even send them death threats over stories, it has likewise become necessary to remind people: Don't do that shit. Never do that shit. If I can teach anyone anything at all, let it be that!

Anyway, dark fandom reminders out of the way, let's dive straight into our delayed episode. It was certainly a doozy. Titled "Ultimatum," we open on a trigger warning for flashing lights. Good on Rooster Teeth for including that, though I do wonder if creators shouldn't be including time stamps as well? Or perhaps a note that you can find those time stamps in the credits, avoiding any (minor) spoilers for everyone else? I'm not photosensitive myself, so I certainly don't mean to speak for that group, but my first thought was, "So how would I watch this episode if I was? Hand on the pause button, hoping I stop fast enough as soon as the lights start?" Hard to do given the surprise nature of the scene. Really, my answer would be, "Wait for the fandom to post warnings of their own, likely including where it happens so I know when to skip" which is perhaps an indication that this information that should be included from the get-go.

But I am glad the warning exists, regardless. The episode itself begins with a shot of Ironwood looking down at the kingdom. He's used his windows as a vantage point since Volume 7, so that's nothing new, but something about this particular shot reminded me of Ozpin, looking down from his tower. I'm sure the response from many would be simply, "Ah yes, the two power hungry dictators watching over their victims," but I think there's a much more nuanced reading here about leaders being expected to fix the literally unfixable and what that responsibility does to an individual. Of course, it's a nuance that is absolutely obliterated by the episode’s end, but the implication existed for a hot second!

Two other soldiers are in the room with Ironwood, reporting that Cinder has helped Watts escape. They try to soften this with news that they still have Jacques in custody, but receive only a, "I don't give a damn about Jacques Schnee." Which, fair. He's pretty useless at this point. It's when Ironwood learns that both Qrow and Robin escaped too that he really gets mad, something his subordinates have been expecting given their scared expressions.

Now, I'm treading lightly here because I realize how this is going to sound given the end of our episode, but I still want to note that outside of that ending... this is a weird take? Just hear me out. Since Volume 7 the show has worked very hard to make Ironwood seem scary and unstable — bad setup for what we end with today — but the problem is that none of it works in context and it certainly doesn't work when compared to other characters' actions. They are literally in the midst of an unwinnable battle and thousands of his people are dying. If the audience wants a human being — who also just lost a limb and was betrayed by half his allies — o remain perfectly poised and polite during that, sorry, but that's not how human beings work. But even beyond this, what’s the message here? Ironwood raises his voice, so does Yang. Ironwood hits his desk, Qrow hits a child. If we're going to examine how Ironwood handles his stress and anger, he often handles it better than many of our heroes. Namely, by continually taking that anger out on inanimate objects. I kept waiting for him to attack his subordinates or attack Winter this episode, especially given where we end up, but it never came. Ironwood always has enough control to break the desk or punch the wall, not the person in front of him. Which, of course, would not be a good thing in the real world. I want to be clear given these sensitive subjects that if someone is breaking things in your presence that's a major problem to address. But this isn't the real world. This is a fantasy world in the middle of a war, populated by other characters who express their anger by punching people, slamming them into walls, or screaming at them until they run away. The story wants us to fear Ironwood long before he makes his objectively horrific choices and it tries to achieve that by showing us characters who are clearly terrified in his presence, by giving us a string of broken objects in his wake. But those details don't land well when we compare them to other instances of stress. In the same volume I have watched Ironwood take a deep breath to calm himself down when things have gone horribly wrong. I've also watched Weiss start a conversation by threatening her defenseless brother. So again, what’s the message here? It can’t be that acting violently towards someone = villainous behavior because, as established since Volume 6, that’s common for the heroes. Why are these subordinates terrified about Ironwood slamming his fist on a table, but Whitley has no problem hugging the woman who threatened him? Obviously there is a HUGE difference between our main group and Ironwood when it comes to other actions (cough-bomb threats-cough), but these day-to-day moments don't match up. The show wants to use violence as a way for us to easily identify the Bad Guy while ignoring all the times when our heroes do the same thing. 

All of which isn't meant to be a defense of Ironwood. As we'll see in a bit, there is no defense for what he's done. Rather, it's a way of acknowledging just how badly he's been written. Why does a man who consistently reins in his anger and takes it out on objects suddenly shoot a councilman for literally no reason? Why does a man defined by wanting to save as many people as he can suddenly threaten to bomb his city? Ironwood's characterization is all over the place, in the sense that they keep writing him as the morally gray, sometimes harsh, but ultimately compassionate man he started out as... up until they need a villain. Salem isn't here yet, so Ironwood can shoot Oscar. Salem isn't attacking yet, so Ironwood can shoot the councilman. Salem is currently reforming, so Ironwood can threaten YJR and Mantle. He's the B-plot villain whenever Salem is out of commission, which is a problem for both their characterizations. This filler doesn't make sense for Ironwood and it severely undermines the threat of Salem. You finally introduce the Magical Big Bad and our heroes are facing more of a threat from a guy with a broken army and three loyal allies left? Hmmm.

The tl;dr is that Ironwood's arc is a disaster and, frankly, it's gotten old reading simplified takes of, "It's just a realistic look at what white U.S. men will do in power sweetie :) " RWBY does not have the context capable of conveying that sort of critical take because our world is not besieged by literal monsters and an immortal witch, to say nothing of how real life good guys do not get deus ex machina canes that fix the problem instantaneously. Ironwood is not an example of anti-U.S. imperialism, he's an example of writers who don't know how to write.

Anyway, I'm getting severely off topic. Obviously Ironwood is a major part of this episode, but the problems demonstrated here are two years in the making. This is the culmination of things I've been discussing for months across hundreds of posts... so I should probably stop trying to summarize it all in a few paragraphs lol. Perhaps when RWBY is over — or Ironwood has died — I'll do a single meta on his character, try to pull everything into one, unified argument.

For now though, we have an episode to analyze.

While Ironwood is receiving this news we get flashbacks to Qrow and Robyn. Qrow attacks a soldier in his bird form, which is hilarious. Someone GIF that please. It does raise some interesting questions about this magic though: does Qrow retain his aura and strength in this form (something I thought given his choice to transform during the explosion), or was that soldier just so shocked at being attacked by a crow that he went down easy? We'll never know, because that would require establishing concrete rules for this world. The point is Qrow is going feral in his freedom, throwing punches left and right — did he kill that guard? — while Robyn watches it all from under a rock. They're apparently still somewhere in the facility since all the exits are guarded, but that's not the good thing Ironwood seems to think it is. After all, Qrow is out to murder him. He wants to be there.

We all see where this is going, right? The show is going to ignore Qrow's crazy belief that Ironwood got Clover killed in favor of a "Qrow saved Mantle by murdering Ironwood"/“Qrow got revenge for Mantle by murdering Ironwood” ending. Who cares why Qrow wanted to kill him in the first place now that Ironwood has his finger on the trigger? If RWBY is good at anything, it's writing moments that encourage you to ignore everything that came before it. We'll be seeing more of that in just a bit.

"Damn it!" Ironwood yells, because the show is leaning into its cursing. He orders that the subordinates not return until "you have Qrow Branwen in custody." Here we have another great example of the show conflating what the audience knows with what other characters know. See, we know Qrow has a vendetta against Ironwood. We know their relationship is the important one to the story and that Robyn is incidental. Ironwood doesn't know that. There's no reason for him, as a character, to specify that they only bring Qrow back, but it makes sense for the audience who has the whole, thematic picture. Our understanding of the situation is influencing Ironwood's dialogue, which is... not great.

This entire scene we've had creepy music to hammer home just how evil Ironwood is. Except, as said, he takes a breath to calm down and the music fades. Instead of flying into a rage, hurting someone, or doing anything the music suggests he might, Ironwood calmly calls in for an update — which is when the explosion hits.

It's MASSIVE, seeming to originate from a lightning strike, which is weird, since it's coming from inside the whale, but whatever. The animation is very dramatic and pretty, as we've come to expect of RWBY, but the actual plot is lackluster at best. It's funny though because I thought for a hot second, when Winter and the Ace Ops were caught in the blast, that RWBY had actually done something exciting. I mean, holy shit! There are the deaths we expect from a battle like this. My god, what is everyone going to do when they realize that Oscar's needless attack took out five characters, including Weiss' sister —

No wait, never mind. They're fine.

Let's talk about that "needless" descriptor for a moment though. Do you all remember, two weeks ago, when I went, "Hey, why isn't anyone telling Oscar that that Ace Ops are approaching with a bomb? They're on a time limit! If someone would just mention that Very Important Information then Oscar wouldn't keep standing around to fight Salem." See, at the time I was frustrated because of how the plot was needlessly allowing Oscar to put himself in danger (especially when the whole point of this mission was to rescue him). Now, I'm frustrated because that same plot needlessly wasted the most powerful weapon the group had. There was no reason for Oscar to use literal lifetimes worth of stored energy when the heroes already had a bomb to do the same job! What was the point of that? I guess he took out the other grimm too, but without the whale that still would have been a challenge with a finite end, one Ironwood's army and the remaining huntsmen should have been able to handle. It doesn't feel justified to have Oscar use a weapon kept on the bench for lifetimes when there was another option literally minutes away.

There's so much wrong with this I need another list. So:

Ozpin's cane supposedly stores kinetic energy, which may contradict what we've seen from it before. Regardless, we’ve never heard about this. The all powerful weapon comes out of nowhere

It also begs the question of why Ozpin wouldn't use that power at Beacon and why he wouldn't insist that they try to get their cane back while captured. You had an out this whole time! But we’re going to ignore that because Oscar is a little hesitant? 

Which makes YJR's presence even more useless than it originally was, which was already pretty useless. Oscar essentially rescued himself

This kinetic energy miraculously doesn't hurt any people or buildings, just grimm

So what is the point of Silver Eyes? That's been their MO since they were first introduced. Sure, Silver Eyes can be used far more often than Ozpin's cane, but it still feels like a let down to learn that the Big Secret behind this weapon is... the exact same thing Ruby has been doing for years

Like Ruby, Oscar likewise didn't need any practice or training. He just set off this massive attack perfectly and without issue

We have now eliminated the biggest threat to the cast instantaneously — the whale and the other grimm — with no effort from the rest of the heroes. Like the Hound, the stakes are obliterated with no satisfying work on the part of our protagonists 

Instead, as said, the actual plan already in place never happened. The bomb just... goes back. Kind of like how Cinder attacked and then just went back to Salem. Penny woke up and then just got knocked out again. We continue to go in circles 

This is because no one took two seconds to tell Oscar, "There's a bomb on the way"

Because this threat is gone the show needs a new one, hence Ironwood randomly threatening Mantle with said bomb

The one way we might have justified Oscar blowing up the whale instead of Winter is if he did it to save Hazel, but Hazel is implied to be dead

Maybe he's alive, but if he's not that happened off screen and we're not sure how. It couldn't have been because of the blast itself — everyone else is fine — so what, Salem somehow killed him before she was blasted to bits? While he was holding her? 

And there's no body?

Salem was torn apart multiple times during that fight and reformed instantaneously, yet now, conveniently, she's taking her time

None of the characters mention the issues above. None of them admit that there was no reason for Oscar to waste LIFETIMES worth of power when they already had a solution in the works. Fantastic

I need to take a moment to acknowledge that so far this recap feels... bad. Disjointed. Bit all over the place. Which makes a certain amount of sense because that's where my thoughts are at. There's so much going on in this episode — so much wrong with it — that I don't know how to boil it all down into a few, neat claims. This episode is a mess! We're barely a few minutes in and the combined issues of Ironwood's characterization and Oscar's choice have left me reeling. So if you're still reading this, bless your patience, I think we'll both need it for the rest of this journey.

Let's snag a neater plot-point to discuss. Amidst all the chaos Neo literally skips away with the Lamp, clearly thrilled at how her own life is going. Later in the episode she'll text Cinder with the obvious: Salem is going to be pretty pissed when she realizes this is gone. “If you want her name you know what you owe me." 

So wait... what is Neo leveraging here? Is she agreeing to give the Lamp back so Cinder doesn't get in trouble with Salem? Give Salem the password she's been looking for? Or give Cinder the password to use the Lamp for herself? What would Cinder even want the Lamp for when she's after the Maiden powers? I'm confused about what Cinder is being blackmailed with. Regardless, she needs the lamp for something and presumably what she "owes" Neo is Ruby. We get a cut to her just to hammer that home.

(Side note: both pictures of Neo are hilarious.) 

Before that though, back at the whale, everyone is taking stock of the situation when Marrow cries, "Hey, they were still in there!" I feel like this is another scene meant to make him look like the one good guy in the group — he cares about YJOR while the others can’t be bothered — but as always, that reading doesn't fit well with the situation as a whole. The others have barely had time to realize they're alive. I don't think it's a moral failing that they didn't instinctually worry about four betrayers, one of whom attacked them, while they're still checking that they have all their limbs intact. Besides, why does Marrow assume they're dead? The Ace Ops were caught in the blast as well, yet miraculously came out unharmed. They clearly didn't set their own bomb off, so it's logical to assume that YJOR did something themselves. It feels weird to have a "Marrow mourns them and Winter is the only other character who cares" moment when everyone is recovering from bomb shock and no one even knows if the others are dead. But, of course, the show is out to portray only two of these characters as good people, so ignore the logic and run with the emotion of the scene.

All of which is bolstered by Elm pulling away when Vine puts a hand on her shoulder. Why is she acting cold towards him now? Because they're not friends, remember?

While we get more ridiculous relationship dynamics, Ironwood calls in and congratulates them on the bomb working, but tells them to get back because they have another problem in the works. That would be Qrow and Robyn. Winter decides to tell him about the bomb in person.

We cut to Watts and Cinder watching the remnants of the blast from a rooftop. Cinder has tried calling, but no one answered. Unsurprising, given that Salem doesn't have any other allies left. Cinder says that the plan hasn't changed, she's still going to take the Winter Maiden's power for herself, and Watts can help her by bringing Penny here. He explains that he doesn't have full control over her. Rather, he implemented a virus that is setting her on a single path: open the vault, then self-destruct. Cinder, as one might expect, is furious.

She snags Watts by her grimm arm and threatens to toss him over the side of the building. Thus begins the best part of the episode, hands down. Despite the danger he's in, Watts throws common sense out the window in favor of dragging Cinder in the most satisfying manner possible. 

“You think you’re entitled to everything just because you suffered, but suffering isn’t enough. You can’t just be strong, you have to be smart. You can’t just be deserving, you have to be worthy! But all you have ever been is a bloody migraine!”

It's true! You know what else is true? This speech could apply to our heroes as well. Accusations of entitlement and reminders to be smart as opposed to just strong hit hard, considering those are the same flaws our protagonists are struggling with. The difference is that Cinder, miraculously, listens, pulling Watts back to safety and going to cry by herself. That moment is simultaneously more growth than Ruby has gotten and more sympathy than Ironwood has gotten. The woman who murdered Pyrrha is treated more kindly by the narrative than one of our initial heroes and our very first villain has taken more time to reconsider her choices than our title character. You know a show is falling apart when excellent choices are applied to the worst possible character.

So Cinder is crying while Watts looks guilty and we cut back to YJOR's group post-blast. Yang is finally able to answer a call from Blake who is obviously overjoyed to see her. Weiss gives them directions to the mansion and they ask what in the world they'll do with Emerald, currently on her knees, mourning Hazel.

Thus begins the third most frustrating part of this episode. See, on the way back the group continues the conversation about what to do with Emerald, with Yang and Jaune distrusting her vs. Ren and Oscar encouraging cooperation. I can't believe I'm saying this after's Ren's speech and Oscar's entire existence... but I'm team Jaune and Yang here. Look, what Oscar and Ren say — the literal words coming out of their mouth — is nonsense. Ren goes, “We can’t let all of our actions stem from fear," as if Yang and Jaune are being ridiculous for mistrusting Emerald, one of the established villains, after years worth of harm from her. It’s weird that Yang points to her arm as something Emerald is responsible for, rather than being framed or the deaths at Beacon, but the general sentiment of, “She’s done horrible things!” is true. Ren’s perspective is the same simplification that was applied to Ironwood last volume, wherein everyone acted as if he was crazy for fearing an attack on his kingdom... post an attack on another kingdom and pre an attack on his kingdom. Putting generic lines in Ren's mouth about not being afraid makes him sound willfully ignorant, as if choosing to believe that someone is good will magically make them so, to say nothing of thinking it will erase all the harm they've already done.

Oscar at least acknowledges the difficulty here, but then follows this up with, “You don’t have to forgive her… just give her a second chance."

Oscar, honey, that amounts to the same thing in this situation. Allowing Emerald a second chance means working with her, which means trust, which means emotionally reaching a point where these characters can put aside the harm she's done them in an effort to give her that chance in the first place. This actually ties into a post I saw last night, one I've come across before, that claims redemption arcs don't require any suffering on the part of the person who has done wrong. I agree in theory, that prolonged suffering doesn't help anyone, but the problem is that people tend to conflate suffering with consequences and someone who has done this level of harm should face consequences for their actions. The problem with redemption arcs is not that the bad people suffer too much —  emotionally and physically beating on them as a form of revenge  — but that the people they've harmed are put into situations like this one. If Yang and Jaune let Emerald go like she suggests, they are agreeing that she doesn't have to face any consequences for the damage she's done (which, keep in mind, involves multiple deaths, not including all the lost lives here in Atlas). If they agree to give her a second chance, they are forced to jump straight to some level of forgiveness. We might claim they don't have to forgive Emerald to work with her, but from a practical perspective how are they meant to function, especially during a warzone? Anything she provides them with — information, watching their back in a fight, undertaking missions, etc.  — requires trusting her enough to allow those things to happen: working with that info, letting her protect them, allowing her that responsibility. It's all about trust, trust she has yet to earn. In order for a redemption arc to be successful, the power has to be in the hands of the victims. They need to be able to see some justice for what was done to them, be offered some proof that the person in question has truly changed, and have the ability to walk away if they decide no, I don't forgive you, glad to hear you've improved, but please stay out of my life. Jaune and Yang have none of that. There are currently no systems in place for Emerald to face consequences for her choices, she has offered them no proof of her remorse or true motivations, and the other half of the group is pressuring them to give her that second chance without closure or reassurance. None of that makes for a good redemption arc and reducing that to, "So you want to see poor Emerald suffer, huh?" ignores the suffering she has already caused. The group are her victims and they are under no obligation to give her a second chance, particularly under these circumstances, which makes the story's choice to have Ren and Oscar act like Yang and Jaune are being stubborn or inconsiderate a problem. The conversation boils down to, "Give the woman you know to be a liar, manipulator, murder accomplice, and servant of our enemy a second chance based entirely on unfounded faith. If you don't you're letting yourself be ruled by fear."

RWBY's touchy-feely themes really don't sit well within its realistic, morally gray premise. We cannot continually have these characters go through hell one moment and then have others accuse them of being paranoid the next. The fact that all of this is wrapped up in the group trusting Robyn, Emerald, and Hazel over their established allies remains beyond frustrating.

Because yeah, you know how Oscar finishes his speech? “I’ve already gotten a lot of help today from someone I don’t exactly trust right now." Meaning Ozpin.

The story is trying to compare Emerald and Hazel to Ozpin.

"Oh hey, I kept a secret from you after lifetimes of watching that secret lead to betrayal and death. I keep apologizing for my mistakes while ignoring that I had no reason to trust a bunch of kids with such world-shattering information and also that you tore it from me in the most traumatic way possible."

"Oh hey, I willingly joined our world's version of the devil and helped her destroy your school, leading to numerous deaths including your friend and headmaster. It was his death that put Oscar in this position in the first place! I then continued to attack your group, leading to another near death of a friend, and a kidnapping, and the destruction of Amity, until I became scared enough to make a run for it."

Which one of these characters is granted an instant second chance? You'll never guess who!

And I do think the word "instant" is important here because just like Jaune and Yang have the right to have distance and justice from Emerald, they had that right with Ozpin too. The difference is they got it. They had the power in the situation, as evidenced by their use of the Lamp and physically attacking him. Ozpin heard what they needed from him — leave us alone — and did that without complaint. They were given months to come to terms with the secrets he kept. They were offered apologies and acts of service to demonstrate intent: saving them in the airship and continually saving Oscar. I don't believe Ozpin ever needed a redemption arc, but even if we think he did, he had it. After three volumes of material Oscar's perspective is still "I don't exactly trust [him] right now" but Hazel and Emerald have earned at least the same amount of trust in a matter of hours? They're really having my boy look at the guy who has tried desperately to do right by him despite unimaginable circumstances, and the guy who tortured him to get information for Salem, and went, "That first guy. He's the one we need to watch out for."

To make things even worse, Oscar tells the others that Ozpin took on all the torture so he wouldn't have to. So he did that and they still don't trust him? If you had told me back in Volume 6 that two years later the group would still be hostile towards Ozpin, while simultaneously urging one another to trust Emerald, I would have said you were lying. RWBY has its problems, but it's not that bad. Yet here we are. I suppose the one silver lining here is that Ren smiles when he realizes Ozpin is back? So at least one of them isn't prepared to draw their weapon at the mere mention of his name.

Both these moments raise more questions though. How in the world did Ozpin take on that torture when we clearly saw Oscar getting pummeled for a good portion of the kidnapping? Is that a weird merge thing the story hasn't bothered to explain? I wouldn't be surprised, considering Oscar said last episode he didn't want to use magic because it hastened the merge, he uses the biggest explosion of magic we've ever seen, and nothing has changed. Ozpin is still in the back of his head, thanking him for the tinniest shreds of decency they get. Ren, meanwhile, seems to be back to mindreading. How in the world does he know that Ozpin is back? I assume it has something to do with his semblance, but we don't know what. They could have shown us Oscar from Ren's perspective, perhaps with two distinct emotions swilling around to imply that he sees two different people now, not a useless shot of Emerald with purple flower petals, whatever purple means.

Oh, but no, we shouldn't have gotten either of these scenes. Remember that Ren's aura broke a very, very short time ago? Is it back already? Can he use this part of his semblance without it? Considering it was near impossible to see Ironwood's aura breaking in the Watts fight and we were then mistakenly told he used his semblance in the office, I'm going to go with, "The writers forgot."

Oscar explains that the cane had "lifetime after lifetime" of power in it and though there's still some left, "we have to be careful with how we use the rest." He says that Ozpin trusted his judgement and of course he did! Ozpin also didn’t know that there was a bomb on the way. Yet funnily enough, no one else mentions that, whoops, your choice made in ignorance was a waste and that's due entirely to us prioritizing hugs over basic mission information.

Also, all these explanations take place in front of Emerald. Half the group doesn't trust her, but they'll freely discuss their powers and limitations here. Remember how the group once wanted to talk about magical relics in front of the old lady they'd just met? Yeah, they've learned nothing.

Combine all this insanity with the fact that Ozpin's magic saved the day before Ironwood's bomb could do the same... while Ruby sat in a mansion drinking tea. Who's our hero again?

So things are a hot mess, to put it lightly. Their conversation finally ends when they hear voices and round the corner to find all the Atlas citizens huddled in the subway. For once the show actually writes them in a sympathetic manner, emphasizing how terrified and helpless they are. This image doesn't lead the group to any revelations though, certainly not anything that would tie back to Ren's earlier speech in the snow. No, once again the justified criticisms here are ignored as we hear that “However this fight ends, we could really use someone like you, [Emerald.]” That's it then. Discussion over. We knew as soon as it started that blindly trusting her was being presented as the "right" thing to do and now here we are, deciding that conclusively, despite Jaune and Yang's complaints. By the time the group reaches the mansion, Oscar is defending Emerald from Ruby. We're supposed to just accept that she's a part of the group now, only minimal pushback allowed.

Before that though we return to Ironwood getting news that their bomb never went off. He briefly wonders who else could have done that, but puts the currently unanswerable question aside for what he does know. They still have the bomb and it could be "useful." See, this moment — like shooting Oscar and the councilman — is when Ironwood just randomly goes off the deep end. One minute he's talking about what they've lost and cradling his new arm, 

the next he's saying that he should have tortured Qrow to get Penny to obey him! Which doesn't even make sense since I'm pretty sure Penny hasn't ever spoken to Qrow. She wouldn't want anyone to suffer, true, but it's not like Ironwood had a close friend like Ruby to use as leverage. Qrow is just Some Guy to her. Regardless, he thinks Yang, Jaune, and Ren are decent replacements, despite Penny also having no relationships with them. This is what happens when your characters only start breaking up their teams eight years into the story, the response to Ironwood wanting to torture Ren to hurt Penny is, “Does Penny know Ren exists?” But, you know, torture is torture, right? Maybe. Probably not. I mean, if they're going to turn Ironwood into a cartoon villain, they could at least keep him smart.

Because all of this is just the height of stupidity. Ironwood wants to torture people Penny barely knows to make her listen (so just grab some civilians? It would do the same job...). Ironwood wants to shoot down empty ships, even though no one, including us, knows where in the world those ships would have gone. Ironwood wants to destroy an entire city to try and save another city. He wants to use a bomb meant for a comparatively small whale and acts like that alone will take out the majority of a kingdom. None of it makes sense! And I know the easy comeback for that is, "Well yeah, Ironwood is crazy and evil" but he's not. I mean he is. Threatening torture and bombings is obviously evil, but he's never been insane, or stupid. As said before, his arc (or lack thereof) is an absolute disaster. The fandom assumes so many things about Ironwood given the opportunity — the whale is a suicide mission. He expects the Ace Ops to die on his order — and the writing hints at so many things that never happen — he's going to hurt his subordinates, attack Winter for disobeying him — and every time what we actually get is a far more compassionate, level-headed character... until he randomly does a 180 and goes, "Let's murder a whole city now!" I never wanted Ironwood to be the bad guy, but they could have at least given me a persuasive decent into this level of horror.

So... yeah. Ironwood has got to die by the end of the volume, yeah? Between Ruby warning the whole world about him and him going into full villain mode, there's no coming back from this.

Neo sends her text to Cinder and the group makes it back to the mansion. Remember Yang's criticisms of Ruby's leadership? The ones she conveniently forgot about when Ren started to agree with her? Yeah, those are entirely gone as the sisters hug it out and, presumably, forgive one another for... daring to admit that things are bad? Look, I'm not going to deny that Ironwood's scene with Winter was creepy as fuck, 

but I'm not of the opinion that the heroes are any better when it comes to the theme of obedience. They've attacked one another, screamed at one another, and any dissent from Ruby's leadership results in the questioner being left behind in the snow. We'll accept you again when you fall back in line. I used to adore the relationships in this show, but watching them now is just discomforting. The show might be 100% more obvious with Ironwood, using creepy music, a smile, and that hand on Winter's shoulder, but the concept of, "Sorry I dared to question you before! We won't ever do it again :)" isn't healthy either. The fact that the show keeps erasing theses problems with hugs — Weiss hugs Whitley now, Yang hugs Ruby, someone will probably hug Emerald soon — doesn't make the circumstances any less uncomfortable.

None of this even gets into the Blake and Yang hug. First of all, why is Blake acting like they had a fight and Yang might not want to see her? She's hiding inside rather than rushing to greet them, ears down in a devastated expression until Yang touches her. Combine this with Yang's "Do you think she's mad at me?" and it feels like the writers cut a fight in the final script and then didn't bother to remove the fallout from that. Seriously, where did any of this come from? You can't just have characters act like they've been fighting when they haven’t.

Also, can't forget this.

At this point there's nothing more I can say in regards to RWBY's almost-queer baiting. Is touching foreheads more intimate than the hugs Yang gave the others? Absolutely. Is that an appropriate stand-in for overt representation? Absolutely not. This would have been a perfect time for them to kiss. Take out Blake's nonsensical fear and replace it with them both reuniting after their first separation since Volume 5, working under the knowledge that either one could have been killed, finally admitting their feelings. Hell, they don't actually have to kiss. Not all girlfriends are interested in kissing! But they could use the terminology that makes things unequivocally canon.  Another forehead touch when we got that in Volume 6? It's not enough, especially not when our straight couples have all been allowed their rep.

Ren at least wants to know where Nora is. He's presumably told what happened off screen as Oscar tells Ruby that Emerald is their friend now.

Then an emergency call from May interrupts the reunion and the group learns that Ironwood is bombing the Schnee ships. “Those ships… they were going to save people” Weiss whispers. How? Tell me how they were going to save anyone. Where were you going to take these people where they would be safer than where they are now? RWBY continually asserts things without explaining them, meaning there is precisely zero emotional weight here. Again, Ironwood is far past the point of defense, but I'd be a whole lot more critical of this particular action if I had a better sense of why it's bad. He appears to be endangering the people given May's shout to run — falling debris? — but the further implication is that Ironwood has doomed the people of Mantle by denying them these ships. It's that part that makes no sense based on what we've been told.

Which finally comes to the ultimatum of our episode title: Penny opens the vault, or Ironwood bombs Mantle. Great! So glad this plan is wicked smart and works well for his characterization. It's definitely not a nonsensical, unfounded, overblown change that feels like it belongs in a child's cartoon, complete with dramatic spotlight. Nope. Excellent writing choices all around.

Our final line of the episode is, “I hope you live up to the title I gave you," referring to Penny's job as the Protector of Mantle, and you know what? That line could have been very cool if it was delivered by an Ironwood with a persuasive fall and a halfway decent plan in place. I love that we've twisted the concept of a protector and turned the title into a horrifying, rather than honorable responsibility... I just hate everything surrounding those details. 

So, usual RWBY fare.

(At least we get to see that Nora is awake!) 

Will things get better over the next four episodes? I doubt it. We're still expecting the rest of the Ace Ops + Winter to ditch Ironwood, someone getting the vault open, the fall of Atlas, now the potential destruction of Mantle, and none of that includes Salem who should reform at any moment. Frankly, I'm not looking forward to any of it. The final leg of a season should make its audience excited to see how everything turns out, not dreading it. I've heard from multiple people that this is the volume that finally got them to drop the show and honestly? I'm not surprised.

As a final (happier?) note: we've finally got a bingo! I completely forgot our board last time, which was a terrible oversight, but we can update it now.

Our army of grimm can't kill anyone now that it got KOed by Oscar (that is the third one hit defeat of a major enemy we've seen this volume. Yes, I'm including the Hound considering it was obviously on its last legs after Ruby's eyes.)

I'm likewise including "Ozpin apologizes for everything including his existence" because he's done nothing but apologize since he came back. The emotion is there even if the literal words are not. Oscar reminded everyone of how untrustworthy he is, but kept the group from jumping them again. And Ozpin thanked him for it.

Neo didn't literally backstab Cinder (shame), but the Relic still counts.

So a triple bingo! Is that how bingo works? Idk, I've never played. I feel like I should have thought up some sort of humorous prize, but sadly I've got nothing. If you think of anything, let me know lol

That’s all then, folks. Until next week! 💜

[gastricpierrot]

Title: Ships in the Night 

Series: Genshin Impact

Relationship: ZhongVen

Rating: T

Summary:

Barbatos had always wanted to enjoy a Ludi Harpastum with Morax, making so many empty promises with him over the years to go together one day. A festival of fun and games close to his own heart, it’s a change of pace he always thought Morax could appreciate. They finally manage this after all these centuries, yet Barbatos just had to be an idiot at the very end.

He rests his arm over his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. He's such an idiot.

Also on AO3

--------------------------

The sheer idea of festivities lasting two whole weeks sounds absolutely exhausting to Morax, yet even at the peak of the Ludi Harpastum, Mondstadt’s people do not seem like they are slowing down anytime soon.

Morax’s tugged along by the cuff of his sleeve, Barbatos in the lead as they weave their way through the packed streets. Songs and cheer fill the air, mingled with the scents of various food, flowers, and of course, the city’s beloved wine. Barbatos himself is already tipsy despite it still being rather early in the day, having downed almost every pint of free alcohol that’s offered to him by the countless vendors they come across. There's an occasional stumble in his steps, but his spirits remain high as he shows Morax around with wholehearted excitement, a bright grin across his lips, a lively blush on his cheeks.

Morax finds the myriad of sensations dizzying, too many sights and sounds and scents bombarding him all at once—and he holds on to Barbatos’ presence for balance. Barbatos, in contrast, seems to harbour no such qualms, flitting from one booth to the next with ease, only pausing to look back when he finds something he wants to recommend. The apples from this store, the handcrafted trinkets from another, the freshly made Mora Meat from yet another one. He isn’t shy when it comes to haggling—even though Morax did remember to bring his wallet for once (much to Barbatos’ exaggerated horror) and he’s certain there would be enough between them to last the day—but it seems to be a normal occurrence to the vendors. Morax watches their good-humored banters, sees how comfortable Barbatos is around these parts and in these situations.

It’s clear how much he loves Mondstadt, and how much he is loved in return.

They spend the rest of the afternoon like this, navigating the packed streets, Barbatos showing him his favorite spots, stopping only for the occasional breathers and snacks. Mondstadt’s festivals have a very different atmosphere to them compared to those back in Liyue, unique in a way Morax can’t exactly pinpoint. Rowdier, perhaps, with the people more comfortable when it comes to mingling with strangers. Morax has lost count of the number of times he’s been randomly approached to be given some sort of gift, or to be invited for meals or gatherings he politely declines. Perhaps the community here is simply tighter knit as a whole, as compared to the more family-centric people of Liyue.

Barbatos leads him to a park at some point, declaring it’ll be their last stop before he has to prepare for a performance after sunset. Morax notices how it’s mainly families and children in this area, not a single wine vendor in sight. There are booths for games instead, where players will have the chance to earn various prizes if they win. Each is packed with groups of youngsters, all vying for the best toys on offer. Shrill, excited voices cheered and jeered at one another; in a way inciting even more chaos here compared to the people crowding the market lanes.

“Why don’t you give one a try? Even adults are allowed to play, you know,” Barbatos suggests when Morax stops to watch a child’s attempt at a game of throwing hoops over cups marked with numbers. Morax glances at him, sees his wayward smile.

“I don't think it’d be fair to the young ones if I did,” he says, to which Barbatos only barks out a laugh.

“Show off,” he retorts, and even Morax cracks a smile.

“Um, excuse me.”

They’re just about to continue on their way when a voice calls out to them. Morax turns around, not seeing anyone until it occurs to him to look down. A lone young girl stares at him wide-eyed from below, a messy flower crown clutched tightly in her hands.

“Mister, please have this!” She offers the item to him, her words slightly rushed from her enthusiasm. Morax has turned down countless gifts throughout the day, but this time, at least, he knows better than to needlessly upset a child.

So he kneels down to be a little closer to eye-level with her. “It is an honor to receive your gift.”

She stretches out her arms, and Morax tips his head to let her crown him.

The child giggles in delight as she steps back. “You really are like a prince, mister! Bye-bye!”

Morax watches her run back to her parents a little way off, warmth blossoming in his chest as he waves his own farewell to her. He gets back on his feet, and finds Barbatos looking at him with an expression he’s never seen him wear.

“It suits you,” he says, like he actually means it rather than the usual sarcasm Morax’s expected he would go for. He supposes he must be quite the sight, a full-grown adult with a falling-apart flower crown perching lopsided atop his head.

“It probably suits you more, Bar—” he stops himself just in time, remembering that they’re here only as humans and nothing more, and that they should at least make a bit of effort to keep up appearances. Though, it's not like anyone within their vicinity would actually be paying attention.

“Venti,” he tries anyway, and immediately breaks into a frown. The name still feels strange on his tongue, no matter how much he’s tried to practice saying it.

“Gods, it does feel weird hearing you call me that,” Barbatos admits with a slight wince, but Morax could somewhat tell that he appreciates it, nonetheless. It's the way his features brighten at the sound of it, the way his eyes would light up ever so slightly. It is, after all, a name bestowed upon him by a beloved friend many years ago. Barbatos has not been called such for a long time. “But yeah, no, you should keep that. Have some fun, let loose a little!”

Morax doesn’t exactly see how wearing flowers in his hair contributes to “letting loose”, but he doesn’t argue.

They have time to go grab something for dinner just as dusk falls, and then Barbatos is bringing him to what he claims to be one of the main final highlights of the Ludi Harpastum: an event of all night drinking and fireworks. There are several spots around the city hosting such sessions, all offering endless streams of food and alcohol sponsored by Mondstadt’s major wineries. Barbatos will be performing in the one held at the city square—the main place, he boasts—first of the few bards invited there to further enliven the mood.

Dozens of chairs and tables are set up across the open space, most already packed with people by the time they get there. There’s a small stage at the very front, the sides of the venue lined with booths in charge of the food and drinks. Waiting staff donning bright uniforms dart from table to table, expertly weaving their way around the already half-intoxicated crowd.

It’s almost overwhelming; the energy, the pungent scent of food and strong wine, the sheer rowdiness of the people gathered around. Morax stops by a convenient tree a respectable distance away from the square, just far enough that the chances of a random drunkard stumbling over and dragging him in would be minimal.

And “I think I’ll stay here,” he says, when Barbatos turns to him with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t want to join in?” he asks, despite Morax’s answer already being obvious.

“I’m sure I can enjoy the atmosphere well enough from here.”

“Hmm, fair enough.” Barbatos shrugs after a quick gauge of the distance between them and the heart of the event. Then he smiles, hands on his hips. “Anyway. I’ll get going first, then. I’ll come find you when I’m done?”

“If I haven’t already left,” Morax says, because he genuinely does not know how much of this unbridled revelry he can tolerate. Even now, part of him wants nothing more than to walk off and find somewhere quiet to wind down for the rest of the evening.

Of course, his statement immediately gets Barbatos whining. “At least wait for me!!!”

“Just go before you’re late.” Morax shoos him off, though he doubts anyone present currently retains even the slightest sense of time.

“Fine, fine!” Barbatos relents, cheeks still puffed, “but I’m going to throw rocks at you if you really leave without me, alright?”

Morax halfheartedly assures he can throw as many rocks at him as he wants if it comes to it, then with a sudden rush of wind and a final harrumph, Barbatos turns on his heels and strides towards the stage, his people cheering his name the moment they spot him.

“Looking forward to what you have for us tonight, Venti!”

“Venti you rascal, you really made us wait this time!”

“Venti, you’re looking lovely as ever!”

Venti, Venti.

The descent of a god, unknown to his own people.

Barbatos takes his seat on the single stool placed on the stage, crossing his legs just so, his posture relaxed yet brimming with elegance. The wind carries the sounds of his lyre all the way to where Morax stands, clear and proud amidst the endless chatter of the crowd. He begins with a slow tune, a moment of calm cutting through the chaos. Demanding attention.

Quiet. Listen.

Morax too, catches himself holding his breath.

And then Barbatos strums another note and smoothly transitions into a new tune, and the crowd explodes with excitement. His next song matches more to the barely suppressed merriment around him, its melody upbeat and festive. He’s skilled at involving his audience, easily encouraging them to sing and dance along. Charming, radiant. He captivates all who behold him—even Morax, despite such genre of music never being to his tastes. It’s a rather belated realization to come to, but seeing him fully in his element like this, Morax can tell that Barbatos’ boastings indeed hold their weight, and that he truly has mastered the craft of a bard.

Barbatos leaves the stage around the middle of his fourth song, slipping into the crowd as he continues his performance. He sings and twirls and dances, one with his people—and somehow still, Morax spots him managing to down some drinks in between. His current song involves a back and forth; he sings one line, then prompting the nearest person to follow up. It seems to be a piece everyone’s wholly familiar with, all who enthusiastically join in barely stumbling on their turn.

Morax notices too, after a few minutes of observation, that it also seems to be endless; constantly looping around the chorus. He wouldn’t put it past Barbatos for doing this deliberately, for as long as it continued, he could drink.

And he does drink. He drinks so much that it’s almost impressive, since he only has a few seconds at a time to gulp down his alcohol. Morax wrinkles his nose from afar, already dreading the stench he would exude when he returns later.

Morax doesn’t see it, at first. He can pinpoint Barbatos’ general location based on the reaction of the people and when he hops onto benches and tables for some elevation, but he’s partly obscured from his sight most of the time. It’s only as Barbatos makes his way further towards the back of the crowd, closer to where Morax stands, that he notices how else some members of his audience interact with him.

People who take advantage of the general unruliness of a large-scale drinking session in a packed area, hands that touch places past normal boundaries. His thighs, his back, his neck.

Barbatos does not falter, either too immersed in his own performance or too intoxicated to realize and care. Or perhaps he is simply used to this, having been a bard for as long as he’d been a god. Morax does not know.

Fire flares in his stomach the longer he watches, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. It is truly an uncomfortable sight. Intoxication is not consent, nor is silence. Morax could not stand it for long, reaching for the flower crown on his head and tossing it aside before striding toward where Barbatos is lingering within the crowd.

He grabs a person by the wrist and wrenches their hand away from Barbatos, his grip hard enough to make them cry out. Barbatos must’ve heard the commotion, turning at the sound and eyes widening in surprise when he sees Morax right there behind him.

Morax glares at him—a misdirection of his anger, he admits—but he only breaks into a satisfied grin, and finally decides to move his song along. He leaps onto the nearest table, feet stepping delicately between the many glass mugs piled across its surface. His tune reaching a crescendo, his finale presented with flourish.

His audience, quite literally, erupts into cheers and applause.

Barbatos half stumbles down from the table amidst the cacophony of the reception, Morax moving to catch him just as his knees buckle beneath him and he loses his balance. He's trembling, his forehead visibly damp with sweat.

And before Morax can properly help him get back on his feet, he throws up all over his sleeve.

xXx

Barbatos supposes his age must finally be catching up to him.

Or perhaps he’d simply overestimated himself, thinking that participating in the Ludi Harpastum’s all-night drink session wouldn’t be too different from his usual gigs, only with a little more people.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have stepped off the stage in the first place, shouldn’t have danced quite so hard, and should’ve saved the drinking until after his performance ended. The lack of air, the thick haze of human odour mixed with the saccharine scent of alcohol, his own sweeping movements—Barbatos had not expected them to combine into an experience quite so nauseating, even for a god.

He vaguely remembers throwing up once more while Morax carried him somewhere, then a third time in a washroom he didn’t recognize. Then he draws a blank after that.

He stirs to find himself on a bed, his clothes replaced with a set of loose cotton pajamas and his body smelling faintly of floral soap. His head throbs with a dull ache, but he figures he’s seen worse days. More than anything, he feels dehydrated, his lips dry and throat like sandpaper. He braces his palms against the mattress, and slowly pushes himself upright.

He's in a dimly lit room, probably one in an inn not too far off from the venue of the drink fest. He hears the sounds of running water from behind the door opposite the bed; Morax is probably there cleaning up after the mess Barbatos made. There’s a jug on the bedstand, a fresh glass of water already poured out for him. Barbatos’ chest warms as he reaches for it, endeared by how fastidious Morax remains, despite everything.

He returns to lying down a little later, admittedly just a little bitter at how things have turned out. He’s had such an amazing day. He'd always wanted to enjoy a Ludi Harpastum with Morax, making so many empty promises with him over the years to go together one day. A festival of fun and games close to his own heart, it’s a change of pace he always thought Morax could appreciate, since he’s constantly at work. They finally manage this after all these centuries, yet Barbatos just had to be an idiot at the very end.

He rests his arm over his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. He's such an idiot.

The sounds of the shower eventually come to a stop, leaving a ringing sort of silence in their absence. The ruckus of the ongoing party not far off carries all the way to their window; people laughing, cheering, singing. Fireworks bursting in the sky.

He'd wanted to show Morax the fireworks too, damn it.

He lowers his arm and turns when he hears Morax stepping out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a similar set of pajamas as himself, though admittedly it looks so out of place on him that Barbatos almost lets out a snort.

“Hey,” he greets, because he’s genuinely not sure how else he should start. Morax meets his gaze from behind his damp fringe, his face betraying no particular emotion.

“Hey,” he returns, every bit as curt. Barbatos cracks a lopsided smile, and decides there’s no point trying to go around it.

“Listen, Morax, I’m so sorry things ended up like this,” he says, twisting to lie on his side facing him. Morax doesn’t respond to that immediately, and neither does Barbatos see much of a change in his expression.

“Barbatos, how many times do you think I've had to handle your drunk antics over the years?”

Barbatos winces at that. “Now you’re making me feel even worse.”

“You should,” Morax agrees, running a towel over his damp hair. “It’s about time you realize how self-centered and inconsiderate and – “

“Okay, okay, I get it!!” Barbatos interjects before his feelings are actually hurt. “I’m sorry!”

Morax only shoots him a meaningful look and says nothing else, knowing at the end of the day he’d do it all over again anyway. Barbatos supposes he can’t blame him; he’s more aware than anyone that he’s been the way he is for more than a millennium, never once giving even the slightest indication that he would change.

Maybe it’s time he considers, after all that’s happened today, but he decides he’ll mull over that some other time.

His eyes follow Morax as he steps away to hang his towel on a rack, his confusion growing when Morax proceeds to stand rooted in place, frowning slightly and arms crossed as though deep in thought. Barbatos stares at him for a solid couple of minutes before speaking up.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking about what I should do next,” Morax answers, in all seriousness. Barbatos can’t believe this man is for real. He bursts into laughter, earning himself a puzzled look.

“You really don’t know what ‘rest’ means, do you?” he marvels, then scooting closer against the wall and patting the empty spot before him. “Come here and lie down, we’ve been up and about the entire day. Aren’t you tired?”

Morax’s frown deepens by a fraction. “But I don’t think there’s sp-”

“There’s more than enough space for the both of us!” Barbatos assures, chest light with newfound mirth. Morax really is too much of a gentleman at times. “This bed’s huge!”

Morax remains hesitant for a moment longer, but with just a little more gentle pestering, he relents in the end. “Then, if I may.”

Barbatos watches as he moves to take the space beside him, watches the way his long hair falls over his shoulders, the way the collar of his shirt shifts to reveal the hollow of his throat, a small window of his chest.

Morax fully lies down, and Barbatos realizes there really is just enough space for them to stay still like this. Huh. Has Morax always been such a big person? Or maybe the bed really isn’t that wide to begin with, and whatever alcohol lingering within his system is just messing with his perception of space. Not that it matters at this point. Morax still smells fresh from his shower, his uncharacteristically messy hair and comfortable clothes giving him an air of innocence Barbatos never expected to see on him. Unguarded, youthful. They’re a mere half-arm's length apart, close enough that Barbatos can almost feel his every exhale of breath.

“So how did you find the Ludi Harpastum?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, perhaps part of him being rather conscious about the little distance between them. Did it live up to the expectations he set for him by constantly inviting him to one over the years, he wonders? Did Morax at least enjoy himself a little with all the festivities? Barbatos noticed he’d mostly followed his lead, trying the many things he’d recommended to him, visiting only the places he brings him. Barely making many choices for himself. It’s too late at this point, yet Barbatos still worries about being overbearing without meaning to. Could Morax really have had fun without as much as a freedom of decision?

“It was...” Morax trails off ominously, pausing to weigh his words while Barbatos braces himself for the continuation. “Different, I suppose.”

“A good different or a bad one?”

“Just different,” Morax affirms. “It certainly feels livelier than the celebrations in Liyue.”

“Then,” Barbatos perks up, a little more hopeful now with the way Morax has responded so far. “What did you like most?”

Morax hums to that, silent in a moment of contemplation. “If I were to choose, I quite enjoyed some of the places we visited.”

He goes on to recall the few locations he’d found a liking to, admiring the history and cultural significance of each that Barbatos had explained to him, the various architectural designs and artistic liberties that define Mondstadt’s trademarks. The motifs of the cobbled streets, the poems framed and hung inside windmills serving as charms for Barbatos’ blessings, even the theme of the patterns carved on many a doorplate—Morax seems to have been quite fascinated by them.

He wears a different expression when he talks about the things that strikes his fancy. A slight upturn of his lips, the faintest crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Even his voice adopts a different tone, laced with a smallest hint of excitement—perhaps even joy, because someone cares to listen.

Barbatos could listen to him like this for an eternity, if he had the chance.

“You’re staring at me,” Morax stops to say at some point, a slight knit across his brow. Barbatos supposes he must be wearing quite the expression, for him to look at him like that. But he could not help it; after all, who wouldn’t be utterly captivated by someone as quietly radiant as this god before him?

“I think I'm in love with you, Morax.”

Are the words that take form, a confession he’s surely taken long enough to make. He no longer even remembers when was the first time it’d dawned him, that his feelings for Morax had progressed into something that wasn’t platonic. How many years has it been since he started seeing him with a different sort of admiration, with the barely suppressible urge of wanting to be closer to him?

Morax blinks at him once, twice. Processing what he’s just heard; understandable, as it really had come out of nowhere.

Then he averts his gaze, reaching to cover his mouth as a wave of red creeps up his entire face.

“Why don’t you tell me that again when you’re sober?” he mumbles into his hand, and Barbatos effectively short-circuits for a moment.

“This is the most sober I’ve been all day, though???”

Morax is adamant, shifting to turn away from him as though to physically end the conversation. “That’s what a drunk person would say. Now stop talking and go back to sleep.”

“No, no, no, isn’t this a little sudden?? Morax??” Barbatos is half laughing now, seeing how desperately Morax is trying to deal with his own embarrassment. It is surprisingly contagious, though; even he’s starting to feel a little shy the longer he badgers him.

“Morax?? Heyyy, Morax? Rex Lapis?”

And yet he refuses to let it stop him. He can see how red Morax’s ears are even from behind him like this. Barbatos pokes at his back, a mix of fondness and mischief welling in his chest when the idea occurs to him.

He squirms forward, closing the little distance between them.

“Zhongli.”

Morax tenses at that, the slightest reaction that Barbatos would’ve missed if he as much as blinked. He's...really cute when he’s like this. Part of Barbatos refuses to believe that this is happening. Morax, the Geo Archon, the honourable Rex Lapis, Adepti Prime—has this absurdly adorable side to him.

“Zhongli,” Barbatos dares to say again, just to see what other sort of response he could elicit from him. “Zhongli.”

He leans out of the way just in time before Morax twists to face him once more, bracing himself for a well-deserved smack—but is instead pulled into a tight embrace.

“You’re so obnoxious,” Morax says, his exasperation obvious even in his quiet tone. Barbatos smiles as he returns the hug with just a much intensity, leaning into their contact with a sigh, a swell of his heart.

Morax is much warmer than he could’ve ever imagined.  

xXx

They say that both the Geo and Anemo Archons are fond of disguising as humans, often descending from their divine residence in Celestia to mingle with the commonfolk of their respective nations.

No one knows what are their preferred appearances, as oftentimes they are indistinguishable from the everyday person. No one knows if they preferred to present as men or women or even children, or if the rumours of them taking human form even hold any truth. After all, who’s to say they wouldn’t choose to appear as an animal, a sprite, or perhaps a fragment of the elements they embody?

Not many in the nations of Liyue and Mondstadt have ever had the chance to see their respective gods, nor to realize that they’ve lain eyes upon them at all. It is something the people have accepted to simply leave up to chance, as there is no point to obsessing over the miniscule possibility of coming face to face with the deity they worship. There are enough mundane things worth paying attention to on the daily; the clarity of the skies, the specials available in the markets, the trees newly bearing fruit.

A particular sight has grown more common as well within the borders of the two neighbouring nations in recent years, one of a pair often spotted strolling together through the busy city streets, the bustling villages, and even the vast wilderness, when the weather is agreeable.

Should one have their stars aligned just right, they may just chance upon a certain bard and gentleman, both usually engrossed in jovial chatter or some lighthearted bickering no matter the location. Oddly out of place sometimes, seeming right at home the rest. Greet them if you wish, and they would usually respond warmly in return. But take heed, at times you may notice their hands linked and fingers intertwined, the pair lost in a world of their own—and that will be your sign to give space, for even gods would appreciate a little time to themselves.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

She [1]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: You meet Steve Rogers for an interview but he’s not what you expected.

Note: I’ve been trying to chill the last five days but I obviously got some writing in. It has resulted in this impromptu series and I hope you all like it. It’s looking like it will be about 10 chapters when all is said is done but that being said, I am still working on it.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Reader

Your left ankle bent as you leaned heavily on your heel. You stood before the thick walnut door, a round frosted window on its face. The townhouse stuck out on the old Brooklyn row and all knew its resident. It surprised many that he remained in the borough and he was cherished all the more for it. He was the golden boy of New York.

Well, that’s what people like to believe. You weren’t there to paint another flowery picture of the saviour. You were there to speak with the real man behind the plan. There was a story behind Steve Rogers that had yet to be told and when you were selected to tell it, you knew you had to do it right. The task was both daunting and humbling. It could be your big break.

You knocked and adjusted the bag that hung from your shoulder. You didn’t miss the group of kids at the end of the block gathered around for a glimpse of their hero. The door opened and you were greeted by the man himself. He smiled at you as his hand rested on the curled door handle.

“Hi,” He greeted you. “Thanks for coming. It saves me a lot of trouble.”

“Not at all,” You shook his hand. 

You’d spoken to him briefly over the phone and negotiated the time and place for your interview. You agreed that him coming to the office would cause too much of a flurry. You were sure he was over that.

“Come in,” He stepped back and waved you through.

He closed the door as you looked around the entryway. A thick banister with the same dark wood as the walls led up to the second level and a finely carved archway peeked through to the next room. It was cozy and a lot quainter than you expected. The exposed brick above the panelling lent it a warmth.

“Shoes?” You stopped by the mat.

“Your call,” He said. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers, but I’m fine,” You assured him as you stepped out of your heels. You’d hate to scuff the hardwood. “I’m sure you're just as impatient as me to begin.”

“Steve. And yeah, I suppose. I don’t really do much more than pressers and usually, I don’t do much talking.” He confessed. “Just through here,” He pointed to the front room. 

You nodded and stepped through. He directed you to the pair of armchairs before the artificial fireplace and you set your bag down as you sat. He lowered himself across from you as you reached into your bag and pulled out your phone and notebook. You swiped up and flicked your finger across the screen.

“Do you mind if I record you? It helps with editing and of course, accuracy,” You said.

He scratched his jaw and shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Great,” You hit the red dot and set the phone down on the small table with the mic facing him. 

🖋️

You were a bit surprised by how it had all unfolded, but, you supposed, you were right when you said no one was ever exactly what they seemed. Steve was nice enough as he showed you the door but you could see the agitated impatience behind his eyes. You should’ve eased him into it more. Timing was everything.

Even so, you had promised your editor a story and if you didn’t deliver after being chosen for such a coveted one, well, you would never see its likes again.

So you sat at your desk in your small but comfortable city apartment. It was nothing compared to the star-spangled hero’s walk-up but it was home. If you could work the interview the right way, it might mean an upgrade, or at least a television that didn’t flicker.

You hit play on your phone for the third time that night. Steve Rogers’ voice was etched into your brain. And that tension in his forehead, the tic in his jaw. A thinly veiled wrath unexpected of the valiant soldier-turned-saviour. You shivered and paused the recording. It was almost startling how quickly he’d turned on you, but you weren’t entirely innocent.

You stretched your fingers over the keyboard and sighed as you stared at your blinking cursor. You couldn’t just sit on this forever. You had a deadline and an extension was an impossibility, if not a death warrant for your career.

So you hit play and began to type, pausing to play back snippets as you went.

🖋️

‘It’s early afternoon in the heart of Brooklyn. Amidst the old brick buildings that line the cracked sidewalks is a townhouse unlike any other. The home of a man born there over a century ago. A living ghost that haunts the block. Most would say he is a friendly spirit.

Steve Rogers answers the door as a boy lets his baseball roll under a car and his friends lower their mitts to watch. A teen on a bike, a ring in his nose, even slows to admire the hometown hero as he smiles; a beacon of the borough. A glimmer of hope for all to think that the block is not the whole world.

He greets me like an old friend. “Hi.” The same smile seen in newsprint. He thanks me for coming and ushers me inside. This is the first time I’ve met him in person. I can’t lie; I’m intimidated. I’m just another person in debt to this great veteran.

His house isn’t what you would expect from a man as prestigious as him. No medals hanging on the wall, no vainglorious cut-outs of his image, or pictures of him shaking hands with men in suits. Only framed baseball cards along freshly laid wood-panels. It’s like any other house in Brooklyn, just newer. An ancient skeleton revived.

We sit in the front room, he offers me a drink. I’m not very thirsty. I’m more anxious to start talking. I can see he is too though his facade is hard to crack. He tells me to call him Steve as my recitations of ‘Mr. Rogers’ become almost pathetic. We begin.

Interviewer: “Great.” I hit ‘record’. “I’ll start by saying you have a nice place.”

Steve: “Thanks.” He seems to relax as he leans back in the chair which is nearly too narrow for his broad shoulders. “It took a while but I think it’s coming together.”

Interviewer: “Can’t take the boy out of Brooklyn, I guess.”

Steve: “Wouldn’t leave it for the world.” He smiles again, though he never truly looks less than amiable.

I: “Only to save it,”

S: “I do what I can.

I: “More than most; New York, Sekovia, the world. You’ve done it all. Do you ever just take a break?”

S: “I try. And sometimes I get a chance to just… be here.”

He looks around, proud of himself, of his home.

I: “Any hobbies?”

S: “You know, I used to love to draw. Nothing special, you know. But I found it calming. I actually bought a bunch of pencils and a pad but I never touched them. I’m sure they're just sitting up in my closet, neglected.” 

I listen intently, imagining this man bent over a notebook. It’s an absurd picture as my mind returns to the man in his cowl with shield in hand. The red, white, and blue bullseye is more suiting in my head than a pen.

I: “Anything else? Anything you actually do?”

S: “I like to run. Helps me get to know my neighbours, reconnect with my roots. I read… a little. I’m still not really into the whole internet thing but I try. I still get the newspaper just to read the strips and fill in the weekly crosswords.”

He confirms my suspicion. A man lost in time, but it seems he has found his place.

I: “A man for all times. And you work? I’m sure you get tired of talking about it but well, there’s been a lot of speculation about a possible retirement.”

He ‘s silent as he looks away and fidgets in his chair. He becomes the rehearsed hero at his podium. 

S: “I’d hate to fan that fire but I think it’s only natural to consider it.” 

I: “Thinking of settling down?”

S: “It’s always a thought but I’m not stupid. It’s not that simple. I’m not the type of man that gets to settle down.”

This remark might break the heart of every woman in Brooklyn and beyond but it seems to hurt him more. A grim truth for a man who many would say has the world in his hands.

I: “And if you did hang up the shield, is there anything you want to do? Anywhere you want to go?” 

S: “I’d like to try fishing. I’ve heard it’s relaxing. I love the city but it’s nice to get away now and then.”

I: “Is there anything keeping you from retiring? Besides the obvious; we all know you’re a good man and a great hero. You’ve shown commitment to the city, the world, humanity.” 

He looks to the artificial fireplace and shrugs. He’s thinking; perhaps censoring his response.

I: “Co-workers? The world is well aware of what you did for your old friend. And it has proven to be a point of contention, even after the pardon.”

He clears his throat and he’s no longer smiling.

S: “Bucky is an old friend and a commendable soldier. He does his job well. I wouldn’t take anything back. He has more than earned his place.”

I: “So, if you retired, you believe that he would retain his place among the team?”

He’s frowning now. He adjusts his posture so that he seems even bigger than before. A formidable opponent, if not an overwhelming one. 

S: “He is not there because of me. He’s there because of himself. Because he is an asset to the world.”

His blue eyes are darker now. No longer the crystalline waves shining in the sun but those foreboding tides which crash together beneath the moonless sky. My ship has gone awry, carried by an errant wind.

I: “Well, I can’t help but point out that many wouldn’t agree. You put yourself and several of your associates on the line to save him. To bring him into your fold. To place a man who was once a national enemy beside you. I hate to say it but, frankly, even if he were pardoned on his own merit, I fail to imagine him being allowed the same access to confidential intelligence and tasked with the protection of civilian life.”

His hands are fists. I could put up a front and say I’m not nervous, but I am. I have done what I once thought impossible. I have angered Steve Rogers.

S: “He wasn’r Bucky, but he is now and he has been cleared. I’m sorry, but I thought you were here to talk about me.”

I: “Yes, I am, but the world is well aware of your friendship with Mr. Barnes and all its implications. It is hard to separate him from your life.”

S: “I agreed to talk about me.”

His tone is set in stone. I attempt to stay calm myself.

I: “We are talking about you, but we can move on. Now, even with its dissolution, there are still questions being asked about the Sokovia Accords and your opposition to it. While many can acknowledge the need for your team and their work, they can’t help but wonder at the lack of restraints placed upon it. There are regulations even for the FBI and CIA and other protective services. So why should you be exempt?”

He sniffs and stands up slowly. He retreats behind his chair and nears a table along the wall. He distracts himself with a signed baseball. I don’t have a chance to ask who scribbled along the stitches as he tosses it and finds his voice.

S: “I never disagreed with the sentiment of the Accords. As heroes, of course, we should have obligations. Our first and foremost being the protection of innocent lives. The hardest to uphold but we do it.”

He is ever the statesman but he isn’t finished and his voice gets low. Dangerous, even.

S: “At the same time, we put our own lives on the line and you come here and nag me about formalities? What is it you want? Paperwork? Reports on how I threw my shield to stop a bullet from striking an innocent bystander? How a piece of shrapnel nearly severed my tendon as I threw myself in front of a speeding vehicle?”

I: “With all due respect, I am only asking about transparency. People deserve to know more. They deserve the truth.”

S: “Is that what you’re looking for? The truth? You want to know what we don’t tell you and your readers?” 

He puts the baseball down and his hand is on his hip, disapproving. I suspect his lecture will continue. He nears the chair and grips the back of it as he narrows his eyes at me. I fear he might throw it in my direction though for now, I hope it should act as my own shield against him.

S: “About how I have to lie about how many men I lose to keep this world safe. Because I can’t scare the people. Because I have to keep on this mask of the brave hero.”

His eyes go to the ceiling. He takes a breath to calm himself. I can tell he wants to continue. That he is holding back something which has brewed within him for a very long time. It is a moment before he speaks again.

S: “We’re done here. That’s it. Turn your phone off and go.”

The interview is over. What happens next will remain off the record. I leave with a mouth full of bile. My childlike wonder has been extinguished. I came to seek out the man behind the shield and I have done just that, but he is not who I expected. 

I was ready for a humble man, a man like any of us; the same wants and desires. Still human despite his enhancements; despite his superhuman status. What I discovered was a man who’s exceptionality has nurtured a sense of entitlement. 

And we do owe him our lives, our gratitude, we owe him the world. Yet I cannot dismiss the sense that he might regret his good deeds. That to him, it has become a thankless chore. That we are the needy children and he has been burdened with our cries for help.

So we should not be surprised or upset upon his retirement, not if, but when it comes. And we cannot fault him for his departure. It has been a long-time coming.’

🖋️

You took a breath and sat back in your chair. You rubbed your cheeks as the recording began to repeat itself. You stopped it and checked the time. You’d spend your morning editing and hope you would be ready for submission by the evening.

As you hit save, you felt an odd tremor deep inside. This could be it. Your big story. Or you could be tired and entirely up your own ass. You only hoped it was the former.

🖋️

You sat across from Poppy as she read your article through the glasses which sat low on her long nose. She was just past forty and wouldn’t look it if she didn’t wear the ridiculous half-circle spectacles. She wore a shade of red which paid homage to her name and her lipstick was just as bold. Her long lashes flicked up as she lowered the pages and her blonde hair fell behind her shoulder.

“Well…” She said carefully. “It is…interesting.”

You swallowed nervously as you teetered on the edge of the acrylic seat. Her long manicured nails played with the corner of the article.

“I had initially planned to have this in the back pages. No one really cares about the Avengers anymore.” She said. “But this is… I will discuss it with our marketing team but I know a feature when I see it.”

“A feature?” Your lips parted and you sat back as you gripped the thin arms of the chair.

“Oh, yes,” She said. “Another celebrity break-up is not exactly scandalous and to be frank, I do tire of that ridiculous narrative. But this… you will be hearing from me soon.”

“Uh,” You stood awkwardly at what you were sure was a dismissal. “Thank you.”

“For what? Doing my job? Should I thank you for doing yours?” She countered.

“N-no,” You stuttered.

“Go on then. I’m certain you have other work to do.” She tapped her long nails. “You certainly will once this is ready to print.”

You nodded and left her. She was already on her phone before the door closer behind you and you looked around the blindly bright office. It would be your first feature and it was the first article which had earned you more than a passive grumble from the woman. Perhaps you hadn’t been so foolish to think you had actually done something well.

[willowbird]

Twinyards - Hello ( Daemons AU)

Okay so here is going to be my one and only entry for @twinyardsappreciationweek -- not because I didn't want to!! I just.. life happened and so I only actually got the first one done and then I went back and forth about posting it for several days because my anxiety is off the charts this week (huh I wonder why??)

So ANYWAY! This is my "Hellos", a first meeting between Aaron and Andrew in an AU that takes what I like about His Dark Materials and ignores what I've forgotten about it because I honestly haven't read the books in 15 years. Please forgive me for making up the rules as I go along. You do not need to be familiar with The Golden Compass/Northern Lights/His Dark Materials in order to understand or enjoy this AU because.. well, like I just said, I kinda kept the "soul animal" bit and decided to make up the rules for the rest as I went along. Feel free to ping me in messages or send me an ask if you have any questions.

------

“You’re biting your nails all the way down again.” Stella’s voice was quiet in Aaron’s ear. She was currently balanced on his shoulder where she could see the whole room while also being well out of trampling-range of larger daemons and their people.

“No I’m not,” he grumbled, but snatched his fingers away from his mouth because yes - he was. “And don’t hedgehogs have terrible eyesight? How would you even know?”

Stella huffed, and the small snap of her breath tickled his ear, making him twitch. “I don’t know where you heard that, but I can see just fine, thank you very much.”

“If you say so,” Aaron relented -- not because he actually believed her but because he was too distracted to engage in their usual bickering. There was nothing interesting about the room they were sitting in. It was empty of anyone besides him and his uncle and their daemons, neither of which were very large, and was painted a pale blue offset by a dark gray shallow carpet that made Aaron feel like he was sitting in the waiting room of a dentist’s office rather than a juvenile detention center. Still, despite the general blandness of their surroundings, Aaron’s mind was busy.

After all, today he was going to be meeting his brother. His long-lost brother. His long-lost twin brother.

Yeah, mindfuck right?

Twice already his uncle had shot him a look for the way his knee kept bouncing with jittery nerves, but it’s not like he could help it. It just wasn’t every day that you found out that you had a long-lost twin. That you got to meet that long-lost twin, especially after they’d initially told you to piss off.

Well, more or less.

Andrew’s letter back to him had been more like, Aaron, back the fuck off. Stay far the fuck away until you hear from me. I’m fucking serious. -- A.

No, really. That’s exactly what it said. Aaron had read it so many times that he’d memorized it, first because he couldn’t believe that he’d gotten a letter back, then because he couldn’t believe his brother was such an unrepentant asshole, and then because he couldn’t help but notice that they both wrote their lower-case ‘a’s the exact same way.

That was almost two months ago. Mom had absolutely freaked out and moved them across the damn country within a couple of weeks of the whole ‘Andrew Situation’ coming to light, and if it had been up to her Aaron definitely wouldn’t be here now. Except Uncle Luther, for all that he was a gigantic flaming dickhead, wasn’t quite as willing to let it go. Then, last week, he’d gotten a letter back from Andrew. All it had was an address to a juvenile detention center.

And so here he was, ready to meet his twin brother, and he felt so many things about it that he didn’t even know how he was really feeling.

“Luther Hemmick and Aaron Minyard?”

Aaron jumped at the voice and looked over at the stout man who had just entered the room. He wore a white coat like some kind of doctor and looked weirdly buff for also being old and balding.

Beside him, his uncle stood up, his pomeranian daemon trotting out from where she’d been curled under his chair. Aaron scooped Stella off his shoulder and returned her to her preferred nest inside the pocket of his hoodie as he joined his uncle. He tried to mimic his uncle’s superior sort of calm as he trailed after the two men, passing through the security door and down the narrow tiled hallway into what looked like some kind of common room.

Aaron had expected it to look like the rooms inmates talked to their families on tv, with two-way glass and phones so that you could talk to the person on the other side. He’d expected a lot of cold steel and white stone walls, with all the kids in matching gray jumpsuits or something.

Instead, they were in what looked like a giant living room. There were several couches and tables, a television with a few different video game systems, and a tall shelving unit filled with board games. There were teenagers lounging on the couches or at the tables, one or two of them apparently also visiting with family. Aaron didn’t spend all that much time scoping out the other kids, though, because on his first scan of the room his gaze settled on a blond boy sitting in the bay window with a fucking lion stretched out on the floor beside him, a living, breathing, tooth-filled barrier between him and the rest of the room.

Andrew.

Their little party had stopped just inside the door and Aaron was distantly aware of the warden or the principal or the doctor or whatever the fuck he was telling Uncle Luther about the facility. He couldn’t focus on them enough to actually retain the specifics though, not when he saw Andrew.

It was so… so fucking weird. He was there. Right fucking there. His brother, and they were identical. Okay, so, not completely identical. Andrew’s hair was longer than his own, and since the kids here were apparently allowed to wear street clothes he was wearing black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt (which was neither a gray jumpsuit nor anything that Aaron would typically wear -- he preferred normal jeans and band t-shirts, thanks). There was also something… colder about him that Aaron didn’t know how to feel about but definitely seemed to match the two brief letters he’d gotten from him.

The lion lifted her head and looked right at him, fixing him with an eerie amber stare he felt both trapped and analyzed by. It was not comfortable and it took all of his willpower not to squirm. As it were, he ended up fully flinching when their guide called out a bit too loudly from a bit too close to him.

"Andrew! Come say hello, your family is here to see you."

Andrew, who up until this point had been reading a book like he hadn't known they were there at all, just… continued to read. He didn't look up, didn't even seem like he'd heard him at all.

The man sighed and gave them an apologetic look. "Sorry, he's, well. He's a bit antisocial."

"Hm." The disapproving sound from Uncle Luther had Aaron glancing over at him and he didn't really like the calculating look on his face. It would be utter bullshit if he finally got a brother only for his uncle to make it so he ended up getting shipped off to military school or something.

Rather than wait around for the adults to come up with some stupid way to attempt to make Andrew bow to their will, Aaron rubbed his thumb reassuringly over Stella's head where she was huddled in his pocket and strode forward with far more confidence than he actually felt. He stopped several feet in front of the lioness and tried not to be intimidated by her. Logically he knew that she wasn't a fully grown lion yet, that she was an adolescent to match her human's age, but Aaron had always been uneasy around daemons who had settled into big predators. Maybe it was because his own daemon was so small and he was protective of her -- or maybe it was some deeper instinct he wasn't ready or able to interpret yet. Either way, he ended up having to keep both hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He couldn't steady both them and his voice at the same time, and he needed his voice to be steady.

"Hey,” he said -- and yes, his voice for that whole one word was very steady. Maybe even casual. Fuck yeah.

The lion, who had watched him throughout his entire approach, flicked her ears -- but he had no idea what emotion that was supposed to be.

For a moment, Aaron thought that was all he was going to get. Then he saw Andrew sigh and resolutely dog-ear the page he was on before closing the book and setting it down on the windowsill. He looked over at him, just with a flick of his eyes at first and then by turning his head. Aaron kept perfectly still and had the distinct impression he was being judged or evaluated somehow. It was really uncomfortable and also kind of annoying, but the hard stare of the other boy matched that of the lioness a bit too closely for Aaron to be willing to call him out on it just yet.

Instead, he waited, and he used the opportunity to look at his brother too. He wasn’t really looking for anything in particular, he just wanted to know him. He wanted to know what his life had been like and his favorite music. He wanted to know if he and his daemon had played the same sort of ‘what if’ games that he and Stella had growing up. He wanted to know if Andrew had always wished for a brother too, and if he’d grown up feeling like something was missing only to feel all the pieces click into place the second he found out that he had a twin. None of these were things he’d be able to learn just by looking at him, but looking was a start -- and it could tell him other things.

For one thing, he could tell that Andrew liked to read, right? There was the book he’d been reading -- it had been a thick one and he’d seemed really into reading it. He clearly didn’t like adults, since he’d ignored the big guy when he’d called out to him (though really, Aaron figured anyone in juvie probably didn’t like adults). He liked the color black..?

Look, it was a start.

Somehow, Aaron got the feeling that Andrew was able to read more on him than he was able to read on Andrew; or maybe that was just his own frustration at being able to pick out so little. Either way, it was irritating when Andrew nodded a few moments later like he’d made some sort of decision or something. Andrew looked past him then to where Uncle Luther was still speaking with the guy in charge and the casual coolness hardened into something icy with disdain.

Aaron frowned and looked over his shoulder to follow his gaze, but didn’t see anything weird. He looked back at Andrew and said, “So, I’m Aaron…”

Andrew looked at him again, his expression a blank mask. “Clearly.”

Aaron’s temper arrived unannounced and uninvited, but that wasn’t altogether that strange. “I thought you wanted me to come. Isn’t that why you sent the address? If you’re just going to be a big dick about it you could have saved us both the trouble.” He snapped the words out without repent, lifting his chin and glaring down at his brother before he remembered there was a lion between them with sharp teeth and man-shredding claws.

Neither Andrew nor his lioness daemon seemed offended by his little outburst, though. If anything, Andrew looked amused. His mouth quirked a little on the side, almost like a smile -- or like, maybe he had an itch or something.

“Where’s your daemon?” he asked then, familiar-but-not hazel eyes scanning the immediate area then glancing backward toward the window. Most buildings were designed for the ease of use for both humans and their daemons, but some larger daemons preferred to stay outside but close-by rather than squeezing into tighter quarters. Larger daemons also tended to have a larger range away from their person, as well. Aaron wasn’t sure how far he could get from Stella. He honestly didn’t like the idea of her not being physically on him most of the time, so he was glad she was small enough to do so.

Aaron cupped his hand in his pocket and she cuddled into it so he could pull her out.

Andrew looked at her, then to him. “She’s cute.”

From most people, that would probably be some kind of an insult, but Aaron got the very weird sense that Andrew was being genuine. It threw him off enough that he just blinked stupidly for a moment before saying, “Uh… thanks. Yeah, she is.”

Instead of responding, Andrew stood up and strode past him. Aaron quickly stepped out of the way as the lioness rose fluidly to move with him.

“And where do you think you’re going, Andrew?” the big guy who’d showed them in said with a false lightness.

“Outside.” He looked over his shoulder then, and Aaron realized a half a second before Andrew continued speaking that he was being invited along. “My brother and I have about fourteen years of catching up to do.”

Aaron’s heart did a traitorous little leap in his chest. He looked down at where he was still holding Stella up in an open palm. She gave him an encouraging nuzzle and Aaron hid a grin as he hurried to follow his brother. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen from here on out -- but he was suddenly sure that no matter what, he and Stella wouldn’t be alone anymore.

[hopeaterart]

PMTOK HORROR AU: INTRO

LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOO! Nearly four thousand words! (I’m trying to get back into writing, so if you guys want to see another part of the games translated into the Horror AU, send me an ask!)

The circle was completed.

The Craftsman took a deep breath, raising up and putting the vial of Blue Paint on his nightstand. The blue lines were glowing slightly on his floor, the circle just big enough for one person.

Good enough for him, it was an emergency anyway. The Sailor was already too late by a few days. He walked to it’s middle, bit his thumb, and let the blood drip upon the lines. They glowed brighter.  “Flipflopside.” He muttered, and his world was engulfed in blue.

When colors came back to him, he was at the gate of the town. He entered town, and sighed as he recognized the decorations all around. Had circumstances been better, this festival would’ve been Olly’s first exposure to the outside world.

But Olly having disappeared a week ago, along with some very important supplies, was the reason the Craftsman had scrambled to gather and create the necessary blue paint to teleport.

He stopped at the town square. Where... was everyone? He frowned at all the decorations strewn around. It was like an hurricane had gone through town. He groaned in exasperation, before continuing his way toward the Lady’s Castle. If the town was having problems, then she would be too busy to offer help with finding his son.

He... honestly doubted anyone would’ve been generous enough to help in the first place, which is why he had prepared arguments about why his worry over his son going missing wasn’t just a parent thing (which it wasn’t, but it was the main reason, and they didn’t need to know that), but rumors had it that the current human lord- or in this case, lady- was a generous and kind one.

Yeah, if she was anything like her uncle, then he wasn’t holding onto hope.

He finally arrived to it’s front door, knocking once. He was expecting to have to knock more, and then for someone to come open the door. Instead, the door grinded open, having obviously been left as such. He hummed in concern, looking around, before entering, on-guard.

And just as he entered, the door slammed behind him, making him jump. He hurriedly turned back toward it, trying to open it again in vain. Door locked. He groaned in exasperation. He was getting rusty.

He slowly walked through the corridor, his footsteps echoing around him as he looked around. The place was strangely... dark and silent. For some reason, he felt like he was the only one there. He reached the end of the corridor, opening another door (this one properly closed, but not locked) and arrived at what he could only assume was the lobby.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and out came the Lady. Long blonde hair, dark skin, and pink eyes... yep, no doubt, it was her, even if there was something... off about her that he wasn’t sure he could place. He had never formally met her, after all.

“How good... to see you...” She said in a discordant voice, and that immediately squashed any doubts the Craftsman had about this being her normal self. There was, at least, hypnosis involved.

“Answer me this... shouldn’t this miserable kingdom be unfolded... and be refolded unto glory?...” He shook his head, a hand reaching into his apron to get his paper scoring tool, the sharper end gleaming like a shiv. Better safe then sorry.

“And what of those... humans?” The venom dripping from her voice surprised him, even if he wasn’t a fan of other humans himself. “Shouldn’t they be silenced forever?” Oh, he didn’t like were this was going. Whoever was pulling the strings on her, they were the kind of scum that would make even the former Count recoil in horror.

“... I see... Last question.” She started as he grind his teeth together. “Will you crease yourself and be reborn, like me-”

“Lady of humans,” He started as he took a step forward. She didn’t react at that, freezing and keeping lifeless pink eyes on him. “You’re not in your right mind right now. Please, let me try to undo whatever magic is making you act like this-”

“Wrong answer.” She started, and the Craftsman realized he had made a mistake. “Right answer. It matters not.” She said, tilting her head in a stilted manner that exposed her shoulder and the thick silver lines on it. No doubt, powerful binding magic was at work. “Your replies are all paper thin.”

The floor suddenly opened under him, a discordant goodbye accompanying the fall. And then his world was wrapped in pain and darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a cold ground, and five faces -or at least what he assumed where faces, what’s with the loss of his glasses- were looking down on him. “Oh, he’s waking up, he’s waking up!” One of them said, making the four others back up as he sat up.

He blinked, blurry. “Have any of you seen my glasses?” He asked. “They’re round with black frames. Their lenses are thick, and they have a retainer with purple and yellow beads.” The retainer was especially important to him, a reminder of the only relationship he remembered fondly. “If any of you are well-versed in magic, they’re also imbued with some pretty powerful protection spells.”

“Is that why they didn’t break?” Someone asked, handing him an object that shone under the dingy dungeons light.

He nodded, taking them in hand on pushing them up his nose. “Yes, thank you.” He then blinked as he regained vision, and looked around. All of those people... “You’re all monsters?”

One of them flinched at that, while another took a defensive stance. “Is that a problem, old man?”

“No, of course not.” He answered, bringing his knees to his chest. “If anything, I sympathize more with monsters than humans. We’re terrible.”

One of the monsters, who looked pretty young, came nearer. “So you don’t hate us?”

The Craftsman chuckled, patting the little plant monster’s head. “When you get my age, you don’t have much energy left for hating everything in sight. So I keep it for people who are truly deserving.” Like the chucklefuck who broke into his home, kidnapped Olly, stole most of his magical supplies and half of his Origami ones.

Suddenly, the door opened. More monsters, but those ones moving just as stiffly as the Lady earlier, entered. “Come with us...” The one standing at the front, who wore a ancient demon mask, ordered. The Craftsman got up, groaning as some of his bones popped, as everyone exited the room. He was about to follow them, when the masked monster held a hand up. Restrained fury was radiating off of the monster. “Not you.”

And just like that, he was alone again. He sighed, sitting down on the ground. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? The wall over there seemed pretty brittle...

He got up the inspect it, gently dragging his palm across it. Hello? A little voice suddenly asked, making him jump back in surprise. Oh no, please don’t leave! It said again. Was it coming... from the wall? 

He caressed the wall again, frowning. “Are you... trapped inside?” He asked, feeling dimensional magic weaved into the wall.

Oh, yes I am! The voice of the young girl started again. I’m in a very strange place, like I’m trapped in-between dimensions!

“You will be delighted to hear to your situation is nowhere that severe, then.” He snarked. “You’re merely the victim of a dimensional spell. Nothing that can’t be broken.”

Really!? The voice exclaimed, it’s (her?) happiness evident. I think there’s some Paint nearby, could you use it to draw a magic circle? I can use my own magic for the rest. He hummed non-committedly as he got up, heading for the boxes pilled in a corner.

After a strong enough push, they toppled, their content spilling. Mostly empty vials of Paint, beside one that seemed to hold enough for one circle. But more importantly, a crack in the wall that was big enough for him to slip through if he tried was there. But just as he was about to leave, the little voice made itself known again. You... you’re not leaving, are you? She asked in a tearful tone.

He stayed frozen for a moment, before groaning in exasperation and turning back toward the wall. He quickly made his way there, emptying the vial over his fingers and drawing a circle around himself. It then started glowing a golden color, the image of a hand appearing within it. “Shapeshifting magic, uh?” He picked at the wound on his finger, opening it again and letting blood drip once more.

The Craftsman watched, bewildered, as his arms flattened and folded like accordions. He then gathered himself, and ripped the wall away, shaking his arm back to normal as whoever was trapped in the wall detached herself. “Whoo! I’m finally free from the wall!” She exclaimed cheerfully as the Craftsman’s eyes widened in disbelief. Blonde hair, golden hair, the hat with two points... and those eyes... “Hi, my name’s Olivia! You-”

“I know who you are, girl.” The Craftsman interrupted, bringing a hand up. “I’m the one who designed you.” That seemed to shock her, her hat flying of her head as her eyes sifted sizes.

“What!?”

“And I must admit, whoever folded you did an excellent job. Almost makes me jealous.” He wasn’t jealous, but fucking furious, but not at her, and that wasn’t important right now.

“But- you- I-”

“Look, for now, let’s focus on getting out of here before those guys come back, alright?” He proposed, grabbing Olivia’s small hand and squeezing them gently. She nodded, an adorably determined pout on her face as they went through the secret passage. “Stay behind me, don’t make a noise, and above all else, do not tell anyone your name, got it?”

Olivia nodded, following the Craftsman as they slipped through the crack. They quickly walked out of the cell, both of their eyes shifting around to make sure no one was coming. The corridor seemed closed off, magic keeping the dungeon isolated from the rest of the castle.

“Unhand me!” As they heard a voice come from the other room, they quickly hid amongst the boxes near said room. The Craftsman flushed himself against the wall near a small crack, chuckling to himself as Olivia imitated him, before peering inside

The sight of the notorious Count folded into what was basically a wet floor sign would’ve made the Craftsman laugh if it wasn’t for the implications behind the type of magic needed to restrain him. There was also the fact that he was being held up by multiple clothespin, and the shadows. Two of the deformed monsters were holding up another above their head, the creature obviously struggling. 

And then it stopped moving, almost flattened as it was folded, powerful magic shifting and contorting it’s body. And then it was brought to a truly humongous shadow, a beast that opened it’s mouth with a mechanical sound. The outline of two sharp fangs was visible as the poor soul was placed within it’s mouth. And then...

KA-CHICK

The Craftsman looked away just as the beast closed it’s mouth, a metallic sound similar to the one of a stapler stapling sounding out. Well, at least he knew where that binding magic came from now, and where one of his supplies went. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to enchant a stapler!?

Poor Olivia was shivering in fear next to him, and he offered her a hand to hold just as the door opened. A horde of monsters, the last one being the demon-mask wearing one, got out. “Alright.” He started. “That was the last of them. Now, there’s only that old bastard left...”

As they left the corridor to go “fetch” him, he quickly made his way inside the room, relieved to find the door unlocked with Olivia still holding his hand. He made his way to the folded up Count, who had a miserable expression on his face. “Sir?” He asked.

The Count opened his red eyes. “Oh, a human!” He exclaimed, a surprised lilt to his voice. “My apologies, with all the chaos happening around here, I forgot that my beloved’s castle was on human grounds.”

“Your beloved’s castle is the middle of Flipflopside.” The Craftsman remarked with a raised eyebrow as he neared, taking the clothespins off. “If she wanted to live amongst humans, this wouldn’t be the place.”

“Ah, touché...” The Count commented as he fell to the ground, quickly figuring out a way to move. He then turned toward Olivia with squinted, and she squeaked. “And this young lady would be...?”

“My daughter.” The Craftsman hissed, not missing the sudden animosity in the Count’s tone.

To his credit, the Count immediately backed off. “... My apologies. Now, I do believe there’s another exit here,” he started, turning toward the other end of the room “but it’s hidden by an illusion spell. I would dispel it myself, but...” He shuffled a bit.

“I’m on it!” Olivia cheerfully declared, floating up to the wall and gently caressing it. Immediately, the surface fell away into Paint particles (which the Count was quick to waddle to and absorb, no doubt he wanted to collect enough magic to try and break out of his binds) as the young girl turned toward the two men.

The Craftsman nodded in approval as Count congratulated her, waddling up to her. “Incredible job, miss! Now, we can get out!” Olivia beamed, bouncing up and down in the air to a rhythm only she could hear as they made their way to a spiral staircase. 

Just before they started climbing, the folded monster turned toward the Craftsman. The older man frowned. “What?” 

“You have a very talented daughter.” The Count answered him as he started making his way up the stairs as fast as his body let him. The Craftsman smiled to himself.

“I know.” He started making his way up the stairs, Olivia’s hand back in his, when he noticed that she seemed unfocused. He stopped. “Is there a problem, girl?” He asked, turning toward her.

The younger girl looked up at .him, smiling. “I’m your daughter?”

A few seconds, then a shrug. “If you want to be,” He wasn’t the one who had folded her, but he was the one who had made the initial plan and cut out a piece of his soul for her, and he couldn’t be much worse than Olly’s kidnapper.

They finally made it back outside, the Craftsman shielding his eyes from the sudden light. They walked along the long balcony for a bit, until another door opened. Out walked the monster from earlier, the one with the demon mask, and the Lady. He heard the Count gasp behind him. 

“Why are you still so... flat?” The brainwashed woman asked him. “Why won’t you join me in folded glory...” She weakly reached her hands out to them. “Come, we can reshape you...” The fear shining through her eyes was yelling at them to run, run as far as you can, and never turn back. 

The Craftsman was very tempted to follow that message, ready to grab Olivia and jump over the balcony fence, before the masked monster opened their mouth. “Patience, Lady. This will do just fine. So...” They turned toward the Craftsman. “Why did you come to this castle, Craftsman?”

His eyes narrowed, pulling the paper scorer out again. “Someone stole what’s mine. I came here to ask help to get it back.” And it seems I’ve found my thief.

The masked monster made a sneering sound. “Is that how you see your son? A mere possession?”

“Wha- don’t talk about what you don’t know!” The Craftsman snapped, hand tightening around the tool in his hand.

“... Last chance, Craftsman.” The monster started. “Volunteer yourself to my cause, and let me fold you into something greater. Simple offer. Yes, or no.” The only thing that stopped the old man from going ‘go fuck yourself’ was Olivia’s presence. He instead shook his head. “Of course, I didn’t expect any less. And I wouldn’t have it any other way...” The monster snapped his fingers.

Another mind-controlled monster came into view. The Craftsman recognized him as one of the monsters from earlier. The Count snarled behind him, a surge of powerful magic catching him off-guard. “What have you done to my people!?”

“Folding them to my will. Look at your precious Lady.” The monster started, gesturing to her. “She’s better this way, don’t you think.” The only answer was a hiss. “Now...” The mask-wearing monster turned back toward the Craftsman, one violet eye glowing. “Prepare to be Folded!”

The monster jumped the Craftsman, hissing and snarling. Caught off-guard, he went down like a sack of potato, falling on his back and barely keeping the monster off-of him. He dropped the scorer, weakly moving his legs as his arms came up to hold the monster’s claws away from him. Olivia gasped in horror. “Dad!”

 “Wait, miss.” The Count started as he watched the Craftsman successfully move one of his hand to the monster’s throat. “I do believe that your father as the situation in hand.”

The Craftsman continued to hold the monster away from him, his hand tightening around his throat, before grabbing the paper scorer and stabbing the monster through his eye. Dark purple blood stained his hand as a pained noise came out of the monster, the scorer getting wringed out. 

The monster was then knee-d into the stomach, the Craftsman successfully throwing the monster off of him and over the fence. He got back up, groaning and doing his best to ignore Olivia’s horrified look. “Is that all you got?” He asked the masked monster, who sighed.

“Of course, how stupid of me. You did go by Mercenary when you were younger.” The masked monster noted as he started floating ominously. “I suppose there’s no point in maintaining this charade any longer...”

The monster shook, his arms raising in the air, before suddenly flattening and unfolding. Colors faded away as the illusion spell was uncast, revealing violets and yellows as a little boy wearing a crown revealed himself. The Craftsman’s eyes widened in disbelief, the Count made a noise of confusion, and Olivia gasped. “BROTHER!”

No... no, no, no, NO! It couldn’t be... “Wh- what are you doing here?” The Craftsman asked, putting his scorer back in his apron as Olivia started shaking.

“Please, brother...” She sobbed. “How many times have I told you you needed to stop? Please! You can’t do this!”

The boy simply sighed. “Why couldn’t the Craftsman have simply left you in that wall where I put you... Sister, I am afraid that if you stand in the way of my ambition, we will not be able to share my glory as family.”

“Brother-”

“I am not your brother anymore.” He stated, flipping his hair. “I am KING OLLY!” He then floated up and out of reach, floating in the sky as he cast a disdainful look to Flipflopside. “By the time I’m done, all those miserable humans will be folded... and those flimsy monster subjects shall be reborn as Folded Soldiers, serving me!” He then turned his look upon the Craftsman and Olivia. “And I shall fold, crease and bend this world to my whim... the birth of an Origami Kingdom!”

Olly snapped his fingers, a bright violet light emanating from his hand. It took a moment for the Craftsman to realize that was a signal, but he quickly dragged Olivia to the floor when he realized. And just in time too, as something yellow and charged with magic razed right past where his head used to be a second ago.

He quickly got up, scanning his surroundings as Olivia held onto him for dear life, the Count screeching right behind him. Streams of binding magic surrounded them, all controlled by Olly, all coming from different directions. “Follow me, you two!” The Count yelled over the rush of magic, hopping on the fence and then on a lower part of the roof. The Craftsman quickly followed him, hand tight around Olivia’s.

“GRA-BLAGH!” The Craftsman turned toward the voice, confused as he saw what was possibly one of the ugliest man he’s ever seen come to them at high speed in a rocket-propelled hot-hair balloon. The Count quickly jumped in, followed by the Craftsman and Olivia. “A’m ‘ere, Count!”

“Thank you, Warrior.” The Count started, smiling for what was probably the first time today. The Craftsman decided to give them as much privacy as he could as he turned toward the Lady’s castle.

There was five streams of magic in total. The red one came from the North, the blue one East, the yellow one South, and the purple one West. As for the green one, it seemed to come from the clouds. They seemed to take material form as they tightened over the castle, similar to shiny ribbons.

To his horror, the Castle was then ripped right off of the ground, the stone floors breaking away with it as it was lifted in the hair and above them. He blankly registered something lilac and yellow falling off of the castle as the other man with them (the Warrior, he thinks?) and the Count shrieked.

He sat on the floor, Olivia joining him and hugging him close as the Warrior yelled something incomprehensible. They then felt the machine machine shake. “What’s going on?” He asked the Count, who had slid next to them.

“They magic streams ur giein’ use some problems.” The Warrior answered for him. “Sae hing oan tiiiiIIAAAAAH!” The machine had collided with the red ribbon, making the Craftsman, Olivia and the Count fly out, with only the last one getting caught by the Warrior. He then tried to reach for the other two, but they were already too far away.

And as they fell, the Craftsman could only look as the ribbons carried the castle away. He closed his eyes as he saw it being placed upon the top of the dormant Sulfur Crater, a single thought circling in his head.

What the fuck did I get myself into this time!?

[bubbleyumss]

The Scorch - LOKI - BUCKY - PT2.

It's a few weeks after the readers and Loki's first mission together, and during a press event they are reminded of what the public still think of them. Loki's not too impressed, and has some words of advice.

TW: Not much, mentions of harm/death/some magic n flame use?

It was time for the tri-monthly press event, Fury wished to hold one every so often so that we could share with the modern media what we have done and who we are. It was severely degrading in my opinion, they were pretty much just grand parties where a few journalists who had paid enough to be there managed to mingle their way through the crowds of other suck-ups to get a two-minute exclusive from Steve Rogers, seeing as he was always the one they wished to speak to. It was held at the old Avengers tower, as it was still owned by Stark it was now just leased out for events of this calibre.

I sat at the bar, looking out at the crowd of random faces, those that had paid a high price or had friends in high places, and the odd spattering of familiar faces. I was never approached by journalists in these situations, as they believed me too dangerous. It was the same story with Bucky and the newest recruit, Loki, as they saw us all as the help cases, only wishing to talk to us when we were next to someone redeemable.

Speaking of Loki, his face had disappeared from the crowd some time ago, I knew this because I had been watching him. Since our first mission was a success, the team had allowed him to join on a probation basis; this meant that the raft of new start-up bases we had found when in Argentina we were tasked with finding and shutting them down. It had been about four months since our first one, and we had found and destroyed five of them. It seemed that they were beginning to trust Loki and I as a team, though I wondered if it was done on purpose, for the very same reason that reporters were avoiding us both like the plague. We were the outcasts, Bucky too, but when you had the friendship and advocacy of America's most loved hero you were hardly seen as such, but Loki and I, two people who had killed and maimed on our own free will, were seen as irredeemable. This irritated me more than others knew, as with the past that Bucky and I shared I would have hoped that I would share in just an ounce of his redemption, but it seemed I reminded him far too much of the Winter Soldier, so I was cast aside.

"You don't look like you're enjoying yourself." Nat's voice brought me out of my thoughts, I turned to her and gave a small, defeated smile.

"Am I supposed to be?" I tried to laugh, "Is it really a press night when no press will talk to me." I rolled my eyes, leaning back against the bar. I wore something suggested by Nat, as to try and make me look like any normal woman at these events, meaning a skintight sparkly dress. I felt extremely uncomfortable, used to trousers and long sleeves, but it made me fit in really well.

"It was the same with me when S.H.E.I.L.D first started up. You'll become more approachable in time, look, already..." She began, nodding her head toward a smaller man holding a recording device nervously making his way to us both. I sat up straight, watching his smile falter.

"Um, hello ladies, I'm from the Evening Empire, do you mind if I get a couple of answers from you?" He smiled, directing most of his eye contact towards Natasha. I held the urge to roll my eyes, smiling through my uncomfortable uneasiness growing in my body.

"Of course, shoot." Nat smiled, gesturing for him to begin.

"Okay well, I suppose I must ask do you mind if I use your agent names for this article?" He then asked, glancing my way rather quickly. I held in my sigh, keeping my back straight. I looked to Nat, her eye giving me her usual look, we both looked back, nodding. "Great, okay, so Black Widow and The Scorch-" I took a sharp intake of breath as he spoke the name. I hated it. "How are things now that Stark is no longer at the helm, does Fury retain the same influence?"

"Stark still has his input, of course, but it was always Fury's project, and he was always the one giving orders and putting us to missions in the first place. So, nothing has really changed." Nat shrugged. I told him how it was unfair for me to answer, seeing as I hadn't really been under command of Stark, he was away in the Blip, and when he returned he played his part as we all did.

"Black Widow, are you visiting Hawkeye? How is he and are we likely to see his return to the team any time soon?" He asked, his recorder being pushed past my face so that he could reach Nat. I looked away, trying to compose myself, suddenly catching the amused eyes of Loki. He was across the room, in a very similar position with his brother, Thor. The reporters, all women, were practically pushing him aside to get to Thor, but his brother held an iron tight grip on him, forcing him to stay put. I rolled my eyes, smirking as I did, knowing that he would understand my pain. His own smirk graced his face, giving a small nod of appreciation. "A question for you, Black Widow, and of course you may jump in if you wish, but how has it been adjusting to anti-hero's joining the team? Of course, we know of the Winter Soldier and his road to redemption, I wondered if it is the same for The Scorch, or even the newest member, Loki?" He then asked, gaining my attention. I looked to him, making him flinch slightly; I then glanced to Nat, who held an apologetic look on her face.

"No one in this team in perfect, and it's unfair to say that someone can't decide to help others now because of past mistakes." She shrugged, answering much more eloquently than I would have been able to.

"Killing hundreds of people hardly counts as mistakes, The Scorch burnt down, what is it, five cities to date?" He asked, passing the recorder to me, as if I was supposed to fact check him. I scoffed, giving up on my niceties.

"Just as Nat said, no one here is perfect. I'm sure if you counted the bodies in Sokovia you could add up to how many I have-" I stopped myself, taking in a deep breath, "My 'road to redemption' as you called it is long, I know. No longer than Bucky's, but you all seem to love him now, so I'm sure one day I'll get there." I gave a tight-lipped smile, getting to my feet in a way that made the reporter take a few steps back, I could feel myself heating up so I looked back to Nat, "I'll see you later." I sighed, quickly removing myself from the bar and through the crowd.

I found myself outside, just needing to gasp as much fresh air as I could. It was suffocating, all of it. As much as I loved living with my team, working with them, finally finding a place that I could be myself and use the powers I was burdened with for good, a lot of the time I just wish I could be done with it all. I leant against the metal of the balcony, sighing as I did. It was crystal clear, so the stars and the moon provided the perfect light to take myself away from the sounds of chatting and music playing in the room behind me. I closed my eyes, wishing to take my mind away, when footsteps were then heard behind me. I sighed, spinning on my heels quickly, wishing to scare away who ever had followed me, only to release the tension in my shoulders and face when I locked onto Loki's amused eyes.

"It's just me." He said, holding his hands up, smirking. "I suppose you're out here to get away from those insufferable journalists." He snarled, glancing behind him to where he had clearly just left his brother for the same reason. I nodded, leaning back against the railing again, crossing my arms as he continued to stalk towards me. His gaze was so very intimidating, and I couldn't help but feel nervous every time I was under it.

"I suppose you're not as much as an outcast when you have the worlds most loved Avenger by your side." I rolled my eyes, Loki's arm came to lean on the railing beside me, his eyes following mine to where Steve stood, smiling with his arm around Bucky, talking to a large group of laughing journalists, "Thor and Nat can only do so much. We're the ones they don't trust and it's not changing anytime soon."

"We are outcasts together." He then said, taking my focus away from the party. I looked up to him, watching as his blue eyes sparkled under the moonlight. We had been in mission after mission for the past few months, so I had never had time to look at him in such a way. Of course, there was the few times we would catch each other in the hallways of the compound, as his room was not far from mine, a moment would be shared, but never one so close. I gave a small smile.

"I suppose we are." His own smile reached his face, only for our attention to be taken when the music had turned up a notch, creating a livelier dance scene within the room. "I've been asked about you tonight.. though, they used a different name.." He said in a questioning tone, forcing my smile to fade.

"The Scorch. I know." I sighed, waving my arms in the air in annoyance. "I hate it."

"Why?" I looked back to him, seeing his face as genuine. In our missions he had stayed true to his word and only answered any of my questions after a time in which he saved my life. Unfortunately, or fortunately, this had happened nearly eight times. Though, somewhere in the middle, he answered more than one, and following from there we had become more comfortable talking to each other. He was right when he said we were outcasts together, as in this moment he truly felt like the only person I could talk to freely. "It's powerful, is it not?" He suggested.

"I suppose.. but it's also made to terrify people." I shrugged, "I was named it before I joined the team. They used it as my alias when I was being hunted." His face turned concerned as his body moved towards me slightly, perhaps in an effort to comfort me. "It just reminds me of the places I've turned to dust, the people who died while I worked for Hydra... and I'm sure that's all people can think of when they hear it too." I muttered, becoming nervous under his eyes. I hadn't been so open with him before, of course I knew that we were becoming closer, but to talk about my fears with the God of Mischief? It was almost destined for disaster.

"Well.. change it." He shrugged, "Change the meaning. It's the past, and while it can't be changed, the future can."

"Very philosophical." I chuckled, rolling my eyes. "It will always have that meaning."

"Okay then, here's another idea." He stood straight, showcasing his enthusiasm. He opened his arms as his mouth turned upward into a smirk. "Embrace it." He then said, suddenly multiplying himself into three. He had done this in a previous mission, forcing me to marvel at his powers. He had described them as a seidr, and that he had learnt the use of the Asgardian form of witchcraft from his mother, of course I never wanted to give him the satisfaction of being impressed, but I couldn't manage a straight face. The two beside him then disappeared just as they had appeared, "I was given the title of God of Mischief, I had to grow to fit that title rather than fight it. And look where I am now."

"You tried to take your crown, twice, failed.. you tried to invade New York, failed, and I forget, has it been three or four times now you've faked your own death?" I asked, keeping my amused smile painted to my face. He turned, rolling his eyes in an attempt to leave me; I laughed, grabbing on to his arm to pull him back, "I'm kidding. I appreciate the sentiment, Loki. I do." I smiled, suddenly pulling him far closer than I meant to. I still held onto his arm as his chest was only mere centimetres away from mine, his face looking down to me much closer than it ever had been, and I had been right. The moonlight made his eyes look like the ocean, something I could easily lose myself in. I realised the proximity, coughing awkwardly as I let go of his arm and took a step back, "So... embrace it how?" I asked, hoping to push the conversation forward.

"Have fun with it." He smiled, leaning back on the railings once more, "My brother says you can throw your ability.. you set alight his beard just by staring hard enough." He chuckled, raising his eyebrows.

"I can only do it if I concentrate, I have to be still and so do they." I sighed, "I haven't fully mastered it. It was actually how I burnt down my third foster home... if I don't concentrate I can't control it. It's dangerous." I warned, knowing what he was going to ask of me next. He shrugged.

"Okay, so concentrate." He said, scanning the crowd of people through the glass, zeroing in on a woman at the bar I had previously left Nat at. "Her feather boa seems a little obnoxious." He smirked. I turned, watching as she placed her large red boa on the top of the bar, taking up a large amount of room. I glanced back to Loki, rolling my eyes again, but unable to keep the smirk from my face.

"That's not going to help my reputation, Loki." He stood up, taking a step to me, and placing his hands on my shoulders from behind, turning my attention back to the woman. We hadn't touched this way before, it was so small, and not significant in any which way, but the feeling of his hands on my bare skin felt so... normal. I had expected the cold of his own skin to react with the heat of mine, but it was as if they cancelled each other out, making the connection feel melded.

"I embraced the unpredictability of chaos and mischief, and you must do the same with fire. You will be able to concentrate and control it more if you can practice. So, what do you say?" He questioned. My breath hitched as his mouth then came close to my ear, cheek pressed slightly to it, "Shall we have a little fun?"

I smiled, feeling the exhilaration coming from his hands on my skin; I didn't know if he were doing something to me in order to spur me on, but either way I could feel the power of expectation feeding my urge to do as he said. It felt oh so similar to when I worked for Hydra and executed their missions, but this time I knew that I wasn't about to hurt anyone, making my conscience clear for the first time in my life. I planted my feet to the floor, focusing my eyes and my energy onto this boa that was truly obnoxious, feeling myself heat myself a degree or two before the boa rather explosively set alight. Loki's hands squeezed my shoulder as we both shouted in excitement; I looked back to him just to see the smile he held on his face, seemingly proud of my accomplishment. The party goers panicked, the woman shouting about her favourite boa as other tried to run around and put it out.

"My turn." Loki then whispered, letting go of me and coming to my side. I watched his face grow determined. His eyes were trained on the people that had backed away from the bar watching the fire; suddenly the drinks within their hands began to pop, splashing into each of their faces and sending ice and small umbrellas go flying everywhere. I began to chuckle, watching on as they worried about what was happening. "Brilliant." He laughed. I looked back to him endearingly, realising that this was the first time I had heard him laugh.

"Thank you, Loki." I smiled, "Shall we get a drink?"

-

The bar had just been cleared, the people who now wore their drinks had disappeared and the ash of the feather boa had been wiped away, so it was free for Loki and me to take our place there and order ourselves some drinks.

"Oh dear, what happened here?" Loki asked the bartender, face convincingly sincere. The man shrugged.

"Weird things, man. Spontaneous combustion all over the place." He sighed, sliding our glasses to us. A smirk befell both of our faces as we held our glasses to each other, clinking together in a twisted celebration of our mischief. I wondered if this night would mean anything new for us as a team, whether it would create a new, closer dynamic or if it would make it so that Fury didn't want us to work with each other anymore. It wasn't hard for the team to figure out who did what around here, so it was only a matter of time before we were told that it was 'too dangerous' for us to work together.

"Um, hello, excuse me?" A voice then said, taking me away from my previous thoughts. It was the same man from before who questioned Nat and I, he was holding his recorder tightly in his grip, looking like he was nearly shaking. "May I question you two?" His voice held fake confidence as he looked between Loki and I, and while I commended him for facing a fear and growing the guts to talk to us both, I knew what the questions would be. I glanced to Loki, then back to the man.

"Go ahead."

"J-just the one question really... um... what do you say to those who are afraid of the partnership between The Scorch and the God of Mischief?" The moment the words left his mouth I sighed, looking to Loki who simply held his glass to his lips, allowing for me to answer the question. I looked down to the journalist, taking the recorder from his hands and holding it to my mouth.

"I have a three-point answer for you." I raised my eyebrows, noticing that I had caught the attention of others around us, "The Scorch is a name you gave me, it's connotations around destruction and death don't represent me anymore." I glanced back to Loki, "But I'm working to embrace my powers so that they don't lead to that very same destruction, so for now, I'll allow you to continue to use that name."

"Point two?" Loki's voice questioned, making me smile.

"Point two, Loki and I seem to be the outcasts, sure, but that doesn't mean that we can't do good. In fact, it's all we've been doing for the past couple of months, but you just don't know it." I rolled my eyes, watching as more and more people joined the small crowd, now including Steve and Bucky. Bucky's eyes were trained on me, arms crossed in an almost disapproving way, I had to fight away the roll of my eyes, "We have been dismantling new Hydra start-ups together, and doing a damn good job of it I would say. We are outcasts together, and so we will continue to work together." I sighed, glancing back at Loki in order to get his final input.

"Point three?" He suggested, eyes twinkling with mischief once again. I looked back to the reporter, not before catching the eye of others around us as to join them in on the conversation.

"To truly answer your question, you shouldn't be afraid of us. Fearing us is pointless when all we are trying to do it help the state of the world as it is." I shrugged, "This world is in far more disarray than Loki or I could possibly cause, so as we both do our jobs, and have fun while we do so, just get on with your lives." I gave a wry smile as I handed it back to the journalist, watching as his lips twitched as if to say something. Though it seemed that all he could manage was an insincere smile, nodding his head before he scurried away. I turned back to Loki, pulling my drink to my lips as he smiled down at me.

"That was marvellous." He commented, amusement seeping through his words. "I may grow to actually like you."

"You can admit that you already do, Loki, it won't make me see you as any less of a God." I winked, perhaps coming across far more flirtatious than I set out to be. I froze for a moment, not knowing how he was going to take it, but as his smile turned to its side into a smirk, I felt an unfamiliar heat rise in my stomach. I was used to all types of heat, I knew how my body reacted to things, but this was new.

"You may be right."

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A New Arrangement [Part 9/9][NSFW]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Cockwarming

<- Part 8 | Bonus Chapter ->

Summary: Post-coital cuddling with Frederick Chilton

For @thatesqcrush​’s kink bingo!

1,448 words

He collapsed on top of you, rolling you onto your back without removing the sweet, filling pressure of his still-hard erection from your warmth. He nuzzled his face against yours with blatant neediness until you kissed him, then he sighed happily, and let his whole body go limp on top of you.

“That was so good,” you said, out of breath, chaffed, mussed, and glowing with euphoria.

He let out a muffled hum of agreement into the mattress, which you more felt vibrating than heard.

Minutes passed in peaceful, comfortable silence. You half dozed with exhaustion, softly caressing the solid, reassuring body weighing down on you, sweat slowly saturating through his once-pristine dress shirt. His cock felt so nice, still nestled inside you as it gradually softened. You stroked his sweaty back, unsure if he had fallen asleep.

“Mmm. Doctor Chilton, this is nice,” you murmured dreamily.

“I believe, at this juncture, it would be appropriate to call me Frederick.”

The familiarity made your heart skip unexpectedly. “Frederick,” you said, trying it out. It tasted good rolling over your tongue, so you said it again. “Frederick. I like that. It’s a good name.”

He lifted his head to watch your perfect lips forming the shape of his name. “It is Germanic in origin...” he said, then paused, thinking better of it before launching into a boring onomastics lesson you surely had no interest in hearing. Why could he not think of anything more… romantic?

“It’s cute. It sounds regal… but also very cuddly,” you warmly opined. “Like a lord or a duke, or a teddy bear. Sir Teddy Bear. Frederick.”

He had nothing to say to that (although the temptation to describe the name’s royal history grew stronger), so he buried his face further into your neck.

An analog clock ticked atop a dresser. Frederick breathed in and out. Otherwise, his bedroom was soundproof enough that you were immersed in silence. You enjoyed the closeness of his body. You wished you had more bare skin to touch, but were content to settle for his neck and his head for now. And because you were completely naked, every caress of his fingers was skin on skin.

He enjoyed your naked body, not just because it aroused him sexually. He felt at ease. It seemed a fair trade off for the parts of him you had gotten to see—parts he was firmly dedicated to hiding until they could be corrected.

A thread of fear pulled at his chest, tugging insistently through the sleepy contentedness he was drowsing in until he could no longer ignore it. He lifted his head from your shoulder and craned it one way and then the other. He stretched as far he could reach without pulling out of you.

“Are you looking for something?”

The corners of his eyes tightened. A cheek flinched. “The mask fell somewhere, and I want it back,” he said calmly, but with an undercurrent of rising urgency.

He had spent the last several months hiding his face, and one satisfying fuck wasn’t enough to make him ready to be exposed for so long. It was impressive he’d lasted as long as he had without it, but an invisible time limit was fast approaching. You understood, any sympathized. You would miss him, though.

“I’ll help look. Can I kiss you one more time without it?”

“Hurry up,” he said, anxious to retreat into the familiar safety of being covered.

You turned your head and pressed your lips tenderly against his cheek, so soft and yielding, so without judgment toward the patchwork of grafts and scars he had been living in shame of, that he turned his head to kiss you on the mouth. For the frozen fraction of a second that he made contact, a bolt of terror that he was mistaken in putting faith in your reassurances and that you did not actually want him to kiss you and would pull away in disgust paralyzed him. With a low moan, your lips parted over his teeth, tongue sliding over the edges, licking and teasing until he melted and kissed you back.

He released a long, shuddering breath. “You do that so well.”

“Well, you feel so good,” you smiled.

There was no way to find the mask with his softened cock falling out of you, so you lay together until his impatience to be covered outweighed the soothing comfort of his cock still buried warm and safe inside you.

He crawled to the edge of the bed, and you sat up and checked the other side.

The mask had not fallen far. It lay face-down on the plush carpet under the bed, narrowly missing a landing on the bright hardwood that would have chipped or shattered it. Frederick snatched it, and sighed with relief as he slipped it back over his face. Shelter. He was… embarrassed to still need it, after everything, but he was not comfortable with you looking at him. He felt too exposed. Too vulnerable.

He rolled onto his back, spreading his limbs out across the bed.

“That… was quite good. Thank you,” he said awkwardly, as if you’d cooked dinner. It made you laugh softly, and shake your head.

“Thank you. For letting me share that with you.”

The mask was back on securely, so you couldn’t tell if he was blushing, or smiling. But you had a feeling he might have been.

***

You were finishing up the last two buttons of your blouse when Frederick returned from the bathroom in clean pants and a fresh shirt to replace the sweaty one, restored to the default appearance with which he always answered the door. You had half expected him to be wearing a Hugh Hefner robe or at least something more relaxed following his conquest, but no. This was a man who would wear formal attire in his own bedroom until you left. Possibly even when he was alone. At least he’d lost the tie.

“Must you leave?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” you said, gathering up your things, “I have three more appointments today and I’m running late.”

“Other appointments. I see,” he grumbled peevishly, chin in the air.

“Don’t be jealous, Frederick,” you grinned. “I don’t fuck any of my other clients.”

“You did not used to,” he corrected, shoulders circling, “but perhaps I have given you ideas. If I was able to seduce you…”

You crossed the room to him and tapped a finger on his chest, brows lowered. “You are a special case. You’re… intriguing...” As you let your pointer finger drift down the center of his chest you noticed he left the top buttons undone. You hungrily stared at the warm, exposed flesh. Snapping your eyes back up to his, you teased, “At the very least, I am more than satisfied for the rest of the day. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”

He gave a proud hum, vibrating the air behind the mask, and wrapped a possessive arm around your lower back. “Can we make another appointment for next week? Officially, I would put you on retainer as a financial consultant assisting me on an ongoing basis...”

Oh, right. You had almost forgotten about the silly paying-for-your-services thing.

“Just ask me on a date, dummy. I’ll say yes,” is what you should have said. But feelings were messy, and he was still so fragile. A relationship bound together by the chaotic whims of emotion probably terrified him, or else he would have just asked you out. Money was safer. Money let him be in control. 

Besides, there was nothing wrong with making some extra cash, was there? He had plenty of it. 

“I’ll mark it in my calendar,” you said, and kissed his cold porcelain lips, your fingers curling around the warm base of his neck. You had a rich, eccentric, hermit sugar daddy now, and you had to admit, that was exciting. 

There was no way being paid for sex could ever come back to bite you in the ass.

With an exhausted groan of effort, he grabbed the cane beside his bed and walked you to the door. On your way out to the car, he pulled open one of the dark curtains to watch you go (you were surprised he didn’t hiss at the sunlight and crumble into a heap of dust). He was eerie, a pale porcelain ghost floating in the window. Anyone else might have worried they were in the opening act of a slasher film, but a warm tingling flooded your chest—a contented drunkenness so strong you had to breathe in purposefully to recenter yourself before you waved to him and drove away.

[carrera-ffxiv]

Drowning Sun (8.2)

Knock. Knock.

Hadriel paused at the door, expecting to hear some movement; expecting to hear something.

Knock ...Knock.

An eerie silence followed. A sigh escaped his lips; he adjusted the package at his side and leaned in to listen against the door.

Again, nothing.

A singular thud sounded, more muffled than the rest. Hadriel pushed open the door and released the broken handle; he removed his handkerchief from it and tucked it away in his vest before gently guiding the door shut. It remained slightly ajar from the damage he inflicted.

The apartment was dark. Fitting for a blind woman, but he felt something was off. “Dawn?” he called to her. “I just wanted to check up on you…”

His pricey leather shoes made dull clacks against the flooring. His gloved hand traced along his face and hair, catching his eyepatch; he removed it with a single smooth movement and tucked it into his pocket. A bright eye scanned the room.

Dawn sat slumped against the wall, her ears plugged with a white stethoscope, the golden chest-piece against her bosom. She was convinced she could hear it; between the beats of her heart she could hear it slither in her chest. Feel it. Dawn’s hand raked through her hair and clutched a handful. Anxiety was the only thing that tethered her fraying sanity to that moment in reality. She thought she could hear dull thuds in the background but the thought quickly faded along a torrent of stressors that drowned her consciousness. She felt like she was losing parts of herself faster than she could retain- as if sand slipping through her fingers.

There she was, in between oddly shaped pillows and piles of books, holding something close to her chest. “Dawn…?” he called to her again. Her hair was frazzled and she seemed dazed, afraid even. Waiting for something.

Her heart beat a hundred malms a minute.

His gaze pierced deeper and confirmed what he knew, a bitter grimace fleetingly wearing on his features. This was his fault, wasn’t it? He had sent her on the mission that took her sight. He had given her that soul crystal which corrupted her aether. He had unintentionally forced her into this position. While moving pieces on the chess board he had forgotten about a single pawn ...and now this was the result: An unnecessary sacrifice.

“Hadriel…” she seethed in a brief moment of clarity. Did she recognize his voice? Or perhaps it was something else within her that recognized him. Either way, it didn’t matter. Carrera’s words lasted with her- ‘As for whose plan… who gave you the stone?’ Was her current predicament: her unraveling, the result of this man’s intent? She felt her skin burn as the soulstone along her chest brightened. She plucked the stethoscope from her ears and placed it carefully on top of a book before darting forward to strike him.

A wild but oddly accurate blow. Hadriel stepped to one side to avoid it. She adjusted and adapted to his movement- was she hearing his subtle steps? Strike after strike, he would adjust his shoulder to move out of the way, then tilt his head. He turned and ducked underneath before returning to his full height again. He could read her movement like an open book as he saw the aether shift between her arms and legs. He would smoothly guide her forearm away from his persons with a gentle touch, causing her to miss.

Her breath grew more desperate and ragged as she kept at it. Still, he would either step aside or swat at her attempts with a hand. Her movement was practiced and intentional, not that of a novice. Strangely enough, it felt easier to counter since he could predict the movements as opposed to the wild flailings of an amateur. Still, it was odd that she moved the way she did before it dawned on him. She was fighting much like Adala did without her greatsword- with practiced movement and intuition. Countless times he had watched her spar with Rina. Fast, experienced, and predictably unpredictable.

She grew tired of his evasiveness; bladed edges of light sparked from her fists as she redoubled her efforts.

A quick and hard jab found Dawn’s diaphragm, knocking the wind from her lungs. She fell to her knees and coughed, but there was no air to let loose. She choked and struggled to try to breathe in air but her throat would not take any in.

“This isn’t you Dawn… breathe. Focus. Find yourself. Don’t lose track of who you are. I believe in you.”

He often told people what he thought they needed, not what he had calculated in his mind. His left hand grasped the hilt of his blade tightly. Mira had asked him to help her, and he had done what he thought was best.

She retched. Then she heaved. She did her best to inflate her lungs again as tears continued to stream down her face. Dawn tried to focus but his voice seemed so far away. All she could feel was an unbridled fury held within the core of her being. She felt a gentle guiding hand along her chin, lifting her face. A dull ache struck her left eye as she could feel it being pried from her skull. The sound of metal humming sharply followed by immeasurable pain deep in her head.

Anguish swelled in her lungs and fled from her dry throat. Agony gripped her like a vice, with each cruel beat of her throbbing heart sending wave upon wave of madness into the void that was once her eye; she moved to shield her injury long after it was too late. As blood dripped from her shaking fingers, Dawn yielded to the torment as her body contorted and convulsed along the floor; Her head felt like it was about to burst like a cracked egg. Just a few paces away Hadriel tore into the small package he kept tucked beneath his arm and twisted the top of the revealed jar open. The contents sloshed as he lifted her replacement within his grasp; the dull, lifeless, salvaged eye of his friend, Adala. With a twist of his wrist the jar and the gelatin liquid within went scattering across the floor, and with one swift motion Hadriel grabbed the panicking woman by the wrist and hoisted her onto her feet.

She felt a foreign object- wet, soft, and cold where her eye should be. She collapsed into a sitting slump as he released her, the pain still assaulting every sense she had.

His dry voice only continued to boil her blood as she tried to focus on what was happening, “You want to get better. It’s up to you. Remember the people who care about you. Your friends. Your family. Heal your eye. I’ve severed the nerve, if you don’t use your magic you’ll remain broken.”

None of it made sense to her. Why would he mutilate her further? Over months he had helped her to learn to live again, but now, why was he so cruel? She could only ponder these things as she desperately lit up her wound with a bright light. She felt the broken and torn tethers from her optic nerve melding into the lingering strings from the eye. They connected as the nerve endings mended and snapped together. Each connection sparked an indescribable sensation. Her right hand fell forward to catch herself from collapsing, her left cradled her face as beads of sweat rolled down her visage. She looked up to Hadriel, the glowing blue eye staring directly at him between her fingers.

“W-what is this? This...”

She saw millions of tiny, shimmering blue lights forming shapes before her. One such shape was the man in front of her. In the periphery of her vision she could see the plants and potions lit up, and even the lightest glow came from static objects around her. Books and even the floor maintained the residue of aether bleeding from the two of them. She was breathless again, but not from blunt force trauma this time. She witnessed brilliant lights forming his frame, the largest concentration of which rested in his heart. It made a sort of sense, it was the engine to his being and kept him alive. But one oddity failed to escape her notice; a comparable amount of aether was gathered within his left eye.

She continued to speak, “This… this is… I know whose eye this is.”

He shook his head, “I promised Mira I would help you.” his voice was quiet and forced.

“But,” she whined, “...Am I even myself anymore?” Her hands ran through her hair and intertwined behind her head. “I’m losing a piece of myself ...every. Day.”

“You’re not that same girl who walked in through our doors. You’re something else now. Whether you want to find out what that is, or stay here in the dark crying- that’s up to you. Life is never what we expect. And it hasn’t been fair to you, more than most. But, life ...is rarely ever fair.”

“It’s consuming me, who I am, what am I supposed to do when there’s nothing left?”

“Give up. Let go. Or, or you could hold onto the things that make you, you. Dawn, only you know who you truly are. Get up, wipe your tears, live your life. Find out who you are through all this. One step forward at a time. You don’t really have a choice. If you give up, then it all ends; I’ve already told you this before. You didn’t give up when you lost your sight, don’t give up now because you have to fight for your survival. Win, overcome, and stay with us.”

She looked over to her side. She could see her own residual aether on the stethoscope she placed.

“Fight to control. That’s all this is. That amulet is aether. That thing inside your chest is composed of aether. You have the finest aether manipulation I’ve ever seen, you can do this, if you let yourself. If you stop being afraid of what could be, afraid of what you might lose.” he kneeled down to her level. “Think instead of what you might gain.”

She grabbed for the scope and clutched at it against her bosom. “I’ll, ...I’ll try… I’m trying.”

“Don’t give up. Mira’s been worried about you. That’s all I can ask.” he sighed a bit, “Take a potion and get some rest. You’ll need it.”

[vvakarians]

Ch. 5 of Wolves Without Teeth is now up!

Beginning | Update | Rating: 18+  

Fic Summary:

Voices born of tragedy are always the loudest, and the blast that destroyed the Conclave at Haven birthed thousands. The only survivor --a seemingly insignificant Dalish elf-- proclaims innocence despite the blood staining their hands. They make a lofty promise to the world, an oaken branch planted for every lost life, and justice for all those affected by the newly created rift in the heavens. Nothing will stop them from leading all of Thedas back into the light, even on wings of death.

Chapter Summary: 

With Calliope mostly healed from the fight with the Pride demon, they think all will be well only to find out that their Mark has changed more than just their mindset, which comes at the worst possible time. But somehow they manage to meet with the advisors without too many ill effects.

V.  It’s still days before Calliope is able to slip from their bed and manage to dredge up enough energy to put their armor on. Artemaeus is on his earlier rounds, though it won’t be long before he walks in. Solas has already done his rounds, he mostly comes by at night when he thinks Calliope is asleep. Not one word is ever uttered between the two of them and he seems content for that to continue, confusing as that is to Calliope. The whispers pick at that concept -- perhaps he is avoiding them somehow. Did they upset him that badly on the trail to the Temple? His behavior is puzzling to say the least. Solas appears to be protective of them --as if he knows them but they can’t ever place him-- but when they try to catch his attention, his interest vanishes. 

They hum to themself as they slip on their tattered cloak, too deep in thought to notice the scurrying in the shadows of their quarters. Not until the sticky, wetness of something latching onto their wrist catches their attention. Pinpricks of terror make their hair stand on end and Calliope freezes, not daring to test the strength of whatever wrapped itself about them. Their heartbeat roars in their ears as they hazard a glance down, everything else forgotten but this. Though there is nothing to suggest anything ever touched them. Not a blemish, not even residue from what certainly was a slimy creature. When they push back the long sleeve of their tunic, there is nothing. Just their bare arm and--

What is that?

Ridges of their pale flesh seem to be jutting up slightly, creating a sort of ripple texture along the inside of their wrist. Welts the size of small coins dot along the back of their hand and palm, irritated and discolored. That terror turns into an icy panic as Calliope checks over the rest of their left hand, thrown from the need to stay frozen in place. A mirror was provided some time in the last several days so they could properly braid their hair back --something they had asked for to retain some form of control while regaining the use of their hand-- and they scramble over to it in a frenzy. There’s more than just the welts and ridges in their flesh; when they look into the glass their eyes are no longer a pale blue, they are a sickly, red rimmed green. Like the Breach. That damned thing that scars the sky and taunts them, speaks to them in their nightmares. 

That sticky sensation returns, creeping up the back of their neck while they raise their left arm up to the mirror. In  horror they watch as three of the innumerable welts slowly peel back the skin on heir hand, revealing demonic eyes that look back at them intelligently. Almost in a question. Throughout, the whispers have been silent; no buzz at the edges of their hearing. Now they rise to a scream that echoes and bounces off the inside of their skull. All nonsense, or perhaps every language on the material plane. Calliope does not know. Only that they feel the rush of being swallowed up by it, entirely consumed by whatever has trapped them here in this moment. Something that they can only later describe as other or eldrtich.

 Minutes or seconds tick by --even hours, for all they can tell-- before the door opens and startles Calliope back from the mirror. They don’t register who enters, glancing wildly at the figure and then back into the glass. Yet the eyes are no longer there. The sickly green of their own irises are however, as are the ridges and welts. Confusion replaces Calliope’s anxiety while they stare and try  hard to comprehend what the hell just happened. 

“Ser Lavellan?” 

Again, Calliope looks to the ill timed guest. There’s a face they recognize; chest length red hair that falls from beneath a deep purple hood, chainmail clinks on the outside of her robes. Leliana. It’s just Leliana. 

“I-- yes? Apologies, I think I must have spooked myself,” they murmur, still distracted but not enough to ignore her presence. 

“Do you need a healer? That arm doesn’t look good.” 

Self conscious, Calliope slips the thick woolen sleeve back over their arm and they shake their head numbly, “No. I--will speak to someone later about it. There’s no pain. It--seems that the Mark has made changes without my permission.” 

There’s a long, heavy silence between the two of them. It’s obvious Leliana is at a loss for words and Calliope is too in shock to say much, not even as they move towards the door. Stiff and unsure of themself. Perhaps Solas or Artemaeus will know more. For now they need  to not think of it and are grateful that the whispers fade to a soft white noise. 

“I came to see if you wanted to meet with the others in the Chantry. Do you think you can manage that?” Leliana asks, stepping to the side briefly for Calliope. 

“I will try. That is all I can do.” 

At least the cold is a welcome distraction this time around. Soothes rather than stabs them, though Calliope is sure that will change if they spend too long outside. The sun is high and bright in the pale blue green sky, the rift sealed but still puffed and raw --like an infected wound. They merely glance at it before narrowing their eyes back down at the muddy ground, careful not to sink too deep into the muck. Suddenly they are very thankful for the boots they were encouraged to take with them. Nice and soft on the inside, perfect to combat the freezing temperatures; wrapped with some cords that jingle with wooden and bone charms. A bit of home to carry with them. The sound comforts Calliope while they follow Leliana off to the large building just beyond the trail.

It’s a short walk, just a few minutes up a long dirt path that winds around a fire pit and various tents. Calliope prepares themself for another round of vitriol, unable to forget the guard who threw that rock. But nothing comes. In fact the people that do gather whisper amongst themselves in awe, or perhaps even reverence. Though that unsettles Calliope as much --if not more-- than the hate spewed days before. Why the change in tone? 

One of the group is another familiar face -- Varric. Laughter lines crease his cheeks as he watches Calliope approach; how he can be so jovial they’re not entirely sure. But it is a comfort to see, and even makes their mouth twitch into a small smile. Or a semblance of one. He doesn’t stop with the others and in fact begins walking in line with two of them; Leliana gives him a nod of recognition as he does so. It quickly crosses Calliope’s mind that he’s wearing a coat that seems much too large for him -- the puffs of dense wool obscures much of his face, and the blocky shape of the leather makes his movements stiff. A complete wonder how he can even walk in it. 

“Spin a story that convinced them?” he asks with a wink. 

“I think so. They found my tales of a nug tripping me and slaying a dragon in the process very compelling,” they respond tiredly, “I managed to slip in a bit about your gorgeous chest hair as well.” 

Varric laughter is a deep, resounding bellow that brightens Calliope’s smile by a fraction. Though they note a slight change when he fully looks them over, his unobscured eyes taking in the changes from when they last saw each other. 

“Kid, are you feeling alright?” 

“That seems to be the question of the day,” Calliope sighs. Their breath comes in clouds before them, “The Mark has made changes. I wish I could say I knew what was happening, but for now I think I’ll be fine.” 

“You should let Chuckles know, if he hasn’t found out already.” 

That gives them pause, it’s a good suggestion and begs the question--does he? Why has he not alerted anyone if he does? 

A frown spreads across Calliope’s face and they give a short nod, “I’ll let him know after the meeting. Though I’m not sure what can be done about it.” 

“Who knows, but for all his oddness he’s pretty good at keeping it in check.” 

Another comment that makes them think too hard. What does Solas know? If the Mark and the Voice are connected, he should know of that but has never said a word about them. Did he...know this would happen as well? Calliope swallows hard and pushes those thoughts out of their mind, thankful that the large doors of the Chantry have finally come into full view. It’s harder to worry about hypotheticals when something so big is looming over you. 

“I’ll keep you posted, how does that sound?” Calliope asks, glancing his way. 

“Yeah, sure. Long as you take care of yourself, kid, that’s all that matters.”

His voice is too soft when he responds, as if a great sadness has settled in his bones-- but Calliope doesn’t draw attention to it. Not yet. Instead they try on a bigger smile for him and gesture to his much too large coat. Throngs of people start to gather around them but Calliope is too busy with Varric, the others --and their growing anxiety-- can wait. He’s been nothing but kind to them. 

“If you promise to find a better coat then I promise to do as you ask. How about that?” 

Another bellowing laugh escapes Varric, so much so there’s a jingle from the golden ringed necklace that rests on his chest. Warmth floods Calliope when they hear that, their anxiety melts away for the moment. Though they can’t help but notice the large group around them in their periphery, ever whispering, looking. 

“Does it really look that bad?” 

“Oh yes, it makes you look like a walking box,” Leliana interjects with a smirk. Calliope startles when she speaks, having forgotten she was there. She’s always so quiet.  

Calliope’s smile widens at her response, however, “Someone had to have given it to him as a joke, right?” 

“I think it was a gift from Cassandra, so something like that.” 

“Ah, that would explain it.” 

“Alright, alright! I’m sure there’s a tailor around here somewhere. You two do your important meeting and I’ll fix this disaster of a coat,” Varric snorts, rolling his eyes with affection. A welcome sight as the throng stares and Calliope’s anxiety spikes to another unimaginable height. Both Leliana and Varric take notice quickly; the one ushering Calliope into the warmer, darker Chantry, while the other bustles through the crowd, breaking some of it up. 

Inside the old, creaking building there’s a sort of calm you only find among places of worship. Though it doesn’t feel nearly as ancient of a peace as Calliope is used to. It makes their chest ache, thinking back to the sprawling temple to Falon’Din that sat deep within the Graves. How much that single ruin felt like home. Here in the torchlight, hundreds of miles from their home, Calliope brushes their fingers along the stone walls of the Chantry and wishes to be back in that flooded sanctuary, surrounded by statues of their gods that have stood against the test of time. 

The once rich but faded golds and reds of Andrastian tapestries feel familiar but foreign at the same time.  Moldy furniture and dusty books surround them, old stained glass still shining brightly in the mid morning sun. Casting rays of colors all across the muddy floor. Their mother once spoke of these places, how they brought her comfort when the world was at its worst. Not because of the religion itself, but how gentle it was in those moments where no one noticed her and she could slip off without alerting anyone. There is a remnant of that here while Leliana and Calliope slowly walk across to another pair of large, ornate doors. Symbols of the religion embossed into the dark wood, a sunburst set into the seam where you would pull them open. Familiar but still foreign. They feel like they shouldn’t be here, even in the momentary peace.

That nasally voice from days before pierces right through the calm the moment the doors swing open and Calliope can’t help but make a face of disgust. This man again? Another shemlen who thinks he knows what is right and what is wrong, Creators forbid you tell him otherwise. Chancellor Roderick stands in his white, gold, and crimson red robes to the side of a large wooden table covered in maps, and what looks like small figurines. Curious, Calliope focuses on what that could possibly mean before looking around to the others flanking the Chantry man. All humans, it seems. Another man and two women, one of which is Cassandra. 

The other man has curly blonde hair, in a slicked back style that interests Calliope --they wonder briefly how he can keep it so neat and tidy in this weather. His armor bears the many sunbursts that can be found through the building, a mix of gold and cold steel. Rich red fabric and dark furs hang around his tall, muscular form. Though his complexion and under eye bags speak of illness, sunken cheeks and a listless gaze. Perhaps he has the Blight? 

“...Roderick, save your breath,” the man murmurs, catching Calliope staring as they enter the room. 

“Why is the prisoner continuously not restrained?” 

Roderick does not waste any time on saving his breath. 

“I’m afraid chains would not do you any good, Chancellor. Has Cassandra not told you I practice magic? I could simply look at you and you’d be a crispy husk,” Calliope rolls their eyes, eliciting a snort from both the new man and the aforementioned Seeker. Though the latter seems to think that much funnier than the ill human. 

“Andaran atish’an, Ser Lavellan,” another voice cuts through the Chancellors rebuttal. 

This time it’s the new woman, dressed in swatches of golden fabric lined with thick, lightly colored and patterned furs. Necklaces hang from her soft, tan neck and glint just as her brilliant smile does. Long, dark hair frames her face in perfectly set curls that are then braided to be kept out of her eyes. Honestly, she seems much too warm and gentle to be in this situation at all, but that is exactly why Calliope assumes she is. Never underestimate the sweet ones. 

They smile back at her when greeted in elven, and bow their head respectively, “Pleased to meet you, even under these circumstances.” 

There is a sound of derision from Roderick that has both Calliope and Cassandra looking his way with annoyance, the former feeling a coil of anger build in their chest. 

“What, do I offend you?” Calliope asks, raising a pale eyebrow at him. 

“These circumstances are of your own doing, of course you have offended me! The Divine is dead and here you stand, still alive.” 

“Shocking as it may seem, Chancellor, I did not kill your Divine. In fact I have been exonerated of all charges. Cassandra told me as much several days ago as I was recovering. While I don’t remember what made her change her mind, I’m inclined to think it was compelling evidence.” 

This time there’s another amused snort from the ill man and he looks up at Calliope, dark eyes sparkling a bit in the lamp light. 

“Careful, you keep prodding him and he might  explode.” 

Roderick once again opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it when Cassandra steps in with a scowl his way and a glance at Calliope. There is a brief moment where her expression turns from irritation to concern when she makes note of the change of Calliope’s eye color, which does make them wonder if they should wander about with their eyes shut from now on. 

“I believe we have some introductions to get out of the way,” the Seeker says, shaking the worry off expertly, “You know Sister Leliana, our Spymaster.” 

Leliana bows her head at the mention, smiling just a touch for Calliope who manages one in return. It’s the least they can do after her friendliness towards them. 

“Our Ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. She is an expert in keeping the peace,” Cassandra gestures to the woman full of warmth, and then finally at the ill seeming man, “This is Commander Cullen Rutherford, you would have met him at the Temple but we know how that went.” 

“I was nearly decapitated, apparently. Which I’m sure Roderick would have been pleased by,” they scoff, glancing away from Cassandra to watch the priest. He does nothing but stare right back, wrinkling his nose. 

“We are lucky you weren’t, otherwise we would not be able to do what we’re doing now,” Cassandra responds, cutting in before Roderick can get a word out. 

Something about that comment unsettles Calliope, makes them seriously consider the Seeker. She had said something about wanting them to stay, that there was danger following them possibly and they didn’t have anything on the Mark yet. Yet this doesn’t seem to be what she’s talking about. 

“I’m assuming we found something when we closed the Breach? What are we doing now?” 

A heavy silence descends upon the room like a thick blanket, extinguishing all sound so much so that the whispers come in loud bursts and Calliope’s pointed ears flutter uncomfortably. They wait for someone to say something, anything at all; nerves standing on end. 

“We saw a vision in the middle of a field of red lyrium that was at the center of the Temple,” Leliana finally speaks, looking from Cassandra to Calliope with a sharp gaze, “Someone or something was there doing a ritual, said that the Divine was meant as a sacrifice. Then you came out of the shadows to ask what was going on. That was when the Rift broke open.” 

A chill runs down Calliope’s spine, that familiar build up of anxious energy. Their eyes dart to the candles flickering just beyond the table, and one of them forms a tall pillar of fire before simmering back down again. No one seems to notice, not even Roderick who is barely paying attention to anything at all. 

“That’s good to know but that doesn’t answer my question. What are we doing now?” Calliope repeats, their gaze hardening. The whispers buzz in anticipation, shadows dancing in their peripheral vision. Once again there’s silence but it’s short lived. 

“The Divine created a writ in case her plan failed to restore peace between the mages and the templars,” Cassandra responds quietly, and taps a book on the table with a gloved hand. It is thick and old, filled with secrets Calliope assumes. 

“What does that mean?” they ask, shifting their weight nervously. 

“We are going to rebuild a group called the Inquisition, to find the Divine’s killer and end the conflict that led to her death. We could also use it to clean up after what happened with the Breach,” the Commander answers for her, and Calliope raises an eyebrow at those gathered around the table. 

“It must be invoked by both of the Divine’s Hands, and will be with or without Chantry approval,” Cassandra says, shooting a withering glance at Roderick who sighs. 

“You know how I feel about this Seeker-” 

“And I don’t care. This is the only way, you know that!” 

“We need to find a replacement for the Divine and quickly! None of this Inquisition nonsense will help us now.” The room descends into arguments and raised voices as everyone attempts to speak over the priest, who in turn raises his whine of a voice to disgustingly new levels. Anxiety and rage make the air thick, too hard to breathe, too hard to move in. From their spot at the other side of the space, Calliope watches that candle flicker once, twice, three times before it erupts into a roaring fire. All of their despair and nervousness centered on one singular wick that burns so brightly it lights up the entire room, banishing the shadows back to where they came. It’s certainly one way to get everyone’s attention. 

Their arguments dwindle into nothing as they scramble to get away from the fire just as it starts to fizzle out and become a smoking ember. Consumed, wax and all, by Calliope’s magical presence. Embarrassment washes over them at the sight but they manage to hold it together while each pair of eyes comes back to settle on them. Calliope finally breaks the silence, that slimy sensation threading through their skin as they say in almost a snarl, pointedly at Roderick --who had decided to argue.

“Create your Inquisition, we replace the Divine and find her Killer. Maybe get answers about what the fuck happened to my hand. Does that sound good?” 

There’s only a beat of silence before Roderick mumbles what could be a ‘yes’, easing Calliope’s volatile mood but not that horrific feeling of otherness wrapped around their wrist. 

“We--should get you in touch with a proper Enchanter, I think,” Cullen comments in shock. A blurting out of words, really. 

“There are mages here I can learn from, if it will soothe your fears, Commander Rutherford.”

“Perhaps we should take a recess? Cool down before we talk about our next steps.” 

It’s Josephine who speaks, light and airy. Unperturbed on the outside by what just happened but the tremble in her hands as she grips her important parchments says otherwise. Calliope doesn’t blame her. 

There’s a note of tiredness and defeat to their tone when they speak again, “I will get my magic under control, it’s been harder since the Mark. I’m sorry for scaring anyone. A recess would be good.” 

[junejalow]

"I tried to warn you" R6 operators/oc

So a friend of mine from Discord, Cammie08 wanted a bar fight with Lion getting defensive over Rook that included my character Saulo "Chameleon" Benjamin with her police oc Venny Warwick who worked with Saulo's unit a few times. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Idel chatter, music thumbing in the background, people dancing in the middle of the large bar room, the smell of alcohol and food lingering in the air around the bar. A good friday night for the Rainbow operators. Harry had given them two weeks off to do as they please, a small handful of them went home to spend the down time with family and friends. The other's had decided this bar was a good start to their relaxing two weeks. They had nearly taken up one corner of the place, moving tables and chairs together to fit their large group. Their own idle chatter, stories, card and drinking games, sharing food, bellowing laughter, singing. All of it was a major stress relief for them.

"Did I ever tell y'all how Saulo got that scar on his face?" Asked the man sitting beside the urban expert. Saulo had introduced him upon arrival as an old work buddy from his Delta Force days, Venny Warrick had near 30 years experience working in police joint units. The very reason they met in the first place and continued to work off and on before Chameleon's departure to Rainbow. The aforementioned man gave a sharp jab to his side.

"What? It was funny!"

"Like hell it was! Never liked birds after that."

"Must be quite the story then, I would love to hear it." Timur piped in across from them, nursing a beer bottle in his hands.

"No, no you don't." Saulo replied quickly before Venny could, earning a snicker from the police man. "I'ma tell you anyways, I take the beating later." His friend said, shifting away when the other tried to snag him only for Maxim to swing an arm around his boyfriend and pull him and his chair closer. Effectively keeping him from moving.

"Really Maxim?!"

"What? I want to hear it as well, I find anything about you amusing and interesting. You know that." Calmly replied the trapper.

"Right right, so we were held up in Norway around Oppdal. We had this hot lead on a arms dealer who was using the storms around the area to cover their tracks and we were sitting outside just eating and enjoying a good warm meal and this bird of some kind literality came out of no where and snatched food from Saulo, gashed his lip in the process. It took months before we let him live it down." Venny told them, eyes gleaming with the memory as the table erupted in laughter and chuckles at the story.

"You fucker, Y'all tormented me every single time I ate somethin'!"

"And you was funny as hell too!"

"So you ain't gon' tell them about the time you got tied ta a bed while drunk?"

"Whoa whoa, time out there mate. Was this all in good fun or was a girl involved?" James asked from a few seats down, one hand mindlessly twisting around in Mark's short curly hair as the younger operator was leaning against him. Everyone always though they were a cute couple.

"Well I guess that's fair right? One story for another." Venny replied, downing the rest of his beer.

"And to answer your question good sir, there was a girl involved. So long story short, someone in the joint unit decided some sketchy bar on the edge of town was a good place to just knock back a few drinks before we head home after a successful mission. I got drunk worse than a nine eyed dog ever dared to be an-" He was cut off by Shutrat snorting and nearly spitting out his vodka.

"A nine eyed dog? What the fuck is that?"

"I believe it's an American term for a very drunk person." Jager replied from across the Russian, swatting Bandit's hand away as the other German attempted to steal his french fries. He mumbled under his breath about Elias having some and shoved his hand away again.

"Pretty much so." Venny replied, "Just a southern term I learned from Saulo. He thought us a lot over the course of our missions together."

"Look y'all kept askin' what I called different things so I told y'all."

"That... is a very odd term." Fuze mumbled.

"And calling Aleksandr 'Sasha’ isn't strange?" Marias asked, grinning at his boyfriend. Shutrat shot him a glance across the table, cold stormy grey eyes piercing into warm honey brown eyes.

"You leave that nickname alone Mari." The engineer raised his hands in mock defeat, knowing better that to push the Russian on subjects.

"Back to the story!" Smoke protested, growing impatient to hear the end.

"He was basically lead ta a back room by one of the dancer's and thang's got complicated, she tied him up, stole his wallet and we already knew somethin' happened because no one gets laid that fast." Chameleon chuckled, earning a playful glare from his friend.

"No bloody way! Why do ya like that mate?"

"Unfortunately, but she didn't get away. Perks of working with half a police and military unit."

One story turned into another, many of the operator's recalling times of fun moment. Dominic's best pranks, Maxim's CQC record attempt that disarming 4 people in quick session, Tachanka and Finka's drinking contest on base that ended with Doc forcing both of them to puke their guts out to avoid alcohol poisoning, Kali and Glaz's sniping contest which both were disturbed on when they caught sight of Lion chasing down Smoke over a prank Bandit came up with. The talk soon turned to missing places from their home towns, what they wanted to go see again and where they would visit on the next down time.

"Right well, I'ma go get more drinks." Saulo said as he stood up with Rook who offered to help carry. They got everyone's orders and headed off to the bar, Saulo watched the bartender fill out the orders with trained actions retaining to muscle memory and years of work while he chatted with Julian about different things. "Was that story true? The one Venny said about your scar?" Rook asked with a genuine smile. "Sadly. I'm honestly terrified of birds now. Fucker's just unsettle me." Chameleon replied, shaking his head a bit with a chuckle. "So that's why Monty doesn't bring Doux around, he never told us. I personally think she's a beautiful parrot." "I kindly asked him not ta speak about it but I'll agree she's pretty. Just don't want her near me is all." "Seems fair mon ami (my friend)." He agreed, taking a few drinks to add them in with the growing collection. A sudden presence behind them had both operator's tensing, thankfully Rook was the first to speak to the large man behind them. He greeted him with a smile, "We'll be out of the way soon." "I didn't come for a drink, I came for you short stuff. Been watching you since you came in." Julien shifted a bit closer to Saulo, he disliked starting anything or being center of attention. "I'm here with my friends and my boyfriend sir, I would very much love to return too them."

"I don't thank you understood my clearly, you're going to come back with me to my table and enjoy some drinks with us." "Olivier really wouldn't like that...Please move so we can return to our table." "What? That blond you were sitting with? He looks soft." "Sir... please I won't ask again. And don't try to start anything with him, he's a lot stronger than he looks. It's a warning for your own safety." Lion flicked his gaze from the card game in front of over to the bar, he noticed the uneasy expression his boyfriend held and slowly put down his cards much to Gustave's and Emmanuel's confusion until they followed his gaze over to the source of his distraction. Gilles released a knowing sigh. To say Lion was simply protective over Julien was a serious understatement. He was fiercely possessive, protective and loyal to anyone close too him. Rook's brow furrowed as he frowned at something the man had said, before he or Saulo could say anything he heard a chair from the table squeak across the floor followed by a booming voice that belonged to Lion, the name keeping his namesake. "Hey asshole!" The large french man barked as he stormed over, piercing blue eyes glaring pure anger into the civilian. Lion held nearly 7 inches on the man and had a much larger build. "I tried to warn you." Rook mumbled under his breath. "Get lost and leave them alone." Olivier snarled at the man who give a defiant look. "What? Thank you're scary just because you got muscle? I've been boxing for over 10 years and won several belts, you look like someone who just works out for fun." The arrogant man chuckled which was quickly cut off by Lion surging forward, the man's face met the bar with a loud thud. Thankfully Saulo and Julien had ben quick in moving with the drinks, careful not to spill any as a few of their friends cheered from their table. Lion twisted one of the man's arms behind his back, holding it there in a iron drip. "I don't care how long you've been boxing, don't speak to my boyfriend again. Understood?" He said with a deathly calm tone, he wasn't playing and Rook knew it. His worry starting to pool in his stomach as the owner came out from the back, upon seeing the operator's he had come to know he sighed and motioned for the bartender to clear out. He knew better than to get involved with the soldiers when someone pissed them off. Soon enough the man against the bar had called for his friends to help out instead of sitting down which got rainbow's attention. Smoke standing from his spot beside Mute, Montagne joining him along side Kapkan, Doc and Tachanka. They quickly got involved in the fight after a punch was thrown, by who no one could see outside the mass. All that mattered was the fact that the fight was over in minutes, the offending group at the feet of the operators. People around them cheered as they returned to their table, Lion gently wrapping an arm around Rook to guide him back. They passed around the drinks that had been ordered and acted as if nothing happened. Gustave inspected everyone for a moment, stopping at Olivier's hand right hand for any damage but boxing with James had toughened his skin, it only had light marks that would most likely bruise later but lesson learned to the other people. It was soon made better Julien linking his left arm with Lion's right as they sat back down, his smaller hand gently rubbing across his knuckles to sooth the irritated skin.

The rest of the night went by smoothly, eventually the bar closed and they had to leave. Saulo gave Venny a hug and promised to meet up again. Thankfully the bar wasn't that far from the base and most of them walked back while other's went to their apartments two blocks away. Little pieces of heaven away from work on the rare times they got away from work. The base settled down after drunken laughter and helping each other to their dorms, thankfully Doc and Montagne had stayed sober enough to make sure of that. They were like the responsible parents of the operator's that always checked in on everyone and watched like hawks for any issues. Doc made his rounds before bed and helped Montagne go about setting out drinks and meds for hang over's in the morning. Once that was done and everyone were in there respective rooms, the two GIGN operator's went back to their dorm and went to bed together.

[fantastic-rambles]

Your Move [2]

Fandom: Yuukoku no Moriarty

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Irene Adler, William James Moriarty (mentioned)

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.4k

[Part 1]

In the days since that spontaneous tea party, the two men had been exchanging moves by telegram since William had needed to return to Durham to continue teaching at the university. John had a strong suspicion that only the generous compensation from the King of Bohemia kept his flatmate from running off to the countryside to seek the mathematician out. It certainly couldn't be the presence of Mrs. Adler, who even John could tell was driving the detective mad despite their short acquaintance. Or at least, he wasn't staying around for her in the traditional sense: the sooner this case was resolved, the faster they could persuade her to leave so they could return to their normal way of life.

She was an exceedingly strange woman: certainly, it had been their fault that she'd been burned out of her home, but choosing to stay with two men in a small flat rather than a hotel while she was trying to conceal the picture from them was something that John simply couldn't understand. While John was enough of a gentleman that he wouldn't dig around in her personal belongings, Sherlock had no compunctions about doing so... which was possibly why she had been dragging her around with him all day, leaving John to clean out a room for the woman. He had only just finished when the two returned, with Sherlock clothed only in his undergarments and Mrs. Adler soaking wet.

It had taken some explaining while the woman was in the bathroom, but eventually, Sherlock had convinced him and Miss Hudson that nothing untoward had happened. Their landlady still seemed somewhat suspicious, but John believed his friend. After everything Mrs. Adler had put them through in less than a day, he couldn't imagine Sherlock having some sort of secret trysts with her. Even if it was to obtain the incriminating photograph, he didn't think that a woman who had the cunning and courage to blackmail an actual king could be so easily swayed by matters of the heart.

While Sherlock changed, John returned to the living room, sinking onto the couch with a sigh. With Sherlock's recollection of their previous moves, John had set up a board in the corner of the room so that he could follow the progress of their game. Although he clearly wasn't on the same intellectual level as the two men, he was curious about how their game would play out, and in particular, who would win this battle. It was still quite early on, but William was playing more aggressively than John had expected. After their conversation over tea, John had expected the young noble to play more conservatively in an attempt to preserve his pieces, with his whole war analogy and discussion of valuing soldiers.

His subsequent move of his knight to queen's knight 5 had pinned down Sherlock's bishop and essentially forced them into some sort of an exchange of pieces. Compared to the rapid-fire exchange of moves in the garden, Sherlock seemed to actually have to think over his decision before eventually taking the initiative to capture William's bishop with his own to make an early check. Even John could predict that William would more than likely complete the exchange with his queen so as to give the strongest piece on the board the ability to move about more freely, and indeed, the next message had done just that.

It felt like Sherlock was being pushed into a defensive position as he castled, and John wondered how the game might have played out differently if Sherlock had moved a piece other than his overextended bishop. As it was, though, William had continued to press his attack, advancing a pawn to queen's bishop 3, while Sherlock had also created a line of pawns with a move to queen's knight 2, both of them building up the queen's side of the board. And that was where it had been left off: another telegram had arrived this morning, but both of them had been too preoccupied with the issue of Mrs. Adler to deal with it.

Their conversation in the garden also remained on John's mind. When he seriously thought about his experiences in Afghanistan, he found himself questioning how much he had actually cared for his patients. At first, he had been entirely dedicated to his work, giving everything he had to chasing the escaping lives and doing all that he could to let men return home. But as the fighting dragged on and more and more men were dragged to the medical tent, screaming and crying while he fought to keep them alive with dwindling supplies as more and more of them died, could he truly claim that he hadn't changed?

Certainly, from a psychological standpoint, he was no longer the young man who had gone off to the war. Although he hadn't suffered any severe physical injuries and retained all of his limbs, the mental scars remained: his nightmares occasionally woke him in a cold sweat, and he still occasionally limped even though Sherlock had amply proved that it was all just in his head. Of course, the easy explanation would be that he had been--and still was--suffering from Soldier's Heart*, but he couldn't help wondering how much of it was due to the war and how much of it was himself, after the veneer of civility and naivety had been stripped away.

He dropped his head into his hands as he let out a large sigh. Well, at the very least, he was still better than Sherlock, not that that was saying very much.

"Did something happen, John?"

John started, surprised by the voice behind him, and turned his head around to look at Sherlock.

"No, just thinking," he replied automatically. When Sherlock took a seat across from him, though, he hesitated, wondering whether he should bring up his troubles. His friend was very much not the sympathetic sort, but his acute insights could be very beneficial, if he was inclined to provide them.

He'd just resolved to bite the bullet and try to ask Sherlock for his advice when Mrs. Adler breezed into the room, as confident and poised as ever in a new dress. Gracefully, she swept over to Sherlock, grasping his hand in her own while smiling at him beatifically.

"Thank you so much for accompanying me this afternoon. But I regret to inform you that I must deprive you of my company this evening, as I have a prior engagement. I hope that you can find some way to pass the time without me."

"Eh? Just do whatever you want. It has nothing to do with me," Sherlock grumbled, pulling his hand away. Mrs. Adler didn't seem put off at all as she turned to clasp John's hand as well, her palm soft and small against his own.

"And you as well, Mr. Watson. You have been so kind to me during my unfortunate circumstances," she gushed, acting for all the world as if she had forgotten that he and Sherlock were the reason for the aforementioned circumstances, which she herself had engineered. Even so, John could feel his face heating up just from her proximity to him. Her character aside, he couldn't deny that she was a very attractive woman, which was likely what had allowed her to obtain access to the King of Bohemia.

"Of... of course. It's no less than a gentleman should do," he stammered, his blush deepening as she smiled at him. And then, before he knew it, she had disappeared in a whirlwind of cloth, and he heard the front door close behind her.

Instantly, Sherlock was by the window, peering down into the street, and John quickly joined him. They watched as Mrs. Adler hailed a cab, and as soon as the horses were clopping down the street, Sherlock turned to John, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"John. I've figured out how to get her to show us where she's hiding the photograph."