#AND had to go back to correct it bc of how egregious it was

[narwhalandchill]

also like. why is it always childes character or lore getting shafted with the Critical mistranslations im. when will they learn 💀

the actual title for surtalogi aka "foul" is a completely different word from foul legacy in like. every single translation except eng. every single version got it better (its along the lines of "knight/rider of evil" across the board). and now ppl will be running off with the omg foul like foul legacy thing bc the translation literally lies to u what the fuck 😭😭

also like? its not like the actual title lacks connections with childe either bc im pretty sure ive seen it pointed out that the names of his c5 and c6 do explicitly parallel the cn title for surtalogi. so like for english why not put havoc somewhere in the title instead of this random ass "foul" business im so????

[ace-of-zaun]

The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time: Pt. 8

Silco x f!reader - 7.6k words - SFW

cw:  fluff, angst, anxiety/dread, injury, medical anxiety, health and illness, taking care of people, talk about self-defence and physical assault, get your seatbelts on lads we’ve got another emotional rollercoaster chapter, but with a fluffy ending bc it’s me

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7

If someone had told kitchen-utensil-salesperson you that one day you’d be having to bribe the Eye of Zaun’s daughter, to keep her quiet about your relationship with said kingpin, you’d have laughed in their faces and told them to get lost.

But alas, here you were.

You’d had a long chat with Jinx about why you weren’t telling people and why she couldn’t tell anyone either. And after surprisingly little convincing from the two of you, Jinx had agreed to keep your secret… for a price. Sweets once a week for every week she kept it a secret. 

Dear Janna, was this girl Silco’s daughter.

She’d also sweetened the deal by throwing in a few extra game nights every month, so that’s how you find yourself sitting at Silco’s desk, Jinx on your lap in the chair opposite his, as you play yet another round of Gun Bun.

Silco is, rather annoyingly, picking incredibly obnoxious words on purpose when it’s his turn, (seriously, how many nine-year-olds know the word egregious?) so you decide that this is the perfect opportunity to mess with him.

At first, you simply decide to spell all of your words wrong, irritating him just a little bit more with every line drawn as he fails to guess the correct letters.

Once he cottons on to that, correcting your spelling like a disappointed teacher, you move onto the next level…

You start making words up.

Jinx giggles and squirms about in your lap when you whisper your nefarious plan to her, earning a narrowed look of suspicion from your criminal(ly gorgeous) boyfriend.

Unfortunately, this tactic only works for one round, because when you finally complete the drawing of Mr. Bunny shooting a gun (complete with the obligatory BANG!) and Silco still hasn’t guessed all the letters, Jinx reveals the word with a menacing glee.

And Silco loses it.

“That is not a word,” he says, immediately glaring at you since you’re the obvious instigator.

He looks so grumpy and so adorably exasperated, you just want to kiss him until he forgets both his own name and just how difficult you like to make his life. 

“It is!” you argue, staring at him whilst you valiantly battle against the urge to smile, before revealing, “I just made it up.”

His whole expression drops into the most incredulous deadpan. 

“Darling.”

“What?” you counter. “All words are made up! It’s not my fault you can’t keep up with me.”

There’s a pause where Silco just stares at you, mismatched eyes glimmering with something just on the edge of dangerous. 

You stare back, raising one cheeky eyebrow in challenge. That does it. 

“I think it is best we retire for the evening,” he says, tone clipped and impatient, though his eyes never once leave yours.

Jinx whines in disappointment, climbing from your lap onto the desk just so she can launch herself into Silco’s lap. She clings to him like a kitten until he finally gives in to her and agrees to one more game, as long as it doesn’t involve any words. 

Which of course means your absolute favourite activity in the whole, wide world. Drawing! 

You teach them both a game you played as a child, one where a piece of paper is folded three times, in a way where you can only see one section at a time. 

The first person secretly draws the head and shoulders, with some lines over the fold into the next section so the second person can join it up. They then flip it over to the next section, where the second person draws the torso and arms, while the last person then draws legs and feet, making sure to keep your separate drawings hidden until the very end, where you reveal the character you’ve all made together. 

You go first to demonstrate, drawing the head of a smiling girl that looks a little bit like Jinx (you know, if Jinx were a squiggly, blue doodle). 

After Jinx and Silco have both drawn their sections, you open up the paper and spread it flat on the desk, revealing, to Jinx’s delight, an absolute monstrosity of a character.

Underneath your smiling face, Jinx has doodled a thin torso with long spaghetti arms that loop round and round until their hands rest on their hips. But it’s nothing compared to Silco drawing his own boots and somehow forgetting that he needed to draw legs as well. 

You play this game for a few rounds, until it’s Silco’s turn to draw first. Except he takes a millennium, sketching with his pen like he’s in the middle of an art class. But it’s only when you spot him gently rocking the chair from side to side, almost imperceptible to the untrained eye, that you realise he’s trying to lull Jinx to sleep.

And surprisingly, it works, humming quietly under his breath until she falls asleep in his lap, adorably curled up with her face against his chest. 

Once he’s certain that she’s fast asleep, he lifts his head to give you a knowing look before carefully lifting her and carrying her back to her bedroom. You take the look to mean that you should get changed into your pyjamas so you can both cuddle up when he returns from putting her to bed. 

But when you stand up from your chair, groaning as you stretch your tired body towards the rafters, you take a moment to peek at Silco’s drawing, sliding the paper over the varnished wood until you can finally see. 

And you swear your heart melts in your chest when you look down at it. A portrait of you, looking happier than you’ve ever seen yourself looking. At least, up until you’d moved in with Silco. Now, you’re pretty sure you look like this most of the time. 

You’ve begun to stay in his bedroom a few nights a week, usually when he doesn’t stay up working until dawn like a madman. 

Your (imaginary) spy training has gotten a real workout every morning, ensuring no-one sees you make the dash back to your own bedroom, then getting dressed to go and meet Silco in his office like you hadn’t spent the whole night in his bed.

Honestly, part of you wonders if it would just be easier to move some of your clothes into his bedroom, but you’re not sure if he’d want that. The man does have a lot more clothes than you do. 

And what if he’s not ready for you to both officially move in together? How would you even approach asking? Should you just do it and blame the goblins when he asks if you put them there? (They’re cheeky little bastards, you know, they’ve stolen enough of your socks from the washing machine.)

You’re just preparing to leave the office, peering around the corner of the doorway to make sure there’s no-one in sight. You’d left the kingpin snoring in his bed just moments ago, and it’s far too early for Sevika to be anywhere near The Drop, so you’re pretty confident you’re not gonna be caught.

Crouching down a little feels like a good, sneaky spy move, so you bend your knees slightly, duck your head, and begin to tip-toe down the hallway as quietly as you can.

And honestly, even after only a few steps in, you’re genuinely starting to feel like you could break into one of those fancy art museums Topside and complete the heist of the century. That is, until a low voice calls out behind you.

“What in Janna’s name are you doing?”

Janna herself would be proud of the way you hold in the blood-curdling scream that threatens to erupt from your vocal folds.

Instead of waking up everyone in the entirety of Zaun and probably some of Piltover, you clutch your chest and hiss out a wheezing, “Holy fucking fuck-”

You spin around to glare at Silco who is standing in the doorway to his office, coffee cup in hand as he leans nonchalantly against the frame. 

How didn’t you hear him sneak up? And how the hell did he manage to wake up from being borderline comatose AND make himself a coffee in such a short amount of time? 

You squint at him suspiciously as if that’ll make him reveal all his secrets. Maybe he should be the spy…

Silco looks rather amused as he watches you. 

“Has anyone ever informed you that you possess quite the potty mouth?” he asks, in that raspy morning voice that is far too hot for its own good. 

“Has anyone ever informed you that it’s rude to try to give your girlfriend a heart attack on purpose?” you shoot back.

He holds his free hand to his t-shirt clad chest in mock offence.

“I can assure you, my love, I was attempting no such thing,” he protests with the guiltiest look you’ve ever seen in your whole entire existence. 

You point at him as a threat. 

“Boy, don’t test me. I’ll take you out of my will.”

Silco’s face drops into a faux upset, slapping one hand against his cheek dramatically. 

“Oh no, whatever will I do without your collection of novelty ice-cream scoops?” he questions sardonically.

You return it with an overexaggerated gasp, (but deep down you’re secretly pleased he’s starting to play along with your melodrama; oh how the turn tables).

“How dare you!” you exclaim, throwing both hands up to cage your poor, shattered heart, before you turn your nose up to sniff haughtily. “That’s it, I’m breaking up with you.”

Silco swiftly downs the last of his coffee and then tosses the mug onto the sofa behind him blindly, instantly changing your mind on what you just said.

How the fuck did he do that without it breaking into a million pieces? And more importantly, how is he easily the hottest man in the world? 

“I think not,” he practically growls, stepping forward into the corridor. 

“You can’t stop me,” you announce loftily. “Me and the Scoop Troop are outta here.”

He advances on you slowly until he’s leaning down to speak into your ear, the roughness in his timbre sending a shiver down your spine. 

“Then I suppose I shall have to convince you to stay.”

Abruptly, Silco leans down to pick you up, deftly swinging you up into a bridal carry, forcing you to try your best not to squeal and accidentally wake everybody up. 

Then, he turns on his heel and carries you back in his office, kicking the door shut behind you as you giggle breathlessly into his chest. 

Maybe the reason you look so much happier now after moving in with Silco, is because you are. 

-

Of course, spy training in the mornings is not the only kind of training you embark on. 

True to his word, Silco begins to teach you self-defence after the multiple attacks you’ve endured since accepting the job as his negotiator. (To be fair, you’d endured some during your time at the market stall too, but that had been at a significantly lower danger level compared to this.)

So you’re in the bar one early afternoon, a few of the tables pushed out of the way to give you room to properly move about. Silco has given strict orders that no-one is to enter the bar until you’re finished, which had earned a huff of annoyance from Sevika, who would be forced to take the long-winding emergency exit in and out of the building.

Standing across from Silco in the cleared space, you ready yourself to learn some basic defence, hoping it’ll trump your current tactic of just running away really, really fast… (okay, fine, a moderate jog at best).

You’d hoped to learn how to properly use the knife Silco had gifted you in the market, excitedly bringing it along in the hopes that he’ll show you some cool moves.

But he’d confiscated it the very second you’d taken it out of the box and nearly dropped it on your own foot, blade down. 

So… self-defence it is, for now. 

Your boyfriend (smoking hot; an utter bitch; an absolute icon) stands opposite you, hands clasped behind his back as he talks. 

“Today I will show you some basic movements that will allow you to disengage if an attacker were to grab onto you,” he explains, reminding you of your old geography teacher (who was also your everything-teacher because, you know, Zaun). “Then, depending on how well you-”

Silco continues to tell you his lesson plan in detail, but honestly, you stop listening the second you notice that his shirt sleeves are rolled up. And he’s wearing a different waistcoat. It looks a little older than the usual ones he wears, but it’s still hot. Really accentuates his slutty little waist.  

Your cheeks get warm just thinking about it. 

Is it hot in here or is it just you? 

And gods, isn’t he pretty with his hair a little bit messy, those dark waves just the tiniest bit mussed up. And wouldn’t he look even prettier if you ran your hands through it and maybe put your lips on-

“Are you listening?” Silco cuts in. 

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze, positively startled at the interruption. 

“Yes, sir,” you blurt out.

He smirks in response which does not help your predicament in the slightest. 

“Very well,” he nods, bringing both hands to rest on his hips. “We will begin by learning a disengagement technique that would be useful if somebody were to-”

You swear you’re trying to listen.

Honestly.

But that voice. And the way his lips move when he talks. 

And fuck, it’s hot when his throat bobs when he swallows and-

“Are you ready?”

Uh oh, you did it again. 

“Huh?” you mutter, dragging your gaze away from his throat.

“I said, are you ready to try the movements I just explained?” Silco asks, raising one eyebrow expectantly. 

“Of course I am,” you scoff confidently, despite having not listened to a single word he’s just said. “I’m practically a cage fighter at this point. I could take you down faster than you could say 2-in-1 decarboxylator and herb infuser.”

He doesn’t ask. In fact, he’s stopped asking what the hell you’re talking about when you’re both busy because it more often than not just leads to a twenty minute monologue, which he’s more than happy to listen to as you lie in bed together. But not when you’re about to learn important skills like how to defend yourself in a fight.

“Alright then, show me,” Silco responds, stepping closer to you to do whatever the hell he’s been talking about for the last five minutes. 

Suddenly, he reaches out and grabs a handful of your shirt with one hand, scrunching it up right next to your collarbone. 

Your body jolts forward slightly with the motion, eyes flicking up to gawp at him in alarm. 

But instead of flipping you over his shoulder and breaking your spine (you assume that was the intent), Silco just looks down at you, waiting patiently for you to make your move.

Of course, you have no idea what you’re doing (ever), so you just stand there like a rat in headlights, staring up at him in awe. 

“Grab onto your shirt like I told you, darling,” he instructs softly when you still don’t do anything. 

“It’s okay, you can have it if you want,” you whisper back in a daze. 

“No, grasp the fabric with this hand,” he says, gently guiding your hand to fist the material, right next to where his hand is still holding onto it. “And then grab onto my wrist with your other hand.”

You do and suddenly, you feel like you’re in a sauna. 

Why’s he grabbing your shirt like that? And how in the actual fuck can somebody’s wrist be so goddamn hot?

“Now pull your shirt away from me with your hand and push my wrist away with the other,” Silco continues, seemingly unaware of how flustered you are. 

Oh, so that’s what he’s trying to get you to do. 

You hesitate for a moment, blankly staring at his arm. Only then does Silco notice your reticence, but he must put it down to nerves because the grip on your shirt lessens slightly. 

“It’s alright, my love, just try your best,” he tells you soothingly. 

You smile up at him, utterly dazzled by his… him-ness. 

“Okay.”

You just want to impress him. To make your silly little guy as proud of you as you are of him. 

So you try your best…

Which of course means putting way too much power into it. 

With absolutely zero warning, you shove him away from you at the same time as you rip your shirt from his grasp, the force causing you to stumble and trip yourself up on your feet. Instinctively, you reach out and grab onto Silco’s waistcoat, pulling him down with you. 

He just about manages to catch the back of your head before it smacks against the floor, but  can’t save himself from crashing down on top of you.

Your fingers stay latched onto him as he leans up to check on you, hand still cupping the back of your head protectively. 

“Are you alright?” he asks frantically, rapidly looking over you for any injuries.

Your brain must have short-circuited because in lieu of answering, you simply gaze up at him in shock.

The fall appears to have knocked some of his hair loose, now hanging down over his forehead in strands, and sweet Janna, this should be a crime. 

It’s not fair. How are you supposed to do anything or even think straight with this?

Silco cups your cheek and calls your name, clearly panicked. 

“Can you hear me?”

It’s too much for your poor heart, so give you in and press your lips against his in a passionate kiss.

Silco freezes for a split second before letting out a startled, hmpf!

He moves back, breaking the kiss to hold both of your hands against the floor to stop you from leaning up. 

“Darling, this is serious! You cannot kiss me in the middle of training,” he huffs, exasperated.

You hope the puppy-dog eyes will earn you your forgiveness. 

“But you’re just so cute.”

He sighs, head hanging down low for a brief second before he meets your gaze again.

“Are you injured?”

“No. Are you?”

Silco appears to be relieved, but also a little perplexed. 

“I’m fine, darling. How did you lose your balance so easily?” he asks. “It was supposed to be a simple manoeuvre.”

“I uh… I got distracted,” you say bashfully.

Please don’t read my mind. Please don’t read my mind. Please don’t read my mind. 

Luckily, he just runs a hand through his hair, trying to put it back in place. He fails spectacularly. 

“You cannot get distracted in a fight, you must be vigilant at all times,” he tells you, like he’s trying to be stern. 

You take no notice. 

“Even if the person I'm fighting is ridiculously hot?”

Silco ignores the question (despite the fact that the tips of his ears are turning the loveliest shade of red) and continues pretending to be strict. 

“Let’s try getting out of this hold,” he says. “What do you think would be the best way to escape from this position?”

You don’t even bother looking for a way to escape, still too focused on giving some love to your mans.

Leaning up as far as you can, you deliver a quick kiss to his nose, which, to your absolute delight, only makes him blush even more. 

He says your name as a scold.

“What did I just say?”

You toss your head to the side and whine, rumbling your legs a little against the floor like a child. 

“Why can’t I just do this if someone attacks me? I feel like it’s kinda working.”

“Do what?” Silco asks with a frown.

“Kiss them.”

And gods, you swear the noise that emanates from his chest is a growl.

“Absolutely not,” he grunts, pressing himself slightly closer to you until you involuntarily squeak.

Silco releases his grip on your hands and climbs off of you, helping you to stand up so he can dust off your trousers. 

Over the course of the next hour, he does actually teach you one or two methods to escape someone’s grasp, but perhaps more usefully, he explains that it’s better to focus on prevention of attacks, rather than relying on moves that you’re probably going to forget when filled with adrenaline.

But just knowing that you’ll have both a slew of bodyguards and a little bit of knowledge in self-defence makes you feel a bit more confident, which was probably the only reason you agreed to learn in the first place.

Of course, the impromptu lesson ends when you trip again and nearly break your nose falling into a table, this time when you’re only trying to get a glass of water. 

Being led carefully back upstairs by Silco, he exhaustedly suggests that training takes place in his office from now on, to which you ask if you can be wrapped up entirely in bubble wrap in what you would call your Safety Suit.

You get no response, which in your books is not strictly a no, so you make a mental note to add an industrial amount of bubble wrap to the next product order you fill out.

Lacing your fingers with his, you give him the biggest, most affectionate smile as you follow him upstairs to the shower, wondering just how in the hell you got so lucky.

-

It’s only a few weeks later that Jinx gets sick, somehow catching a head cold that thankfully isn’t too concerning, just a bit of a temperature that puts her in bed for a few days.

Although, much like her father, she's incredibly demanding. Which of course only multiplies tenfold the second she starts to feel under the weather, insisting either you or Silco be with her all day every day. So the two of you take shifts, juggling paperwork, meetings, and spending time with Jinx, as well as trying to look after yourselves.

It works for a few days, distracting Jinx when she gets bored or frustrated, coercing her to eat and drink, the three of you even spending time together to discuss her new invention ideas while she’s stuck in bed.

Then, it all goes downhill from there. 

You’re on Jinx duty one afternoon, down in the kitchen and in the middle of making her a warm drink when a loud commotion erupts from the bar. Your head pops curiously around the door frame only to be greeted with the sight of utter chaos; a slew of the club’s bouncers and Silco’s usual bodyguards frantically rushing through the club.

For a brief second, you wonder if there’s a security convention happening that you hadn’t been made aware of.

But the moment you spot the Doctor slinking through doors and up the stairs towards Silco’s office, your heart drops in your chest.

He’s supposed to be at a meeting right now with Sevika, across town.

Or will it have finished by now? Would he have had time to walk all the way back to The Drop?

Fuck, what if something happened during the meeting?

Desperately trying to keep the panic at bay, you slip through the crowd and up the stairs, all the while hoping you’ll find your boyfriend in his office as normal, pacing in front of the window like he usually does when there’s been a hitch in the plans. 

But when you reach the doors, you find two more burly guards blocking the entrance. 

You suck in a breath of air and take measured steps down the corridor until you’re standing in front of them. 

“Hey guys, I need to talk to Silco,” you say as calmly as possible, pointing to the door behind them. 

“Sorry, can’t let you in,” one of them says, barely even sparing you a glance.  

You frown. 

“Why? What’s happened?” you ask, trying to hide the wobble in your voice. Then, at the risk of sounding too involved, “Is he okay?”

“There’s been an incident,” the other grunts. 

You hold in the urge to scream and respond as courteously as you can given the situation. 

“Yes, I gathered that, but it’s really important that I talk to him.”

The guards barely look at you, as if you’re just a fly buzzing in front of them. 

“Sorry. Protocol.”

Your fists clench at your sides. 

He’s your partner, for Janna’s sake! 

For all you know, something terrible could’ve happened and these two chumps are treating you like you’re the maid! As a matter of fact, you’re pretty sure you rank higher than these two in the pecking order anyway. 

You put on your meanest face and glare up at them, channelling all your Eye of Zaun energy.

“Look, I don’t give a rat’s arse about protocol, I need to see him right-”

Even just the mention of protocol reminds you of Jinx, who you’d completely forgotten about in all the hubbub. 

Your mouth drops open and you spin on your heel mid-sentence, racing down the corridor to her bedroom. Footsteps land heavily on the floor until you’re bursting through into her room the instant your fingers grasp the handle.

Jinx is completely fine, albeit a little startled at your dramatic entrance, sitting up in bed where you’d left her. You almost collapse in relief. 

“You were gone for ages!” she complains with a huff, until her eyes land on your empty hands and her face screws up, whining, “Hey, where’s my hot choccy milk?”

You rush to her side, gently soothing back the sweaty hair from her forehead with your hand. 

“I’m sorry, pumpkin, I forgot,” you attempt to placate her. “I’ll make one for you in a little bit.”

Her annoyance fades and you just see the worry overtake her expression as she examines you, eerily similar to her father.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. 

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart.”

She isn’t buying it. 

“Yeah there is,” Jinx scowls, even crossing her arms against her chest to show you she really means business. “Don’t lie to me, I’m not a little kid anymore.”

You sigh. What the hell are you meant to tell her? You don’t even know what’s going on.

“There’s just been… a little bit of an incident, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. We’re safe here,” you try to say reassuringly. 

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s just trying to sort everything out,” you reply. “I’m sure he won’t be long.”

Gods, you hope that’s the case. 

Honestly, you feel awful lying to her, but you have no idea what’s happening yourself. So right now, you both need to stay as calm as possible.

You sit with her for however long, keeping both Jinx and yourself distracted with a game while you internally battle with yourself to stop the worry from overtaking you. 

It’s probably only a few minutes, but it feels like it’s been hours when the door finally opens and Sevika enters, automatically throwing a grimace towards Jinx.

Of course, Jinx isn’t Sevika’s greatest friend on the best of days, but now that she’s sick, it’s entirely worse. She throws the covers over her head and groans in retaliation.

“Boss wants to see you,” Sevika announces, looking directly at you, thankfully ignoring Jinx’s outburst. 

Hope flutters in your chest for a split second. If he wants to see you, that means he’s awake and more than likely talking.

But you can’t really ask the six million questions that are running through your brain with Jinx here listening. And you also can’t really leave her with Sevika, unless you want the entire room to be destroyed. 

“Can you fetch Ran for me?” you ask, begging the woman with your eyes whilst keeping your tone neutral. “I can’t leave Jinx on her own.”

Sevika sneers, clearly annoyed. 

Then, you watch as she considers Jinx (still hiding under the covers), and probably considers being the one to watch over her for the foreseeable. 

Without another word, she promptly turns on her heel and walks out the room.

The whole time you’re waiting for her return, Jinx pesters you to let her see her Dad, but you make her promise that she’ll stay in bed until he gives the okay. 

Luckily, Sevika is back within minutes, Ran in tow, who silently reclines in the furthest chair from her bed. You explain to Jinx that you’ll be back soon, and encourage her to tell Ran about all her new invention ideas.

And the very moment you’ve shut the door to her bedroom, Sevika pauses outside, presumably to update you on the situation.

But your anxiety immediately gets the better of you and you sprint down the hall like a madman, too nervous to even wait a few seconds.

Vaguely, you hear Sevika mutter, “Don’t know why I fucking bother,” as you speed away, but you’ll have to apologise to her later.

You need to see him now. 

When you arrive at Silco’s office, the guards move to the side in preparation, although they do manage to look the tiniest bit alarmed when you burst through the doors yelling, “I just really love paperwork!” and kick the door shut behind you.

Hopefully that’ll quench any suspicions they might have. 

Silco is clearly not in his office, so the next port of call is his bedroom, of which you slam the door open and tumble into the room, hanging onto the door knob for dear life when the motion threatens to send you sprawling across the floor.

From his bed where he’s laid out, Silco’s eyes widen in bewilderment, jolting back against the pillows his head is propped up on. 

Your fingers grip the door handle while your eyes fill with tears, gasping at the sight of him. 

It’s hard not to miss the stained bandage around his thigh, missing waistcoat, and filthy, rumpled clothes. And the fact that he’s much paler than usual. 

You feel sick. 

“Sil…”

“I’m fine, darling,” he attempts to mollify you, shifting about as he tries to sit up.

“No, no, don’t move,” you choke out.

You rush over to him, uncaring of the way your knees crack against the ground when you heavily drop beside his bed. 

“What-” you swallow the knot in your throat, shakily willing the tears away. “What happened?”

A hand reaches out to comfort him, but you hesitate, hovering above his arm.

The last thing you want to do is accidentally hurt him.

Silco grasps your hand with his, firmly intertwining your fingers together. But you beat him to it, bringing his hand to your mouth to gently kiss his knuckles.

“An individual attacked us on our way back to the club,” he explains, two-toned eyes focused on where your mouth rests on the skin of his hand. 

You look up at him, brow furrowed. 

“An individual? Did you see what they looked like?”

“No, they were masked and escaped before Sevika or I could apprehend them,” he replies, voice clearly tired and groggy.

You want to ask why the hell they were alone without any guards, but you know he’ll just get huffy about it. Something about being able to look after himself.

Your hand runs over your face as you sigh.

“Do you think it was one of the gangs?”

That’d be the most obvious set of culprits. 

“It could be, or it could be a lone fanatic who disagrees with my policies,” Silco replies. “We will conduct a thorough investigation and in the meantime security measures will be tripled, you and Jinx included.”

“What did the Doctor say?”

“The usual,” he says, avoiding eye contact as his gaze trails to your clasped hands once more. If there’s one thing that Silco hates, it’s talking about his own health and wellbeing. “The Shimmer injections should speed things along.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before cutting in with a question of his own. 

“How is Jinx?”

“She’s fine, worried about you,” you tell him, squeezing his hand in comfort.

Suddenly, your eyes meet his, filling with tears once more as your mind begins to spiral.

What if-

You cut off that train of thought immediately, letting go of his hand and leaning forward to lightly rest your forehead against his side.

“Oh, Sil,” you mumble shakily into the creased fabric of his shirt. 

“Come here, darling,” he says, gently pushing you to sit back up.

You look up to see him patting the space beside him, the side you usually sleep on.

“But I don’t want to hurt you,” you protest weakly. 

“You won’t,” he says with resolve.

You only hesitate for a moment longer before standing up and making your way around the bed, gingerly climbing onto your side.

Silco quickly reaches for you and pulls you over to him, laying your head against his chest and wrapping his arms around you. You’re careful not to lean on him too heavily. 

And gods dammit, as you lie there cocooned in his arms, those tears slowly and silently leak out against your will, soaking into his burgundy shirt.

“I was so worried,” you begin, hoping he can’t detect the wobble in your voice. “I… I thought…”

“Shh, my love,” he hums into your hair. “I’m here now.”

You allow yourself to relax in his presence, beyond thankful that he’s here and he’s alive, even if he’s injured. 

You’ll take care of him every single day until he’s better. And even after that too. For as long as he wants you.

But as much as you want to stay in his arms right now, reassuring yourself with each inhale and exhale of breath that levers your head on his chest, you have to get up. 

“Where are you going?” Silco protests when his arms slip away from you.

“I need to check on Jinx,” you explain, reluctantly climbing off the bed with a sniff. “Plus, it might look a bit suspicious if I spend too long in here. Might start a few rumours.”

Silco frowns when you stand at the foot of the bed and straighten your clothes, scrubbing a hand over your face to wipe away the tears.

“Bring Jinx here, then you can stay as long as you like,” he says, almost with a pout.

You try not to smile at the way he sounds like a little boy trying to get out of bedtime

“She’s still in bed,” you explain. “Plus, she’ll get upset if she sees that you’re hurt. I’ll send Sevika back in to watch over you.”

Silco doesn’t look convinced, so you wander over to his side again.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll come back later,” you say, kissing his forehead tenderly. 

He catches your hand before you can leave, smirking a little. 

“Why can’t you tell everyone you’re my nurse?” he asks, that mischief still lurking despite the exhaustion. “Then you could spend the night here, no questions asked.”

You tug your hand out of his grasp, glaring down at him in faux annoyance. 

“If you weren’t already injured, I would actually smack you right now,” you threaten.

“Sounds lovely,” he grins, reaching for your hand until you dance out of his reach with a yelp.

You begin to walk towards the door. 

“Stay in bed, you menace. And don’t do anything I would do!” you call out over your shoulder as you leave, exiting the room before you do anything stupid (like offering to give him a sponge bath just because you want to take his shirt off). 

And as you go, you pray to Janna that this period of recovery with Silco’s injury is not going to be a trial. The last thing you need right now is any more stress. 

-

The period of recovery is a trial. 

But did you honestly expect anything less with Silco as your patient? 

Luckily, his leg begins to heal fairly quickly, no doubt thanks to the Shimmer injections. But it still takes a bit of time until he can get back to work as normal.

After checking up on Jinx, you find out from Sevika that the Doctor had actually ordered bed rest until he gives the okay. Which is a relief at first because it means that you can bully Silco into properly resting for once in his life.

Except, that means you have to take over the brunt of the meetings and paperwork. 

Between the worry about both Jinx and Silco’s recoveries, and having to carry most of the business, you think you’re losing your mind. 

You continue to take care of Jinx, as well as Silco, who are both the whiniest, most demanding two people you’ve ever met when they’re sick. 

Jinx hates that she can’t visit Silco in case she gives him an infection and bugs you constantly about going to see him. And Silco borderline whines every time you stop him from getting out of bed to ‘just smoke one cigar and fill in one shipping manifest at his desk’. 

Yeah, no. 

More often than not, you’re running between the two of them, perpetually washing your hands and making sure your mask is secure on your face. 

Sometimes you’ll briefly stop on the way to inhale a snack. Sometimes you’ll shove your face under the sink taps and get both a drink and a wash at the same time. Other times you try not to scream into the nearest pillow or cushion in fear of accidentally losing your voice. 

This time, you’ve just finished putting Jinx to bed (a battle far more ferocious than probably any battle in history, ever), and you’re now on your way to check on Silco, ready for his new evening routine. 

Check stitches. Clean wound. Re-bandage. Give medicine. Give food. Check he’s actually taken medicine. Give drink. Find a new book for him to read because he’s bored, darling. 

But instead of finding him laying in bed, plucking his comb like it’s a musical instrument, he’s standing up (barely) and clutching to the dresser.

You watch incredulously as he attempts to tug his trousers over his injured leg, sweating, pale, and clearly out of breath. 

“Are you serious right now?”

He looks up, lips pulling into the tiniest smile at the sight of you. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” he greets warmly, before going back to the task at hand. 

You think your head is going to explode. 

“What are you doing?” you ask dumbly.

The tray of his food and meds are placed on the bedside table, while Silco continues to wrestle with his trousers. Frankly, he looks ridiculous, pyjama top still on, trousers halfway up one leg as the other gets stuck on his ankle over and over again.

“I have a meeting,” he informs you, as if that’s an explanation. 

You look up to the ceiling like you’ll find a piece of your sanity on it. There’s definitely no meetings scheduled in the diary.

Dear gods, if he’s got a fever now and is hallucinating, you think you might just evaporate. 

“What meeting?”

Silco decides not to give you any details and instead just calmly states,

“It is very important. I must attend.”

Then, he carries on trying to get dressed like he wasn’t stabbed in the leg only a week earlier.

You can almost visualise the stress levels rising in your body; the jug about to overflow and spill out of you. 

What you should probably do right now is carefully help him back into bed and fetch Sevika so you can all decide on the best solution to this dilemma.

But you’re human, so you let your emotions get the better of you instead. 

“No.”

Silco has the gall to look surprised.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, genuinely shocked at your directness. 

“I said no, now get back in bed,” you say, moving over to him to help him take off those stupid trousers and put his pyjamas back on.

He must not understand how serious you are right now because he continues to gently protest.

“Darling, I appreciate-”

“Silco,” you cut him off, tears filling your eyes as you arrive in front of him, looking him dead in the eye. Your voice is shockingly quiet and precise. “I need you to get back in bed or I think I am actually, seriously going to lose it.”

He looks startled, shuffling forward to comfort you. 

“Sweetheart-”

“Please, Silco,” you cut him off, your voice cracking with the words. 

Silco appraises you for a moment, watching your tense body and distraught face. 

Finally, he speaks. 

“Alright,” he concedes quietly, mismatched eyes full of concern. 

He manages to step out of his trousers and you help him hobble back over to the bed, pulling up the covers so he can get under the sheets.

And once he’s comfortably sat up against the headboard, he opens his mouth to speak again, eyes watching you carefully the whole time. 

You don’t let him. 

You lean forward, kiss his cheek, and then step away. 

“Please eat this,” you say, nodding to the tray on his bedside table. “I’m going to check on Jinx and then I will be back to change your bandage.”

Your footsteps out the room are measured and by the time he calls your name, asking you to wait, you’re already out the door. But you can’t stop walking because if you do, you’ll burst into tears…

Which is exactly what happens after you check on Jinx.

You’re just on your way back to Silco’s bedroom when one of the employees stops you in the corridor to say that a warehouse has been raided, meaning a bunch of stock has been stolen. 

You politely thank her for letting you know, ask her to inform Sevika, take a sharp turn into your bedroom, and break down sobbing.

Truthfully, you’re not sure how long you spend kneeling on the floor next to your bed, face down as you cry into the sheets.

But it must be long enough because the door opens and a set of limping footsteps shuffle towards you. 

He sits down on the bed and gently - soothingly - runs his fingers through your hair. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath between each word, but you somehow manage to heave out, “You… should… be… in… bed,” sobbing the last word until it’s completely unintelligible. 

“I know, my love, I know,” Silco consoles you.

He delicately encourages you to get up and get into bed, following you under the covers despite there barely being enough room for the both of you. 

Once he’s reassured you that you’re not hurting his leg, you let him hold you in his arms, rubbing your back until you stop crying. 

You have a killer headache. And a big part of you feels bad for letting him comfort you when it should be the other way round. 

“Do you know why I gave you this bedroom when I first asked you to work and live here?” he eventually mumbles into your hair. 

You sniffle. “No, why?”

“It’s the only one with a single bed.”

Slowly, you pull back to look at him in disbelief. 

“What?”

“I wanted to make sure you didn’t invite anyone over,” he explains nonchalantly, like any sane person would invite you to live with them and give you the tiniest bed ever, just because he was jealous of even the thought of you having a partner. 

You huff a laugh and his lips quirk into a smile in response. 

“There was never anyone to invite over,” you say. “Plus, it doesn’t really make sense to invite someone over when they already live with you.”

Silco watches you affectionately. He cups your cheeks and leans forward to capture your lips in the slowest, most tender kiss. 

Your eyes flutter closed and you whisper against him, “You’re injured.” 

“My lips are perfectly fine,” he mumbles back. 

You gently whack him on the arm. 

“Silly boy.”

He smirks (the one that still gives you butterflies) and steals another kiss before cuddling up to you again. 

“Thank you for looking after everything for me,” he says over your shoulder. “In truth, I am not quite sure what I would do without you.”

“I don’t know how you do it all, I feel like one of those stretchy dolls being pulled in every direction until they snap,” you snort, scrubbing a hand over your face. 

“You’re doing wonderfully, my sweetheart. I am continually astounded by your unwavering strength and compassion,” Silco tells you. 

Then, he blows an amused breath of air out of his nose, like he can’t quite believe whatever he’s thinking. “It’s no wonder I-”

He pauses, whole body suddenly tense in your arms. 

You wait patiently for him to continue, squeezing him a little bit tighter in reassurance. 

“Hmm?”

Silco eventually lets out a shaky exhale, simultaneously relaxing into your touch, almost like he’s melting into your warmth. 

“I know that you will be just fine. We will be just fine,” he says.

You hum again, feeling yourself drifting off to sleep with each looping circle traced on your skin. 

Deep down, you know you’ll have to go fetch him some water and his first aid supplies when you wake. You’ll sit in your armchair beside your own bed until he wakes up from some much needed rest. 

But he’s worth it. He’s worth the crick in your neck, and the reduced hours of sleep, and the overwhelming stress.

He’s worth it all. 

Because you love him. 

-

a/n: did anyone else play the folded paper drawing game or was it just me?? 

edit: i just googled it and the game is called Exquisite Corpse 😭

edit edit: so i’m currently trying to plot out the rest of this story so there’ll hopefully be fewer breaks between chapters (it was only meant to be a one-shot lmao), wish me luck my lieges 🙏 if you’re still reading this daft story after all this time, ily. if you’re new, welcome ily

[hermannsthumb]

possible prompt for a university au: newt is the biology major who maintains all the fish tanks in the physics building at 11pm and hermann is the physics student who likes to wander the halls to think. newt accidentally flings water all over the ground and hermann trips, hijinks ensue.

earlier today I was thinking about how I wrote a college AU fic almost 3 years ago to the date, and how I wanted to do more bc its fun thinking about newt and hermann as dumb college students

----

Newt's not really sure how he ended up with the weirdest work-study job on the planet, but honestly, things could be much, much worse (he could be stuck down in the dining hall, or dealing with confused freshmen in the school bookstore) so he keeps his thoughts on the whole thing to himself. Every Friday at eleven sharp, Newt pulls on his grodiest t-shirt and a pair of long rubber gloves and treks all the way over to the physics department to set to work scrubbing down the fish tanks that line the classroom walls. Why does the physics department have fish tanks? Newt's not really sure about that, either. It's kind of an insane amount of them, too, more than even the marine bio department has. Maybe it's supposed to boost morale or something. Hey, look at these crazy cool tropical fish who get to do nothing but eat and swim in circles, sorry you're stuck inside calculating velocity and shit.

Whatever, Newt's not complaining about that either. Let the physics nerds have their fun. It'll be good for them to branch out a little, realize there's life beyond robotics club meetings.

Also, Newt likes the fish. They're cute. He likes to think they like him, too, because they're very well behaved when he has to scoop them out of their tanks and plop them into smaller fish bowls (the kind goldfish in movies always use). He's going to teach them tricks eventually—he had a beta fish once who would do a little flip when Newt tapped the glass a certain way because he knew he'd get rewarded with dried worms, so Newt knows it's possible. Just imagine, a hundred fish doing flips on command. Newt Geiszler, fish whisperer.

Yeah, maybe the job could be more glamorous. It's really hard to get algae out of the gloves, and he hasn't been allotted the budget for a new pair yet.

"Hey, guys!" he shouts as he pushes in the door to room 214. The fish don't acknowledge him: they just continue swimming in their giant tank. In and out of plastic plants and rock caves. The rock caves were a gift from Newt three months into the job, and so were some of the moss balls—stimulation is important for fish! He wouldn't want to be trapped in a glass box with nothing to do, either. "I bet you missed me. Ready for a clean tank?"

Newt always talks to the fish, even if they don't talk back, because he thinks it's important to build their trust. He'll usually keep a running commentary of his week as he scrubs the tanks, just get everything off his chest that he needs to get off. Stuff he's worried about. Stuff that went well. Stuff that went badly. Therapy's expensive, and Newt's student health insurance can only cover so much, but talking to fish? That's free.

That's also kinda why he does it so late at night and over the weekend. The last thing he wants is an audience. Because, one, talking to fish is admittedly weird, and two, no one wants a glimpse at Newt's psyche like that, probably not even the fish.

The first step in cleaning the tanks is relocation. Newt digs his stereotypical goldfish bowls and an industrial-size mesh wand out of the supply closet, fills the former with some of the special tank salt water, and begins the slow and arduous task of scooping out the fish and depositing them into the bowls. "I had the lamest week," he announces once he's about three clownfish in. "I was working on a group project Saturday—"

Then Newt stops, because he hears footsteps in the hallway just outside the classroom.

Serial killer, Newt's instincts supply helpfully.

No, Newt corrects himself, that's dumb. Why would a serial killer wander into the physics building at eleven o'clock at night? Why would anyone, period? He's probably imagining stuff. Lack of sleep, stress over his upcoming projects, residual embarrassment from his disaster study session Saturday, all of it culminating in Newt thinking there's someone there. No, definitely imagining it. Newt can only even get in this late to the department because his ID swipe card is set up with the right permissions—not even the physics students have the permissions he does to be in this late at night. Well, not unless they clean the kitchenette in the student lounge or something.

Or if Newt left the door unlocked.

More footsteps. Closer now.

Newt's pretty sure he didn't leave the door unlocked, because he thinks it locks automatically behind him, and he would have to literally prop it open for anyone to get in after him. But anything's possible. The door could've caught on a dropped pencil or a paper scrap or other weird shit that physics students leave around, and a serial killer could've noticed and taken the opportunity to sneak inside on the off chance a hapless young biology major was scrubbing slime off fish tanks in the middle of the night. Any minute now, Newt's about to end up on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. The Physics Department Murder. The Disappearing Biologist. (Nah, neither of those are very good titles, but that's why Newt isn't on the creative writing track.)

Step-tap-step. Closer now; Newt's heart leaps to his throat. Step-tap-step. Step-tap-step. Pausing just outside the door of room 214. God, why didn't Newt turn the lights off? Why didn't he shut the door?

Newt reaches for the first vaguely weapon-shaped thing he can find—an empty fishbowl, because Newt's not going to sacrifice any of the fish for this—and, as the door swings open, hurls it with a cry.

The bowl clunks on the ground. Except it turns out Newt grabbed the wrong fish bowl, because (even though it doesn't shatter, thank God) water quickly begins to seep across the slate floor tiles towards Newt's serial killer, a pathetic little clownfish (Newt thinks this one is named Albert, because the physics department is made up of nerds who do shit like name their random pet fish after their kind) flopping around in the puddle. Newt's serial killer, meanwhile, cries out similarly, his arms windmilling as he loses his footing and slips backwards, his cane—

Oh, fuck.

The intruder is not a serial killer. It's someone possibly worse, actually: Newt's mortal enemy, Hermann Gottlieb.

Newt's not really sure at what point Hermann became his mortal enemy and not just some guy I have class with that I hate, but he can pretty easily say that they've hated each other since the moment Hermann walked through the doors of Engineering 101 and was deigned Newt's lab partner by the Alphabetized By Last Name Seating Chart god. Something about Hermann just gets under Newt's skin. It's not his prissy English accent, or his oversized sweaters, or his absolutely horrendous haircut, and it's not even that he takes every opportunity to savagely rip apart every single thing Newt says in class. Don't get Newt wrong, that's all super fucking annoying, but it's annoying levels he can deal with.

It's the stuff they have in common that makes Newt hate him. It's like Hermann's a slightly broodier and more angular mirror that reflects all of Newt's most egregious faults—his arrogance, his stubbornness, his social awkwardness, his desperation to be taken seriously—right back at him. It sucks.

Plus, one time Newt caught Hermann ripping down the flyer he put up on the quad for Anime Club to advertise his stupid chess club instead, and he's never managed to forgive him for that.

Newt may hate Hermann, but he's not about to let him land on his ass in a puddle of fishy water (especially not on a freezing November night) just because the subsequent bitching would be unbearable, and, yeah, it would be supremely shitty of Newt, so he leaps forward just in time to catch Hermann and his cane before he hits the ground. He's so impressed with himself with his amazing catch that it takes him a few seconds to realize that Hermann is shouting and probably has been shouting since he slipped.

"—bloody maniac! What on earth are you doing in here? How are you in here? Did you just assault me? I'm going to phone campus police, you wretched—"

"Hold that thought," Newt says.

He rights Hermann and snags the mesh net and rescues poor Al before it's too late, dropping him back into the big tank with the rest of his friends. Newt can't be sure, but he thinks Al blows a bubble in thanks at him. Maybe he needs to make friends outside fish.

Hermann is still yelling at him.

"I am going to tell the head of the department you're—you're skulking about in here after hours!" he declares. "You're a menace. Pay attention to what I'm saying to you, Newton!"

Newt sighs and turns around. Hermann's turned an interesting shade of red—sort of like an over-boiled lobster, or if he fell asleep in the sun for too long. Newt wonders if it's from embarrassment (almost falling on his ass) or anger (almost being knocked on his ass). Probably anger. "Look, dude, I'm sorry," Newt says. His face twists like he ate a lemon, and he hopes Hermann doesn't notice. Newt hates apologizing to Hermann. "It's my job to clean the tanks every weekend. You scared the shit out of me and I freaked out—it's just that, like, no one ever comes by this late. Ever." He decides not to mention the serial killer thing. Hermann might make fun of him for being jumpy or paranoid or something.

Hermann's scowl doesn't lessen, but he does nod. Plus, he stops shouting. That's as much as Newt's gonna get of forgiveness. "Hmph," Hermann says. "You clean the tanks?"

"Every weekend," Newt repeats. He realizes he got some fish tank slime on Hermann's button-up when he caught him. Oops. Hopefully Hermann won't notice until Newt's in the safety of his dorm. "Gotta pay for my textbooks somehow." Then he frowns. "Wait, so what are you doing here? I didn't know you had access to the building this late."

Maybe Hermann is the kitchenette-cleaning guy after all. But, to his surprise, Hermann sniffs and casts his eyes to his dorky Oxford shoes. "Er," he says. "It's just—I was having trouble working out a solution to a problem, and thought a walk might do me good. Chilly nights like this one always do. And I quite like this building at night—it's calm, and much quieter than my dormitory." He fidgets. "And—well—only don't say anything to anyone, but I rewrote the permissions of my ID card so I could come and go wherever I please ages ago."

"You rewrote the permissions?" Newt says. "What the hell, wouldn't you have to hack into the security system or something to do that?"

"Well, obviously," Hermann says.

Despite himself, and despite Hermann being his Mortal Enemy, Newt is genuinely impressed. "Dude," he says. "That is so badass." Since when has Hermann been a badass?

Hermann's eyebrows jump, and he blinks at Newt behind his dorky librarian glasses. What twenty-one-year-old wears librarian glasses? With a chain? "You think so?" he says.

"Uh, totally," Newt says. "What problem were you stuck on? The one from Saturday?"

Being lab partners for engineering means Newt and Hermann have to collaborate on pretty much everything, including their midterms. Their midterm is what they've been working on for the past two weeks. On Saturday, though, they met in neutral ground to work on it (a reserved study room in the library), and, after a stupid and massive argument that had the librarians hoisting them out by their shirt collars and threatening to ban them for life, Hermann called Newt an idiot and stomped off into the night. Newt still hasn't gotten around to giving the problem another shot. Whatever, they have another week before the dumb thing is due. Plenty of time. Hermann nods. "Yes," he says. "Er—that one."

Newt glances at the clock ticking away on the wall. Quarter after eleven. Hermann's delayed him a whole fifteen minutes. Technically, he reminds himself, he doesn't actually have to have the tanks scrubbed by Friday night—he has the whole weekend to get it done. Also, he kind of feels like he owes Hermann for attacking him the way he did. Accidentally attacking. "Listen, Hermann," he says, feeling totally insane for what he's about to suggest. But he kind of wants to know more about Hermann The Badass. "What if we went back to my place and worked on it together? I'll buy us pizza, and I have, like, a bunch of energy drinks." The pizza place nearest campus is open until three in the morning, almost definitely because they get all of their business from sleep-deprived undergrads. Plus, they have midnight specials where you get free breadsticks with every pizza. Newt could go for some breadsticks. "It might be...fun," he adds.

Fun? With Hermann? Hermann will think he hit his head or something.

But to his surprise, Hermann doesn't hesitate even a second before saying "Alright, then."

"Oh," Newt says. He honestly thought Hermann would put up more of a struggle. "Cool!"

"But I might need to borrow a jumper," Hermann says. "If you'd be so...courteous, that is. I'm a bit chilly."

For some reason, the thought of Hermann (Newt's mortal enemy, but also a secret badass) curled up in one of Newt's baggy sweatshirts makes Newt feel all weird and warm all over. He swallows a few times, because his throat feels a little weird, too. Too tight. Like he just ate something he's allergic to. "No sweat," Newt says. "Let me just get these fish back in the, um, the tank. And—" He waves his slimy, gloved hands. "Take these off. And clean up that puddle. Gimme—um, gimme like, ten minutes?"

"Of course," Hermann says, and gives Newt a small, terse nod.

From Hermann, it's a smile. Newt almost slips on the puddle he's so blindsided by it. Stupid Hermann, making him feel all weird and clumsy.

[tessiete]

If you still take prompts: Rumors of the Duchess of Mandalore (bc patriarchal bs and misogynistic beliefs about female leaders) potentially getting married reaches Coruscant and Obi-Wan copes as well as can be expected. Cue sad boi sadness with maybe fluff at the end? Or go full angst I’m ok with either

I AM! I am still taking prompts, and I know this took a while to get around to because I’m also sloooooow at filling them. But here we are, dear anon. I hope you enjoy this little snippet! <3

THE GRAVITATIONAL DEFLECTION OF LIGHT

There is some silly, selfish part of him that he never outgrew, and like a weed in his gut it twists and writhes when he hears that the Duchess Kryze is to marry.

And suddenly, he finds himself thinking of her more often, and more frequently during situations where his attention would best be put to use elsewhere. In council, he is forced to ask Master Windu to repeat a question he’d failed to hear, his mind being drawn by the gleam of light off the Senate dome on the horizon. During a sparring match, he takes a hit he’d never have missed except that Anakin threatens to deliver him a close shave at the end of his saber, and he’s struck dumb by the memory of her hand upon his cheek. There are peace lilies in a vase in the Archives, and pure beskar changes hands in a deal he’s meant to disrupt at a Separatist camp, but by far the most egregious lapse comes in the midst of relief efforts in a small village on Taskeed. He is caught, for a moment, by the sight of a woman with blonde hair and a young boy on her hip turning away from him. His focus slips. A blaze of light flashes more quickly than he can see, and by the time he hears the retort of a blaster rifle he is already on the ground.

The clones close ranks around him. Cody kneels, calling in a medevac even as Obi-Wan tries to rise. 

“No, sir, stay down,” he says, laying one hand against his shoulder. Obi-Wan winces at the contact. His muscles strain at the effort, the nerves at the site of his injury ruptured and ragged.

“Cody,” he chokes out. “There’s a hostile.”

His second is a merciful man and makes no comment on the idiocy of that statement. Instead, he bites open a pain tab, and shoves it between Obi-Wan’s teeth. Then, so rapidly he has no time to protest, he removes his belt, and tears apart the fabric at Obi-Wan’s waist, sprinkling sulfa powder over the gory wound, and pressing a bacta patch down to cover it.

There is no more blaster fire to mark their passage back to the ship, but the wound is too serious to treat on board The Negotiator. He is sent back to Coruscant as a consequence of his foolishness.

There, he is dipped in bacta, where he doesn’t dream, and he spends the next week of his convalescence thinking of her.

It had never been this bad during their first separation. The months following her ascension to the duchy had been painful, that he cannot deny, and he spent hours in his room lonely, and self-pitying, but he had been a child then and he can forgive himself now of the folly of youthful indiscretions. There followed more than a decade between them and he had gone days, weeks - upon the outbreak of war even months - without thinking of her at all.

But with one touch of her hand, he’s fallen again, his resolve crumbling into dust as though his indifference to her were only a veneer grown thin and brittle with being stretched over so much time.

The Duchess of Mandalore is to marry.

Why should that matter to him? They are friends. Hardly that, and nothing more. And it was he who had defined those terms. So why should he be restless, and anxious, and fretted up like some craftsman’s handiwork at the thought of it? It is silly. It is demeaning - to her, and to him.

And yet...he wants to know.

Who is she to marry? And when? How did they meet? Is he a Mandalorian, like her? Or did she meet him here? Did they meet at the Senate while he walked in the Temple only a few klicks away? Have they much in common? Do his political aims match hers? Does he long for peace like she does? Will he stand by her side in upholding it? Would he die for it? Would he die for her? Does she love him?

She must, he thinks. She must love him. She would not choose him, otherwise.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest thought of all.

He is confined to medbay with nothing to occupy his time but his holopad, his dispatch reports, and her when he sees a news story flash on his screen.

At Last! The Lily is Plucked

He cannot help himself as he reads about a chance meeting, a whirlwind romance, and plenty of private assignations held at various hotels and restaurants across Capital City. There are holos, too, and reels. He sees her leaving the Bal Silvestre on the arm of Corellian senator, Garm Bel Iblis.

Senator Bel Iblis is older than her, and seems a bit unkempt, his long hair pulled half back in a simple style. Obi-Wan knows of him by reputation, and heard him called a rake. His politics brand him a maverick, and a rogue, and he has been known, once or twice, to engage in backdoor negotiations in order to ensure a vote swings one way or another in his favour. Beside him, while he stands smug in his dark brocade, she shines. She is spotless. Luminous. They are not well matched.

He scours the net for more, and because he is looking, he finds it. There are many articles - hundreds. Some map out timelines of their courtship (they met years ago, apparently, at some gala held while Obi-Wan was still helping Anakin with Basic), some tell the history of their previous romantic entanglements (he was engaged to a woman now dead. She was once rumoured to be promised to a Vizsla. Obi-Wan’s name is not mentioned). Some merely provide pictures of their exploits, and comment on their mutual friends, making conjecture after conjecture about how their romance came to be, and what must happen next now that the flame has been rekindled. It is torturous. And tedious. And soon, Obi-Wan loses track of the details that appear in one article, and again in every other.

But one thing remains clear to him: Satine Kryze is going to be married. She has forever slipped his reach.

A reach, he pathetically reminds himself, he never intended to extend. All this self-flagellation is for naught. He is being ridiculous. 

So he thumbs off his pad, turns out the lights, and tries to sleep with the image of Satine, smiling and resplendent flickering in his mind. The next morning, feeling no better for the little rest he managed to steal, he deletes the history of his pad, and determines to feel absolutely nothing at all about Satine Kryze.

Then Padme comes to the Council and requests a padawan be sent to Mandalore’s aid.

It is Ahsoka who goes. Of course it is. He takes small solace in the fact that it had not been he who suggested her, but since she was assigned, he feels well within his rights to enquire about the Duchess upon her return.

“She seemed fine,” Ahsoka tells him. He has invited her for tea following her report to the Council, hoping he might, in his hospitality, coax a few more personal details from his grand-padawan. “I mean, there was a moment where Almec - that’s the Prime Minister, or rather was - anyway, there was a moment where he had her in a shock collar, but like I said, the cadets and I managed to sort it out.”

“Right,” he concedes. “As you said.”

A moment passes between them. Obi-Wan sips his tea, struggling to swallow as the fist around his throat grows tighter and tighter. Ahsoka, blissful in the aftermath of a successful solo mission, grabs another biscuit and a strip of perami gammon. 

“And tell me,” he ventures. “What of her - her consort? Any word of him? Where was he during this mess?”

“Her consort?”

“Her husband.”

Ahsoka scrunches her nose, and cocks a brow at Obi-Wan’s wild inquiry.

“She had a nephew,” she says. “But no one ever said anything about a consort.”

“Ah,” he says. “Perhaps he was occupied elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, amicable and amenable to letting the whole thing slide. He only hopes she won’t think it significant enough to mention to Anakin later. His curiosity won’t be as easily sated with tea and deflection.

--

He is not a lucky man.

Anakin comes blazing into his room with an ambitious stride, and a grin that speaks of imminent mischief.

“Heard you were asking Ahsoka about the Duchess’ consort,” he says, throwing his cloak over the back of a chair and dropping to lounge across Obi-Wan’s low couch.

“I was asking about her mission,” he corrects. He turns his back to set some water to boil, knowing that such an entrance by his padawan indicates a visit of extended duration. “And the key players, therein. Purely professional.”

“Purely.” Anakin smirks.

The subject is dropped when Anakin is diverted by the service being laid before him, and the inclusion of several of his favourite confections.

“Noorian memba tarts!” he cries. “Where did you even find these?”

“An old recipe,” Obi-Wan says. “But I remember you enjoyed them when we dined on Belasco and thought I’d try my hand at it.”

It is not a bad effort either, judging by Anakin’s display of enthusiasm. He eats the first with some degree of etiquette, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth are gone with no display of decency or shame whatsoever.

Obi-Wan sips his tea. He is thinking of Tahl while Anakin is thinking of the sweetness on his tongue, and making excuses for his absence the previous night.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but I was unavoidably delayed after the Senate recessed for the evening. I had to - to assist a delegate with a personal matter.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but remembers how Qui-Gon, too, used to invent reasons to disappear unchecked. He invents nothing. He only cleaves to his duty, while time and fate conspire to keep him absent anyway. 

Anakin must hear something in his silence, because his expression loses the tension of equivocation, and he falls to studying Obi-Wan’s face.

“I was only teasing, master,” he says. “Before. I didn’t think to ask Ahsoka anything about the Duchess. She spent most of her time with the nephew, but he seemed a bright kid. Close to Satine. I can ask her to ask him if he knows anything -”

“Absolutely not,” says Obi-Wan. The words are soft, but definite. He rises swiftly to clear the detritus of their meal. “Thank you, Anakin, but Duchess Kryze is only a friend. I merely inquired out of a desire to assure myself that the report issued to the Council lacked nothing in the thoroughness of its presentation. I should hate to think that such a personal association might be overlooked as an avenue for effecting harm.”

“Oh.”

“But I thank you in any case. Ahsoka’s report was well done, and you should be very proud of your padawan,” he says. “As I am of you.”

He turns to Anakin then, smiling and benign. His padawan meets his look with a vaguely skeptical one of his own, before patting him on the shoulder, and shrugging back into his cloak.

“Alright, master,” he says. “I’ll let her know how thorough she was.”

“Goodbye, Anakin.”

“Goodbye,” his friend replies. Then, just as he crosses the threshold of the door and moves into the open hall, he looks back. “Oh,” he says. “There’s a quick supply run being made to Mandalore for relief in light of Ahsoka’s investigation. Scheduled for tomorrow, but unfortunately, I’m needed back at the Senate. I meant to ask - you wouldn’t mind making the trip for me, would you? You don’t even need to get off the ship.”

---

There is nothing he can say to Anakin, so of course, as contrived and embarrassing as the whole thing is, he goes. And he does get off the ship.

Satine is there to meet him.

“Master Kenobi,” she says, extending her hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

He drops a brief, and reverential kiss then lets her go. 

“Cleaning up after my padawan and his padawan, it seems,” he says. “Apparently, a master’s work is never over. Congratulations on your recent engagement, Duchess. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

The look which passes over Satine’s face is one he cannot decipher. He thinks she looks in equal parts shocked that he has heard, disgusted by his presumption in speaking of it, embarrassed by his boldness, and wearied by his presence. But she doesn’t deny it, so he makes his excuses to leave.

“Excuse me, Duchess,” he says. “But this was only meant to be a very brief visit, and I should prepare for departure.”

“Can you not stay for midmeal?” she asks, and he hesitates upon the precipice of her invitation. “Surely you don’t mean to tease me with a visit as brief as this? And surely your men would enjoy some rest and repast before you go?”

The troopers at his back shift, and he can feel their eagerness undulate in the Force. It would be cruel to deny them for the preservation of his own fragmented dignity, so he relents.

“Of course, your grace,” he says. “We would be most honoured.”

“Captain,” she says to the Protector at her right. “Have these men fed and watered immediately. The kitchens and my staff are at their disposal.”

He clicks his heels, and disappears, while she steps forward, and wraps her arm around Obi-Wan’s as though completely uncaring of any beau or consort or husband who might see.

“You, my dear master,” she murmurs slyly by his ear. “Are to be attended elsewhere, at my discretion.”

He does nothing to resist as she pulls him along.

Soon, they are at the Palace. Soon, they are sat at a small table in her private quarters, drinking Mandalorian kava, and eating freshly baked land’shun. Soon, they are alone.

She sets her drink aside, and dusts her hands on a fine silk napkin before broaching the subject trapped between them.

“Now, what is this about my nuptials?” she asks. Her blue eyes are steady upon his own, and he feels his palms slick with sweat. She is radiant. She is regal. There is no holo or reel or word that could do justice to the beauty of this woman in the flesh, and he feels that insidious root of jealousy writhe with agony.

“Satine -” he begins.

“No, no,” she protests, seeming to anticipate his deflection before he has begun. “I should like to hear why you think I ought to accept your congratulations, and why you felt you ought to offer them personally, in particular. Mandalore seems a rather dull trip for a High General to make.”

“I came in Anakin’s stead, actually,” he replies pertly. Another sip of kava lends some sophistication to this claim.

“Of course,” she says, but she does not look away. He can feel her gaze upon him. He can feel her glittering in the Force. She is laughing.

And he cannot bear it.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he says, rising to his feet. He sets the cup upon a saucer where it clatters inelegantly against the pot of sucre next to it, overturning the dish and sending the crystals spilling across the table. “Forgive me,” he says again. 

She lunges forward to right the pot, and still his hand beneath her own. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. Then, he pulls away.

“I read about it on the net,” he says. “I saw the holos, and the reels. I only wanted to see you one last time, to see...I wanted to see that you were happy. That’s all.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says, his name like a sigh upon the breeze.

“It is nothing,” he says. “A foolishness all my own. I am sorry if I have troubled you, and I offer you my sincerest congratulations.”

He bows, though when he raises his head, his eyes do not rise with it, so he does not see the look of sorrow upon her face. Still, he imagines it as pity, and moves to make his escape. She is faster than he is. 

“No,” she says, standing between him and the door. “I will not accept your congratulations, and I will not accept your departure on such callous terms as these.”

“Duchess -”

“Ben,” she counters, leaning on the name. “I am not engaged. I am not married. And I do not intend to be, no matter how devoted to the idea of it you are.”

“I - devoted?” he asks, his voice rising to the height of his indignation. “I am devoted to no such thing. I have only - only been reconciled to it for weeks, thinking only of you and your happiness.”

“And your own misery, too, I’d wager.”

He chokes on his denial because he knows it is too big a lie to fit through his lips, and stares at her in dismay. She is smiling. Force, he thinks. She is incandescent. Like she has swallowed a star, and he can’t look away. He would that he could be consumed by her too, and finally, he gives in.

“Yes,” he says in an admission of guilt so great it brings relief. “I was miserable. I am, I think, an infinitely miserable person.”

“You are,” she agrees. “But I am not getting married, I am not engaged, and I am only as in love as I ever have been. And if you are foolish enough to forget that, then you are deserving of every misery you heap on yourself.”

“Have pity,” he begs.

“None,” she says.

“Have mercy,” he pleads.

“For you?” she says. “Always.”

They fall together like gravity and sunlight, and for a moment, whole galaxies bend to their will.

[facelessxchurch]

One of the things that annoyed me about the SoW cover was that there were juxtaposition of the green-ness in general with Nef's red right hand. At first I thought it was to draw attention to the hand because Nef would do something pivotal with it, like use it to kill Mevolent, kill Vile or one of the protag cast, but all he ended up using it for was to melt Warlocks and then it got cut off, so what gives? Also, phase 1 covers are monochrome, except SoW, where all the characters are (1)

Yeah and during the #13DaysOfSkulduggery contest he told people to put a special emphasise on Nef’s red right hand. Honestly, I think he tried to troll and instead shot himself in the foot again. Taking Nef’s trademark weapon from him is just such a shit move.

It’s so weird that Percival only tried to make the SoW non-monochrome. It would have been better if it had been just green with Nefs hand being the only splash of red bc green and red are complementary colours, but usually it doesn’t work out well if you make both colours saturated AF. One has to be saturated and the other desaturated for it to work. The orange flame on the violet new cover works bc the pinkish-orange is an analog colour to the violet-purple colour of the rest of the cover.

I did a quick and messy colour correction,  so the colouring would be more similar to how the other phase 2 have been drawn (and fixed the most egregious mistakes with Nef’s face and Val’s hair tho I can’t be fucked to fix Val’s screwed up anatomy like the left arm being too long or the muscles on Tanith’s right arm or how completely messed up Nef’s right hand is).

(1) I desaturated the green and colour shifted it to be more bluish (dark green = more bluish, light green = more yellowish) and and left his right hand as saturated as in the original to make the red pop more.

(2) Both green and red are as saturated as they are on the original but I took the colouring from the characters with the characters in the back being more influenced by the green that the ones in the front, using the other covers as reference.

(3) The green is the dominant colour and I desaturated the red hand and hue shifted it a bit to me more orange-yellow-ish so the colours look more natural in the green environment and this is the colour scheme I would personally choose tbh (I mean, I would go with a full colour scene instead of a duo-colour montage, but if I was restricted to two colours this is what I would do).

[ click on the picture, then right click on it, ‘open in another tab’ to see it properly ]

So yeah, I absolutely agree with you, trying to colour the characters was a mistake, not only does it look like shit bc by Percival doesn’t know that the fuck colour theory is, it also breaks the consistency between the cover. And this very saturated green and red doesn’t really work with each other, it would have been better if Nef’s red hand would have been treated like the flame on the DoA cover aka had been desaturated and hue shifted to fit the primary colour, the bright green, of the cover better so it would look more natural/harmonic.

TL;DR: I’m an artist nerd screeching about colour theory and no one cares. And it almost feels like Percival made the SoW cover ugly on purpose bc why is it so much worse than the others???

[1000-directions]

You and Angel (alexenglish on ao3) are some of my favorite writers and I'd love if you could spare any writing advice? I esp like how much research you put into your works but how do you strike the balance between infodump and cool detail? I'd also love some pointers on just the general narrative building you do, it's so good. Anyway I hope this isn't too weird bc i sent a similar ask to @queerindeed and you totally don't have to answer this if you're uncomfortable

hi!! first of all, @alexenglish is sooooo fucking talented, so good at world-building and characterization, such a genuine GIFT to the written word. it is heartbreaking that we have ended up in different fandoms, but they are someone whose friendship i really cherish, and someone who had a huge impact on the way i write and the way i think about the stories i choose to tell, and it’s an honor just to be mentioned in the same breath as them 💚

in terms of detail, i see myself as a less-is-more kind of writer. i don’t normally go into a lot of descriptions of what people look like, or what people are wearing, or how the room is set up, unless it feels really important to the story OR it’s something that i am genuinely excited to describe. i know some people really like those details, and that’s awesome, that’s why everyone’s style is different and every story is a fun surprise. personally, i just don’t like writing that kind of stuff, and i’m a very big advocate of writing what you enjoy. obviously, not every single moment of the writing process is going to be fun, so i really try to maximize the parts that are fun and skip over things i’m not thrilled about, to the degree that a story allows.

in terms of research and infodumping...sometimes it’s okay for you to know things that you don’t explicitly put into the story. like for one of my stories, i looked into historical halloween celebrations in the united states, and i know trick-or-treating probably isn’t something bucky barnes would have any personal connection to because it didn’t exist as we know it when he was a child. it’s not something i need to know for most stories, but it’s still something i keep in the back of my head, and if i do ever need that detail, i have it. and even if i don’t use it, it’s still something i know, something that informs how i treat this character and the disparity between the world he grew up in and the world he currently lives in. another similar detail that many writers have used is that the bananas that are commercially available today are a different (and allegedly inferior) cultivar from what bucky and steve would have eaten in the 40s. i’ve never needed to use this detail in a story, but it’s something i know, so if i ever do write a story that involves a banana, it’s something i can draw on.

in terms of structuring how to share info with your reader, i think it helps to have a super strong pov. though to be fair, i think a super strong pov always helps everything! if you’re seeing things through a character’s perspective, then the details that they focus on can do double work: you are revealing information to the reader, and you are also revealing something about the character by showing what is important or eye-catching or noteworthy to them. example: character A walks into a room and sees characters B, C, and D. in one story, maybe we give equal weight to their impressions of everyone, describing where everyone is sitting, what they are wearing, what’s on the TV, what the lighting looks like, all of it. in another story, maybe A starts some of that stuff and then gets so transfixed on describing character C that everything else kind of melts away into the background. that tells you something about A and C’s relationship that is absent from the first version.

a lot of times, i will start a fic with dialogue, or an action, or right before an action is about to happen. i think it builds nice momentum and sucks a reader into a scene before they even necessarily understand what’s happening. so maybe i let a little something play out, a few lines of dialogue, someone walking into a room, someone about to do something they’re nervous about, and then i can hit the reader with a few sentences or a paragraph of “here’s what you need to know to get to the next point in this fic.”

all that being said...i always, always, always think the most important thing about writing is to enjoy it. if you’ve done a lot of research for something and you really want to incorporate those details, do it!! you can do it in narration, you can do it in dialogue (one character explaining to someone else is a classic place to hide an infodump), you can do it in endnotes if you just can’t make it work in the story but still want to share your information with the reader. and by that same token...if you don’t like doing research? someone’s probably gonna yell at me for saying this, but like...you don’t have to do research if you don’t wanna! we do this for fun, for free. no one should be grading your work and giving you points off for historical inaccuracy or whatever. i know that for some writers, it is very important for every detail to be correct. i am not one of those writers. i like for my details to feel correct within the context of the story, i don’t want anything to be so jarring and egregious that it pulls readers out, but i’m also not that bothered about getting all the minutiae accurate. and sometimes, i think focusing too much on small details can really pull attention away from what i like the most about stories, which is emotional connections between people.

i don’t know if i even came CLOSE to answering the questions you asked! thank you so much for your very kind words, and i hope you have a nice rest of your day!

[ghostmaggie]

hey so in your MKAT post (which you’re 100% correct about) you also mention you’ve had some issues with RT in the past. i’m fairly new in the fandom and also watch his other show iZombie, but i wanted to ask what issues they were?? i like to be informed about the media i consume lmao

Oof okay so I'm on mobile and therefore this will probably be more rant-y and opinion-based than you might be looking for, so I invite anyone with opinions or sources or thoughts or contradictions to reply or shoot me asks and I'll share them (plus I'm curious of other thoughts) but,,

Idk if this was clear in my original post, but my issues are mainly contained within the actual show as opposed to things about him irl, because idk that much outside of secondhand info, so take it with a grain of salt I guess, lol

Also, I feel like I need to say that this is really negative about vmars--which, to be clear, is a show I love dearly--and I know sometimes I like to avoid negative commentary on things I enjoy because it gets stuck in my head and ruins my enjoyment. So if that's you, feel free to skip this! I wont be offended and you shouldn't feel bad about it! It's also just one person's opinion, and I'm most definitely not always right :)

So mostly setting aside the brand new season because I have no clue how to talk around spoilers effectively, in short (with spoilers up through the movie and maybe some spoilers for the books and new season, I cant really tell at this point):

(Editor's note post finishing writing: it's not even all my thoughts, but it's not short. Sorry.)

RT shares in the grand tradition of showrunners I do not care for along with Steven Moffat and Jason Rothenberg, for many parallel reasons. Moffat thinks hes cleverer than he really is, jroth is a douche about romance and character motivation, and both are smug jerks who drove me away from shows I used to love, so.

So number one I guess would just be the sense that he really fucking does not care about the fans. It's especially egregious, as I've seen others point out, when he literally would never have gotten his show back (after driving it to the ground) without the LITERAL MONEY donated by devoted fans. I'm not saying you have to do things just because fans want them, but to go out of your way to do things you know fans will hate just to be contrary is,, yeah.

He thinks he's so very smart, and yet his plots are riddled with holes and inconsistencies (hello, Moffat). It speaks, to me, of a lack of respect for everyone involved--fans, writers, actors, crew, critics, just everyone. Write down a timeline. Something. Try.

One of my bigger issues, though, is that the misogyny in vmars is just...beyond appalling. Not just narratively--i understand representing the flaws in society, I guess, but veronica is honestly one of the most misogynistic parts of the show, and she is never ever ever held accountable for it. Ever. The show never sends the message that she's wrong for the atrocious way she treats, to name a few, Madison, Kendall, Gia, and even Carrie during the s1 plot with Adam Scott. The carrie thing is especially fucked up bc iirc the narrative only condemns her for guessing the victim wrong. (As another note, her treatment of other marginalized groups or basically anyone she ever treats badly--logan, Keith, Wallace, weevil, the list goes on--is rarely or never narratively critiqued. Veronica mars can do no wrong, apparently, even when she's obviously wrong.)

She's far from the only example of misyogny, of course--duncan's s2 dream about madonna/whore meg/veronica comes to mind in screaming color, yet donut is somehow treated like a prince forever and ever and v's lost true love even though he's basically the scum of the earth (pardon, my true feelings are coming out a little here).

Somewhat connected is, of course, the show's treatment of rape in general (hi, season 3), but especially Duncan's rape of veronica. I'm still not over the way they walked it back to "not a rape" and took back holding him accountable. I live for all the fanfiction that addresses it, because at least there people remember that, whether he "thought she could consent" or not, he literally thought she was his sister and didnt know. That's uninformed consent at best, babe!

And if that wasn't bad enough, to "resolve" that plotline and then come back at the end of season 2 to be all, "jk! You WERE raped, by SOMEONE ELSE [too]! Enjoy that reenabled trauma, and some chlamidya to boot!"

Speaking of retconned instances of sex, how about that piz/veronica tape that suddenly became full on sex in the movie? Fun times.

My favorite bout of misogynistic writing, you ask? That would have to be "narratively-enforced nicest girl in school who stands by her friends and is sweet and loyal becomes a raging hell bitch yet also the representation of misogynistic virginal innocence because she was knocked up and abandoned by Mr. Narratively-Claimed-to-be-Perfect-but-Actually-the-Worst and completely undergoes a 180 personality change then dies for plot reasons" because holy fucking shit.

Okay sorry I got way more into that than I meant to. I'll try to wrap up.

RT does a very jroth job of treating fans like shit for giving a shit about a romantic relationship he created. He acts like fans are a bunch of stupid girls for caring about romance, but then pushed it at every level of promo to reel us back in. Make up your mind, asshole. It's desperately unfair to bait fans with romantic promo (even in the form of an inane and ooc love triangle) and then snap back with "oooh it's noir, shut up about the romance!"

If that's how you feel, stop making every other plot point and promo about the fucking romance.

RT seems to want to be making a show that he isnt. He wants to be grimdark and angsty and awful, I guess, and while there have been elements of effective darkness throughout vmars, they have been tempered by the show as a whole. That made it (mostly palatable) for people like me. To flip the script now does a disservice to long term fans and does nothing to attract new viewers. If you want to make a different show, make a different show. Don't drive beloved characters into the ground because you're bitter about how your work is perceived post-death of the author.

To wrap up--he hates character growth. He must really hate it. This is dipping a little into the new season, but he just. Won't let anyone develop. Well. Maybe some people. A very few. But not veronica. Never veronica. Because heaven forbid your main character, the person we've followed for 15 years, be anything other than she was at 16. Her personality, her approach to the world, none of it has changed. Which begs the question: what has been the fucking point?

Sorry this is so long. I'm not sure I even answered your question, so feel free to ask me to try again 😂

[junker-town]

The Mexico City Marathon and 6 more tales of cheating throughout running history

The history of marathon cheating involves porta-pottys, doppelgangers, strychnine, and A LOT of incompetence.

During the 2017 Mexico City Marathon, more than 5,800 runners (and counting!) were disqualified out of 28,206 participants. That’s more than 20 percent of the field at one of the world’s biggest races, thrown out for a silly array of infractions ranging from course-cutting to hiring professional runners to compete as other people.

This may be one of the bigger (biggest?) example of cheating in the history of marathons, but it is faaaaaar from the first, or the most egregious. Turns out, the sport is rife with scofflaws going back centuries.

Why people go to such extreme lengths to cheat marathons, I have no idea. Unless you’re an elite runner, you have to pay to enter, and you know how long the course is. No one’s pulling the wool over your eyes. Not running is much, MUCH easier than signing up, cheating, then getting caught. It’s not like cheating in cycling — at least those people have staked their livelihoods on winning.

While we may never understand them, thank goodness these people exist, because their failures are hilarious.

2017: The Mexico City Marathon might as well have not taken place

There’s corruption, and then there’s whatever the hell happened in Mexico City. Among the near-6,000 people who were thrown out of the race, 1,296 posted times that would have qualified them for the ultra-prestigious Boston Marathon, according to Runner’s World.

Derek Murphy at the website Marathon Investigation (who SB Nation profiled in March) has been all over the case and discovered that thousands likely jumped onto the 26.2-mile course late in the race, or worse. One facebook page has been collecting evidence, including photos of people wearing marathon bibs riding the subway. One man appeared to wear two bibs during the marathon, one of which belonged to a woman named “Maria,” who posted a Boston-qualifying time.

Via Marathon Investigation

I encourage you to read all of Murphy’s work on the Mexico City because hoo boy it’s a doozy. It’s hard to tell exactly how many of the gross discrepancies are actually examples of cheating. Murphy seems to be so flabbergasted by the extent of the disqualifications that he’s almost hoping there was some kind of technical error.

"I'm not going to say all 5,800 runners—or anyone that missed a mat—cheated," Murphy told Runner’s World. "It's a bigger number than I've ever seen. It's kind of baffling to find this much error."

1999: Man hides twin brother in a porta-potty to dominate an ultramarathon

Ultramarathons are one of the most maniacal endurance on Earth. The Comrades Marathon in South Africa is one of the oldest and most famous. It also comes with relatively lucrative cash prizes, incentivizing tomfoolery like Sergio Motsoeneng’s gambit to earn in a top 10 finish.

During the race, in the time that elapsed between the first and second photos being taken, Sergio had apparently switched his watch from his left wrist to his right wrist and inexplicably grown a scar on his left shin. When the photos came to light, Bester, the scorned 15th place finisher, knew that something was up.

As it turns out, the competitor Sergio Motsoeneng was not one, but two people. Forty-five minutes into the race, Sergio ducked into a porta-potty. Inside, his identical brother, Fika, was waiting.

I’m surprised that we don’t hear about more runners doing The Prestige routine. Perhaps it occurs more often than we think and everyone else is smart enough to make sure their watches are on the same wrist.

1980: Woman rides the subway to win Boston Marathon

You see it all the time in heist movies: The accomplished thieves make a tidy living pulling off small-scale jobs, then get into trouble when they bite off more than they can chew. That was Rosie Ruiz’s problem.

Rosie Ruiz would have been the 3rd fastest woman to win a marathon on this day in 1980... if she hadn't faked it: https://t.co/snvv9CcELY http://pic.twitter.com/MRNlnlUyRc

— Mass Humanities (@MassHumanities) April 21, 2017

If Ruiz hadn’t shot for the stars — say, only tried to come in top-20 instead of win the whole darn thing — perhaps no one would have noticed that she had taken a subway until roughly the half-mile-to-go mark. She collapsed into the arms of police officers at the line to sell her the fake, but was stripped of her title eight days later after spectators found it suspicious that she wasn’t sweating much at the line. And that she couldn’t remember what happened during the race. And that the second- and third-place finishers couldn’t recall ever seeing her pass. And also she somehow didn’t appear in any photos and video footage of the race. And people spotted her bursting out of the crowd at Commonwealth Avenue.

Ruiz did a really bad job of cheating, is what I’m saying.

2010: Chinese students just pay other people to run

Seriously, if you’re going to cheat anyway, why run at all? At the Xiamen International Marathon in 2010, at least 30 runners were disqualified, many of them for paying faster impostors to take their place. There was good reason in many cases, however:

If they run a marathon in good time, students can earn extra points for the "'gaokao", the entrance examination for China's highly competitive universities that some children and their parents will go to huge lengths to shine in. ...

Scoring well on the university entrance exam has spawned all sorts of high-tech cheating methods, which saw 40 people detained last year.

In one case in the northern province of Shanxi, six people - including one teacher - were detained for allegedly selling receivers to students so they could be fed the correct answers during the tests.

1904: The St. Louis Olympic Marathon is all sorts of messed up

The long version:

The short version:

The “winner” of the race, Fred Lorz, actually dropped out of the race nine miles in, was picked up in a car by his manager, then ran the final seven miles of the race after the car broke down. He had his picture taken with Teddy Roosevelt and was about to be awarded the gold medal when the then-second place finisher, eventual winner Thomas Hicks, ran into the stadium, near-dead from the stychnine he had been fed during the race as a stimulant.

The whole race was about as weird as any international competition can be. It also featured feral dogs, two other near-death experiences, and raw eggs. I can’t recommend the video up above enough.

2009: Reality star rides along with camera crew

Sometimes multiple parties are invested in your finishing in a certain time frame. That was the case of Dane Patterson, who set a weight-loss record on ‘The Biggest Loser.’ He got a three-mile ride in an NBC van so that the crew could take a photo of him finishing an Arizona marathon before the six-hour cutoff time.

“When I got to the marathon, I understood that after six hours, the marathon was going to be close,” he told Roker. “At mile 17, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to make it in that time. The producer wanted that shot of me going through the finish line, so that decision was made.”

Patterson insisted he never intended to cheat or deceive anyone. “I went back after the filming was done and ran those three miles, because I was planning on running the entire marathon and that’s what I did,” he told Roker.

490 BC: Pheidippides runs 25 miles from Marathon to Athens to announce Greece’s victory in battle over Persia, then collapses dead

The Greek hero on which the Marathon is based actually ran roughly a mile less than the 26.2 miles for an official marathon established by the International Amateur Athletic Federation in the early 20th century.

Pheidippides is a fraud and literal human garbage.