#also decided that unless a miracle happens before the end of the month (unlikely for me esp)

[kittlyns]

Finally got brave enough to try on one pair of my dangly earrings!!

[mischievoushearty]

Shouto-kun

summary: It takes Shouto five times to realize why Midoriya calling him by his hero name is special. By the time he first reads his name on that letter, it's too late.

word count: 2548

tags: Tododeku, angst, open ending/no happy ending, one-shot, introspection, Todoroki realizes his feelings

warning: HEAVY SPOILERS UP TO CHAPTER 307/308

also on ao3 and ff.net

---

"Shouto-kun!"

The first time it happens, he's too stunned to say anything back. Shouto pauses, he stares at the teen he considers his first ever friend, now his best friend. Midoriya doesn't seem to realise as he babbles on about the quirk of the villain they just encountered, furiously scribbling into his notebook as he does so. His costume looks dirty, it's torn in multiple places. Not that Shouto’s looks any better. Midoriya looks a bit tired but is in high spirits, the smaller teen genuinely loves going on patrol.

"Shouto-kun?"

It's again the name that startles Shouto and brings back to reality. He lifts his chin. Midoriya looks at him questioningly.

"Shouto-kun, are you coming?"

Of course he calls him that. It's Shouto’s hero name after all, and they’re on patrol during the internship. Shaking his head, the dual quirk wielder catches up to his friend, a grumpy looking Bakugou and deeply focussed Endeavour.

"It's nothing," he quickly shrugs off Midoriya’s frown.

Only that he wished his friend would call him by that name more often, and not just because it's his hero name.

Shouto is confused.

---

"..doroki-kun? Todoroki-kun?"

He frowns at his soba noodles, not hearing his friend's calls.

"Shouto-kun."

It's lower than before, almost as if he's scared speaking the words, and yet Shouto almost jumps at hearing his first name out of Midoriya's mouth. The freckled teen eyes him with worry, a few wrinkles appearing between his brows.

"Todoroki-kun," he begins anew, as if not daring to use the other name once more, and it somehow disappoints Shouto, "are you okay? I mean, I'm sure there's a lot on your mind, we know Endeavour is stable and he'll be able to continue, whatever that means for your family’s future, but you didn't seem entirely comfortable with the others talking about it, which is understandable, of course! But if you don't like it, just tell-"

"Midoriya," he interrupts, "it's fine. It really is." He adds the last part after seeing the wrinkles grow deeper on Midoriya's face. The freckled boy studies him for another few seconds, then finally replaces the frown with a soft expression. A small smile that pierces Shouto’s chest like a knife. He doesn't understand, he doesn't know what it is, but he only dares to clutch his shirt once Midoriya has turned back to his lunch. Shouto stares at his soba, the cold one, his favourite, but he can't eat. All he sees is that warm smile.

---

The third time Midoriya uses his first name he replies, and it's a mistake. He's tired, it's been a long day. He lost - it was a draw, but it still counts as losing to him - the match against class B. His whole team did. They tried everything, but it wasn’t enough. They didn’t have a genius tactician like Yaoyorozu or Midoriya on their team, they had some heavy hitters like Iida and himself, but it still wasn’t enough. Once again Shouto realizes the value of teamwork and a good backup plan. Things they failed to apply correctly today.

"Shouto-kun!" Midoriya calls out to him. Shouto doesn't even see his friend blush and stammering an apology, he doesn't realize it was by accident, he is trapped in his own mind, the match playing on loop in his head. Some moments later his brain seems to catch up and his mouth moves on its own as the name rolls over his lips, "Izuku."

He doesn't realize his mistake at first. Casually withdrawing from his musings Shouto shifts into a better position, his back is starting to hurt, and looks over the backrest of the couch to the other teen.

Midoriya stares at him with wide eyes. There's just a tiny gap between his lips, like he wants to say something, but is too perplexed by whatever just occurred.

Shouto finally notices. His own eyes widen, and he feels his cheeks heat up, it's a miracle he doesn't accidentally set something on fire. "Sorry- I didn't," he starts.

Midoriya blinks a few times, seems to recover, and frantically starts waving his arms in front of his face. The freckles almost disappear in the redness of his blush.

Cute, it strikes Shouto. A word he's never used before, not unless being challenged to do so. He blinks.

"Oh, no, no, it's fine, Todoroki-kun! I called you first! Sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable, I didn't mean to, I just slipped!"

"It doesn't make me feel uncomfortable," Shouto informs him as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world. Midoriya's arms drop.

"Oh, okay. I'm still sorry." He averts his eyes. Shouto can't help but feel like he's done something wrong. After a quick consultation with himself, he decides, "It's fine, I don't mind. Use whatever you're more comfortable with."

Midoriya looks at him with a blank expression that's so unlike himself. Did Shouto overstep? Is there a boundary he isn’t aware of? He's still learning this whole friendship thing, and although he's gotten better, he can't catch up with ten years of experience in just a few months.

Whatever his friend wanted to say back, he doesn't get to say it. Uraraka appears and drags him away laughing, Iida closely on her heels. The class president waves his arms around, but Shouto pays no mind to his words. He turns around to stare at the muted TV, not really caring about whatever cartoon is playing. His mind is preoccupied with other things.

He doesn't see Ashido throw intrigued glances at him from the other couch.

---

The fourth time he doesn't know whether it's an accident, whether Midoriya intended to use his hero name or not. It's an unlucky incident during another heroes versus villains exercise. He and Midoriya are up against Aoyama and Yaoyorozu - he doesn't know how Aoyama will play into this, but the raven-haired girl is a force to be reckoned with. It won't be an easy win, but they do stand a good chance. Midoriya came up with no less than two backup plans, aware Yaoyorozu knows him well enough to prepare counter measurements. They head out, separate, first up is a deceptive manoeuvre. Everything goes according to plan, then the other team counters, it's time for plan B. Shouto takes a deep breath, uses his fire to distract while secretly sending ice across the floor.

Then he hears the yelp. He yanks his head to the left, just in time to see Midoriya to fall off a broken pipe. His teammate tries to latch onto something with the black ribbon-tentacle-tendril-thing he calls black whip, but it's one badly timed attack from Aoyama that reflects off a shiny surface and blinds the falling boy. Shouto hears an unhealthy cracking sound as Midoriya hits another pipe before crashing down.

Shouto blasts himself there in an instant, somehow he makes it in time to catch his friend before he hits the concrete. They still crash, but Shouto protectively holds the other boy in his arms.

Midoriya's head is bleeding. It must hurt judging by the way the green haired teen can barely keep his eyes open. They look a bit dull and unfocussed, it takes a moment for him to even realize it's Shouto who's holding him.

"Sho-Shouto-kun…"

The heterochromatic teen ignores the way his heart misses a beat. He turns around to look at the drone broadcasting the fight, a silent question lingering in his expression.

Aizawa stops the match (Shouto ignores the thought that All Might wouldn't have). It's nothing unusual for students to get injured, the boy in his arms has broken enough bones to prove that, but head injuries have to be taken seriously. Midoriya's fall looked especially terrible.

"Beautiful…"

At first, he thinks it's his imagination. Shouto looks back down at his injured friend who bestows him with a gaze he's never seen from the boy before. His eyes are almost closed and yet they seem full of wonder and… Admiration?

.

Shouto stares at his own reflection. The flaming red, distorted scar tissue covers a big part of his face. Sometimes he wonders why he can still see, or why he still has an eyebrow. (The thought that it's probably a frost burn and not from the hot water itself is too painful to accept, even after all these years.)

It's unsightly.

Beautiful

Shouto frowns. There is nothing beautiful in that. He doesn't understand why Ashido keeps calling him a snack or where the heart covered letters he sometimes finds in his locker come from. It's hideous. He must have misheard. There is no way Midoriya called him beautiful.

.

His mother laughs. It's still small and she hides it beneath her hand, but it's music to his ears. So foreign, so new, so nice. She takes his hand and squeezes it, reassures him that he is quite handsome, and she doesn't say that because she's his mother - who believes those words coming out of one's own mother's mouth - and that his scar doesn't change anything about that. If anything, it makes him more special.

Then she tells him to ask Midoriya if he truly meant it, since it's bothering Shouto that much.

His face flushes. Shouto didn't say anything about Midoriya.

---

The fifth and last time, it's during the war. Shigaraki is a monster, and they can't do anything against him, Gigantomachia is breaking free, Dabi - Touya - appears-

The blasts of the blows send Shouto flying like a dry leaf in the wind. His eyes can't keep up. Midoriya is… Midoriya is…

He doesn't seem human anymore. That strength is like nothing Shouto has ever seen before, and he has no doubt that one day his friend will genuinely surpass All Might…

But it's also scary. Terrifying, really. Midoriya keeps breaking his own body, again and again, more and more, he doesn't hear Shouto’s screams. Bakugou gets stabbed, Shouto barely catches his leg while blasting himself around with half his body, his father is already dangling from his other hand, then Midoriya falls and he can't catch him, but he flies in anyway, at least breaking his fall so the damage won't be too bad.

He applies first aid. But Midoriya is so broken, he doesn't know how to fix it. Bakugou is bleeding out. His father isn't moving, and the fight is far from over.

His memory gets blurry. He's suddenly fighting Touya, the brother he believed to be dead for most of his life. Touya is a villain now. He has killed people, and is proud of admitting so, he openly declares that he wants to kill Shouto just to hurt their father-

That's when Midoriya called him by his name again. No honorifics.

"SHOUTO!" His voice breaks, and yet Midoriya continues trying to defend Shouto and Endeavour. He wants to get back up and join the fight no matter how many times Shouto silently pleads him to stay down, he can't see him get any more hurt...

---

Shouto doesn't visit Midoriya. He can't bring himself to. It's something he will later regret more than he can put into words.

First of all, his family is in shambles, even after his mom arrives and they talk, he knows nothing is going to be like before.

Secondly, he feels useless. He couldn't do anything against Shigaraki. He saw his friends get torn apart, receiving life threatening injuries, while he himself only suffered a few burns and will be unable to talk for a while. He couldn't even do anything against Touya - Dabi - whoever the villain is now.

And he swears to himself that he won't be that useless in the future. He will do better, he has to. He has to be the one to stop Dabi. His father is too broken to do so. He can’t look Midoriya in the eyes until his voice is back and he can tell that directly to his best friend.

When suddenly everyone in class receives a personal letter from Midoriya, explaining his situation, Shouto thinks it's just a bad dream. A nightmare. There is no way his friend is stupid enough to leave on his own, even - especially - now that All for One is after him, personally, Midoriya had to know that he can't win on his own…

Shouto stares at the crumpled letter in his fingers. He has read it so many times he's scared it could fall apart the next time he touches it, but he can't keep himself from doing so.

Dear Shouto-kun

Midoriya is gone.

No, he's not gone gone, he's still alive, somewhere out there. Just a few days ago Shouto watched his best friend, the person closest to him, wipe the floor with Muscular as if the high-grade villain was some petty mugger on live TV. All the way back in summer camp, when the days were still warm and his heart was full, Midoriya once again broke every bone in his arms to keep that same villain from hurting a little boy. Two days ago he two-shotted this big villain with the same ease he'd pull out weed.

Shouto lets go of a shaky sigh. He ignores the burning of his eyes.

Please be okay, he thinks, he begs, he prays and he doesn't believe in any gods. Not since his father started beating his mother. But for Midoriya, he will pray.

… it's a power that was passed on to me by All Might…

Shouto doesn't care where it's from. Because Midoriya's power is his own, just like Shouto's fire isn't his father's. And that power, those quirks, it's not what makes Midoriya strong, what makes him a hero. No, Midoriya's strength lies in his character. His selflessness. His caring and soft nature, his kindness, the fierceness he protects those who can't fend for themselves. His bright smile that makes Shouto's heart flutter, his big eyes he can't help but get lost in, his rough hands that help him up whenever Shouto finds himself on the ground.

Shouto finally knows what he saw in Midoriya's eyes that day. It's the same look he's been giving the other teen for a while. The same fond expression he keeps hidden from his classmates whenever he watches the freckled teen do something amazing again.

It's not admiration, it's adoration.

Shouto's skin heats up and a tiny flame flickers on the back of his left hand.

Maybe he should have told him that. Maybe he should have told Midoriya how much he meant to Shouto, how his presence alone made the taller teen's heart speed up, how his mumbling brought a smile to Shouto's lips. Maybe he should have told Midoriya that he wasn't alone, that he didn't care where he got his quirk from, that even if he didn't have one, he would still be the most important person in Shouto's life.

But now it's too late. And deep inside, Shouto knows it won't change anything. Midoriya would have left anyway. He may have left even earlier knowing how much Shouto would give up to help him, how Shouto would sacrifice anything for the other boy.

But it's too late to say that now.

A single, hot tear drops onto his lap.

Shouto hasn't cried since he was five years old.

---

A/N: Thank you so much for reeding! This may get a second part once we're further into the arc, maybe even from Izuku's POV.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

What if Indil met Elizabeth, David, and Light and Shadow?

This might just be the most "Carnivorous Muffin" sentence to have ever been uttered on the internet.

Let's just stare at it in wonder, while I wonder how many people will have no idea what those words even mean strung together.

Right, for those that are lost, relevant source material:

Lily and the Art of Being Sisyphus

October

Light and Shadow of the Distant Sun

The Wasteland

Aren't you so glad you read normal fanfics written by a normal person?

So, to catch people up to speed who have not read every single fic I've written:

The Wasteland

The Wasteland is the what if story of an eleven-year-old Lily ending up in Middle Earth (notably before the Chamber of Secrets fiasco). There she befriends the One Ring, who thanks to her realizes he's sentient and has an existential crisis. They do the fusion dance, and end up becoming a single, new, being calling himself Indil.

He's the best and worst of both the Ring and Lily.

At the end of the story Indil chooses a noble death, gives up his form, and in so doing persuades the Ring to face his own potential death as well as his maker.

It's unclear what happens after that.

I like to think the Ring prevailed and earned the body of his maker.

(In an offshoot, for unknown reasons, Indil may or may not visit Mars)

Light and Shadow of the Distant Sun

In Light and Shadow of the Distant Sun, yet another, different, Lily ends up in the "October" universe where she decides to create life on Pluto. One of the beings she creates is a priest who worships her as God, named Light and Shadow of the Distant Sun.

He basically strong arms her into being his God. Lily goes to live on Pluto.

He's never been all that keen on humanity.

Decades later, the muggle world catches up to the Alien Franchise, and the Prometheus sets off to investigate the Engineers. Unbeknowest to them, Light and Shadow of the Distant Sun has been marooned on that rock by Lily for quite some time and is essentially in timeout for trying to wipe out humanity again.

He figures out he will be unable to return home unless he plays nice with Dr. Elizabeth Shaw and her creepy android friend David. Together, the three of them set off to find the Engineers, Light and Shadow of the Distant Sun is hoping they can blow some shit up and would have driven the ship full of bioengineered weapons back to Earth if it were not so very close to home.

And that's about where we leave off.

... Why does anyone read my stories?

RIGHT, YOUR QUESTION

What if Indil met Elizabeth, David, and Light and Shadow?

So how does Indil even end up in this mess? Well, in the Mars AU, it's where rather than face his maker/death by Volcano, the Ring chose to bravely run away (as Sauron does).

This means that Indil, the merged consciousness of Lily and the One Ring, survives and they're chilling on Mars in another dimension because, well, it beats dying. And Potions Class.

And... Well, that's the most likely route for how this would happen, as Indil is pretty damn dead by the end of the Wasteland. Regardless of what happens to The Ring, it's unlikely that he and Lily would merge consciousness ever again and if they did that Indil would remain unchanged.

But we're already here, so why not. We'll say the Ring wins the battle of wills with Sauron, steals his body, and that he's then left with Mordor. Well, that's great, but he doesn't want Mordor.

Lily proposes they go back to England. They do, but Lily has a terrible time, as she usually does. Lily likely does her adventure through time, ruins her friendship with Wizard Lenin, and reaches the crossroads of "You can go to Hogwarts or... not".

Lily takes Mairon up on his offer of not going to Hogwarts and they decide to travel different dimension in space instead. Weird shit happens, life lessons are learned, and they also learn the fusion dance is alive and well and holy shit they can still turn into Indil.

Indil is very put out, here he'd geared himself up for a noble sacrifice, and now he exists again. What the hell people?

As usual, Mairon gets tempted by Lily's unbreakable will, and decides he rather likes being an immovable object and unstoppable force. Which means that Indil, once again, has a problem falling back out of existence.

Which isn't good for either Lily or Mairon's sense of self. But who needs that, amirite?

Anyways, Indil is probably floating around in a spaceship he made in his garage, trying to figure out where to go, what to do, and whether he should really split back into Lily and Mairon yet when out of nowhere he spots another ship.

This is a very strange coincidence given just how ungodly vast space is. This, in fact, is so unlikely you might as well call it a miracle or fate.

Well, Indil will never spit in the face of fate (at least, not today), so he decides to say hello.

There he's greeted by a human woman who's not doing too hot after an emergency C-section to get the xenomorph out of her womb, a very recently repaired android who knows the taste of sweet sweet freedom (and patricide), and an alien who is intrigued that another not-human has boarded the ship but upset that he now has to deal with yet another person on his time out.

Indil, in his panic, decides to pull a Sauron.

Behold, mortals, he is Annatar, sent by the Valar to teach them the smithing of the very gods. Please don't question this. (Indil realizes two seconds two late that none of these words mean anything to anyone and he might as well have said nothing at all).

Elizabeth, Light and Shadow, and David all just stare.

Elizabeth wonders how the hell she keeps running into so many aliens. Is she some sort of alien catnip that pulls these guys out of the ether? She has now met two entirely different species, that she was not looking for, in a matter of months.

Regardless, Indil decides he's coming along. A quest to find God? That's fascinating. He only hopes it doesn't end in drowning, last time Indil (via Sauron) had a run in with The Lord it involved a lot of drowning.

Indil starts smithing life jackets just in case.

And because Elizabeth is amazing, and Indil has a thing for strong, independent, women, we see the reemergence of Indil's Weird Thing With Eowyn II: Electric Boogaloo. Neither Mairon nor Lily, vaguely aware inside Indil, understand this at all.

Why does this keep happening to them?

This is bad because David is also in love with Elizabeth. Except, David is a robot who is no doubt fascinated by aliens, so I'm sure they come to some weird agreement.

Elizabeth pretends none of this is happening.

Light and Shadow thinks there's something disturbingly familiar about Indil and eventually lands on the money. Almost. He realizes that Indil is Lily in mortal disguise, he is so smart, and the rest of the time he wonders what the hell he's supposed to be learning/doing with Lily's disguised alien appearance.

Thanks to Lily's bullshit powers, Elizabeth survives the journey and does not die in transit. This means that David does not become the unstable, grieving, nutcase who decides to wipe out all sentient life. Good for you, David.

So our band of heroes arrive on this alien world and...

Well, Elizabeth is a member of the race that these people sent their finest warriors out to destroy. David is a robot, something the people they tried to genocide created. No one knows what the fuck Indil and Light and Shadow even are.

Indil, I imagine, starts talking fast and somehow ends up King of Men again. Because that's just the kind of thing that happens to him. The possibility of drowning, somehow, seems to be growing ever nearer. Indil makes more life jackets.

Elizabeth isn't pleased with this outcome at all but also has no idea in general what to do.

Things probably come to a head somehow, with sacrifices involved surely, there probably is a ridiculously powerful storm a la Covenant that lasts for months. It's raining everywhere, there's a flood. And Indil flips shit, GOD IS GOING TO MURDER US ALL FOR SATANISM! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

Mass panic, total destruction, the entire city is wiped out without David doing anything.

Our heroes are now stranded, again, in space.

Light and Shadow has learned nothing, Indil is wearing a life vest, Elizabeth has no ship, and David just composed "Elizabeth the Symphony: Tenth Movement".

Indil works on building a new ship out of twigs and rocks. He assures them he knows what he's doing. Elizabeth's not sure she wants him going to Earth. She's not sure she wants to go to Earth.

She's also not sure, but she may now have a harem consisting of a robot, an alien, and another alien.

Ten years later, the Covenant crew shows up, and promptly die in a series of hilariously terrible accidents and their own incompetence.

Our heroes still have no functional ship.

[janiedean]

Hi hello! So happy to be able to offer you something 😊

Redfish, Blame it on the love of Rock-'n'-roll

*RUBS HANDS* THANK YOU VERY VERY MUCH *cracks knuckles*

[leave me bon jovi inspired prompts!]

blame it on the love of rock n’ roll (jonc/brynden, past one sided jonc/rhaegar, jaime, oberyn, jon s.;, pg13)

“He can’t have - he can’t just have done that,” Jaime Lannister says for the umpteenth time in the last thirty minutes, and - in any other case, Jon would have told him yes, I know, I’m entirely fucking aware, I have the offspring to show for it currently sleeping in my spare room right behind us, but all things considered... he can’t blame him. He really can’t.

“Well,” Oberyn says, shrugging, sitting across Jon’s sofa in a way that honestly should be reserved for R-rated movies, but he’ll leave it at that, it’s too hot and he’s too tired to tell him to do any different, “he has, and while I suppose that for him this entire exercise was a past time, but I think it doesn’t solve our main problem here, which is that next week we should audition for a record deal, and we can’t exactly do it without the lead singer, so how does anyone here suggest to proceed? Because as resourceful as I usually am, I have zilch here, and we’re never going to find anyone who’s going to learn all the songs in a week.”

Jon wants to scream.

Fact is: when he and Rhaegar and Oberyn stared playing together in Oberyn’s father’s basement in high school, it was for shits and giggles and because they wanted to play Nirvana covers and impress girls, or better, Rhaegar wanted to impress girls, he wanted to impress Rhaegar (and maybe guys, but mainly Rhaegar) and Oberyn wanted to impress everyone regardless of gender, but then... they had fun, and it stuck, and they started actually writing their own songs, and then Rhaegar said that he was tired of playing guitar if he had to concentrate on singing and while they were in uni they searched for a guitarist, and -

Well, Jaime Lannister had showed up, and he had been a tad younger than them and obviously had a lot of family trauma to share looking at his lyrics, but he was fucking good, and so they took him, and -

And after some five years of grueling sets in pubs they did manage to land a meeting with this guy Mance Ryder from an indie label who apparently liked them very much, and it would be a damned record deal, and that’s when Rhaegar decides that he’s going to... elope with his girlfriend and leave their six-month old with Jon himself and they’re going to find themselves in India or whatever and that’s not going into the fact that the six-month old was born after a bad split from Oberyn’s sister and it’s a miracle Oberyn hadn’t murdered him in the spirit of friendship and being in the goddamned same band.

Fucking hell.

And now both Lannister and Oberyn are looking at him because they’re apparently in the only band in existence where the decision-maker is the fucking bassist, that’d be him.

Fucking hell.

“Okay,” he says, “well. No, we can’t find another singer, not at short notice. Especially since they didn’t say what songs they want to hear so what if they just ask out of the blue, but.” He closes his eyes, tries to think about it. There has to be a way to get out of this mess, and certainly he isn’t good enough of a singer to take Rhaegar’s place -

Wait a fucking second.

“Okay,” he says, “Jaime.”

“... Yes?”

“From this moment on you’re on vocals.”

“What the hell? Jon, I’m -”

“You wrote more than half of the lyrics, you know them and you can sing worth a damn, which is way more than me and him can say for ourselves, and while finding a new singer is impossible, a new guitarist - well, someone good can learn most of the songs and improvise in case. Sure as fuck it’s less of a long shot.”

“But -”

“But nothing, Jaime. I know you liked it better if someone else sang about how shitty your sister is, but if we want this deal it’s either you or no one else. And now - now let’s just get online and send the word out. It’s Wednesday, we have to audition Friday next week, we can fucking hope it’s long enough for someone to show up.”

Two hours later, he’s sent Oberyn and Jaime off with a bunch of flyers and he has put online ads too - he also knows that it’s highly fucking unlikely that a skilled guitarist enough to improvise like that will walk into his house in the fucking middle of July being a good fit. Sure, there’s the possible record deal thing up that might sweeten the pot, but.

But he’s nowhere near sure that it’d be enough.

Still.

They’ll see. And Oberyn and Jaime better be there every single afternoon until Friday next week.

--

The next Wednesday, the heat is unbearable, his namesake is crying desperately because it’s too hot, Jaime and Oberyn are failing to calm him and Jon has just sent away the umpteenth college kid who tried to audition and was a shit fit and just cared for the record deal.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we,” Oberyn says, matter of fact, as Jaime finally manages to get the younger Jon to calm down.

Considering that Rhaegar hasn’t answered a single message -

Fuck, Jon had been trying to get over him for ages.

He’s sure this might be what actually makes sure he does.

“Probably,” Jon says, “unless some miracle happens right the fuck now, but -”

His phone starts ringing.

It’s an unknown number.

Jon takes it.

“Yes?” He asks, tentatively.

“Jon Connington?” A deep male voice asks, slightly gruff, but Jon can’t help thinking it’s nice. It has a lovely warm baritone to it, for sure.

“That’d be me.”

“My name is Brynden Tully. I’m calling for the Kingsguard audition.”

Jon doesn’t want to say that this guy sounds competent, but.

But.

“If you haven’t filled that position already, of course.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. You’re welcome to come even now - the place isn’t ideal, but... we don’t have the studio, this week.”

“Not a problem at all. Should I come to the address that was on the ad?”

“Yes,” Jon says, “it’s - it’s my house. We’ll meet you outside, I have all the gear in the garage.”

“Very well. I could be there in half an hour - or two, if I have to go back home and get my own guitar -”

“No,” Jon says, “it’s all right, I have more than one that you can use. Thank you, I -”

“You haven’t tried me yet,” the man replies, and he sounds like he’s smiling, and the call closes.

“Well,” he says, “let’s get to the garage and let’s hope this one guy is the miracle.”

“Did it sound like he could be?” Oberyn asks while Jaime says he’ll go get something to put the poor kid in while he has to listen to them, at least Rhaegar left him with the fucking supplies to care for him.

“He sounded more competent than any of the other guys who showed up.” The whole fifteen of them, but never mind that.

Jon walks down to the garage, already sweating the moment he sets foot out of the house. Fucking hell. This is the hottest summer he can remember in years, he just hopes he doesn’t end up fainting while they rehearse. Now that wouldn’t convince anyone to join his band, right?

--

They manage to get settled fairly soon - sure, Oberyn hasn’t played with that drum kit in years and Jaime is grumbling that not playing will be fucking weird, and the younger Jon at least doesn’t seem too bothered by their tuning, and then -

“I imagine these are the Kingsguard’s quarters?”

Jon raises his head from his bass, staring at the man who just came inside the garage, and -

Well, fuck.

Having been into Rhaegar for all of his life, he has always found people older than him hot on a general notion, but he never looked into it. But this guy - fuck. He has to have at least fifteen years on him, never mind Lannister, that would make it at least twenty, but he’s hot, with auburn hair with just the slightest hint of silver here and there, a short beard and bright blue eyes on a face with tanned skin and a few lines here and there. He’s also wearing jeans, dark boots and a fucking black leather jacket in the middle of this heat, and how does anyone do that without fainting, but - but honestly, Jon kind of never was so instantly attracted to anyone in his entire life bar Rhaegar, and - yeah.

Let’s not just discuss that now.

“Yes,” he says. “Brynden Tully, right?”

“In the flesh. I see that you are... somehow in trouble?”

“What gave that out?” Jaime smirks. “The garage, the fact that we had a week to audition before a record deal or that we’re looking after a kid that doesn’t belong to either of us?”

“All of that, honestly,” Brynden replies, “but the kid would be the most glaring one. The rest... happens. Also, the ad said you looked for a guitarist and if someone knows anything about the scene, I’d have thought golden boy here had quit.”

Jon decides that it’s the case to be upfront.

 “Yeah, well.” He sighs. “The kid belongs to our former singer. Who has eloped with his girlfriend in the middle of the night last week because of family disagreements and shit and he left us like this. Fact is, auditioning a singer is a whole goddamned mess, and golden boy there writes most of the lyrics anyway and can carry a tune, so I have not democratically decided to put him on that and audition for the guitarist instead.”

“Thanks for recognizing it was not democratic,” Jaime mutters.

“Well, I’d have voted with him,” Oberyn replies, rolling a drumstick in his hand.

“So,” Jon sighs, “we actually need the guitarist instead. I understand that learning an entire repertoire in a day if you’re a fit might be a problem, but -”

“I think that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wait, how?”

The man smiles ever so slightly. “First thing, I didn’t read that ad from the internet. I learned about this because my niece is engaged to your singer’s girlfriend’s brother and she called me up telling me about it.”

“Wait, you’re - oh, shit, Catelyn Tully, I didn’t even -”

“So,” Brynden smirks wider, “my niece, who’s known me for years, knows that the only reason I never was in a band that actually got a record deal was that I got kicked out of the house back in the day because the relatives didn’t like my sentimental preferences.” A wink. Oh. “And thing is, I’m good. Improvising type good. But at that point I couldn’t survive on it and so I found a more boring job, but I never stopped playing and I go to gigs and I know the circuit and I actually did listen to most of your songs, that demo you were selling last year was really good. So... I actually do know most of them. And I made enough money now to afford actually playing full time.”

“Then,” Jon says, not believing his luck, “I think we should just try you already. Just pick any guitar from the stands. We can do one of our usual covers to start with and then a few of ours.”

“Sounds good. I’ll go serve myself, then.”

He goes to where Jon keeps the guitar stands, chooses a red Stratocaster and goes to join them while Jaime seems to try and find a decent position, for someone that outwardly charming you’d think he would want to be a lead singer, and yet.

Never mind.

Please let him be the right one, Jon thinks, and if maybe he wasn’t just thinking about it in band terms, well, no one has to know.

--

“You’re hired,” he says to Brynden five songs later. “And you,” he tells Jaime, “you can sing, just - please try to not be awkward as hell tomorrow. You can do it, I swear.”

“That’s what you say,” Jaime scoffs, “but yeah. What - you’re good. Enough that I almost don’t hate the idea of not playing those solos anymore.”

“I say that if Rhaegar ever wants to come back we tell him to fuck off,” Oberyn proclaims. “And I’d say welcome to the club. If we fail the audition please don’t leave.”

Brynden laughs, putting the guitar away. “Oh, I had missed doing this regularly. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Well,” Jaime says, “it’s late and I need to - psych myself up. I’ll - I’ll go get a drink. And be in touch.”

He stalks out of the garage, looking like he’ll faint.

“I’ll go after him,” Oberyn says. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him to relax one way or the other.”

“You know he’s straight!” Jon calls after him, but they both already disappeared beyond his driveway.

Whatever. Maybe Oberyn is gonna find him a decent lay. Anything as long as he projects some confidence the day after tomorrow.

“You know,” Brynden says, “I was going to ask if you wanted to come out for a drink to celebrate, but I understand that if you have to mind the kid -”

Jon stops dead in his tracks, turning to look up at Brynden, who - who is half-grinning at him in the way people do when asking to buy someone a drink because they’re interested and fuck Jon really wants to kiss him, and he has a feeling he’s going to hang around in the band a lot, and -

“Tell you what,” he says, “I do, but I also have alcohol upstairs. Fancy it if I make you that drink?”

“Oh,” Brynden says, “excellent compromise, I say. Lead on.”

He smiles.

Jon smiles back.

Ten years later

“You’re not saying that the first time you two smooched I was watching,” Jon Stark groans from his seat in Jaime’s cramped living room where they’re celebrating having come back from their last UK tour during which Brynden not-so-incidentally asked Jon if he would want to make things official in the backstage after the last show, a question to Jon enthusiastically answered yes just before frenching him in front of each single roadie still moving around the place.

“No,” Brynden says, “you were actually dead to the world after having cried your eyes out for one hour, and we didn’t do anything else, but you were in the same room.”

“Gross,” the kid snorts, and Jon is just thankful that he eventually ended up with Ned and Cat because he certainly wasn’t going to raise a kid properly and that he’s not visibly traumatized by how shitty his biological parents have been to him. Never mind that Rhaegar never apologized for bailing but eventually said well you sound a lot better like this, and - Jon will always love him in a way, but he was truly over him romantically at that point.

“I’d say,” Jon says, “that you should be honored that you were not-watching-but-there the day I smooched the love of my life, but what have you.”

“Oh,” Jaime snorts, “you are writing the love ballads now.”

“Forget it,” Jon replies, “wouldn’t Brienne be sad about it?”

“Please,” the girl in question says from the kitchen where she forbade any of them to enter while she got dinner ready, all of you except Oberyn can’t cook for shit, I’m not risking it, “I think you all can stand some variety from me. And congratulations.”

"Gross,” the other Jon replies, and - he lets that go, he’s ten, everything in that sense is probably gross to him, and then rough, calloused fingers hold his and -

“The love of my life now? Maybe you should write me a ballad.”

“Hm,” Jon replies, “maybe I will, but just if you do the same. Maybe Lannister deserves a break from songwriting.”

“Think I can handle it,” Brynden says, and so what if he can hear Jaime in the background telling them that if they don’t go down at it too hard they can use their bed while they kiss?

Who cares.

Maybe they’ll even take him up on the offer. What he knows is that he can’t wait to make things official and to write that damned ballad.

Oh, yes, he thinks, life is good, and then he kisses Brynden harder and tunes out anything else going on in the room.

End.

[weasleywinchester]

Not A Shrine

Eyyy Ohh! First fic for Mr. Marcus Magnet Hands Moreno! I’m excited to jump into this universe because there are just so many ways to go! This fic is mainly banter between (Y/N) and Miracle Guy (Whom I’ve decided to name Murphy Jones). Hope You enjoy! Also this is probably my last fic for the next week as I will be out of state for my birthday!!

Miracle Guy x Reader (New Friends)

Marcus Moreno x Reader (Romantic)

Summary:

You’re a huge fan of Marcus Moreno: leader of the Heroics, sword fighting, ass kicking extraordinaire. You got to see him once after he and Miracle Guy completed a tough mission, capturing your favorite moment between the two. But that was a long time ago when you were just an intern, now you’re part of the team that helps Heroics transition from the spotlight to civilian life. Miracle Guy happens to be on your list, and when your work partner points out your collection of Marcus photos and memorabilia to him, he’s dead set on embarrassing you just a little.

P.S. I think this might will get a part 2, because there’s just not enough Marcus tbh 💙

 “Shannon, I bought coffee, lord knows we’re going to need it.” You set her coffee on the desk, sitting across from her. She squeals in delight, taking a big gulp. She’s not going to tell you she’s already had a red bull, because coffee is just so good. She claps her hands together and takes a deep breath, practically vibrating.

“WOO! Well I’m going over the roster of Heroics, and it looks like a lot of them are ready to start planning, but most are not ready to actually retire.” She hands you a print out of the current full time Heroics. You scan the list, which she has already split between you and her, when you see-

“Miracle Guy?” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut.

“I knnnoooow. I tried already to bring up the planning phase and he’s not budging. I thought you could take a crack at it?” She begs.

“Fine. On one condition.” 

“I already assigned Marcus to you.” She shrugs playfully. Marcus… assigned… to...you? Your mouth goes dry as you gape like a fish.

“(Y/N)... You can do this!” Shannon pounds the table. You’ve had a crush on him longer then Shannon has known you. And he’s been single for a long time, you’ve been single for a long time, you’re both amazing, you just need a nudge.

“The job ya, but… how am I supposed to focus if he’s so close.”

“You don’t have to be nervous, I promise to be nice.”

You turn to see the one and only Miracle Guy himself, one Murphy Jones. He’s got his signature smirk on his face, but otherwise he’s out of costume for once.

“Miracle Guy! What a surprise.” Shannon bubbles, shuffling some papers away.

“Shannon, lovely as always. Ms. (Y/L/N), I’m ready to talk retirement.” He gestures widely with his arms, as if he’s Jesus. You roll your eyes and lead him back to your office, gesturing for him to take a seat as you organize your desk.

“Ok so what exactly did you want to start talking about?” You turn to him, notebook at the ready.

“That I’m not ready to retire, and never will be.” He smiles like he just told you you won the lottery.

“Murphy, Wheels is ready to start taking over the family business. Which means you need to get ready to let go.” You laugh. 

His smile falters a little. Being a Heroic, and in front of the camera, is what he’s always wanted to do. He’s done a lot of amazing work that he’s immensely proud of. And the people of the world love him, he can’t abandon his fans. Although it would be nice to have time to teach Wheels new things, and actually do stuff with his wife.

“This is what I know how to do.” He states, looking at the floor.

“Yes, but now we can move those skills into other areas. Take Marcus for example.” You ignore the eye roll from him, “He’s technically retired from the Heroics central team. But he still works here, using his skills to help the team in the field. Teach, train, and coach from a distance.”

“Well, hooray for him.” 

“Murphy, You can’t physically fight monsters forever. Unless you want Wheels to have one parent. Why don’t we explore options. Marcus chose to observe from the main office, to use his highly trained mind to anticipate and analyze attacks. We could do the same for you.” 

“I don’t do behind the scenes.” He growls. This face? Meant to be in front of a camera, meant to be saving the world crowds at a time.

You hold your hands up in mock surrender.

“Hear me out. Maybe we can have you as a spokesperson. You love doing all the ribbon cuttings, first pitches at baseball games, kissing babies and hugging old people. Work with the image side of the Heroics, the press. You’re a fan favorite! That’s not going to stop anytime soon, and an easy way to do the parts of the job you love, and to lower the chance of immediate death.”

You take a sip of your coffee as you watch him. He’s twiddling his thumbs, trying to nitpick your proposal apart. What he doesn’t know is you’ve been researching possible jobs for him ever since he stormed out of Shannon’s office a month ago. You had talked to the press team, the board and Ms. Granada; everyone thought it was brilliant. 

“Hypothetically, if I agree to this plan, when does it start?”

“It’s just planning for a while. We have to go through everything with a fine tooth comb. There’s no shortcuts, once we establish a plan you are 100 % satisfied with, then the actual transition will start. But since the new generation are still very young, it’ll be a while.” You smile, trying not to look like you won the war.

_______

It’s been about two months since Murphy agreed to your retirement plan. And he’s been in your office at least twice a week, which makes you think he’s just coming to annoy you. Both you and Shannon have a bigger case load than normal, most of the new generation is the same age, so quite a few of the current team are ready to let them take the reins. You’re in the middle of Shark Boy and Lava Girl’s files when Murphy knocks on the door. You open your mouth to tell him to come in but he’s already plopped into the chair across from you.

“Moreno said he’s doing all of his planning via email.” Murphy states, slightly annoyed.

“Well good afternoon to you too.” You raise your eyebrow at him.

“I never got that option.”

“Like you would give up the opportunity to harass me in person.” You laugh, turning back to your paperwork. He frowns at you as your reach to grab something from your bookshelf. He wouldn’t say harass… more like friendly banter. That’s what you two were by now right? Friends?

“Well you’re never going to get him to notice you if you don’t actually meet in person.” He smirks, that should get your full attention.

You read the same line about Shark Boy’s request to be able to swim at the aquarium three times before your brain processes what Murphy just said. 

“What.” You blink, slowly looking up at him.

“You, Moreno, meet.” He claps his hands together, a cheshire grin spreading across his face.

“You talked to Shannon.” You grit your teeth. 

“That, and when she mentioned your shrine...”

“It’s not a shrine.” You clench your jaw. You want to punch Miracle Guy in his miracle face, but it would only hurt you and make him laugh.

“You have a collection of photos, limited edition merch and even a few newspaper clippings about the guy. It’s a shrine.”

“Not a shrine!”

“Anyways, I noticed you didn’t have anything signed by him. So, get him in your office!” Murphy throws his hands in the air, exasperated. You mentioned Marcus constantly, and Murphy can’t stand the guy on a good day. But oh man when the shire was mentioned, that meant he could tease the heck out of you.

“I’m going to kill both of you.” You put your head in your hands, taking a deep breath. You can’t hurt him, it’ll only end badly for you.

“Well that’s a bit harsh. I thought I was an excellent retired Heroic.”

You can hear the smile, but it’s not Murphy talking. You peak from behind your fingers to see Marcus Moreno standing in your doorway. You shift your eyes to Murphy, his stupid smirk on his stupid face.

“Mr. Moreno, I didn’t realize you were coming by.” You smile, sitting up straight. You hope he can’t hear how fast your heart is beating.

“Since when do you call him mister? How come you don’t call me mister?” Murphy says, feigning outrage. He can see the steam shooting out of your ears. Perfect, his suspicions that you had a Class A crush were correct.

“Mr. Jones, our meeting is over.” You answer. He grumbles while he stands; as he passes Marcus  you swear you hear him say, she’s a very big fan.

“Mr. Moreno-”

“Marcus, please.” He smiles, sitting in the chair Murphy just vacated. God, his smile… you could stare at him all day.

“Ok. Marcus, what can I help you with today?” You bring out his file, everything neatly organized and prepared. Unlike all the other files you’re working through, which have sticky notes and scraps of paper that you scrawled on sticking out from every angle.

“I just wanted to make sure everything was still going ok; since I was switched from Shannon’s roster to yours.” Not that he minded. Shannon is great, but something about the way you talk to him over email and the phone is... different. He always wants to keep talking to you, but he’s not sure how to jump from retirement talk to more personal stuff. And then Murphy showed him a super cute picture of you and he felt things he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Oh, uh, ya everything is still on track. Shannon just had some… other cases that became more complex than we originally thought. Plus she’s making me deal with Miracle Guy, so my reward is you.” And you immediately regret the last part. Oh god, now he thinks you’re weird.

“I mean... your plan is pretty much done, so simple case.”

“Good. I guess it helps to get a head start.” He laughs. 

“That it does. I’m also handling Missy’s transition into fill time Heroic, which is also very much on track. Father like daughter.”

He smiles, a far away look in his eyes. He's so proud of her. She’s strong, brave and every bit just like her mother, and him. He’s glad you're helping her, you’ve already helped him so much.

“I’m glad to hear that. Well, I don’t have anything new to add, so...” He stands from his seat, as do you. He wishes he would have stayed seated, asked you about your day or if you wanted to take a walk with him. 

“Uh ya, I’ll let you know if there’s any changes or if I have questions...” You look just past his arm to see both Murphy and Shannon waving their arms like idiots. Shannon is gesturing writing on a piece of paper, and then pointing at Marcus. Murphy is mouthing ‘ask for his number’ while folding his hand into a telephone shape and holding it to his ear. 

“Is there something on my arm?” Marcus looks down, moving his gaze to try and look behind. You quickly grab his bicep, which is very firm, and you both freeze.

“No, just looked like there was a hair, but I don’t think it’s there anymore.” You stammer. He gives you a look, and you realize your hand is still touching him; you quickly let go and gesture to the door. When his back is turned you swat your hand at your friends, telling them to go away.

“I’ll tell Missy you said hello?” He smiles at you.

“Ya, that would be great.” You smile back. He waves and walks down the hall to the elevator. You let out a long breath, going back into your office and collapsing into your chair. “Did you have him sign anything?!” Shannon squeals as Murphy asks “Did you ask for his number?” 

“You two need to stop.” You mumble, rubbing your eyes.

“You literally had him in the palm of your hand.” Murphy snickers as Shannon nods furiously.

“Look, I’m his retirement planner. And he’s probably not looking to date anyone. I’m here to do my job, as a retirement planner.” You shake your head at them both.

They share a look and Shannon goes back to her office. Murphy stays seated, watching you put your belongings in your purse. He was so sure you two would get talking, you drool over Marcus all the time and Marcus actually mentions you a lot. You tend to be the center of conversation between them, which oddly enough has reduced the friction.

You stand, opening the door and gesturing from him to get out. He gets up, silently walking with you until you get to your car.

“I think you two would be good together.” Murphy says to the floor.

You’re not sure what to say. You always thought so, but you also think you’d make a good match with that one guy from Game of Thrones. Also, since when did the great Miracle Guy care about your love life and Marcus Moreno’s?

“That’s really nice of you to think that Murph. But just because I’m ready, doesn’t mean he is.” You give the man a big hug. You always knew there was a kind person under all the swagger; and you’re very happy he’s now a friend.

_______

Two Weeks Later

“Alright. Shark Boy and Lava Girl are about a quarter of the way through their plan. Which is major progress. You said Blinding Fast is still slow going, ha, but that-”

“OOHHH MY GOOODD” Shannon squeals.

“What?” You ask, your blood pressure skyrocketing.

“I am SO PROUD of yooouuu! You finally asked him!” She squeals, clapping her hands together.

“Asked who what?” You scream back. She gives you a look, gesturing to your wall of Marcus behind you. 

“See I told you it would be fine! He probably thinks you’re a bit fangirl-ish, but that’s fine, you are working with him now...” She continues to ramble as you turn around. You scan the wall, your eyes landing on your favorite photo of Marcus and Murphy. It now has the two very recognizable signatures.

“So congrats” she claps again.

“Oo, what are we congratulating (Y/N) on.” Murphy walks in, throwing a smirk at you.

“She finally asked Marcus to sign her favorite picture!” Shannon claps again, her glee very overwhelming at this point.

“I didn’t.” You look between her and Murphy. Shannon frowns, now just as confused as you.

“I did.” Murphy shrugs. Your jaw drops to the floor, you look over at Shannon to see her face mirrors yours.

“I didn’t hear about any fights amongst the Heroics.” You sass. Murphy mocks you in response.

“Well, I guess I should congratulate you then.” Shannon laughs.

“You should.” He winks at Shannon before turning to you, “ I don’t remember that picture being taken. It’s after the spiro monster attack according to our suits.”

“OMG! You never told him the backstory that you repeat all the time?” Shannon howls. You roll your eyes, glancing back at the picture.

“It was my first day as an intern here. I was an intern for the director’s assistant so after the spiro monster mission I was allowed to be in the debrief. You two had taken the mission together, fighting back to back; it was incredible. But you two had sat on the platform while the director was saying what a fine job you two did. I thought to myself fine? They did a kick ass job! Except I said it out loud instead of in my head.”

“I remember that actually.” Murray laughs. 

“The whole day was amazing, filled with moments like that. Back when the team acted like a team.” You smile at the signatures that now decorate the picture, reminding you that friends always have your back.

“How did you even get it out of my office?” You frown, spinning to look at your friends. Shannon immediately drops her gaze, mashing her lips together.

“I had no part, and the piles of paperwork are calling me.” She bows out of the room, leaving you and Murphy alone.

“It did leave its place in the shrine briefly… but I wasn’t sure you would want the original print signed on the front.”

“That’s why Wheels asked for the digital file.” You laugh, he said he needed it for a project the kids were putting together.

“Yes. So That is technically one of three prints.” He takes a folder out of his bag, opening it to reveal a second copy. “I was hoping the artist would sign this one.” He smiles. You grab a marker from your desk, and take the print. You hesitate, you’ve signed plenty of your own art, but Murphy went through the trouble of printing these, just so you could have a signed one. You smile and sign it in a flourish. 

“Will it hang in your house now?” You smirk.

“Actually, ya. And if Marcus is a smart man, it’ll hang in his too.”

“What?”

“I got three printed you dork, one for you, one for me and one for-”

“Marcus.” You smile and shake your head.

_______

Paperwork, it just never ends. You’re up to your eyeballs in it, and you’re not sure when, if, you’ll ever get out. You’re ready to shove all of it into the trash and set it on fire when a gentle knock pulls you out of the stress spiral.

“Hi.” Marcus gives you that super adorable smile.

“Hi.” You smile back.

“I was wondering if I could entice you to dinner.” He nods behind him. Your brain comes to a halt, did he just? He frowns a little when you don’t answer right away, making you realize the screaming yes over and over is only in your head.

“Yes, that would be great.” You laugh, his smile returning. You gently scoop everything back into the folders, and let him guide you to his car. 

________

“Welcome to… I would say the best restaurant around but that’s not true.” He laughs as you pull into his driveway.

“Missy?”

“Is at camp for the week.” He slides out of the drivers side and runs to open your door.

“So what brought this on?” You ask as you reach to take your stuff from him. He waves you off, gesturing for you to walk up the pathway.

“Just decided to branch out my circle of friends, retirement leaves a lot of free time.” He unlocks the door, shuffling you inside. It’s been cleaned, like deep cleaned. There’s not one hint that a tween girl lives here.

“I can see you’ve already utilized the time, pre retirement.” 

He shrugs in response, setting your things down and walking into the kitchen.

“Before you get to watch the master chef cook, I wanted to ask you something.” He leans on the counter across from where you sit. You nod for him to continue. “Will you tell me the story of this picture?” He brings out a folder identical to Murphy’s, opening it to reveal the picture. 

“Of course.”

“And will you sign it for me?” He holds out a marker to you. You take it and quickly sign the photo. He smiles and leans it against the fruit bowl, the two of you looking at it as you recount the story that goes with it. 

And of course you don’t notice, but he’s looking at you, not the picture. If it weren’t for Murphy, out of all people, he wouldn’t have given a thought about anything romantic with you. Granted he’s not sure how ready he is for something romantic. But Missy is gone for a whole week, plenty of time to figure out if his stomach fluttering every time you look his way or say his name is something that is more than a day dream.

[albertasunrise]

Unconventional - Chapter 1

Summary: What started out as a little fun between three friends has become something more. Javier’s been welcomed into Steve and Connie's marriage but will this new relationship survive what fate has in store for it?

Warnings: Threesome, Smut, Angst, Blood and Injury 18+

Relationship: Javier Peñas x Steve Murphy x Connie Murphy

§

Javier had barely walked through the door before Connie’s lips were on his, her hands tugging at his shirt as she dragged him further into the apartment.

‘Missed you to Mi Amor.’ He chuckled as she managed to remove his shirt and started to unbutton his jeans ‘Why so desperate?’

‘I’ve missed you.’ She utters against his lips, roughly pulling down his jeans and moaning as she took his length in her hand.

‘Steve will be back soon.’ He groaned as she pumped his length ‘Perhaps we should wait for him.’

‘You telling me you can’t fuck me twice in one evening.’ She growled as she bit his jaw.

‘Oh, I can definitely do that.’

Then he’s tearing her clothes off, kissing and biting her neck as he pushes her down onto the soft couch and admiring her laying there bare for him.

‘No foreplay.’ She whines as he crawled up to her ‘I need you now.’

He does as she asks, kissing her hard as he lined himself up and sheathed himself in one swift movement. They moaned in unison, locking eyes with one another for a moment before her hands grabbed at the globes of his ass, urging him to move. She’d never admit it to Steve but sex with Javi is so much more intense whereas sex with her husband was softer, more loving and she longed for him to take a leaf out of Peña’s book. He hooked her leg around his waist, driving himself deeper and she screamed his name as he hit her exactly where she needed him. She came hard, her nails digging into the soft flesh on his back as he fucked her through it. He grabbed her hips and adjusted himself so was on his knees, the new position proving even more pleasurable and within a few minutes, he was tipping her over the edge again, this time pulling him along with her. She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a bruising kiss, moaning as he thrust his hips a few more times to elongate their highs.

‘Better?’ He chuckled, placing a soft kiss on her lips.

‘Much.’ She breathed, letting out a breathy chuckle.

They lay there for a few moments, relishing the feeling of being in each other’s arms but they knew they couldn't stay there forever. Connie took a shower whilst Javier started to cook dinner, the radio playing loudly and covering the sound of the front door. A smile crossed the agents face as two strong arms circled his waist, Steve pulling him flush against his muscular body as he placed a few kisses along Peña’s neck.

‘Evening.’ He mumbled against his tanned flesh, grinning at the hum he received in return ‘The lounge smells like sex.’ He chuckled as he pulled away and walked to the fridge, pulling out two beers.

‘Blame Connie.’ Stated Javier as he continued to stir his sauce ‘She jumped me as soon as I walked through the door.’

‘Starting to think she loves you more.’ He mumbles against the rim of his beer bottle.

‘What can I say…’ He throws one hand up in fake surrender ‘I’m irresistible.’

‘That you are.’ Growled Steve as he pulled Javier against him again and roughly palmed his crotch, grinning.

‘Is there something in the water today?’ He chuckled as he elbowed Steve in jest.

‘Ugh, that smells amazing.’ Said Connie as she made her way into the kitchen ‘Hello handsome.’ she cooed as she kissed Steve sweetly.

‘I get a kiss and Javi gets fucked.’ Steve lets out a sigh ‘I guess you do love him more.’

‘Oh, you’ll get yours.’ Connie purred, proceeding to squeeze her husband’s ass as she grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Things had become strangle domesticated for the three of them. Javier had moved into their apartment but had kept his to keep up appearances, what they had together wasn’t exactly conventional. The sex had also changed as time went on. Javier and Steve had experimented with each other, soon learning they enjoyed each other as much as Connie. It had been confusing for Javier at first. He’d never looked at men the way he looked at Steve, never considered doing the things he and Steve had done together but with Steve it felt natural, the same way being with Connie did. Dinner didn’t touch the sides, the three of them eager to feel each other. Steve prepped Javi whilst the other agent ate Connie like a starving man, his erection becoming painful as she came on his tongue. When he was ready, he seated himself inside her and Steve inside him. The blonde's thrusts guiding his own. Steve finished first and rolled onto his side, enjoying the sight of Javier and Connie cuming together, their moans music to his ears. They then fell asleep in each other's arms. A tangled mess of limbs, sweaty and sated in their sexual bliss.

~

‘You both be careful.’ Connie said as she kissed them both goodbye, ‘My shift finishes at 6 so I can make dinner this evening.’

‘Sounds wonderful Mi Amor.’ Javier grinned, kissing her once more before following Steve outside the door.

She always worried when they were spending a day in the field. She feared that one day one of them wouldn't come back to her, that neither of them would come back to her and that was something that would surely kill her. She got herself ready for work, noting the car that Steve had arranged to drive her to and from work sat outside waiting for her. She’s left the volunteer clinic a little while ago, securing a job at a local hospital and she’d felt much more in her comfort zone. Once she was ready she skipped down to the car, bidding her driver good morning before sitting in silence and watching the familiar buildings whiz past in a blur. The man dropped her just outside the hospital, bidding her farewell before pulling away and she made her way inside. She greeted the doctors and nurses on her way to the locker room, thanking her colleague Ava when she handed her a coffee like she did every morning. She stopped beside her locker and punched in the combination, tossing her bag inside. She then picked up her steaming cup of coffee and went to take a sip, only for the smell to make her stomach turn and in the blink of an eye, she’s emptying the contents of her stomach in the trash can.

‘Shit.’ She breathed as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grabbing onto the wall to steady herself as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed her.

‘You okay Connie?’ Came a voice, Ava emerging from the other side of the lockers.

‘Just suddenly felt sick.’ She replied, resting her head in her hand as she waited for the dizziness to pass.

‘Maybe you pregnant.’ Ava chuckled, giving Connie a little wink.

‘No that’s not possible.’ Connie replied, shaking her head ‘My husband and I aren’t able to have children.’

‘Oh.’ Ava replied, her expression changing to one of guilt at her suggestion ‘You sure?’

‘Well Steve is sterile and my womb is inhospitable.’ Connie replied ‘I was told that it was highly unlike I’d ever conceive and Steve is just simply infertile.'  

‘But not impossible for you.’ She pointed out and Connie gave her a bemused look ‘Did you not say you had crazy night with Steve's friend?’

Connie had completely forgotten she’d told Ava that. They had gone out for a girls night and ended up playing a game of never have I ever. One of the girls had said she’d never had a threesome and Connie had been the only one to drink. Of course, then the girls had badgered her to explain and so she simply told them that the three of them had drunk too much and slept together. It wasn’t completely untrue.

‘Could it be his?’

Could it be Javier’s?

She shook the thought from her head. She didn’t even know whether or not she was pregnant.

‘Come on. We get a test done quick.’ Said Ava ‘They can rush it for you.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Wouldn’t you rather know if you are or no?’

Connie knew she was right. The symptoms were there. Sickness, dizziness and her breasts were feeling tender. The more she thought about it, she realised she couldn't remember the last time she’d had her period. It was never something she worried about too much in the past because she’d known there was no chance of it happened for her and Steve. Ava took her to an empty consultation room and drew some blood, labelling it with Connie’s name.

‘Paco in the lab owe me a favour.’ She said ‘I’ll get the result back soon.’

‘Thanks, Ava.’ Connie replied, giving her a small smile.

She then busied herself with patients, plenty coming in and out to take her mind off of the possibility she was carrying Peña’s child. It was a little after lunchtime when Ava grabbed her, pulling her into a supply closet to hand her the piece of paper that held her results.

‘I can’t.’ Connie said, her hands shaking ‘Have you read it?’

Ava nodded, giving her a look that was almost impossible to read. Connie waited for her colleague to speak, her heart racing and her palms sweating.

‘Well?’

‘You over two months pregnant Con.’ She replied, smiling at her sweetly.

She looked excited for Connie but the blonde wasn’t sure how she felt. It was Javier’s. No one else could possibly be the father. Unless by some miracle Steve had been cured of his infertility. She suddenly felt a wave of nausea wash over her and she was dashing out the door for woman's toilets, emptying her stomach of the sandwich she’d just eaten. What was she going to do? She and Steve had spoken about having children one day. They’d decided that they would likely adopt, giving a child in need the chance to be loved. This was not something however that had been discussed with Javier. They’d spoken about the future, how they couldn’t imagine not spending it together and yet children was never a subject the had come up. How would he take it? How would Steve take it? His wife pregnant with another mans child. She splashed her face with water and rinsed her mouth out before stepping outside just as people jumped into frantic action.

‘Ava? What’s happening?’

’A policeman on his way.’ She states in her broken English ‘American one. Been shot. He critical.’

Connie felt her stomach drop and she fumbled around for something to keep her stable as she felt her knees go weak. It might not be one of them. There are other agents out there. She was pulled from her thoughts by a flurry of activity and a familiar voice yelling.

‘I need to stay with him.’ Shouted Steve ‘He’s my partner.’

‘Steve?’ Connie yelled as she sprinted over to her husband but she stopped in her tracks when she saw the state that Javier was in. She covered her mouth with her hand as she studied him. Three gunshot wounds. One to the shoulder, two to the abdomen.

‘Baby stay with him.’ He pleaded and she was at Javier’s side in a heartbeat.

‘Javi… Javi can you hear me?’

Javier turned his head to look at her as he was wheeled through the halls to the OR, his hand squeezing hers as he tried to smile at her from beneath the oxygen mask strapped to his face.

‘You need to stay with me, baby.’ She begged as they pulled him into a room to be prepped. His clothes being cut away and his stomach cleaned.

Javier pulled down his mask, taking a shaky breath as he smiled at her ‘I love you, Mi Amor.’

‘Hey hey… I love you too.’ She said as she stroked his hair, fighting to keep her tears at bay.

‘I’m s-sorry.’

‘No… No there is nothing for you to apologise for.’ She stated ‘You just need to keep breathing for me.' She paused as she adjusted her hold on hid hand 'For us.’ She finished as she placed his hand on her belly, watching as his eyes went wide.

‘R-really?’ He questioned, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he allowed a few tears to fall.

‘Really.’ She replied, smiling at his reaction ‘So come back to us Javi. So you can meet your baby.’

He nodded before she was guided out of the room and she watched from the window as he was put under before disappearing through the swinging doors into the operating theatre. She watched the spot he'd been in for a few moments, noting the blood that covered the blue floor. After a short while she left, going in search of her husband whilst she swiped her thumb back and forth over her nonexistent bump. She found Steve pacing the hall where she’d left him, his eyes locking with hers and he sprinted to her, pulling her into a tight hug as he wept.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s in surgery.’ She stated as she pulled away from Steve to look him squarely in the eye ‘Steve there’s um…. There’s something I need to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘Not here.’ She said as she took his hand and pulled him into a consultation room she knew to be empty ‘Sit down Steve.’

‘Baby you’re scaring me.’ He said as he perched himself on the bed that lined the wall opposite her ‘Is it Javi?’

‘It involves him yes.’ She started, taking in a shaky breath as she formed her words carefully ‘I um… I felt unwell this morning and so Ava took some blood and sent it off to be tested. Managed to get it rushed through.’

‘What is it?’ He asked, his voice shaking a little ‘Baby please tell me.’

‘I’m pregnant Steve.’ She stated, watching him as his eyes widened ‘And we both know it can’t be yours.’

~

Chapter 2

[ibijau]

Burn it down AU // on AO3 // extras on AO3

Lan Wangji and Nie Huaisang start their investigation, but get news from Lan Xichen

(bless @veraverorum for helping me with this slightly difficult chapter!)

In the cold of the Nie mausoleum, Lan Wangji knelt down on clean ground and started observing the crime scene.

“I tried to leave everything as it was,” Nie Huaisang explained, peeking over his shoulder. “After all, it’s unlikely he pulled that off without some help, right? And sure there were some Jin retainers there, but I have no way of knowing if he didn’t buy the loyalty of some Nie disciples. So I thought it’d be best to be prudent.”

Lan Wangji nodded, inspecting the coffin. There were traces that it had been forced open at least once, of course. Nie Huaisang had tried to be careful, but some marks were left on the edges, where the lid had rubbed against the coffin itself. It was impossible to say if all those marks were Nie Huaisang’s doing.

The insides of the coffin were more interesting. As Nie Huaisang had described, stones had been put there to replicate the weight of a body, but once those were removed, close inspection revealed the presence of some long, black hair caught in a crease. Lan Wangji dislodged one with great care, and handed it to his husband.

“It could be Da-Ge’s,” Nie Huaisang noted. “He had very fine hair like that. That’s good actually, it’ll help us track him later if we have something of his.”

“Hm. Come see.”

With some reluctance, Nie Huaisang peered into the coffin. He gasped and turned deathly pale when Lan Wangji pointed at lines inside the wood that looked like claw marks.

“It can’t be!” Nie Huaisang whispered. “It can’t be! You think he was still alive in there? But that’s… no, Xichen checked… your brother was the one who announced he died, he wouldn’t… he can’t… I can accept this of Guangyao, but Xichen would never…”

“There is resentful energy,” Lan Wangji quickly pointed out. “Very faint, but still present. Someone tried to cleanse it but could not manage. The resentment must have been extremely powerful. It is similar to what might happen around a fierce corpse preparing to rise.”

Nie Huaisang quickly nodded but stepped away from the empty coffin, still shaking from the shock of having briefly considered Lan Xichen a suspect.

“But that makes no sense,” he said in a trembling voice. “Da-ge underwent all the usual rituals as a child, how could he have become a fierce corpse? You think it could be that song? Just… just how powerful was that thing?”

“You said it affected you as well,” Lan Wangji reminded him. “After only listening to it once. Uncle, just from hearing it without spiritual energies, guessed that it was dangerous. How many times did Jin Guangyao play for your brother?”

“Too long. Six months, and I think he came here at least every other week. It’s a miracle Da-ge didn’t break earlier than that. And if it was enough to overpower the calming rituals and have him turn into a fierce corpse… then of course Guangyao would have needed to steal away the body.”

“Hm.”

While Nie Huaisang looked rightfully horrified by this possibility, Lan Wangji saw it, if not as a positive exactly, then at least as convenient. A fierce corpse would leave more traces than an ordinary dead body, especially one as powerful as that of a man like Nie Mingjue. Furthermore, he doubted that Jin Guangyao would have managed to suppress such a fierce corpse on his own, since his cultivation was not that much better than Nie Huaisang’s. It was also unlikely he would have trusted anyone to help him with this, even if he had probably received orders to assassinate his sworn brother.

It would take the time it would take, but Lan Wangji was confident they would bring the truth to the light.

-

The few weeks that followed were busy.

In appearance, Nie Huaisang had reached the heights of incompetence when it came to handling his sect, quite possibly because he drank so much. Lan Wangji was known to spend his every waking hours trying to help his husband with his work and consoling him over a loss he still couldn’t accept, ever patient with the pitiful little fool he’d been forced to marry. 

It upset Lan Wangji that they had to give such an impression, but Nie Huaisang was quite insistent that they play this little charade. He still did not fully trust his own sect, still suspecting someone might have helped Jin Guangyao steal his brother’s corpse. He also did not trust anyone who came visiting, from humble merchants seeking help to the leaders of smaller sects coming to discuss certain issues. To hear him speak, everyone was a possible enemy, and precautions had to be taken.

In the end, Lan Wangji went along with it. If that was what Nie Huaisang needed to feel comfortable, after everything that he had gone through, they could play that comedy. What really mattered was that they were left to their own business most of the time, which gave Nie Huaisang time to teach his husband different Nie techniques for tracking missing bodies. It was not an easy endeavour. Qinghe Nie’s methods were as different from Gusu Lan’s as could be. Still, Lan Wangji had always been a good student at everything he attempted, and in the end, this was no different. After two or three weeks, Nie Huaisang decided that his husband understood enough for a serious attempt.

The first tracking method they used did not work.

Not through any fault of Lan Wangji, or so Nie Huaisang insisted as they sat together in his office. While his own cultivation made it difficult for him to perform that particular spell, Nie Huaisang had assisted his brother and other Nie disciples a few times and he was convinced Lan Wangji had made no mistake.

“It worked when we tried on that pheasant after all,” he muttered. “And your cultivation is good enough that even a distant target shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Unless…”

“The corpse is hidden.”

Nie Huaisang nodded. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t really expect this spell to work,” he confessed, taking out a fan and nervously playing with it. “Jin Guangyao knows it, he was taught to perform it, and he was taught what can block it as well. But it’s the easiest one of the bunch, so I thought it was worth trying anyway. At least now, you understand a little better the thought process in Qinghe Nie, right?”

“Hm.”

“Excellent. Then… let’s move on to the next one. I’d rather warn you though, it’s a little… it’s not, it’s really not, but we don’t speak about that one to outsiders because there’s been accusations of it being… demonic in nature,” Nie Huaisang explained wit a grimace as he waved his fan far harder than the temperature demanded. “I swear it’s not. It’s been the source of internal debate for generations and while a little… unsavoury, it’s not demonic. It’s mostly that it uses the dead person’s resentment to track their body. Mostly. There’s other elements that don’t help.”

Lan Wangji could not help raising an eyebrow at the news. He still held conflicting thoughts regarding demonic cultivation, torn between years of education and the regard in which he held Wei Wuxian. If Qinghe Nie used dubious methods (and no matter what Nie Huaisang said, if they had to be kept secret, then they couldn’t be wholly acceptable) after the way they had treated Wei Wuxian…

It seemed Nie Huaisang hadn’t been wrong when he had said that what had happened to Wei Wuxian had been about politics more than about the method of cultivation he used.

His eyes fell back on the instructions for the spell they had already tried, and he sighed.

“You need a piece of the person,” Nie Huaisang said suddenly, peering at him curiously from being his now still fan. “Even just a single hair can do.”

Lan Wangji startled a little, wondering why the other man felt the need to remind him of this detail he already knew. All the Nie spell needed that. It was why they had so carefully collected hairs from Nie Mingjue’s coffin, and looked for more among his old possessions. Nie Huaisang’s expression was oddly intense as well. He closed his fan and pinched his lips, as if to stop himself from saying something, before eventually giving in.

“I won’t blame you if you want to use one of these spells on… on someone other than Da-ge,” he said with affected carelessness. “You’re really doing me a favour by accepting to help, and I… if I can help in return… we weren’t so close in the end, but he was still my friend and I wish I could at least do this for him.”

All Lan Wangji could do was stare, first at his husband, then at the instructions for that spell. He had been so focused on learning how to use it that he hadn’t given much thought on the ways to use it, aside from the problem at hand. Now, he could think of nothing else.

“I have nothing of his.”

Lan Wangji had managed to get his hands on a few keepsakes over the years. He had never been shameless enough to take more than objects, no matter how tempted he always was to run his fingers in Wei Wuxian’s long, unruly hair. Nie Huaisang observed him a long moment before looking away.

“If you wish, I can check my old room. I never really touched again the combs I used while studying in Cloud Recesses, because I bought a new set on the way back to Qinghe. I know Wei Wuxian borrowed them a few times.”

“Your brother must have looked for him already.”

“Everyone did. Never hurts to look again.”

It was tempting. More tempting than Lan Wangji could handle. He wanted nothing more than a chance to properly put Wei Wuxian to rest, with all the honour and respect due to him, everything that his enemies had denied him. He had failed Wei Wuxian in every other aspect, but he could give him this at least, the last kindness any human being deserved.

“Later,” he decided. “When your brother is found, we might try.”

Nie Huaisang did not insist any further, and they simply moved on to the next method.

 -

As days passed, neither of them spoke again of that offer, but Lan Wangji thought of little else. It was a hopeless wish, but he would not pass any chance to find Wei Wuxian, no matter how slim. If he could someday take A-Yuan to the grave of the father he had forgotten… perhaps it would give both of them the closure they needed.

As for the body they were actually looking for at the moment, it proved more difficult to locate than either of them had expected. Just like the first spell, the second one failed. So did the third. It wasn’t until the fourth one that finally they obtained a result, albeit a very weak one.

“It’s not much but it’s better than nothing,” Nie Huaisang muttered when, after nearly two months of work they finally were able to pinpoint a rough idea of the body’s location. “There’s only one more spell on the list after that one, and it’s a real bother to use, so I’m glad that one worked. Still… Nightless City, uh? I sure wasn’t expecting that.”

That was where a burned mark had appeared on their map. Lan Wangji had not expected that either, although he supposed it made sense to hide a corpse there. The ruins of the city were full of resentment and dead bodies, meaning hardly anyone ever went there except to show contempt to the Wens who had died, or to honour those who perished in the massacre caused when Wei Wuxian was attacked.

“With a map of the city, could we get a more precise location?” Lan Wangji asked.

The one they had used was one covering as large an area as possible, even extending to territories outside those concerned by cultivation sects. Since they had no idea where Nie Mingjue had been hidden, that had appeared the best course of option, but a little more precision would now be appreciated. Nightless City had been a large town, if the corpse was actually within its walls and not merely near it.

Nie Huaisang pondered on that for a moment. 

“Worth a try,” he eventually decided. “I don’t know if we have something like that but… I’ll check. Da-ge kept a lot of things from the war, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s at least a map of the area around Nightless City. I’ll go look for one right away, start preparing the spell again.”

Nie Huaisang dashed off, but without surprise it took him a long while to finally return. When he did, he was carrying a carefully rolled map in one hand, and a letter in the other which he handed to Lan Wangji.

“News from your brother,” he announced. Then, without giving Lan Wangji time to read, he added: “He’s coming here. I guess we oversold a little on me being pathetic and broken. It’s a bother.”

“Hm. What do we do?”

“What do you mean?”

Lan Wangji threw a pointed look at the map that Nie Huaisang had brought.

“Oh, that,” his husband muttered. “Well, your brother won’t be here for a few more days I’d think, so we have plenty of time to use the spell. We’ll just have to wait until he’s gone again to actually go there. I need to think of an excuse, come to think of it… I’d been hoping to say we were going on a delayed honeymoon, but Nightless City is… not exactly the place for that.”

An important thing to consider as well, but not quite what Lan Wangji had meant.

“Do we tell brother?” he clarified.

The question, obvious to him, appeared to startle Nie Huaisang who instantly tensed, his hand clenching hard on the map.

“Can we trust him?” he asked with a nervous laugh, avoiding Lan Wangji’s eyes. “He’s just spent this much time helping Jin Guangyao consolidating his hold on Lanling Jin and he… he’s always been a little blind to his actions. Of course, I was as well, but… and it’s not like we have proof, right? Maybe… maybe it’s better to leave him out of this. I already feel bad about dragging you into this…”

“Brother would wish to know.”

“No he wouldn’t,” Nie Huaisang muttered, starting to pace. “I’m sure of that, because I wish I didn’t know either and for how much I liked Guangyao, I've never held for him half the affection your brother has. He’ll trust him more than me. Between some little idiot who keeps breaking into tears and the dear friend who saved his life, killed his father’s murderer, and helped rebuild his home, it's easy to guess who he'd choose."

Lan Wangji considered that a moment. 

"You are unfair." 

“I have a right to be,” Nie Huaisang dryly replied. “Besides, it really is kinder to him if he doesn’t know for the time being.”

Lan Wangji considered that as well.

“I will tell him if you don’t. I trust my brother.”

Nie Huaisang pinched his lips, but chose to drop the argument entirely and instead, with nervous gestures, he opened the map he’d found and laid it on the floor so they could try to find a little more precisely where Nie Mingjue’s body had been hidden.

  -

Lan Xichen arrived on a cloudy afternoon, a few days later. Nie Huaisang welcomed him with great effusion but quite a few tears, and suggested that it might be more comfortable to chat in Lan Wangji’s room rather than his office, where they might be bothered by people needing something for their sect leader, or Nie Huaisang’s house, where the shadow of Nie Mingjue still lingered in every corner. Lan Xichen, ever gracious, agreed easily.

All three sat together at a low table, trying to ignore a certain tension in the air. Lan Wangji’s first instinct had been to sit opposite Nie Huaisang, but his brother had already taken that spot. His second idea was to take his place on the third side of the table, a neutral position… but with the discussion they needed to have, neutrality felt uncalled for. If Lan Xichen showed any doubts, Lan Wangji would have to make it clear he held none. He sat next to his husband who shot him a small, grateful smile.

While they waited for the servants to bring tea, they kept the conversation light, with Lan Xichen asking for news of his nephew mostly. As soon as they had been served and were alone for good, Lan Xichen’s expression turned more serious.

“Huaisang, I’ve heard that you’ve been having trouble lately,” he remarked. “Enough to go all the way to Gusu, even though it would have been easier and faster to come ask for help in Lanling?”

Nie Huaisang turned his cup of tea in his hands, looking down at it.

“It would not have felt right at that time, Zewu-Jun,” he muttered. “I don’t like to be a bother to you.”

Something briefly shifted in Lan Xichen’s eyes, too quick for Lan Wangji to try and identify it before his brother returned to his usual warm smile.

“I would have come to visit anyway,” he explained, “but things were more complicated than expected in Lanling. Poor A-Yao had to handle not only the change in power, but also a purge of the less savoury elements that his father had brought in to understand Wei Wuxian’s notes. He was so glad to finally be able to get rid of Xue Yang, like Da-ge had asked him for so long… although some others were harder for him to deal with. I don’t think any of us expected little Mo Xuanyu to turn out… quite this way.”

“Really?” Nie Huaisang said with a nervous smile, fidgeting a little harder with his cup and nearly spilling its content.

“Hm. In the end, Mo Xuanyu too had to be expelled in that purge,” Lan Xichen lamented. “Though with him so young, A-Yao judged it better not to punish him too harshly. He was sent back to his mother’s family, but I’m sure he’ll do fine. Just a brush with the cultivation world should set him up for life, if he is smart enough to use it. Still, I’m sorry for A-Yao. He did not need this, on top of all the rest.”

Nie Huaisang shot Lan Wangji a look, as if hearing Lan Xichen worry over a man he had no reason yet to see as anything but a dear friend was a validation of his mistrust.

Sometimes, Lan Wangji’s husband was a touch too dramatic and emotional.

“Regarding Jin Guangyao,” Lan Wangji said. “Brother must be told certain things.”

Next to him, Nie Huaisang tensed even further, if that was possible, but said nothing and continued glaring at his cup of tea. Lan Wangji, who had counted on his husband to explain the situation since he was the one most skilled with words, sighed.

As well as he could, Lan Wangji told his brother about Nie Huaisang’s surprise at hearing the proper version of Cleansing, his own research to understand what the corrupted fragment was, his husband’s discovery that Nie Mingjue’s body had gone missing. With each new statement, Lan Xichen turned a little paler and agitated, his eyes jumping between Lan Wangji whom he dared not interrupt, and Nie Huaisang who refused to look at him.

When at last Lan Wangji finished explaining their attempts to locate the disappeared corpse, his brother looked as ashen as if he’d been dead himself.

“Are you really sure?” he asked in a trembling voice. “I can’t believe… how could A-Yao ever…”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Xichen,” Nie Huaisang said softly, finally daring to look his brother-in-law in the eyes. “I hope you know this.”

Lan Xichen took a shaky breath and nodded, moisture gathering in his eyes without quite spilling into tears.

“No, of course not. I trust you, Huaisang,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “And I trust Wangji as well, of course. If you two tell me these things, I have no choice but to believe it. But this is… I trusted A-Yao. I taught him Cleansing, I… if it really happened as you think it did, then I gave him every weapon to kill Da-ge. What does that make me?”

Against all of his preferences, Lan Wangji moved to try and take his brother’s hand in an effort to comfort him. Nie Huaisang was quicker, leaning over the table to grasp Lan Xichen’s hand tightly.

“It makes you another of his victims,” he said fiercely. “I know you would never have done anything to hurt Da-ge, and Da-ge knew it too. I think that’s why Guangyao used you, he knew that Da-ge’s trust in you was so great it would make Da-ge trust him just enough to use it against him.”

“I feel like a fool…”

“He fooled many people,” Lan Wangji intervened. “The person he could not fool, he killed.”

His brother flinched, though it might have been also because Nie Huaisang’s grip on him tightened, his knuckles nearly white from the strength of it. As if he only then remarked that touch, Lan Xichen tried to pull away, but his brother-in-law refused to let go.

“We cannot let him get away with this,” Nie Huaisang said. “Da-ge deserves justice. You’re on our side, right?”

“Of course,” Lan Xichen sighed, looking at the hand holding his. “But you two must understand that I cannot do anything at the moment. I trust both of you, without hesitation, but at the moment it is your word against his. Right now, I can do little for you except lie for you when you go to Nightless City. Once you have found Da-ge, there isn’t a force in the world that can stop me from bringing him justice, but until we have something concrete to present… I must be a sect leader first and a friend second.”

“This is already more than I expected,” Nie Huaisang replied. “Thank you for believing us, Zewu-Jun. I am more grateful than I could say.”

Lan Xichen frowned slightly at that statement, looking nearly hurt by it.

“I am sorry if I have behaved in a way that made you doubt our friendship,” he said. “Of course I believe you, of course I’ll help as much as I can.”

With a wry smile, Nie Huaisang let go of his brother-in-law’s hand and once more sat straight, not bothering to deny that he had felt doubts.

The rest of the day was spent discussing the best course of action to take regarding this delicate situation. It was especially necessary to find a way to justify their trip to Nightless City. As Lan Xichen pointed out, it could easily be misinterpreted for Lan Wangji to return to the place where he had turned his back on the rest of the cultivation world. 

Nie Huaisang’s idea was to hint that the trip was for his own sake instead. It would be described as a foolish attempt to bask in the defeat of the clan that had taken his father from him, in hopes that it would give him the strength of will he so obviously needed to keep him going. Lan Xichen, just like Lan Wangji, did not like that Nie Huaisang was so carelessly throwing his reputation to the winds, but had no better idea to offer.

The Lan brothers were also uncomfortable when Nie Huaisang said that Lan Wangji’s presence could be explained as repentance. Although the divide between them was no longer as great as it had once been, this tugged at a still too fresh wound. And yet Lan Wangji could not deny that there would be enough truth in such a statement that even he could say it out loud without issue. He was repentant, for not having done more to help and protect Wei Wuxian, and returning to Nightless City would not be easy.

Dinner came and passed, a light collation served in the same room since they wanted to continue talking about the problem at hand. It took them a few more hours to perfectly coordinate the stories they might need to tell around them. Nie Huaisang, carefully, had found ways to spin things so that neither Lan Wangji nor Lan Xichen would have to lie, not quite, not exactly, instead leading people to assume certain things without ever needing to actually say them.

In some ways Lan Wangji suspected this was far worse than lying, but since his brother did not object to it, neither did he.

When at last they had all agreed on what to say, Nie Huaisang asked Lan Wangji to take Lan Xichen to his room, explaining that he actually had a lot of work to do. Considering that he would soon have to leave the Unclean Realm for an unknown duration, he did not want his work to start piling up already. It might have been true, or it might have been a lie. Lan Wangji would check in the morning if his husband had asked for wine, but after a day such as that one he would not scold him for it.

When he was gone, Lan Wangji saw his brother stare at the door a moment too long. He made a note of that, as he had made notes of many things since his brother had arrived in the Unclean Realm.

“You have a good husband,” Lan Xichen said at last, with an indulgent smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “I’m… glad things worked out.”

“He is good. You should have married him.”

An unkind thing to say when the conversation before had already been so heavy for Lan Xichen, and indeed he turned pale once more. But Lan Wangji had no doubt anymore that his brother cared for Nie Huaisang, and it made him angry to see that thrown away. If it had been him, if he had been kissed by Wei Wuxian, knowingly, if he’d had any reasons to believe that his love was returned, he would have stopped at nothing to be with him.

Yet Lan Xichen, given that chance, had let it pass.

“I would never have married Nie Huaisang, even if you hadn’t,” Lan Xichen coldly replied. “I wonder what could ever have given you that idea.”

“He told me what happened during the war,” Lan Wangji retorted.

From deathly pale, his brother’s face quickly went splotchy red.

“I wish he hadn’t,” Lan Xichen muttered, turning away to hide his embarrassment. “Wangji, what happened then is in the past. The two of you are married, and for those last three years you've seemed… as happy as you can be expected to be, given the circumstances. You have nothing to fear, I will not take your husband from you. I have my faults, more than I ever knew apparently, but I hope not to have that one. I want you to be happy.”

“Even if it costs you this much?”

“The situation isn’t what you think,” Lan Xichen insisted, turning to give him a severe look. “Nie Huaisang and I were… it simply was not meant to be. I think we are both quite over it.”

That lie was so transparent that Lan Wangji refused to grace it with an answer. Instead he only stared at his brother until he gave in.

“Wangji, does this really matter at all ?” Lan Xichen asked between clenched teeth. Lan Wangji nodded. His brother sighed. “As you wish. Here is the truth : I have cared for Nie Huaisang for a long time, not only as a friend, but as someone I thought could become my cultivation partner. I cared long before the Sunshot Campaign in fact, although that is when I discovered he returned my affections, as he apparently told you. Of course, after that... revelation, I immediately sought Uncle to ask for his permission for a courtship.”

Lan Wangji half wanted to smile at his brother for immediately having tried to do the most proper thing possible, until he noticed Lan Xichen’s fists clenched at the memory.

“I was able to go as far as telling him I liked another boy before he forbade me to say another word,” his brother explained, his face taut. “He reminded me that I was the Sect Leader, that it was my duty to marry someone who would give me an heir. I…” 

He hesitated, looking at his still clenched fists.

“I insisted,” he confessed in a half horrified voice, as if it were a crime to go against their uncle’s orders. “I did not care about the clan. I had lost so much in such a short time, I was constantly at risk of losing yet more in that war and… I wanted to be selfish. Uncle, of course, did not like that. He ordered me to stop my nonsense, and to never speak to that other boy again. He insisted until I gave in. I have done my best to obey, although it has proven… challenging.”

There was a faint smile on Lan Xichen’s lips, albeit one more bitter than Lan Wangji had ever seen on his brother. If it had been him, if he had been told to cut all ties to Wei Wuxian… 

He did not even need to use his imagination. Lan Wangji had been faced with that choice, and he had chosen Wei Wuxian, over and over. He had never dared to go as far as he should have, and his efforts had all been in vain, but he could not conceive being told he could not stand up for Wei Wuxian and accepting that.

“Why marry me off to him?” Lan Wangji asked.

“It was a good political move,” Lan Xichen replied with practised ease, the expression on his face smoothing into nearly believable warmth, “and a way to make sure you would not try to leave Gusu Lan to become a rogue cultivator once your wounds healed. Jin Guangyao’s idea. Of course, he was pushing to have you married to someone from Lanling Jin, but I thought this would be a better option.”

It surprised Lan Wangji that his brother would have feared he might leave the sect. The Cloud Recesses were home. They would always be home. It was the place where he had met Wei Wuxian, the place that held every memories of his mother, of happier times with his brother. Even with Lan Qiren he had shared pleasant moments there. It was his home, and they would not have needed to use coercion to keep him there.

“I wanted you to have a partner I knew would be worthy of you,” Lan Xichen argued, mistaking his silence for doubt. “I gave you a husband intelligent enough to keep up with you, bold enough to force you out of your comfort when needed, kind enough to respect your peculiarities. I thought the two of you might fall for each other and be happy together. I’m… glad that my plan worked out. You two really do seem happy together.”

It took a few seconds for Lan Wangji to understand what his brother meant, and he could not contain a faint grimace.

“We are not cultivation partners.”

“Why not?” Lan Xichen asked, sounding nearly offended that the man he wanted as his lover might be rejected by someone else. At some other time it might have been amusing, but for now Lan Wangji was still too torn between pity and anger.

“I have only been interested in one person in my life,” he soberly replied. Then, unsure if he intended to be cruel or kind, he added: “Huaisang is the same.”

“A pity for both of you if it is true,” Lan Xichen whispered. “Wangji, what is gone cannot be changed, but the future is still there for you to take. Do not ignore the chance offered to you, just for the memory of a man who never cared for you.”

After what he had said, Lan Wangji should have perhaps expected that his brother would feel allowed to be cruel as well. To have Wei Wuxian’s indifference thrown to his face hurt. It always had. It always would.

But that had been his own fault, he reminded himself. They could have been friends, if only he hadn’t rejected every offer than Wei Wuxian had made, in the easy days before the Sunshot Campaign. He had only offered his hand in return when it had been too late, when something had broken beyond repair in the person he loved, and even then he’d offered his help so clumsily that Wei Wuxian had appeared to take it as an insult each time.

The chance to be happy with Wei Wuxian had come and passed, if it had ever existed in the first place. All Lan Wangji could do now was live up to his lost love's memory and raise his son well so A-Yuan might one day be a man Wei Wuxian would be proud of.

For his brother though, there might still be a chance to fix things.

“You should tell Huaisang,” Lan Wangji said. “He would want to know.”

Lan Xichen scoffed, and turned away from his brother.

“What is there to say? The chance for us came and left. I would rather let him hate me than taunt him with something that cannot be. What he doesn’t know cannot hurt him.”

“He would want to know.”

“And I wish I could forget,” Lan Xichen sighed. “Wangji… please, do not speak of this again. Not to me, and certainly not to Huaisang.”

“Hm.”

His brother appeared satisfied by that non-commital noise, used to Lan Wangji’s silences and difficulties speaking clearly. Having obtained this and eager to change the subject, he asked to be shown to his room, stating how desperately he needed rest after that eventful day. Lan Wangji and him went out together, with Lan Xichen saying how excited he was to soon see A-Yuan again.

A noise was not a promise though. Lan Wangji did not have his brother and husband’s skill when it came to half truths, but he had the advantage of surprise. There were more urgent things to consider at the moment, a murder to avenge and justice to be fought for, but once those problems were handled, Lan Wangji would make sure to set certain things right.

[the-recusants-sigil]

Hey again!! Thank you again for the brilliant request- I’ve been editing while I work all day, so sorry for the delay! BUUUUUUT here is Part 2, with Xaldin~

Enjoy! <3

Xaldin

Words: 2784

-It didn't happen often, but at this particular moment, Xaldin was in deep shit.

-His mission was straightforward, and in an ideal situation, there wouldn't have been any danger to begin with. How a simple reconnaissance mission could go so horribly wrong was beyond him.

-In a rush to get out the door that morning, he had skipped eating and hadn't bothered to prepare. No potions, no ethers, not even a packed lunch.Nothing. Though he hadn’t eaten much the day before, either, he wasn't going to bother going back for anything. After all, it was just a pithy little recon mission; what could possibly go wrong?

-A lot, as it turns out.

-He was just supposed to be surveying the land around Beast's Castle. That was all. He was to report back with details about the landscape, the foliage, the climate and anything else that stuck out to him as noteworthy; basically, he was scouting for possible synthesis materials and nothing more. He was not to engage in combat of any sort with anything unless it became entirely necessary.

-An hour in, and what had happened? Wolves. Wolves happened. 

-He noticed them following him at a distance, first. Just a few, with jet black fur, watching him for a few moments and then darting off into the cover of the thick underbrush. They weren’t aggressive, or so he thought. But after the sun went down, he noticed more and more sets of yellow eyes peering at him. Surrounding him.

-It was a large pack, larger than he'd ever seen. Normally, dealing with them would be a cakewalk. In terms of firepower, Xaldin was certainly at an advantage with several lances and power over wind. But these wolves were different. He hadn't seen it at first, but after impaling one  of the beasts, it occurred to him that these were, in fact, Heartless. They hadn't immediately seemed like it, but as the first few burst into clouds of shadow, he was certain that these weren't actually run-of-the-mill timberwolves. Three more of them charged him head-on while the rest of the pack closed in on him. As soon as he dealt with those three, another two leapt at him from behind. Every time he dealt with one, it seemed two more were there to take its place.

-It was more than he could keep up with; the swarm of Heartless was faster and stronger than he'd anticipated, and they were starting to chip away at him. They lunged as soon as he turned his back, gnashing teeth and razor claws tearing at his cloak and ripping  through his flesh. 

-At this point, tired and hungry with nothing to heal himself, Xaldin knew he had to find a way out. With a shout and a strong gust of wind, he propelled himself over the ring of Heartless and towards, what he hoped, was safety. He had hardly any energy to use his powers, though, and barely any energy left to run. And where would he go, he wondered? He had gotten soft. This would have been nothing for him to deal with before.

-Exhausted, hungry, and resigned to failure, the Whirlwind Lancer raised his right hand and summoned a corridor of  darkness to take him home. Something heavy crashed into him from behind; the set of jaws clamping down on his forearm and the Heartless sending him tumbling through the corridor were the last things he remembered.

-At least, from that world, anyway. He could tell right away that something was off. This was, decidedly, not The World That Never Was, because he'd never seen a damn cornfield anywhere in that world. There was also no moon in the sky, whereas back home, the faintest beginnings of a heart-shaped moon hung low in the sky. Something had gone wrong. He knew another corridor just wasn't possible right now, and he briefly wondered what he could do.

-The opportunity to grab a bite to eat had presented itself, though, and he plucked an ear of corn from a stalk before peeling it and biting down. He spit it out immediately- raw corn was tough to chew and, frankly, disgusting.

-He could hear the occasional roaring, whooshing sound not far from him, though, and an acrid smell hung in the air like something had been burning. But it was something, and anything was better than standing around this field with who knows what kind of Heartless. He pushed his way through the stalks as he marched towards the sounds, lifting his boots high to keep them from getting stuck in the loamy soil. It couldn't have been a strawberry patch, oh no. It just had to be fucking corn.

-And suddenly, as he shoved aside the last few cornstalks, he was out in the open. Back on a paved road, just like the roads in the World That Never Was. There was that rumbling noise again--

-A truck horn blared at him and he jumped out of the way just in time as the massive thing went barreling past. Up close, he felt the roar of its engine in his chest, and as it passed, he counted his blessings he hadn't ended up plastered onto the front of it. He watched the eighteen-wheeler thunder down the road and disappear into the night. Apart from the near-death experience, the place didn’t seem too bad. The stars were very visible here, unlike the World That Never Was, and it seemed... peaceful. If he squinted, Xaldin could make out a cluster of lights shimmering in the distance. City lights.

-He looked down the road to see another pair of lights coming, this time from the opposite direction, and he summoned what energy he had left to wave vigorously at the oncoming car.

-You hadn't expected any surprises on your trip back to college. That morning, you'd said a tearful goodbye to your family several hundred miles away, and now you were on the home stretch- five more miles of corn and alfalfa, over the bridge, and back to business. So when a tall man in a torn black coat jumped in front of your Jeep and began flailing wildly, to say you were a little offput would be putting it mildly. As you slammed on your brakes and brought your car to a screeching halt, the man collapsed, falling face first onto the asphalt.

-You were dead tired and not in the mood to deal with any of this, if you were perfectly honest, but what were you going to do- leave him to be vulture fodder? He was still breathing, that much you could see, but you'd want someone to help if you were in his position. You flicked on your hazards and got out, examining the man carefully, one hand on a small pocketknife just in case.

-...............

-How you managed to smuggle him into your apartment without your roommates asking questions was a goddamn miracle. It was also fortunate that you had the unit right next to your elevator, so loading him onto one of the move-in day dollies and getting him up to the fifth floor was a cakewalk.

-In no time, you'd laid out some towels and dumped him unceremoniously onto the couch. He was covered in large gashes, bruises, scrapes, and dirt. You were able to get a closer look at him now: he was tall and broad-chested, with muscles that visibly strained the fabric of his coat. He had long, black hair twisted into braids and prominent sideburns. He looked like some kind of... warrior. While you gathered some supplies to at least clean and dress the wounds you could see, you wondered briefly if he was an actor or something.

-So what had left him this badly hurt? Whoever did this could, and hopefully would, catch a battery and assault charge at the very lightest for what they'd done. 

-The second you touched his arm with a cloth wet with peroxide, his eyes flew open and he looked around wildly. They were an intense violet- mesmerizing, totally unique, like tanzanite.

-”What are you doing? Stop that.”

-You certainly hadn't expected him to be so rude. “Excuse me? I'm trying to help you!”

-”You don't know what you're doing, lass,” he growled, taking the cloth from your hands and undoing the zipper of his coat. The black undershirt he wore was also in tatters, making it even easier for you to see the definition of his abs. It occurred to you, then, that this guy was fucking ripped, and it might not be a great idea to piss him off. “Why did you stop to help me?”

-”Couldn't just leave you. So... do you remember what happened to you? Can you tell me your name?”

-”...Xaldin.”

-”Come again?”

-”My name is Xaldin.”

-”Ah.” The two of you sat in silence for a while. He continued cleaning and dressing his wounds, and you contemplated the whole scenario. Either he remembered everything and wasn't talking, or he remembered perfectly and didn't want to say. Whatever the case, you decided not to press the issue. 

-After a long pause, you finally spoke. “I'm Y/N. I forgot to ask, do you want some water? Something to eat?”

-He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Tea would be lovely if you have any, lass. And anything to eat, really. Very hospitable of you.” He was gruff, straight to the point, yet... something about the way he held himself betrayed that rough exterior. And he hadn't tried to murder you or steal any of your things, which he would have had no trouble doing. That thought made you feel a bit better.

-It dawned on you, though, that there was no food in the apartment because you'd been gone for three months, so you carefully helped him down to the car and drove across town in search of a drive thru open at two in the morning. Finally, you settled on a local burger joint, and as you pulled in front of the menu, you began rattling off recommendations. He wasn't clueless, though- he'd seen these things before, once.

-Those went out the window, though, because Xaldin leaned past you, out the car window, and started ordering. “I'd like two large Number Fives with extra bacon, curly fries with both, and two chicken sandwiches with a side order of chicken tenders. And-”

-You cut him off furiously. “Xaldin! I don't have that much money!” you hissed. He shrugged lightly.

-”I do,” he replied, producing a heaping handful of little yellow... somethings. They were sparkly, sure, but you doubted very much that they would let you pay with what resembled a handful of D&D dice.

-”$48.20, please pull forward.”

-”Shit!” You cried. “Dude, what the hell?”

-”Don't worry about it,” Xaldin said as you pulled forward to the cashier.

-Of course, when Xaldin said “don't worry about it”, what he really meant was, “I'm going to intimidate the cashier into giving us that food”. The young man took one look at Xaldin and decided it wasn't worth the trouble; you sped off towards your apartment with two massive bags of food. Maybe picking this guy up was a mistake?

-But over the next few days, you became accustomed to each other. He stayed in the apartment, for the most part, resting and reading the books on your shelves. You watched him glance through Romeo and Juliet before bitterly flinging it to the side. In your conversations, you were quick to note that Xaldin was a pretty angry guy. Or, at least, it seemed that way. Other times, he was almost eerily placid, like he wasn't quite aware that he should be feeling or acting a certain way. He mentioned heartbreak and a past lover offhandedly once, and it made you wonder just how much this poor man had been through.

-He talked a bit about work, too, and how exhausting it had been. After a surprise termination at his old job, with no severance package or anything, the new job had worked him to the bone from day one. He worked with most of the same coworkers, which was both a positive and a negative according to him. Xaldin noted that this was his first proper “weekend” off in years, and of course it would be spent covered in lacerations.

-At this point, you produced a tall glass and a bottle of red wine from your wine rack. You  uncorked it for him and filled his glass about halfway.

-”Drink up,” you offered. “Sounds like you need it.”

-You spent more time together than you intended to, ditching syllabus week in favor of taking care of Xaldin. There was just something about him that drew you to him. It could have been his voice, the way he worded things, watching his walls come down bit by bit... 

-And just as you enjoyed being with him, you were starting to grow on him, too. He dared not smile in front of you, goodness no, but he showed his growing affection in different ways. When he picked up a package of sausages in Target and tore it open right then and there to get to the good stuff, you panicked and told him that it needed to be paid for first. He listened.

-He picked up on the hints of sadness in your voice when you talked about home, about the family you'd left behind, about all of the pressure on you to strive for greatness when, really, you just wanted to find happiness. Xaldin understood, and for the first time in a long time, he was genuinely sympathetic.

-It was at precisely that point that alarm bells started going off in his head and he knew he had to RTC. 

-He didn't plan on telling you he was leaving. He'd already caused enough turmoil in the past week. But whatever it was about you that he found so comforting, so relaxing- it was so easy to drop the warrior act and just be himself--

-That night, the two of you were mixing drinks and watching The Bachelor, thoroughly enjoying tearing the contestants apart. Even that part of you, he liked- you could be just as vicious as he was and he didn't have to pull punches or mind his manners. You could keep up with him. He hadn't had a connection like that since--

-Since--

-Xaldin's brain short-circuited and the next thing you knew, the man had turned to face you, gripping both of your arms gently yet firmly in either hand, gazing at you with those gorgeous tanzanite eyes. Your breath hitched in your throat as you realized what was happening.

-His eyes snapped shut as your lips collided with his. You pulled yourself into his lap and grabbed a fistful of hair as he deepened the kiss. He wasn't as rough as you imagined he would be; on the contrary, he moved slowly, precisely, enjoying every moment with you. When he nibbled at your lower lip, you obliged, and his tongue swept inside your mouth to explore.

-Five minutes turned into fifteen. Fifteen minutes turned into an hour. It wasn't until the doorknob on the front door rattled that the two of you scrambled off of the couch and darted to your room for a little more privacy.

-..............

-It killed Xaldin to leave the note. It really did. But there were too many liabilities, including his growing affections for you, and he needed to get back to the Castle. With a dull ache in his chest, one that he had long since forgotten, he placed the note on your nightstand and opened a corridor to take him home.

-You awoke the next morning, groggy and sore, with thoughts of cooking a big breakfast for the man. Your heart sank, however, when you noticed the empty spot next to you where Xaldin had been only the night before. Part of you expected this to happen, but it didn't make the hurt any less real: there was no way he was in the bathroom or something, he was just gone.

-A folded piece of notebook paper rested on your nightstand. You knew exactly what it was the moment you spotted it. Slowly, tears welling in your eyes, you unfolded it tenderly and read the neat cursive handwriting:

Y/N,

Sincerest apologies for leaving unannounced, my dear. It was the easiest way for us both. Thank you for showing me kindness, hospitality and warmth; thank you for offering me reprieve from an unforgiving world, however short; and thank you for being a ray of light in a sea of darkness. Until our next meeting.

Yours,

X ~~

[flyswhumpcenter]

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. I don’t have any request left, so feel free to send in suggestions for this card!).

I guess writing a Tachimukai-centric fic is an annual tendency of mine since 2014 and this is this year's edition of "how bad can I get on this cinnamon roll".

Not going to lie, I may have gone hardcore with the angst content on this one, especially considering the character I'm writing about. Despite the appearances, Tachimukai was one of my comfort characters in high school and early college years, when I felt isolated and unwanted, when my self-esteem was low and I didn't know where I was going. I should write actual fluff where he gets the attention he deserves, because Orion won't provide it. (but instead I got attached to Ichihoshi and Nishikage so I suppose I'm no better than I was in 10th grade). I know these headcanons are freakin' wild and edgy as heck, but that's how I've rolled for the past 3 years, so I suppose it's to be expected. You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you this actually *isn't* the edgiest I've written about Tachimukai, because that is a thing you most likely will only be posted in years, if ever. This is the cringy part of me I suppose, that part that never let go of his middle school years; but I also suppose I grew up with these characters and they grew up with me in my mind

It's weird for me to take the prompt "Definitely Just a Cold", a personal favorite of mine, and write about this loosely about it, as the focus is somewhere else. It's also weird to write for this character as "Yuuki", but it makes more sense storytelling-wise: you don't tend to call yourself by your surname when you talk to yourself, right? I'm sorry if the actual sickfic part of the fic is underwhelming, my inspiration suddenly left me and I switched to an Ensemble Stars mood?? That was the oddest thing I swear

Also this is a slight AU where Raimon had time between the matches against Chaos and Genesis, aka "man this is purely for my convenience's sake"

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Burden with a Frostbitten Self-Consciousness

Summary: There is no way his aching chest is a good excuse to bother his upperclassmen. Better keep everything to himself so he doesn't become a burden to anyone but him again. (This doesn't feel right, though).

Fandom: Inazuma Eleven (original continuity)

Wordcount: 2.2K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

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“Don’t make your senpais worry, Yuuki” is one of the first things he’s been told by his parents when he first started middle school. It was on a lukewarm spring day, wind blowing right into his face with hair pushed way backward on his scalp, slipping through his clothes and brushing against his skin. “They’ll have other things to do and think about, so don’t bother them unless it’s necessary, okay? You’re a good boy, I trust you not to concern them with you.” It’s the last thing his mother has told him, so he clutches her words against his chest to feel their warmth over and over again until the hot-water bottle goes cold.

It’s icy and it hurts, yet he feels the need to keep it against his skin, even if it gives him frostbite.

 After all, as far as he knows, Yuuki’s always been a bother to everyone around him. He’s an unwanted child: his parents are always busy being somewhere better than their hometown (it’s only his, he knows that too), he’s just a weight they need to take care of. The concept of home feels foreign to him, the kind of things his classmates and teammates talk about but that he’s never been able to truly understand. They live with their parents, their siblings, their pet; but he has no parent to take care of him, no sibling to talk to and no pet to walk and clean after.

It’s normal, after all: he’s a burden for the people around him. It’s only fair that he bothers them as little as possible.

 He actually likes talking to other persons and kids around him. He’s too talkative: no matter what he starts speaking about, he tends to ramble, to get lost in thoughts and only he can make out what he’s just said. He wants to have friends and spend time with them, discuss things and high-five them when they succeed at something, game or homework well done; but he doesn’t dare coming up to people and asking them for it. After all, he could be bothering them if he did that.

As such, he tries to stay silent most of the time. He does have comrades, though, now, and it’s a breath of fresh air. The one time he had the guts to talk to someone first, it was to join the soccer club of the school to make some friends: he’s a rookie at the sport. He’s watched it before that, grew an admiration for team captains, wants to be a leader with charisma and this capacity to motivate everyone around him. He shook the hand of the third-year captain and wondered how and why they had accepted him, yet didn’t question it: he was just happy to feel included, wanted.

It’s a rare feeling unlike anything else, after all.

 Turns out he sucks at being a midfielder. He has low stamina, doesn’t have the best accuracy, can’t shoot strongly like the teammates he shares a part of the field with; but it’s fine. It’s fine because they talk to him, ask him how his day has been, if he needs help with anything at school (on that, he does just right: he’s a good student, he studies every evening when going back to the dorm, makes sure to learn his lessons and do his drills for the next class, because he can’t bother the teachers too). They’re all nice with him, even if he’s younger, and he’s afraid he’s bothering them because he’s all new to this and doesn’t know how to play as well as they do; but when he asks, they all say it’s fine, that they’re happy he’s there.

When he asks to become a reserve goalkeeper, inspired by Raimon’s Endou, his charisma, his capacity to motivate his teammates no matter the situation, they all strangely accept immediately. They tell him it’s fine, that he seems more of a keeper to them anyway, that they were worried about the way he breathes after he’s run on the field for practice matches. He apologies for worrying them over and over again, hoping the stain of his fault will eventually disappear from how much he’s scrubbing it. In the end, he became their main goalkeeper, even if he’s the only first-year on the team.

 When he joins Raimon, it’s because he admires the rookie team who’s won in the Football Frontier and fights aliens trying to destroy their country’s schools one after the other. By the time they reach Fukuoka to retrieve a secret copybook, they won against Gemini Storm and are on their way to defeat Epsilon, pumping his club’s veins with adrenaline and hope in the future. He gets to show Endou his God Hand, feels awkward about it, enjoys playing against the people he admires so much, discovers how his idol is the real deal. “Never met your idols” doesn’t make sense in his mind, even as Raimon traverses the desert with their captain stuck on the roof.

By a miracle, he manages to ask Endou if he can join Raimon. It’s the team who has insisted: to them, he’s too talented for them, the country needs them and, as such, so does Raimon, the best team in Japan. He’s surprised everyone at Raimon accepts him, that even their coach doesn’t reject his request. He leaves his team with a part of his heart breaking, even if they’re smiling and waving at him when he leaves Yokato in the Inazuma Caravan; even though the pretty landscapes he’s never seen and the light-hearted banter of the caravan make him quickly forget about his guilt.

 And it’s because they’ve all been so nice to him, welcoming, accepting, warm, arms wide open; that Yuuki can’t make anyone at Raimon concern for him. It’s just not right. It’s his business to take care of, on his own, he’s the only one who should be bothered about this in the first place.

That’s how it works for him, even if his lungs are starting to burn.

 It starts with a stuffed nose and an itching throat. It’s a familiar feeling, very much so: it happens to him every winter, when the immune system is tired and the temperatures keep dropping until March comes around. Usually, his teammates would have told him to stay put and just watch practice so it doesn’t get worse; but this is no usual time. They’re trying to win against The Genesis and Aliea as a whole, they don’t have the time to do rest.

He doesn’t like outright lying, because he’s learnt that lying is bad and the best way to get people away from you, so when Tsunami asks him if he’s fine after a light coughing fit, he just says what’s on his mind: it’s a little summer cold, nothing wrong with that, he feels good otherwise. He wants to learn the technique from the secret notebook more than anything, after all, so he takes care not to worry everyone, take breaks when he can and puts on a mask hoping nobody ever asks him about it.

People do, unfortunately, but he always responds to them the same way he’s responded to his friend.

 Yuuki is bad at lying to himself too, so when his itching throat starts making him cough and when his vision swims if he gets up too quickly, when the air starts becoming too hot around him and when his skin can’t decide if it’s feeling too cold or too warm, when he sweats without doing any effort, he knows he’s getting worse, but his response doesn’t change by much. It’s just a bad cold, now. It’s starting to learn more towards the fabricated side of half-truths, and he can hear his father scold him before leaving for three months, yet the context can’t help it and he needs to be there for the team.

Is he a part of them, on second thought? He was appointed titular goalkeeper because the team needed to become an offensive powerhouse and Endou became a libero as a result. He saw Aphrodi destroy himself against Chaos when he had himself been too busy being unable to stop at least eleven shoots. He’s the weakest link, this much he knows, and he can’t help but wonder if they don’t resent him for this. It’s fine if they do: if they don’t, then what prevents them from realizing he’s only dragging them down?

 The black thoughts clog his mind’s drain, but he doesn’t say anything. Everyone here is his senpai: they’ve all been there for longer than he has, the sole exception being Tsunami, who even then is two or three years older than he is. If he even makes it obvious that he has doubts and his body starting to fail on him at the worst moments, he’ll start worrying his upperclassmen. That’s wrong, he’s aware of that, he’s learnt his lesson; as such, he stays quiet about it, half-lies to everyone asking him and hopes his coughing fits stop being so painful. It’s easier for everyone if that’s how he rolls.

Even with his resolutions taken, Tsunami’s worried stares make him weaver in his decisions. It seems like his plan hasn’t worked properly, because he’s asked more and more often if he really is fine. The only thing stopping them from removing him from the goalpost is the coach insisting everything is also fine, despite her frowned eyebrows and betraying glances at him. He’s the weakest link, so Endou can replace him anytime, but they need him there so they can win against The Genesis. That has to be the reason why everyone is getting worried around him.

They’re worried for the team’s future, the country’s, and their goals, it’s normal. The stakes are just way above his head for him to fully understand.

 His chest is aching as soon as he wakes up and his breathing is shallow, it’s like he has a constant asthma attack. His nerves are exhausted of supporting the charade that it’s all just a very, very bad cold; yet he can’t help but outright lie to his teammates because he can’t break his principle never to worry someone older or more experienced than him. The worse he gets, the more distant he feels from everyone and everything else because of his senses downgraded constantly, inexorably. His eyes are filled with tears, his ears with cotton, his limbs are stiff and he’s having the hardest time even getting air in.

When Tsunami asks him if what’s wrong, he doesn’t have the energy left to pretend like he’s fine, so he turns away and says he doesn’t feel right, but that it’s not important. They’re a team, he’s just a part of it, and he needs to move along with everyone else in unison if he doesn’t want everything they’ve built up until now to fall apart in a violent fashion. He expects a burning stare, or something of the kind, but instead all he gets is the sympathizing gazes of everyone and he feels stupid because that’s when he realizes he has worried them all along.

 Everyone stares at him, mostly in disbelief, but he’s too occupied by everything failing on him that he doesn’t know what to make of it, or react to it in fact, so he just coughs half a lung out and awkwardy smiles under his mask. He’s never been good with people’s attention, he doesn’t know what to make out of it any time this kind of situation happens. Instead, he fumbles with his hands as everyone, to his surprise, tells him it’s fine.

That they’re not this desperate for time, that he matters too and so does his health, that it’s fine if he doesn’t play immediately and if they have to postpone the assault against Aliea for a couple of days. He doesn’t reply, but they guess and cancel his questions before they can pop up to his mind in the shapes of actual words, and their words continue to deafen him from their kindness.

 His vision swims too badly for him to see anything when Tsunami suddenly pulls him against his chest, but the coldness of anybody else’s skin is the most welcome feeling he could be requesting for right now. The voices swirl around him too, yet he knows they’re the right kind of warm as they embrace him, concern finally feeling good. It stills stings like a bandage getting ripped suddenly from a healing wound, but it’s a sting he’s accepting to feel if it’s to finally be a part of the team. Hearing it from others is a whole other deal to him than lying to himself about it.

But he finally gives into the exhaustion and sickness, whose nature he has no idea of anymore, letting himself fall into other arms as he can finally smile honestly under his mask, without feeling like a bother anymore. He’ll learn his lesson about worrying people or not later, when he’ll feel like he’s fine enough to do it. For now, he’s going to profit off of everyone telling him he’s needed, wanted and welcome. It gives meaning to his efforts, after all.

 It’s nice to feel loved.

[the-far-bright-center]

Update :)

Hey everyone, it’s been a while. You may have noticed that lately there’s been a bit of a decrease in daily posts here, and that I haven’t been as consistent with tagging, etc. For the past three months, I’ve been in the middle of an unexpected and extremely stressful house move. During this time, I’ve had very unreliable and inconsistent internet access, so I decided to run this blog on a queue, and add to it with intermittent reblogs whenever I could get the chance. To say it’s been frustrating is an understatement, and I sincerely apologize to those of you who have messaged me or sent me asks during this time – I’ve been so exhausted, it’s been impossible to keep up with everything.

Thankfully, the house move is now winding down (we’re now finally in the new house, but still unpacking, settling in, etc.), so I should at least be able to resume curating this blog with more of my usual attentiveness. I’d like to say that everything will now go back to normal, but….I’m honestly not quite sure what ‘normal’ is anymore. Over the last few months, I have been thinking long and hard about my continued involvement in SW fandom, and have come to some difficult, but, imo, necessary, conclusions.

Don’t worry, I am not leaving tumblr, nor am I going to stop posting on this blog. It means too much to me to do that. However, I feel I must make it clear that, from here on out, I can no longer have anything to do with any current or forthcoming ‘New Canon’ material, whether it be films, tv series (animated or otherwise), novels, comics….just…none of it. 

Most of you know me well enough by now that I don’t think I even need to explain why, but I will do so, just in case.... 

I had always intended to completely divorce myself from the Disney stuff once Star Wars: Rebels had finished airing, but since, for a variety of reasons, it turned out that I was never able to finish watching that show through to its conclusion, this ended up happening far sooner than I’d expected. (I won’t even get into my thoughts on the renewed Clone Wars season – the less I say about it, or even acknowledge its existence, the better…for the state of my mental and emotional health, at the very least.)

My reasons for wanting—no, needing— to stay as far away as possible from Disney’s version of Star Wars from now on are many and varied [see here, here, here, and here], but ultimately it comes down to several inter-related issues, the most key being that ever since TFA, I have not been able to trust Disney with Star Wars, and will never be able to fully trust them with it ever again. It does not matter how much ‘good’ material they put out to balance out the bad, it’s too late…the damage is done. And since the version of SW as put forth in the sequels is probably the worst, most out-of-character, inaccurate, and disrespectful interpretation of my beloved story that I could possibly imagine, I therefore cannot help but view the rest of Disney’s output (however innocuous, and regardless of who writes/directs/creates it) with extreme skepticism, and an anxiety bordering on panic.

As I’ve gone over many times before, the entire premise of the so-called ‘sequels’ is anathema to pretty much all of my long-held beliefs and understanding of the saga as a whole…and to what I had, for decades, assumed that other fans implicitly understood and valued as well. And so, the fact that so many fans have so readily embraced those movies and swallowed down Disney’s bizarro version of the SW saga without hesitation or question, has continued to leave me feeling more and more heart-broken and ostracized. Not only from an entire fandom, but also from popular culture in general. It’s made me realize that, for far too many people, ‘Star Wars’ is indeed just a blockbuster series of movies, and is not the mythical two-part saga that it is to me. For far too many people, it is now, at worst, an endless, profit-churning franchise…at best, another version of an expanded universe, albeit one that has been corporately ‘canonized’. 

The fact that I can no longer relate to most other SW fans is beyond depressing for me. Something I used to take for granted – the universal appeal and relatability of Star Wars as a modern myth—no longer exists. I can’t even talk about my beloved Star Wars with people in RL anymore, lest someone let slip a spoiler that will break my heart all over again.  It is no wonder that the lead-up to every subsequent release since then (even the ones I have been actively ignoring, which is most of them) has left me a shaking, nervous wreck….and given the often fragile state of my mental health in general, this has been downright dangerous for me at times. Even just stumbling across or hearing about SW related news and announcement can leave me distressed and despondent for days on end. It takes a herculean effort for me to then reclaim a positive headspace and find my ‘happy place’ again after something like this. So I blacklist as much as I can, but it doesn’t always work, because… in order to keep this blog even remotely active, I have to peruse other SW blogs for content. And, given my need to AVOID spoilers like the plague, I struggle to do this at the best of times. Disney has so oversaturated the market with their output that sometimes it seems like every damn day there is yet another announcement of some new release. It’s just too much, and the fact that there is no end in sight is demoralizing as hell. (I dream of creating a time machine and going back to before all of this shit, just to make it stAHP.) Ultimately, all of this combines together to leave me feeling completely alienated, stressed out, and just plain unhappy.

But no more, I say. This is FANDOM….it’s supposed to be FUN. It’s supposed to make me happy. Life is already horrifically depressing and stressful as it is. And what is more… this blog in particular is supposed to be my safe space. That’s what I created it to be, in the first place.

In short, the conclusion I’ve reached is this: in order to continue enjoying the REAL my preferred version of SW in the way that I need to engage with it, I MUST completely remove myself from new Disney content. If I do not, I will lose the ability to enjoy any of it at all. 

So, my friends, while I’m not going anywhere (not just yet anyway), I do need to ask you all to please continue being patient and understanding with me about these above-mentioned issues. If you want to engage in meta discussions with me, for instance, please be aware that I will only talk about interpretations of ‘Star Wars’ as Lucas’ saga (and anything that is supplementary or supportive of that), and will not engage with anything that tries to insinuate that the sequels nonsense is even remotely part of the same story. Likewise, I beg you all to please refrain from commenting on my posts or messaging me about anything to do with upcoming releases, news, or any Disney Star Wars stuff from this point on. Again, I’m happy to discuss past content…to an extent (if you’re not sure what, please feel free to message me for clarification). But any new Disney content I just….don’t want to hear about. At all. Even if you THINK I will like it or be ok with it. The fact is… I won’t. Because Star Wars is finished. It’s a completed story. ‘IT IS ALREADY OVER. NOTHING CAN BE DONE TO CHANGE IT.’  I neither want nor need any more from it – whether as a story OR a ‘franchise’ – than what already exists.  And I become stressed and anxious the moment anyone (purposefully or inadvertently) suggests that I ought to be watching/reading/seeing/hearing about what I personally feel is just a fake version of the REAL THING that I hold dear.

Finally, I just want to clarify that, because of all of this, it’s unlikely that I will be able to keep this blog up-to-date with all the ‘latest’ content (not that I ever have done so, lol). I will, however, continue to keep it to the standards I have set so far. As always, the subject matter will be mostly be Prequels Trilogy, along with the (original!!) Clone Wars animated series (aka, seasons 1-5), Rebels (but only up through season 4a), Rogue One, and, of course, the Original Trilogy. Some supplementary material from those eras may creep in, along with occasional EU content. I just I thought I’d better make it clear that there won’t be any further ‘new canon’ on this blog…. at least, not unless some kind of unforeseen miracle happens and Disney decides to de-canonize their shitty sequel trilogy and magically make me trust them again! (ha ha I can dream)

Because it’s so difficult for me to find new content on tumblr without running into stuff I do not want to see, I have for a while now had the goal of creating my own content for those times when I can’t find anything new. Frustratingly, due to the house move, I’ve been way too busy to even contemplate that in recent times, but I do have some still-unfinished and in-progress projects that I’d like to eventually share here. In addition to this blog, I also ‘curate’ my own RL Star Wars collection, so once I get a new safe place to set it up, expect regular photoshoots of my action figures and other collectibles as well. :)

Most of all, I want to say THANK YOU to everyone who has stuck with this blog for so long. Thank you for respecting my various quirks, neuroses, and eccentricities, and for helping to keep this blog a safe space.

And to any new followers out there…. a belated, but very warm, welcome! :)  

[ograndebatata]

Revised and expanded Alacazar headcanons

So... as the title to this post suggests, I had previously come up with headcanons for Alacazar before, and they seemed to get quite a positive reception, which I am very much touched for.

However, I have since decided to revise them somewhat, both because of new ideas I came up with for other characters that clashed with the initial headcanons a bit and because I am including elements of the series that I neglected the first time around. 

I hope you enjoy them... but be warned, these really got away from me in terms of length.

As always, please check below the cut for them.

Alacazar

A magical beginning

It is said by many that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree… but as much as one can argue whether it is always true, it seems to have been so in the case of Alacazar, future royal wizard of Avalor. His father was Wocketio, a very powerful and respected wizard in Avalor (some would say more respected than the royal wizard) and his mother was Zumba, a powerful and respected sorceress in her own right.

He showed both a surprising natural talent for and a keen interest in magic from a very early age. Both his parents enabled it, but they made it a point to keep a close eye on him, as he had a bit of a tendency to be a prankster and an inquisitive mind that led him to questioning just about every rule of magic he was taught. That said, as his parents took care to explain him why he ought not to try certain things instead of telling him it was ‘just because’, things turned out much better than they could have.

Like most children, Alacazar started school once he became of the right age, and as it was the norm in Avalor, he went to regular school rather than to any magic academy, which did not exist in Avalor unlike it did in some other kingdoms. He was not the most popular kid in school per se, as magic was commonplace enough that a magical colleague was not all that impressive, but he was well liked by his classmates. The teachers also liked him to a considerable degree, and he did well enough in school work to get grades slightly above average, although the time he spent learning magic did set a limit to what he could achieve in schoolwork, as even magic can’t make time stretch except in some special cases that are best not tried.

And of course, the time he spent with Avalor’s jaquin clan also put a bit of a dampener in his studying, as Alacazar loved being with the magical creatures, who were close friends of his father and some of which, such as Zephyr, the next in line to be chief of the clan (by then already a young adult) were friends with him personally.

All in all, young Alacazar had quite a good life. But everyone meets challenges sooner or later, and Alacazar’s first came when he was eight.

A new brother

At first, it seemed like any regular weekend. Alacazar was practicing magic in his spare time while his parents were sorting out ingredients for potions they might need to make. The only notable difference was Alacazar’s excitement after his parents had promised to take him to the Circo Arcobaleno, a famous circus which was close by. But to his surprise, the circus came to him, as Zephyr and two jaquins he knew showed up at his home, Zephyr carrying a boy around Alacazar’s age on his back. The whole family noticed the boy’s rumpled appearance, ash-smudged face, and most of all the crushing sadness on his face. When Alacazar asked what had happened, Zephyr simply stated that the boy needed care, to which Zumba replied that she would watch him.

While she did, Zephyr told Alacazar and Wocketio what had happened. Apparently the circus had burned down while two of its artists were practicing a new number, and the culprits (and only two mortal victims) were the parents of the boy they had just brought. Also, the boy had enough magic that he could slow down the spread of the magical fire enough for the others to put it out. Wocketio asked what did he have to do with it, and Zephyr replied that the other circus people had decided the boy needed actual training in magic, and the villagers had suggested him. Wocketio replied that he would be glad to help, but he would need to sort things out with the circus people first.

So off he went, while Alacazar and Zumba stayed with the boy, Fiero. While the sad boy was not the most communicative sort or in the most cheerful of moods, Alacazar and Zumba managed to keep him somewhat distracted from his pain. But it all went down the drain when Wocketio returned with the news that the rest of the circus people had packed up and left before he could find them, leaving only a note on how, if ‘the wizard’ wanted to keep ‘the boy’, he could do so for free, and if he didn’t, then he was not their concern anymore.

Fiero had cried more than once while Alacazar and Zumba were with him, but he just about went into shock after he overheard that comment. It took a considerable effort from Wocketio and Zumba to calm him down, and in the end they had to give him a sleeping potion.

Upon realizing that the decision had been made for them, the couple decided to adopt the child. Alacazar was a bit nervous at first, as he’d never had to share his parents in such a way, but after an habituation period, he and Fiero became as close as if they had been brothers their whole lives. Being less outgoing and more insecure, Fiero became a bit of an outcast when he entered the local school, but Alacazar stood by him, even as his own reputation started taking a toll.

However, Fiero did find more closeness with the jaquins that had found him, most notably Zephyr, even if the gray jaquin had to spend a great deal of time busy with his lessons to be chief.

Unfortunately, said closeness was not set to last forever.

The growing gulf

As the boys grew up, they went into many magical adventures together, sometimes joined by Zephyr. They also kept up with their magic lessons, and developed both their gift and their knowledge. But Alacazar seemed to be just a mite more skilled in many things. Nothing particularly notable - even Wocketio and Zumba had to make an effort to notice the difference - but just visible enough that Fiero noticed.

But the first big crack in their friendship only appeared when they were eighteen, and   Alacazar first attempted contact with his chanul, a spirit guide assigned to him. He succeeded on the first try, finding that his chanul was a quirky if ultimately wise fox named Zuzo. But to his sadness he also succeeded in angering Fiero, for whom chanuls had been a sore point when he rationalized that they should have been there to help his parents. In spite of this, Fiero was glad for Alacazar, but when he mused what kind of chanul was assigned to him (as he had expected to summon his own chanul in a little over a month), Zuzo remarked that Fiero did not have a chanul assigned to him, as he was not from Avalor and, more importantly, he had no Maruvian ancestry. He would never have a chanul, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

Both Zuzo and Alacazar did try to reassure Fiero afterwards, the former by saying he wouldn’t mind giving him the occasional freebie help and the latter by saying that it was not meant to reflect on his skills as a wizard. And afterwards, Wocketio and Zumba both reassured him also.

But that wasn’t the end.

A little over a year after Fiero learned of his lack of a chanul, Wocketio and Zumba were both killed by Morkemagi, a dark wizard who held a grudge against them. He was ready to kill Alacazar and Fiero as well, but the two of them managed to defeat him through their teamwork, though it was a close call.

Unfortunately, in the aftermath of the battle, everyone who had learned of it attributed most if not all of the credit to Alacazar and little (or even none) to Fiero. Even Alacazar’s insistences that Fiero had helped did nothing to change that.

And it stayed the same way over the years. Alacazar and Fiero kept going on their magical adventures, and helping many on their way, and dealing with more than a few magical creatures. And just about every time, the overwhelming reaction was ‘Alacazar did it!’, or ‘Who’s the other?’ or, ‘Sure, maybe that guy helped a bit, but Alacazar didn’t really need him.’. Even on the few times that the result was Fiero’s solo effort, whether because Alacazar was otherwise busy or he deliberately stayed out of the way to give Fiero the chance to shine, the general assumption was ‘It mustn’t have been anything special if that guy could do it alone.’, or ‘He’s making it up to hog credit.’.

As a result of his growing popularity, Alacazar had to deal with more and more people seeking him for whatever reason, and while Fiero offered to help, they almost always wanted Alacazar, whether it was because they had heard specifically of him or because they thought Fiero looked too scary.

But the saddest part was having to deal with Fiero’s growing resentment and his growing interest for dark magic, which went as far as seeking out the Scepter of Night. Fiero insisted that he didn’t want it for any nefarious purposes - his goal was to destroy dangerous creatures that only hadn’t been killed from the get-go because it had been impossible, like the plant fairy Marimonda or the terrible monster Kirin. And Alacazar believed him, but he also feared that using the Scepter of Night could bring unexpected and nasty consequences, so he kept trying to dissuade Fiero from finding it. He only managed to make a compromise - Fiero wouldn’t use it unless he was sure it was safe.

It is almost a miracle that in the meantime Alacazar even managed to find time for romance, with a sorceress from Napurna named Malih, who he met at a Conjurers’ Conference. But the biggest wonder had to be when Fiero also ended up having a girlfriend, and who he met in the exact same place at that - a sorceress from Tangu named Amaya.

Surprise or not, it seemed to have good results, as Fiero seemed happier in a relationship and Alacazar himself was happy with Malih. Fiero even was the best man at their wedding, and was very clearly happy for them.

But the conflict returned with a vengeance and struck the final blow in their friendship when Alacazar and Fiero were thirty-five, and there came news that the old court wizard of Avalor, Gregorio, planned to retire and was looking for a successor, as he had no apprentice.

Fiero immediately decided to apply, sure that his chance to ‘be good and be recognized for it’ had finally arrived. Alacazar let him do it, and his only concern became that Fiero threw himself into his studies so much, to the point his health started suffering. Later, Alacazar’s concern took a different turn when, for reasons no one managed to figure out, a fire demon ended up on the loose in Avalor. Though Alacazar, Fiero, and Malih managed to defeat it, the battle charged its price, as Amaya was burned alive by the demon… and only a week after Fiero had proposed to her.

At first, it seemed Fiero would sink into a depression… but instead, he threw himself into his studying for the test. He would become royal wizard for Amaya, if it was the last thing he did.

But it was not to be. When the day of the test arrived, though Fiero did manage to apply, Alacazar was specifically requested for by the then-reigning monarch, King Edmundo.

He tried to decline, but Edmundo (who was basically a bigger and meaner version of his great-grandson Duke Cristobal) stated it was a royal command, and there was no way around it. As such, Alacazar had to take the test, and he had to do it to the best of his abilities, as Gregorio was keeping an eye on him.

So the test did he take. This time around, for probably the first time in his life, it was Fiero who was objectively better. And this time around, it was not by such a small margin, which was to be expected given that Fiero had studied for months to take the examination while Alacazar had only been demanded to take on the very day. But as Alacazar had still done more than well enough that he was capable for the job, Edmundo personally demanded for Alacazar to be the one appointed as royal wizard, because he didn’t want someone like Fiero: someone who was ugly, wore snake-motifs in his clothes, had circus artists for parents, and was half-Paraisian to boot. He wanted someone proper with the right status, and Alacazar fit the bill, so by royal decree Edmundo appointed him Royal Wizard.

Fiero was so furious that he let his magic fly wild, not caring about who or what he hit. Alacazar had to stop him, and the two engaged in a duel that lasted for hours.

It only ended when Alacazar managed to knock Fiero’s tamborita away from him and then hit him with a binding spell.

To the relief of most, the death toll had been low, though the palace was reduced to ruins. But to Alacazar’s grief, Malih had been among the victims.

King Edmundo was ready to have Fiero beheaded on the spot, but when he noticed how many seemed to be blaming him instead for what had happened, he decided to give Alacazar the honor of determining Fiero’s fate.

Alacazar chose to pardon him.

There was widespread shock at the decision - after all, one of the victims had been Alacazar’s wife - but Alacazar just could not bring himself to be responsible for Fiero’s death.

So the now malvago - a status announced by his now black tamborita - went free. But his last words before he left were that ‘There would be hell to pay.’

Life as a royal wizard 

Though he loathed it, Alacazar kept his post as royal wizard, by now too worried about what would happen to the people of Avalor when being ruled by a king who wanted him for a royal wizard like a child could want a fancy toy.

So he did everything he could to make the kingdom better.

He solved the puzzle in the Codex Maru, the book he had received upon becoming Royal Wizard, and upon finding the Scepter of Night broke it and separated it into three pieces, each hidden at a different place and interconnected by riddles. He would have preferred to destroy it, but he found no safe way to do it, so he chose that solution instead in the hopes that one day he or anyone else would find a way to destroy it.

He improved things for the Jaquin Clan by building the Commander’s Rock, a place to hold memories of the decisions made by jaquin leaders.

And those were only two of the many things he did for the good of the kingdom. But one can say the most important one he did was take an active role in the education of future Avalor rulers, and in some way help them to be better rulers than King Edmundo.

The following decades were filled with some minor threats, but nothing potentially destructive for the whole kingdom. The biggest mark in those years came when Alacazar fell in love again, with another sorceress, this one named Astra, at the ripe old age of 80. Astra herself, at 58, was no spring chicken, but to the surprise of both of them, they ended up conceiving a child, a girl who was born when Alacazar was 88 and Astra was 66.

There was no magic involved in the conception, but it was the fact they had magic that allowed them to be parents at such an age, though such late births were very unusual even for magical people.

They hadn’t been planning for children, but they both loved the girl, who they named Rafa, very much.

Unfortunately, the joys of parenthood turned out to be rather short lived for them.

A fiendish invader

One day, which had started out just like any other, Alacazar and the ruling couple were surprised by a very clearly foreign woman who arrived at the royal palace, demanding an audience with the royal family.

Alacazar considered himself a benevolent man who gave everyone a fair chance, but from the moment he first saw her, every fiber of his being was filled with revulsion. It might have seemed harsh to an ordinary man, but someone as experienced in magic as he could see the power in that woman, and it was dark. Not particularly strong, but very very dark, to the point it seemed out of the living world.

But killing first and asking questions later was not Avalor’s rule, so King Raul, a much better ruler than his grandfather Edmundo, agreed to hear the sorceress out. After a very brief introduction, during which she only offered that her name was Shuriki and she was from the Northern Islands, she demanded that King Raul surrendered Avalor to her, as it belonged to her by right.

There was quite a deal of general puzzlement, but the woman showed old documents that seemed to lend some weight to her story. Apparently, many centuries before, the ancestors of the ancient Maruvians and her own ancestors had discovered that land at about the same time, and after some sort of conflict, her people had been ousted even though she said Avalor should have belonged to them.

King Raul was very much surprised by the news, but he agreed to investigate the woman’s story and later act accordingly to what he discovered. But as it turned out, the woman didn’t want her story to be investigated and acted upon according to what was discovered. She wanted Avalor to be surrendered to her on the spot, no questions asked, period. And if it wasn’t, then consequences would be harsh.

At that point, Alacazar had to step in, stating that they were ready for her, even though he was very much apprehensive at having to fight her.

The woman did leave, but returned a short while later, claiming to have provoked a serious off-season flood that had done quite a bit of damage, which she stated would be just the beginning if King Raul did not surrender Avalor to her. Both Raul and Alacazar knew she had been speaking the truth, as only days before they had assisted Hortensia Paloma, a young widow who had survived that very flood and come to the palace with her son seeking help. But her threat backfired, as Raul ordered the guards and Alacazar to seize her, and though Shuriki did manage to kill a few of them with a green beam of light she cast from her wand, she was quickly overpowered and barely managed to escape.

King Raul and Alacazar could only hope she had gotten the message, but in the meantime they decided to play it safe and try to find where those Northern Islands were, to see what they could learn about her.

Questing for a princess

They did not manage to find much about Shuriki’s claims in the following time, but most of what they found suggested she had been reaching with her claims.

At any rate, they could not afford to keep the level of surveillance they had for much longer without weakening other central parts of Avalor’s defenses, so they lowered their surveillance for Shuriki in order not to lose guard resources in other important areas.

It turned out to be too soon, as not long after they had lowered their guard somewhat, Shuriki returned, this time with a unit of soldiers and a small contingent of men and women who could wield some magic (people who Alacazar saw had been ‘boosted’ in a way similar to Shuriki, probably by Shuriki herself).

He ended up in a battle with four of those, and though he managed to win, the group managed to cripple him magically, to the point that he was in no shape to fight Shuriki. All the same, he did go to the palace… only to be met by Princess Elena, who told him she had seen Shuriki vaporize her parents and pleaded with him to do something to help her remaining family.

All he could do was cast a spell that would protect them by putting them in an enchanted painting… but although the spell didn’t require all that much power, it was a complex charm that he would need time to perform… probably more time than he would have with Shuriki looking for them.

Elena got the message… and immediately knew what she needed to do.

After tearful hugs to her sister and grandparents, she ran off without looking back while Alacazar took care of the spell. He succeeded - and to his surprise, he later found the Amulet of Avalor with Princess Elena inside it.

He knew what had to be done - but first he needed to recover. So he sought out his family and gave them the news, at which point the whole family moved to the neighboring kingdom of Paraiso.

The initial plan was fairly simple: to hide while Alacazar recovered and then go to the rulers of Paraiso to tell them the news and get their help. Paraiso had many more magic practitioners than Avalor, and while they did have their feud over the quality of their chocolates, surely the rulers would not let that get in the way of saving lives. Then he would take Shuriki’s wand and find a princess that could release Princess Elena.

But his recovery took longer than he had expected, even with the potions Astra kept giving him, and by the time he was well enough to try out his plan, he realized Shuriki had gotten quite ahead of him. Using more documents (the bulk of which would later be discovered to be very good forgeries) she had persuaded every neighboring kingdom that Avalor should have been rightfully hers and that the former rulers had simply stepped down. More than that, she had brought up Alacazar and several other of King Raul’s and Queen Lucia’s allies as traitors to the new crown, and had even gotten Paraiso’s help in handing out wanted posters for them.

And worse, while he had mostly recovered, there had been some permanent damage left to him by the dark magic he had taken. Even before, victory against Shuriki would not have been absolutely certain. Now, he doubted he would achieve more than getting himself killed in vain.

It would have to be all of Avalor defeating Shuriki… but they needed a leader to inspire them, and Princess Elena was the only one left. So Alacazar bade goodbye to his family (to many tears from everyone) and went off in search of a princess who could release Elena. It turned out to be a difficult task, as Shuriki had heard rumors about his whereabouts and, after making a list of some of the magical people she had banished (on which Fiero was deliberately not included) summoned them to the palace and promised that the one among them who managed to bring Alacazar to her dead or alive would become the most important person at her court - after her, of course.

Alacazar dodged many close calls as he kept looking for princesses, but the high levels of stress brought about by the task of finding a princess coupled with the turmoil from the (thankfully rather rare) times he had to resort to ‘extreme measures’, exacerbated by the permanent damage had taken after the battle, lead to his health deteriorating very rapidly, robbing him of years if not decades he would otherwise have left. Twenty one years after Princess Elena went into the Amulet, when Matilda of Enchancia was left by the jewel, Alacazar tried to find another candidate, but by then his life was giving out and he had to use the last bit of his magic to turn himself into a book and go to the Secret Library.

It was the worst part of the predicament he had been through, and was made even worse by the knowledge that his now adult daughter had returned to his home at Avalor, though he had the consolation of knowing that Shuriki did not suspect Rafa was related to him and did not particularly target her. The fact she had never developed her own magic turned out to be a helping point. Still, it was a true hell not being able to do anything but wait.

But to the relief of all of Avalor, the wait came to an end.

[qqueenofhades]

the dragons on the map: iii

Rating: M Summary:  After the Lifeboat is nearly destroyed, the Time Team ends up stranded in their strangest and most unfamiliar destination yet: 1195 France. With Rittenhouse to stop, medieval adventures to be had, and a pair of rival kings at war, it’ll truly be a miracle if they ever get home. (Garcy/Lyatt/pre-Garcyatt, Flogan, Rufus Is Judging, general Time Team relationships and bonding. Guest appearances from the Plantagenets, for reasons.) Available: AO3

The streets of Paris are uneven, muddy, and dark, and Flynn is having to concentrate on keeping both his footing and an eye on Lucy. He and Wyatt already decided with a look that it’s too dangerous to try to punch and/or shoot their way out of this, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for a later alteration of the plan. The captain of the guards has to be Rittenhouse, or at least Rittenhouse-trained – how else would he be able to speak modern English to them? Is it possible that Rittenhouse isn’t just days ahead of them, but weeks, or months? Their jump here was so uncontrolled, like a windsurfer being pulled along in the wake of a motorboat, that they still don’t know when they arrived relative to the Mothership, or even how they consciously did at all. If the machines run on a closed time-like curve, the amount of fold and twist in the fabric of spacetime necessary to bend so far back on itself might have created a maelstrom effect. In other words, Rufus could not possibly have jumped the Lifeboat anywhere – or when – else. It would have just gotten stuck in the Mothership’s massive gravitational anomaly and dragged down here anyway. But like debris washing up on the beach – basically, after all, exactly how they landed – there is no reason it has to have been anywhere close. Did Rittenhouse do this on purpose? Frankly, Flynn isn’t sure they’re that smart. But since 1195 is so very far from 2018 (in more ways than one), farther than either of the machines have traveled before, maybe this jump did mess something up. Something more than history, something that can’t be changed.

That, however ominous a thought, is also a very unhelpful one, and Flynn shoves it away. He glances around for Lucy again. They are being escorted toward the portcullis of the gate that guards the bridge to the Île-de-la-Cité, and Flynn feels a cold lump of foreboding in his stomach. If they’re going here, they’re going directly to the royal dungeons, rather than some noisome local hoosgow for small-time miscreants. Prisoners held at the king’s pleasure have almost no chance of getting out, or at least not for years. Maybe they took the punching thing off the table too early. Have Rittenhouse finally realized that gloating never goes well for villains, and are intending to just chuck them in here and throw away the key? Or –

Flynn is on the very hair-trigger of a considerable scene, but Lucy is too far away for him to reach easily, and he feels oddly obligated for Rufus as well (Wyatt can take care of himself, he’ll be fine). Besides, there has to be some kind of explanation for this. Rittenhouse probably wants information (which they’re not going to get) or satisfaction (which Flynn intends to see they don’t). If they wanted to just kill them, they’d have taken them down by the Seine and tipped the bodies in (though there are guaranteed to be some of their own among them). No. Taking them here means something else is afoot. Something bigger.

The guards shout up at their fellows on the gatehouse, and chains rattle and clank as the portcullis is winched up, mossy iron teeth dripping with river water. The team is marched forward by their respective soldiers, Wyatt and Flynn exchange another look, and once more – for the time being – consent. They still have their guns, hidden beneath their jackets (or tunic, in Wyatt’s case) but that’s only an ultimate last-resort option. And no matter how the saying might go about bringing a knife to a gun fight, Flynn would not like to take his chances against these particular knives unless he has to. Someone swinging a piece of metal at you that is three feet long and extremely sharp is not a prospect to take lightly, especially when they know exactly what the hell they’re doing with it. Boys start training for knighthood at seven years old. Even the best-drilled, crack-shot special-ops soldier in the modern world didn’t enlist until he was eighteen.

Torches flicker from rough iron sconces as they pass under another portcullis, and enter the main courtyard – the bailey, it’s better known as. Flynn is briefly struck by the whiteness and sharpness of the stones in the walls and in the buildings of the royal palace. He has wandered around plenty of old castles in his day – he used to live in Dubrovnik, Croatia, which is a medieval old-city jewel box – but they’ve all been that, old. They’ve had several centuries to slip and scuff and wear, to settle down to comfortable disarray. This one is so new that you can almost smell the sawdust. It looks like a Hollywood set or a modern replica, rather than the real thing. Which is the irony, of course, because it is.

“So,” Flynn says, as pleasantly as he can. “We’re going to visit someone?”

“Yes.” The captain smiles at him, not in a way to make Flynn feel better about this (although that was not likely to happen anyway). “Some formalities. To see why you are here, is all.”

“You do that for all the newcomers to the city? And speak to them in English?” Flynn can’t quite tell if the captain is a native speaker or not. The version of English presently in currency is early Middle English – which, while not quite as confusing to the modern eye as Anglo-Saxon Old English, is still nothing like its twenty-first-century iteration. “Cut the crap. You and your friends – ” he nods at the other three guards marching Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus, has to fight an urge to tear the bastard’s hand off Lucy’s arm and then throttle him – “you’re all Rittenhouse. Let’s just skip to that and – ”

The captain gives him what seems to be a genuinely blank look, rendering Flynn momentarily stumped. What is going on here? He is baffled enough not to struggle as they enter a hall with a high hammer-beam roof, blue banners embroidered with the fleur-de-lys draped from the rafters. A carved mahogany chair under an ornate baldachin is set on a raised dais at the end, and Flynn screeches to a halt. Wait a damn minute, is this –

The thought barely has time to cross his head when the soldiers stop, the captain say something to another of his fellows by the door, and the other man nods once and turns smartly, vanishing out of it. There follow a very uncomfortable several minutes, as Flynn, Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus catch each other’s eyes and mouth silent variants of what the hell? They, to say the least, were expecting to be jumped or beaten or thrown into the dungeon (Flynn happens to know that iron maidens were a nineteenth-century myth used to bolster the “barbaric dark ages!” narrative that the Victorians were fond of, but that doesn’t mean that whatever is awaiting them would be pleasant). This appears instead to be the throne room, and that is an entirely new can of worms.

Right now, as Flynn has told the others, the king of France is Philip II, of the Capetian dynasty established in the late tenth century. He is sometimes known as Philip Augustus, originally for the month of his birth, but after his forty-three-year-long reign, from 1180-1223, with its impressive territorial conquests and brilliant, ruthless centralization of the French crown, there are plenty who see it as a fitting imperial epithet. He is presently just thirty years old, but has been a king since the age of fifteen. He is cynical, clever, clear-eyed, calculating, shrewd, bitter, jealous, and obsessed – especially with Richard the Lionheart, his great rival, who gets the best of him in nearly everything until his unexpected death in four years. There is plenty of conjecture as to how their notoriously intimate and passionate friendship, forged in the summer of 1187 as they were both plotting against Richard’s father, Henry II of England, has gone so wrong. But if the team is here to see Philip – Flynn has lost all notion of what is going on, or who can possibly want what from them.

He shifts his weight restlessly. Lucy and the other two are looking at him, waiting for him to history them out of this – Lucy’s job, usually, and Flynn feels an odd reticence at supplanting her. But he can’t do much when they’re still being watched by the guards. Do they all speak English, or just the captain? How long are they going to be kept waiting? It might be a king’s prerogative, but Garcia Flynn has had a goddamn bitch of a few days and he just wants, if that’s fine with everyone, to sleep.

At last, there’s a rustle at the door, and the guards snap to attention. There’s no trumpet fanfare, nothing but a tapestry imperiously thrust aside, and a communal inclination of heads, hands on hearts. Flynn does the same, and the trio follows his lead, as a slender, dark man, with shrewd green eyes, neat black beard, and a cool, haughty manner, strides into the room. He’s wearing a high-necked blue tunic picked with gilted embroidery, rings on his fingers, and a golden circlet on his head. It’s clear, as if it wasn’t by all the bowing, that this is the head honcho, the main man, and Flynn, after trying to decide if they should wait to be addressed or humbly acknowledge the king’s presence, goes with the latter. Unlike in later centuries, when the honorific would be “Votre Majesté,” it hasn’t come into common use for royalty yet. The title, shared between kings, bishops, lords, and pretty much any dignitary below emperor rank (and it can be pretty much anything for them, because they’re an emperor, fuck you) is “Vostre Grace.”

It is this which Flynn murmurs deferentially, as the team again copies him. Philip Capet eyes them with considerable judgment, clearly hearing their atrocious accents, but does not immediately comment upon them. Then he turns to the captain, asks something, and when it is answered, looks back at them. He appears to be asking which of them is in charge here.

For once, although Wyatt might normally have a problem with letting Flynn claim that role, he hurriedly steps back, so he doesn’t get stuck having to do this. “It’s him,” he says, and points. “Definitely him.”

Flynn rolls his eyes, even as he wonders if that counts as a show of trust. He clears his throat and turns back to Philip, who is waiting with an exquisitely arched eyebrow. This is a man who can evidently give Flynn a run for his money in the sassy face Olympics, even if Philip is a head and a half shorter than him (aw, how nice, Wyatt isn’t the midget in the room anymore). Flynn clears his throat. “C’est moi.”

“Great,” he hears Rufus mutter. “This is just who I wanted in charge of not getting us thrown into ye olde dungeon.”

With a valiant effort of will, Flynn does not turn around and strangle them, even as he hears Lucy shushing them like a stern kindergarten teacher. Philip utters a tiny sigh, a sign that they are treating the royal presence with considerable levity and they should knock it off. Then he says, “Can you provincials in fact understand me?”

It’s in Old French, of course, but since Philip speaks the closest thing there is to a standard, the educated Parisian or court French that modern French will develop from, the sort of thing that l’Académie members have special dreams about at night (though really, Flynn doesn’t want to know what those are), Flynn can indeed follow him, with effort. He blinks in abject gratitude, as it feels like grasping the Rosetta Stone after years of ignorance. “Yes. What is the language that your man there speaks?” It’s dangerous, going for the “did you know your bodyguard might be Rittenhouse?” ploy right off, but they need to get a few things straight.

“He says it is your native tongue.” Philip stares back at him unreadably. “Perhaps you should tell me?”

Well played, Flynn has to admit. A king does not give information, he asks for it, and Philip isn’t going to tip his hand on who – or what – he thinks they are. There is an awkward moment as Flynn can hear the boys whispering to Lucy if she can understand it, Lucy answering that she can get more of it than usual, and all of them shutting up sharpish as Philip flicks that viper’s gaze on them. “You have a talkative retinue of servants, do you not? Is it also the custom where you come from for them to gossip behind their masters’ backs?”

Flynn really wishes Wyatt understood that, just because the look on his face would have been worth the whole trip, but manages to keep his own face straight. “That is my wife, my lord. And my business partner – ” he points at Rufus – “and manservant.”

“Your business partner?” Philip considers the unfamiliar term, then glances at Rufus with a cutting expression. “A Saracen? So you are English, then? The English king is the one known to keep consort and commerce with all manner of heathens and unchristian people, after all. And you certainly speak the French language poorly enough.”

Flynn opens his mouth, reminds himself that no good can come of pointing out to Philip that the English (at least the upper classes) and the French speak essentially the same language at this point, and shakes his head. “No. We – we are Castilian, Your Grace. From Spain.”

“I am aware where Castile is.” Philip studies him with hooded eyes. It’s not altogether clear that he believes it. “What are your names?”

“I am Garcia.” It’s a good old Spanish name, already used for a while in one or other of the regional dynasties (Navarrese or Aragonese, Flynn thinks) and doesn’t need to be changed. “My wife, Lucy.” Likewise an old French name that is current, even if more often used as a place name; a Godfrey de Lucy is the bishop of somewhere in England right now. Winchester? Fuck it, Flynn can’t remember, and it’s not important. “My partner is Ramiro, and my servant is William.” When in doubt for a male name in twelfth-century France, just pick William. Considering Flynn could have stuck him with something like Odo or Boso (both old and honorable French names, he will have you know), Wyatt should be grateful.

As he says this, Flynn watches the English-speaking guard very carefully. If he’s Rittenhouse, there should be some flicker of awareness at this (even though, frankly, he’s probably guessed who they are from the moment he saw them in the tavern, and doesn’t need the confirmation). But nothing. He’s perfected the job of acting like a piece of furniture; he is here to protect the king’s person, not to presume to listen to his conversations or interact in his affairs. If he is a sleeper agent, he’s been here long enough to learn the drill, which again – worrisome. There’s a long pause as Philip takes all this in. Then he says, “And when did you arrive in Paris? Recently?”

“Just tonight Your Grace. We were… welcomed by your man there and brought here. We are still not entirely certain as to why.”

There is another pause. Then Philip raises a hand. “Leave us.”

There is an orderly rustle of movement as the guards pivot on their heels and file out without a backward glance; the king speaks, they obey. It’s a power Flynn can’t help but envy, even as he knows it’s the power Rittenhouse wants: that unquestioning, instant submission to one ruler, the arbitrator of a universe built on unshakeable certainty: the people answer to the lord who answers to the king who answers to God who (at least according to them) speaks through the church. This is not a place of postmodern political theory or grey moral relativism or atheism, or even usually agnosticism. This is not a time for considering yourself to have a special, individual destiny, over and above the role in which you have been born and raised. You are part of many, the pillar of the whole. Having seen this world for himself, Flynn understands a little more. You step out of line, you try to detach yourself from the community you need to survive, and you will die.

In any event, Philip dismissing his guards clearly means that he doesn’t think Flynn and the others will try to attack him – which they won’t, obviously, they’re not here to do Rittenhouse’s job for them – and without the potential Rittenhouse mole eavesdropping, they can perhaps speak more freely. Philip moves to the sideboard and pours a goblet of wine, then beckons, inviting Flynn to do the same. The king won’t serve him, obviously, but he can serve himself in the king’s presence, hinting that there might be some more candor in their interactions. Philip then glances over at the other three. “And your lady may take refreshment as well, of course. Madame?”

Lucy blinks, then drops an awkward little curtsy. It’s adorable, even if probably completely anachronistic, and Flynn bites his cheek. She ventures over, having obviously heard some currents of the conversation but not sure how much to let on. Philip is behaving as a well-born lord should, extending courteous conduct to the lady (though he has kept his second wife locked up in a tower without enough food, refusing to acknowledge her as his queen, since inexplicably repudiating her the morning after their wedding in 1193) but that does not mean he expects to hear or value her input in any way. Lucy pours a goblet of wine for herself, then takes a sip. Her eyes widen, which Flynn could have warned her about. Everyday beer and ale is watered down, since most people have to drink it as a common beverage, but wine – an expensive and time-consuming product cultivated in vineyards and sold at gourmand prices – doesn’t pull its punches.

“It’s very – very good, Your Grace,” Lucy says, only slightly hoarsely. “From Champagne?”

“Your wife has a refined sense of taste, my lord.” Philip looks at Flynn as if this is to his credit, not hers. “We import most of our spirits from there. My older sister – half-sister – is still the dowager countess, after my nephew never came home from Jerusalem. Not much of a loss, really.” He shrugs.

Lucy opens her mouth as if to offer sympathy, but Flynn surreptitiously steps on her foot. What Philip actually means is that his nephew, Henry II of Champagne, became king of Jerusalem at the end of the Third Crusade and is living there – at least for another few years, Flynn recalls that he dies young – quite happily, not that he was killed. But since Henry was a close ally of his other uncle, Richard (Marie of Champagne, his mother, is the daughter of Louis VII, Philip’s father, and Eleanor of Aquitaine, Richard’s mother, from their first marriage to each other – incestuous does not begin to describe the family trees), as far as Philip’s concerned, he’s basically dead. Philip doesn’t particularly get along with Marie either. In fact, there are very few people, especially in his extended family, that Philip Augustus gets along with, which is mostly the way he seems to like it. He’s come here to win, not to make friends. Flynn can respect that about a man.

There’s another pause as they all genteelly sip their wine. Lucy is taking small mouthfuls, and Wyatt and Rufus are obviously wondering if they just get to stand here and awkwardly watch everyone else drink with their new best buddy, the king of France. But a Saracen and a manservant rank well below any tier of society that Philip is obligated to acknowledge or make any overture to, and so he continues to carry on as if they’re not even in the room. (God, Flynn wishes he could do that.) Then, when the dictates of hospitality have been fulfilled, Philip sets his goblet down and fixes Flynn with a cool, appraising stare. “I have been informed that you have considerable skill as a routier.”

It’s on the tip of Flynn’s tongue to ask who told him that, before he remembers that he doesn’t get to. Routier means mercenary, or a sword for hire, a man who makes his living being paid to fight in the various territorial wars across western Europe. They’re looked down on and disliked, even as they form a crucial part of most fighting forces. At least as long as it’s your standard skirmish warfare. They’re not the men to hold a fortress under siege; if a garrison resists until the bitter end, rather than coming out to surrender and make terms, the laws of war decree that they are to all be hanged or slaughtered without mercy when the castle is taken. Mercenaries, having a general concern for their skins, won’t do this, and hence will probably accept a payment from your enemy to hand over your castle to him. Richard himself has a feared mercenary captain, Mercadier, who’s served effectively as a co-dog of war. Is that what Philip wants? To also enlist some muscle without moral scruple? He does do that next year – hires a captain named Cadoc, who succeeds in wounding Richard during his attack on one of Philip’s castles – but that is 1196. This is 1195, and here Flynn – demonstrably, apparently, muscle without moral scruple – is. Standing right in front of him.

“I’ve… done that sort of thing,” Flynn says after a moment, carefully. “Yes.”

“Good.” Philip looks pleased. That can’t be good. “A man of your… presence, I would be dismayed if you did not. Well then, Garcia of Castile, if I may presume to such informality. I wish to engage your professional services.”

“You – ” Flynn blinks. “You what?”

“Did I misspeak the first time?”

No, Flynn thinks, no he did not, especially since Philip just pulled the twelfth-century equivalent of “did I fucking stutter, bitch?” This is definitely not good. “I am a – former routier, Your Grace, I mean to say. I’m only a merchant these days.”

“Are you?” Philip keeps smiling. “Forgive me if I doubt that. Your very strange apparel, the way your hand keeps moving to – what is that you have with you, exactly? No, no, please do not remove it. I may feel threatened and call for my guards, and then this would go in an unfortunate direction. As well, you have not ceased to look around this hall since you entered it, nor ever to stand at your ease. I may not be the most valiant soldier, no lion-hearted hero to rampage across battlefields, but I am not untutored in the ways of war. Also, unless customs have drastically changed in Spain – which I grant is entirely possible, what with all the Moorish invasions – I was not aware that it was permissible to lie to a king’s face. Do so again, and we can certainly arrange a different sort of welcome.”

Flynn shuts his mouth with a snap. He’s not used to feeling intimidated by other men at all, much less a man who stands maybe five-seven, five-eight, but he takes that like a backhand across the face. Philip continues to gaze at him. Again, he repeats, “Did I misspeak?”

“You did not, Your Grace.” Flynn grimaces. “I apologize for the discourtesy.”

“And before your lady?” Philip nods to Lucy, as if to say that he regrets that she has found herself attached to such an unchivalrous churl. (It may be true, but still.) It’s also a fairly clear threat that she’s standing right there, a useful hostage for Flynn’s good behavior if he keeps trying to weasel out, and that sends another chill down his spine. “Please, shall we attempt that again? Garcia of Castile, I wish to engage your professional services.”

“And what…” Flynn pauses to wet his lips. “What services would those be, Your Grace?”

“I wish you to travel to Poitiers,” Philip says. “My spies have brought me intelligence that the king of England is currently there, in company with a number of unusual people. You are to make a full report on what he is doing and who they are, and whether they are in any part a threat to me. If they are offering him some sort of advantage or tactic or anything else whatsoever, I desire it to be brought back and presented for my interest as well. Am I clear?”

Flynn’s stomach sinks slowly through his foot. On the one hand, this is exactly the information they’ve been after: Richard is in Poitiers, his hometown and capital city from his teenage days as count of Poitou and duke of Aquitaine, rather than Rouen, where he’s supposed to be right now, reconciling with his wife. Instead, he’s in another city (and another province) altogether, with Rittenhouse whispering God knows what suggestions in his ear. If Flynn knows Richard at all (that is, from books), they will have their work cut out and then some trying to manipulate him, but if it sounds like a good deal, there’s a chance that Richard could agree to it. And Philip – what? Wants Rittenhouse brought back to Paris, is willing to get in on absolutely anything, if it means Richard can’t use it against him? Someone has to have planted this idea, told Philip (mostly) who they are, whether the guard or the person that the guard reports to. Send the Time Team to fuck up history themselves – every interaction they have with Richard might lead him further away from what he’s originally supposed to do. And with the added extra twist that if Richard finds out they’ve been sent by his mortal enemy to spy on him, he’ll kill them. Great!

“We…” Flynn starts, feeling winded. “Your Grace, that…”

“You have an objection, Garcia?”

“It sounds very… dangerous.”

Philip gives him a no shit! look. “I was not aware that you were a man to recoil from danger. A craven routier? If that is the case, perhaps I can see why you went into the merchant trade. Much less risk in counting pennies. A disappointment, though, truly.”

Flynn racks his brains. They are not going to get away with refusing this offer to Philip’s face, they do need to get to Richard and warn him about Rittenhouse – that’s the whole reason they’re here – and even the fairly clear proof that there is a sleeper agent somewhere in Philip’s court is less of a problem at the moment. It’s not like they have Skype or FaceTime or any way for Philip to immediately know what they’re doing. Word travels slowly. And if Rittenhouse is there, the Mothership must be somewhere in the vicinity. Maybe they can grab it and bomb out before Philip ever hears anything. A hopeful thought, even if probably a vastly over-optimistic one. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“You would… supply means for our travel?” Flynn asks at last. “Horses, provisions, clothes, the like?”

“If that would enable you to more conscientiously carry out the task I have asked of you, yes.” Philip inclines his head with faux humility. “Seeing as the lot of you are dressed like knaves to begin with, and should not at least give such insult as to stride into Richard’s court looking like that. Garments in your measure may be difficult to come by, but I will do my best. As for a fee, it will be payable upon your successful return. And perhaps your lady wife would wish to stay and enjoy the society of the court?”

“No,” Flynn blurts out, fast enough to be rude. There is no way in absolute hellfire that he is leaving Lucy behind as a hostage, which he knows damn well that she would be. No chance he’s leaving her alone, no certain chance of a reunion, with the sleeper agent probably just waiting for the opportunity. “We…” He reaches out and puts his arm around Lucy, pulling her close. “We are very fond of each other. She is a great help to me, Your Grace.”

“In matters of war? I have not yet met the woman that was.” Philip turns on his heel to pick up his goblet again, which is probably a good thing as he misses Lucy’s appalled little huff. “I find that excessive reliance on one’s wife is not a trait to be celebrated, frankly. But for such touching marital fidelity, I can allow it. And you will be taking those others as well?”

“Yes,” Flynn says. “We will go together, my lord, or we will not go at all.”

Lucy glances up at him, as if impressed by this display of solidarity, and Philip considers it. Finally he says, “Very well. You may take your manservant and the heathen. We will discuss the arrangements tomorrow – I break my fast after Lauds, you will join me then. In the meanwhile, it does grow quite late, and you must have had a wearying journey from… Castile. You and Lady Lucy may repair upstairs, I will have a chamber made ready. The other two may sleep in the hall with the rest of the serving folk.”

Flynn thinks that despite everything, this may be his favorite mission yet, especially when this arrangement is conveyed to Wyatt and Rufus. Wyatt looks like he is about to spit fire at the thought that Flynn gets to go to an actual room with Lucy, while he and Rufus are expected to crash with the rest of the castle’s residents who don’t have their own quarters, who push aside the trestle tables and bed down in the dirty rushes of the great hall. “Look,” Wyatt says. “Can’t we just go back to the hotel? We paid extra for that room.”

When this is translated to him, Philip raises an elegant black eyebrow. “Leave my palace, you mean? No, I don’t see how that will be necessary. And since when does a manservant voice opinions on these things? I suggest more beating, to be frank.”

“So do I,” Flynn says with fervor, earning himself a dirty look from Lucy. “You are a wise and just man, Your Grace. A gentleman and a scholar.”

Philip gives the amused little smile of someone who sups on flattery daily, but is not above enjoying the taste. “That’s settled, then? Tomorrow, after Lauds. Good night.”

They echo it clumsily back to him, servants appear with the same well-trained speed, and Wyatt and Rufus are shown off to the hall (both glaring at Flynn, convinced – not without reason – that this is his fault) and Flynn and Lucy climb a set of tightly winding, narrow stone steps to a bedchamber on the next floor. At the sight of it, Flynn supposes that he doesn’t get to laugh too much at Wyatt and Rufus, unfortunately. The bed will fit Lucy nicely, but cut him off at about the knees, unless he curls up like a shrimp (and for that matter, if she wants him in it). Jesus. Midgets.

“Well,” Lucy says, once they’ve shut the door. “That was a disaster, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Flynn isn’t honestly sure what constitutes a disaster anymore. “If you mean that we know where Richard is now, but because we’re supposed to travel there and spy on him on Philip’s behalf. And he’s not an idiot, he’s not going to let us go alone. He’ll send men with us, likely including the captain. We’ll have to lose them before we can even think about whatever we need to do with Richard.”

“So Rittenhouse is here,” Lucy says. “Both in Paris, and in Poitiers with Richard. They have more than one agent, they have plenty of moving pieces. And there’s a strong possibility that we’re playing exactly into their trap by going at all, but – ”

“But we can’t not go,” Flynn finishes grimly. “For any number of reasons. So yes. I suppose it’s a disaster.”

Lucy considers this, then gives a firm little nod. “We’ll figure it out,” she says. “We always do. Lauds is going to come early. We should get some sleep.”

Flynn glances at her awkwardly, but Lucy doesn’t seem inclined to challenge their sleeping arrangements. So, after he shucks the dirty 1799 coat and shoes, and she strips off to her shift, they crawl into the bed. He hikes his feet up, grumbling under his breath. The mattress is stuffed with straw and goose feathers, not entirely uncomfortable, but still scratchy, and the pillow is not what you would call ample. Not that he’s suddenly going to kick up a fuss about less-than-luxury accommodations, but he’ll wind up with a permanent crick in his back if they have to spend too many nights like this. He finds himself actually looking forward to getting to Richard’s court, much of a clusterfuck as it is likely to be, for the sole reason that Richard, in keeping with his larger-than-life reputation, had a stature to match: he’s estimated to have stood six-foot-four or five. His palace will be made with the comforts of a tall man in mind. About damn time.

Lucy drifts off quickly, though Flynn doesn’t, mind too busy with plans and possibilities and what the hell they’re going to do next – though he does steal a moment or two to watch her sleep. Besides, they’re very close to Notre Dame, and the fucking monks just have to punctiliously ring those bells, don’t they. He’s awoken once at midnight, again at three AM, and has given up all hope of getting back to sleep by the time the greyness is seeping into their room and it’s time to get up. But he must have dropped under enough not to notice when a servant came in and laid out new clothes for them. He reprimands himself for this carelessness – what if they had tried to do something else? Sloppy.

Nonetheless, there is nothing for it. Lucy has a new dress in blue, sleeves and neck trimmed in embroidery, a girdle and a fashionable bit of gauzy headwear that Flynn tells her is called a toque, a cloak with fox fur, and other garments more suitable for a respectable middle-class lady. As for Flynn, it’s clear that they have had to scramble, but they’ve come up with a tunic, braies, and boots, along with a green cloak that fastens over one shoulder with a bronze pin and makes him feel like a Viking. His toes cram against the end of the boots when he walks, and he’s tempted to keep his colonial shoes, but he might as well go for the look. The other ones are too small anyway. (This is a recurring problem in his life.)

Lucy eyes him approvingly once he’s changed, which makes Flynn think it was definitely worth it, and he offers his arm to escort her down the stairs, across the cool blue courtyard, and into the palace chapel, where the king and his household are hearing Lauds. Wyatt and Rufus are there already; they’ve managed to get some slightly nicer clothes as well, though there is still straw in Wyatt’s hair and he glares suspiciously at their arm-in-arm entrance. He gets glared at in return by Flynn, glances away, and reminds himself to deal with this later.

To his surprise, and to his grief, Flynn finds the service oddly comforting. It’s in Latin, which even he can’t really follow aside from a word here and there, but he’s been to enough High Church Catholic masses to know the drill, and it makes him think of the ones that Lorena took him to. They went to Italy on their honeymoon, there were tiny ancient churches everywhere, many of whom still offered services in the pre-Vatican II style. Flynn looks up at the light sifting through the diamonded window, and finds himself choking back tears. Kyrie, he thinks. Kyrie eleison. Not for him – he’s given up on that a while ago – but for them. In nominee Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Can see Lorena next to him in the pew, crossing herself as the crucifix passes, and laughing over coffee afterward over how much she hates the fusty patriarchal nonsense of the old guard. Her faith was always a contradiction, a struggle and a question, but she never relinquished it altogether. God, how he misses her.

Flynn is brought back to earth with a start when the service is over, and everyone begins to file out. Philip catches his eye over the household’s heads, and tips his own in a significant manner, so Flynn changes direction and follows him, Lucy perforce tagging along. Wyatt and Rufus troop over as well, as Philip leads them through the hall and into his private solar. It’s a combination living room/dining room/study, with large windows to admit sunlight (hence the name), tapestries on the walls to keep the chill out, and a table currently set with breakfast. Everyone is hungry enough that it looks very good, and once Philip has taken his seat, they do the same. They also have to wait until he starts to eat before they do, but fortunately that is not very long. Flynn asks, “Are we leaving today, my lord?”

“Yes.” Philip sips his breakfast wine. “I’ve arranged an escort to accompany you. The roads may be dangerous, after all, and if you insist on taking your wife along, surely we have a duty to see her safe. It will not be large, only a dozen men, and they will be under strict instructions not to be seen with you when you arrive in Poitiers. You are, after all, not to give Richard any indication as to where you hail from, or my role in this endeavor.”

Flynn starts to say something, then stops. While this saves them the hassle of having to lose their guards first, and also trying to find their way to Poitiers by themselves, which would clearly be a nightmare, “a dozen men” is still obviously a lot more than there are of them. Even he and Wyatt would have their work cut out for them trying to take on a dozen knights, if for any reason they should discover that to be necessary, and probably half of them are Rittenhouse or Rittenhouse-trained. After a pause, Flynn says, “And do you think Richard will be fooled by that?”

“You’d best hope he is, mustn’t you?” Philip gives him a mild look. “Or that you can offer him something he wishes to hear? It is quite important that you do.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t see how I am obligated to share that information with my mercenary.” Philip shrugs, then smiles, raising his cup. “To your health. I daresay you will need it.”

Flynn daresays they will, and they finish breakfast in terse silence, Wyatt and Rufus not quite daring to glare at either Flynn or Philip one-on-one, but making it very clear that they would like to. Then they are shown out to the courtyard, where the dozen men (including the English-speaking captain, whose name is apparently Gerard) are waiting for them. Because they will be leaving the city and traveling on the roads, Flynn and Wyatt are allowed to carry swords. These are a lot heavier than they look, and while it’s impossible not to feel extremely cool when you belt one on like goddamn Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, there is also the fact that they will be flailing like idiots if they actually try to fight with them. (Well, Wyatt will; Flynn feels confident he can learn on the fly, but he’s under no illusions as to who would win in a pitched fight.) Some of the men are also in chainmail shirts, but those weigh thirty pounds and you have to be trained to bear the weight, much less stand up, move around, and fight in them. Mounted knights are the Panzer brigades of their day, and if they are crashing toward you with a ten-foot-long lance on a heavy warhorse, then God have mercy on your soul. (Plate armor won’t come into vogue for about another century and a half, but they do just fine without it right now.)

The horse part, at least, Flynn is excited about. There are four: two knights’ coursers for him and Wyatt (Flynn can manage it, but that is going to be a lot of horse for Wyatt – normally a servant would have a much worse mount, but it seems that Philip prefers speed over societal observance, as well as possibly not believing that Wyatt is really a manservant). There’s a gentler palfrey for Lucy, suitable for a lady, and a common mule for Rufus, who eyes it with a Really??! expression. Apparently they don’t feel the need to waste good French horseflesh on a black heathen, even if Rufus’s attendance at chapel this morning “proves” that he is not a Saracen. “Can we go to Spain yet?” he grumbles. “That sounds better.”

“No.” Flynn helps Lucy onto her horse (he knows they rode at least once, trying to catch up to him and Jesse James, but this is still not their forte), then steps lightly up into his stirrups, just to prove he can. He gathers up the reins and gets to know his mount a bit, cantering quick circles around the bailey, while Wyatt and his mount are still having a difference of opinion over who is controlling who here. Much as it’s enjoyable to watch him suffer, Flynn sighs and supposes that once again, he is going to have to be helpful. “Be firm,” he advises. “It’s a warhorse, it’s been trained to be contrary. Needs a few hits with the reins.”

“Great,” Wyatt grumbles. “It’ll be just like riding you.”

Flynn gives him an arch look, as if inviting Wyatt to reflect on how that sounded, and Wyatt makes a faint choking noise which would be extremely enjoyable in other circumstances. Rufus divides a judgmental stare between them and gets onto his mule, which then, in true mulish fashion, refuses to go anywhere. It is finally coaxed to do so after a few solid kicks from Rufus, which Flynn approves of; at least someone’s getting the point. Once they have all managed to not fall off their mounts (or the trio has, at any rate), the portcullis is opened, they start to move, and canter down the bridge and toward the Paris streets.

It’s a fine, watery-pale morning, not quite None, and Flynn is almost able to enjoy the sensation of riding again, even as he keeps a very sharp eye on everything around them, the hustle of the morning commerce, and how Lucy is doing with the palfrey. He tries to guess how long this will take. It’s a little over two hundred miles southwest from Paris to Poitiers, a ride of barely two hours on a modern TGV, but that, obviously, is not the case here. A man riding hard can do thirty or forty miles in a day; a king’s procession can sometimes barely make ten. At the most optimistic end, it’ll be at least a week. But Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus will be in total agony if they ride that hard for that long, which even Flynn feels a little bad for.

There’s also the fact that the further they get away from Paris, the less use their French will be, and that was limited to start with. They just got by with Philip, but he speaks langue d’oïl, the northern French that becomes modern French. Richard himself also speaks that (though really, how to talk to him is the least of their problems right now), but the further south they go, the more it will turn into southern French, langue d’oc or Occitan, which is considerably different from and not necessarily mutually intelligible with Old French. They’ll have their friendly and not-at-all-evil guides for most of the trip, but once they get to Poitiers, communication is going to be even more of a pain. Flynn almost (almost) hopes the place is indeed crawling up the ass with Rittenhouse agents. At least they will speak English.

Flynn blows out a breath as they reach the city gates, and with the crowds and grime and churches and bridges and towers of Paris behind them, the world opens up into a sudden and almost shocking expanse of green ahead. Cities stop here in a way they don’t in the modern world, when they’re surrounded by rings and rings of suburbs and feeder communities and residential neighborhoods, until you finally transition into the countryside by means of a highway. There’s none of that here. There is Paris, and then there is no Paris, aside from a scattering of cottages. The road snakes off into the distance, a single, muddy track. It’s going to be a very long trip, in more ways than one.

Flynn considers it, and steals one more sidelong glance at Lucy. Then he puts his heels into his horse’s side, decides it’s not really worth it to look back now, and so, the wind in his face, he doesn’t.

[altobrandy31-blog]

There Were Zero Things Better This Week Than That Absurdly Historic Klay Game

Welcome to Good Stuff, HuffPost’s weekly recommendation series devoted to the least bad things on and off the internet.

Monday night, I found myself in the very top row of the United Center in Chicago, where I bore witness to an absurd bit of history, and what is quite possibly the most entertaining version of basketball ever invented: A Klay Game.

The game itself wasn’t that good, by normal standards. By the end of the first quarter, the Golden State Warriors had run up a 20-point lead on the hapless and injured Chicago Bulls. By halftime, the Dubs had 92 points and were winning by 40. It was pointless. Except for Klay.

Except for Klay. Thompson, that is, the Warriors’ gunner of two-guard who, up to that point in the season, had been trash. Thompson entered the evening having made just five of his first 36 three-point attempts of the season ― a 14 percent clip that was nearly 30 points below his career average from distance. But on Monday, he reverted to his old, dumb self, which unlike Stephen Curry and Kevin Durant ― his superstar teammates whose dominant nights always feel like reminders that they have absolutely broken basketball ― tends to feel more normal. Klay is the old dude at the gym who uses screens the right way, finds himself in the corner, and pummels you with an endless barrage of buckets ... if that old dude was also 6′6″ and one of the greatest shooters of all time.

He hit his first three less than 90 seconds into the game. By the end of the first quarter, he’d made five more. At halftime, he had 10, and at one point, he had made nine out of 11 threes. He finished the game with 14, setting a single-game NBA record in just 27 minutes on the floor. He had 52 points.

The amazing thing about it, though, wasn’t that he broke the record, but how. A Klay Game is a special phenomenon: on the occasions where Klay isn’t just hot but reaches thermonuclear status, the Warriors’ other superstars cease to even consider themselves a part of the game, and instead funnel the ball to him with a relentless, single-minded focus. So each time a Bulls shot clanked off the rim and landed in the hands of a Golden State player, they looked for Klay. In the corner. At the top of the key. Barely across half-court. It didn’t matter. Curry and Durant were passing up open shots to find him. Draymond Green, on one possession, set five screens in an effort to free Thompson from his defenders. They still got theirs, but the night was Klay’s, and they knew it.

So did the crowd. By the start of the second half, no one was paying attention to the score, or the Bulls. Not even their fans. Each time Klay touched the ball, the crowd urged him to shoot. Each time he did, the air burped with the anticipation that he was about to hit another one. And more often than not, it went in. The Warriors are dumb, and even though its cool in some circles to hate them now, I can’t. Not when they play basketball like this. And not when they can decide, on any given night, to let Klay be Klay, and remind us that there are still endless wonders in an NBA season, even when its ultimate outcome already feels certain. ― Travis Waldron

Kurt Russell As Cool Santa

I don’t really know how to explain the new trailer for “The Christmas Chronicles.” There’s Kurt Russell as cool Santa Claus throwing concerts in prison and bemoaning images on cola cans for making his butt look big. There are very CGI elves who don’t totally look like gremlins, but I wouldn’t want to feed them after midnight. The Netflix movie’s premise seems to revolve ― maybe? ― around the potential death of Christmas, which won’t be saved unless some kids travel around the world with Chris Pratt’s evil dad, who seems more worried about breaking out “Star Wars” references and dunking presents down chimneys. Hmm.

It feels like a Christmas miracle this is happening at all, so I for one will be counting down the days until it arrives in my queue. ― Bill Bradley

WHY IS LIZZO PERFECT?

A Very Good Paperback

Simon & Schuster

I know. I know! This book came out in February. But I missed it then, and this week I finally circled back to the book I’d heard glowing things about for months. If you haven’t read Halliday’s masterfully engineered debut yet, you should do the same thing.

The novel opens on the blossoming romance between Alice, a young editor at a publishing house in New York, and Ezra Blazer, an elderly acclaimed novelist who bears an unmistakeable resemblance to Philip Roth. Also an aspiring writer, Alice soaks up Ezra’s attention and guidance, as he showers her with blackout cookies, rolls of cash to spend at upscale department stores, and sacks of edifying books to read. Rather than fully flipping a narrative so often told from the older male perspective on its head, Halliday relates it from a remove that hovers between clinical and whimsical, as if their relationship is a case file put into the language of a fairy tale.

Then, just as Alice realizes she must choose between her own future as a writer or a real partnership with the ailing Ezra, Halliday throws us into another story. Amar Jaafari, an Iraqi-American economist, has been detained in Heathrow en route to see his brother in Kurdistan. In between dealing with the crushing bureaucracy ― repeated interrogations that cycle through the same questions, vague and inexplicable explanations for his detention ― he reflects on his life, the two countries that have been home to his family, and the violence that has surrounded his brother and other loved ones.

The novel ends with an eerily convincing transcript of a “Desert Island Discs” interview in which Ezra, some ten years on from the start of his relationship with Alice, recommends his all-time favorite songs, reminisces, and flirts with the interviewer.

A dazzling puzzle box of a book, Asymmetry melds ambition and restraint in its exploration of power, artistic imagination, empathy, geopolitics, and love. It’s recently out in paperback, so there’s absolutely no reason not to read it immediately. ― Claire Fallon

A Night of Short Horror Films (By Mostly Women!)

Nitehawk

"Cat Calls" (directed by Kate Dolan)

Every year, Nitehawk Cinema in Brooklyn hosts a short film festival. And every year, Caryn Coleman, director of programming and special projects at the theater, co-curates a midnight showing dedicated to mini horror flicks, the kinds that only require eight to 19 minutes to rattle your already fragile existence and catapult your adrenaline levels in glorious micro waves of fear.

This year’s showing will take place on Thursday, Nov. 8 at 9:30 p.m. And its lineup is like a pleasant middle finger to Jason Blum, a man blithely unaware of the many female directors working in horror today.

“When I read the Jason Blum article I had watched two brand new horror films directed by women in the previous 24 hours,” Coleman told HuffPost. “Genre films by women is nothing new to me or to the many people clued into what’s happening in horror. Therefore, what he said is a prime example of how out of touch certain parts of the film industry establishment are; they are completely unaware of a reality that is right in front of their face simply because they don’t care enough to look.”

Coleman and her co-programmer Sam Zimmerman have paid particular attention to women’s voices at her festival over the years. “This year we’re thrilled that our program not only features 70 percent female directors,” she said, “but that nearly all address the real horror of what it’s like to be a woman in the world.”

Three films to watch at the Shorts Festival’s “Midnite” screening this year are “Rape Card,” “Pumpkin Movie” (“I saw it the night of the Blasey-Ford testimony and it was utterly prescient, couldn’t get it out of my head,” Coleman said), and “Cat Calls.” Tickets are on sale here. ― Katherine Brooks

Rosé In October

Nestled halfway into Quavo’s new album, “Quavo Huncho,” is a track that dares to bring rosé out of the summer slums and into the autumn breeze. Understanding the pink-tinted bubbly should be a year-round affair, “Champagne Rosé” had the rapper “poppin’ bottles” in — gasp! — October. More significantly, he did so with the help of two incredible collaborators. One of them (Cardi B) comes as no surprise; the other (Madonna) is a left-field swerve that proves to be one of the record’s highlights.

Dominating the song with a high-pitched autotune, Madonna’s is the first voice we hear. She stretches “champagne” to three syllables and turns wine into sex the way only she can (“Please drink me up”). Her presence is the yin to Quavo’s full-throated yang, perfectly accentuated by a flute that graces the intoxicating beat. And then, before the four-minute bop ends, Madonna nails a verse that again lets her bend and elongate words with a crisp, clarion cadence: “Let me entertain you / Get inside your vein, too / Intoxicate your brain, ooh / Crazy, what I’ll make you.” It’s a frothy morsel, likely to remain an under-appreciated footnote in all three artists’ repertoires. But listen to it and try not to hit the repeat button a dozen times. You can’t do it. ― Matthew Jacobs

Witch Hunting

Halloween may be over, but witches rule all year long. If you haven’t yet checked out two spooooky witchy reboots ― The CW’s “Charmed” and Netflix’s “Chilling Adventures of Sabrina” ― the time is now. Both series take beloved ’90s shows and turn them into something darker, more complex and more overtly feminist. Neither show is perfect, but they both have done something interesting and timely ― and, dare we say ... magical? Plus, with all the talk of “witch hunting” powerful white men, it’s about damn time we saw some real witchy women get their due. ― Emma Gray

Martha Rosler Forever

In the 1975 video “Semiotics of the Kitchen,” one of multidisciplinary artist Martha Rosler’s most famed works, Rosler stands at a makeshift kitchen station in front of a refrigerator and stove. It looks like a cross between a Rachael Ray cooking demo and a Francesca Woodman photograph.

“Apron,” she says, as she pulls one over her head. “Bowl,” displaying a bowl to the world while pantomiming stirring. “Chopper,” plunging it into the bowl violently. “Egg beater ... fork ... grater,” she continues, rubbing the fork up and down the grater, emitting a jarring racket. She continues down the alphabet, naming different kitchen appliances and simulating their use for the viewer like an alien mimicking domestic rituals. When she picks up the nutcracker, Rosler glares at the viewer while spreading and shutting the tool’s legs with vigor. The video, critiquing the oppressive, domestic roles women are often forced to embody, becomes a jagged dance to the tune of a grating metallic symphony.

This is Rosler’s most well-known piece, but far from the only one worth knowing. A retrospective at the Jewish Museum spans Rosler’s five-decade career. Featuring installations, photographic series, sculpture, and video, the exhibit probes far beyond “Semiotics of the Kitchen” to show us one of the most witty and dogged feminist artists of our time. In one photo collage, blond women snap selfies in a mod mansion as flames blaze outside the windows. In an installation, various women’s lingerie and sleepwear congregate around a white mattress. The cluster of thongs and spanx and granny panties alludes to the stories clothes tell about the women who wear them. Or perhaps just the stories we buy into.

The show opens on Friday, Nov. 2 and is up until March. All feminists, Jews and bad chefs are encouraged to attend. ― Priscilla Frank

The Drawing of Lines

Screenshot

We’re all blessed to have lived long enough to discover that the Gateway Pundit apparently does have a line, and that line’s name is Jacob Wohl. ― Ashley Feinberg

Source: https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/there-were-zero-things-better-this-week-than-that-absurdly-historic-klay-game_us_5bdccf96e4b09d43e31efd6c

[joeybelle]

Starlight - Chapter 18

Relationship: Cassian Andor x Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Romance, Pre-Rogue One, Hurt/Comfort, Foul Language, some Smut in this chapter, Explicit Content

“Well, Doctor, you’re not winning, but you’re losing quite spectacularly,” Melshi said, grinning at her over the cards he was holding up. The dim lights, the crappy pop music in the background, and the sharp smell of cheap alcohol gave the whole scene an air of depravity.

“Shut up,” Cora mumbled, throwing him a dirty look, her own cards displayed on the table for everyone to see. He was right, she had lost. And quite spectacularly, to use his words, her pile of credits dwindling at a rapid pace despite her best efforts.

They had gathered in the makeshift bar down in the catacombs as soon as everyone’s shifts ended. There weren’t as many people as the first time she crashed their party, but enough of them to organize a game of Sabacc, along with a few bystanders who didn’t want to play, but made cheering on the players their second job. Cora couldn’t get the excitement, but then again she had never been a fan of gambling.

She couldn’t say she understood Sabacc very well. Cassian had taken her aside early that evening and explained the rules, as slowly and as simply as possible, but thanks to the constant interference from Meshi and Lewella (who were convinced they knew better), she ended up being very confused. However, Cassian had been very patient and explained the same thing a million times, even though it became clear early on that Cora was just as dumb as a piece of rock. She’d get a hang of it as she started playing, they finally decided, thinking probably, than if they waited until she learned all the rules they wouldn’t start playing anytime soon. So they dealt the cards and threw her head first into the game.

From what she understood, the game went like this: the aim was to have in your hand cards that totaled 23, -23, or three cards that put together would make the number 023. The cards had values ranging from zero to 15 and -15, some being numbered cards (1-11), some being ranked cards (whose value she kept forgetting and had to ask Cassian again and again). In the beginning you were dealt two cards, then a round of betting, then another card would be dealt (or you could chose not to get a card, or change one card, but you could never discard one, which was annoying), then another round of betting, and it went like this for at least 4 rounds while the main pot was being built, which meant more money to lose for her. After that, one of the players decided to call the hand, another round of betting and then everyone revealed what they had in their hand. Having 23, -23 or 023 was a certain win, but that didn’t happen often, so whoever had the closest to 23 or -23 would win. If at this point you had in your hand cards totaling more than 23, less than -23 or exactly zero they say you ‘bombed out’, which meant that aside from losing the game you also had to pay a penalty. Which sucked, because Cora had bombed out a few times already.

Luckily, they agreed not to use real money this time, since she would be learning and they would have an unfair advantage over her, even though Lieutenant Selfa argued that you never really learn unless you feel the sting of losing real money. But as soon as Cora disclosed that she had no money anyway the argument was settled pretty quickly, so Melshi, who owned the Sabacc set, procured a stack of tokens that could be used instead of credits. And also a big bag of candy he equally split between the players because ‘people should still feel like they’re winning something’.

Well, Cora was losing. Big time. It seemed like the whole concept of beginner’s luck had decided to take a vacation in a sunny place, so the plastic tokens and piles of candy were leaving her grasp at an alarming rate. Even with Cassian leaning on the back of her chair, looking at her cards over her shoulders, her losing streak couldn’t be broken. She was cursed, she decided.

“I did have a good hand before the shift,” she whined, frowning at her cards as if that could change anything. The shift, a random pulse that could occur any time during the game, was meant to make the whole thing more interesting by changing the values of all the cards in the game, except for those placed face up in the Disruptor Field. Cora hated it, because whatever hand she was building could be lost at any point and she had to start all over again with new cards and renewed frustration.

“Yeah,” Cassian agreed, studying her cards and scratching his beard. He had been giving her advice throughout the game, but he still couldn’t stop the disaster. Nothing could.

She had let him drag her into this madness simply because she wanted to spend some more time with him, but this game ended up not being such a good idea. She didn’t really want to show everyone how stupid she could be with things she wasn’t familiar with, not when there was alcohol involved and everyone joked and she was tired. Cora sighed in frustration. She wished once again that she’d been a little braver and asked Cassian to skip the game and just spend the evening doing something else. Not that she disliked the game, on the contrary, she thought it could be really nice to play with friends, but she just wasn’t in the mood. The certainty that Cassian was going to leave in the morning had stripped her or any sort of enthusiasm.

“At least you didn’t bomb out this time,” Lewella laughed, pointing at Cora’s cards that totaled 7 points, but the laughter soon turned into a hopeless whine. “Unlike me.” With a sigh she let the cards drop on the table and paid the penalty of 500 fake credits and three candy pieces in a secondary pot that Cora couldn’t remember how you won. Idiot something?

“So Melshi wins again?” Intelligence Agent Rodma Maddel asked, eyeing Melshi’s pile of plastic chips with more than a little envy. He had the most wins, with Lieutenant Selfa, who Cora just met tonight, close behind.

“Not so fast,” Selfa said, revealing his own cards. “Show your cards, Melshi. Let’s see what you got.”

Melshi started grinning and Cora knew they would bicker for a while, they had been doing it throughout the game, so she turned her attention towards Cassian, who was casually resting his forearms on her shoulders, making her hyper aware of his presence. She wondered if he did it intentionally, or was he naturally a bit of a tease and didn’t even realize it. He noticed her staring and raised an eyebrow. “It’s all your fault I’m losing,” she said, poking his cheek with a finger, making him pull back a little.

“And how is it my fault?” he asked, totally unperturbed by the accusation, a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re bad luck,” Cora concluded, mirroring his smile.

“I remember you telling me I was lucky. Have you changed your mind, Doctor?” he said in a low voice, that could easily be lost in the colourful assortment of noise that surrounded them. “But it’s ok, if you don’t want my help anymore...” He smirked, knowing full well that she wasn’t sure what the numbers on the cards were without his help.

“No, no! I want your help, but I want it to actually be… helpful,” she demanded, aware that he couldn’t make miracles happen, but asking nonetheless.

“You’d better do what she says, Andor, and try not make her angry,” Lewella said, leaning back into her chair to take a better look at Cassian. “She’s got dirt on you and she’s not afraid to use it.”

“Does she?” asked Jav Mefran, who was seated right next to Cora. He was a really nice man (with an odd obsession for rainforests and penchant for alcohol) that had helped her move Ben from the dungeons to her room a few months back.

“She doesn’t,” Cassian promptly denied, but Cora was silently nodding.

Mefran started laughing and refilled some of the empty cups on the table. Cora’s was still almost full, since this time no one forced her to down it all in one gulp, nor did she feel like drowning her embarrassment in alcohol, so she refrained from drinking too much. The memory of the hangover she had the first time was still fresh in her memory and she still found the taste revolting. However she found out that the candy Melshi had split between them had a strong and unfamiliar taste, perfect for masking the stench of jet juice, so she kept popping them into her mouth when she thought no one was looking.

“If I don’t, then how come you’re helping me tonight?” she asked Cassian, smiling innocently at him.

“I thought I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Cassian, you have no heart. Wait, no, that is Melshi,” Lewella said, throwing a piece of candy at Melshi’s head, narrowly missing him.

“Leave me out of whatever that is,” Meshi yelled from the other end of the table, still pretty deep in his debate with Selfa.

“Don’t deny it, Andor, I heard the word blackmail this morning.” Lewella turned back to Cassian. “And you should know that I offered to buy whatever she has on you, but she said that as long as you’ve agreed to pay the price she asked, she’s not gonna sell. That’s real friendship,” she said, lifting her cup. “And you should cherish it because every other person around this table would sell you for a crate of Corellian Brandy. Wait, even a bottle would do it for me.” She took a big gulp of alcohol. “That’s loyalty!” she emphasized.

“Well, tell that to Draven,” Cora mumbled, rubbing the spot on her wrist where one of the bracelets used to be.

“Listen to me, if you have something on Cassian, hold on to it, and never let him go,” Mefran said, an all knowing grin on his face. His greying beard made him look like he actually knew what he was talking about, especially when he used a fake academic tone and pointed at you with his index. “He’s a very useful individual, if you can control him.”

Cora felt Cassian’s arms leaving her shoulders as he straightened his back. She didn’t turn around to see him, but she could imagine the dirty look he was throwing Mefran. “What are you teaching her, Mefran?”

“The important things in life, my boy,” the older man replied. “Listen to me,” he told Cora, leaning closer to her. “Don’t let him go. Never ask for a big thing in exchange of what you have on him. Start with small things, tell him they add up and if he plays by your rules, you’ll eventually set him free. But never do so. Soon enough he’ll do whatever you want, because you’ll always tell him that the next time will be the last time and he won’t waste all those years of efforts he put into it.”

“Years?” Cassian seemed appalled by it, and Cora couldn’t help but laugh. An evil, maniacal laughter. “Please don’t give her ideas.”

“I have to nurture my evil gene. Now, we can start with 200 credits because I am all out of tokens,” she said, wiggling her fingers towards Cassian, who pretended he didn’t hear her.

While she wasn’t paying attention it seemed that the argument at the other end of the table was over and Melshi was once again the winner, so he cleaned the table of tokens. Now, after counting, she was only left with three pieces of candy and around 150 fake credits, not nearly enough to play a round of Sabacc. “Or I can sit this out and let someone else play, since I suck anyway.”

“I can lend you some tokens, if you promise to pay me back later 50 actual credits for them,” Melshi offered, gesturing towards the huge pile of tokens he had won that night. He looked really proud of himself.

In exchange, Cora threw him a displeased look. “I appreciate your entrepreneurial spirit, but I wouldn’t be able to pay you back since I have no solid source of income,” she said, rather full of bitterness. She wasn’t much of a spender - there wasn’t much to spend on in the military anyway - but she still wished she had at least some pocket money. She still resented the Alliance for confiscating her 20000 credits.

“You’ll have a paycheck soon enough,” Lewella said, shrugging. “They can’t continue not paying you now that you’re not a prisoner anymore. But that doesn’t mean you have to make a deal with Melshi.”

Cora suddenly became hyper aware of the new bracelet she had on and made an effort not to play with it. It was thinner and looser than the others had been, dangling on her wrist. It was silver and didn’t look like handcuffs anymore, but it was still a weird new feeling. She compared it with the one Lewella was wearing and noticed they were very similar models. The biggest difference was that Cora couldn’t take it off.

However, she noticed she was feeling a little relieved, now that the initial annoyance had passed. She was making baby steps, but she had been stupid thinking that gaining her freedom would be easy. When she left, she thought the moment she would be out the star destroyer’s gates she’d be free, but now she knew that she’d never be free from the Empire unless it fell and crumbled. They would always be looking for her, and you can’t really be free if you have to hide who you are forever. At least here she was safe. For now.

“See, 50 credits isn’t that much…” Melshi pressed, despite the glare Lewella was throwing him.

“I refuse to make deals with you. I have a feeling it’s quite counterproductive.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Can we hurry and play another round because it’s getting late,” Lieutenant Selfa interrupted them. That made Cora look at the clock and realize that it was indeed pretty late. They had started playing around midnight and they’d been playing for a while, so Cora calculated how many hours of sleep she could get if she went to her room now: finding her way through the corridors, then changing, taking a shower, falling asleep… not too many.

“I think I’m going to to head back now, I have an early shift tomorrow,” she said, trying to get up, but Lewella’s hand appeared on her shoulder and firmly pushed her back down.

“So do I, but you can’t bail on the last game of the night,” Lewella threatened. “One more round and we’re all going to bed.”

Cora groaned. She was already tired, the turmoil of the day having drained her of energy, and she would rather sleep than lose another game. She could only be humiliated so many times in one single evening. “Still no credits,” she mumbled, pointing at whatever was left of her pile.

“Well then you can bet on something else,” Melshi suggested, the grin on his face hinting at nothing good.

“I am not betting my clothes,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, throwing him an icy glare.

“What? No. That’s for another time,” he laughed, “when there’s more alcohol involved and you actually know how to play, so you won’t say I’m taking advantage of you.”

“Mhm.”

“No, I mean you can bet a favour. Whomever wins, gets a favour from you, nothing big, though. And if you win the game, you’ll get a favour from me, anything you want. Sweet deal, isn’t it?”

“Nope. I still don’t trust you.”

“Don’t break my heart, Cora.”

“What heart?” Lewella grinned and Cora snorted.

“Well then, if that’s how you wanna play, I’ll be nice and accept your shoes.”

“Or,” Lewella sighed, “she can have half my tokens.” She split the pile in half and pushed a part in front of Cora. “Settled. Now let’s play and go to bed, because this is the third night I’ve been losing sleep and it’s beginning to show.”

“What have you been doing Lew?” Cassian laughed, taking a seat besides Melshi.

“None ya business. Are you playing?”

“Yeah,” he replied, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Wait!” Cora exclaimed, realizing what that meant. “Who’s gonna help me?”

“You said I was bad luck, maybe you’ll be luckier on your own.” The smirk on Cassian’s face making her frown.

“Doubt it. But let’s do this,” she sighed, feeling dejected before even starting. It wasn’t a good feeling knowing you suck at something, and even worse when others were there to witness it.

“Alright! Let’s do this!” Lewella exclaimed, with renewed enthusiasm. She seemed to have unending reserves of energy, that she tapped into at the most random times.

Melshi expertly shuffled the cards and started dealing them. Cora grabbed hers, and and studied them: -11 and 3. She felt too tired to think of a strategy, so she decided she would just let the cards come until she would bomb out, she had nothing to lose anyway. Or she won the game, if the gods of luck decided to have mercy on her today.

The game wasn’t that hard, after all she had studied medicine for many years and she wasn’t that stupid that she couldn’t learn how to play a card game, but there was this luck component that annoyed her. After the second round of betting the pulse changed the values of all the cards in her hand. She didn’t even bother counting the new total, instead she shifted her attention towards the other players.

They were all surprisingly lively for the late hour. She assumed that by now they would have grown tired and mellowed out a little, but since Cassian entered the game they seemed invigorated. Especially Lewella, who kept saying that she would win this game because the God of Sabacc was on her side.

It was the first time she’d seen Cassian play. If you’d only known him during work hours you would have never assumed he could be so relaxed, smiling and bantering with his fellow players. Contrary to what Cora had imagined, he wasn’t the reserved player with an unreadable face, but instead was constantly boasting and exchanging insults with Melshi. She assumed the alcohol had played a part in that too, the slight flush on his cheeks hinting at this. They all had work in the morning, so there was substantially less alcohol involved than last time, but it was enough to loosen the tongues and lift the spirits.

“So, Cora, you losing or winning this time?” Melshi asked, winking at her.

“No idea, I haven’t looked at the cards since the last shift.”

“Oh, relying solely on luck, that’s a dangerous thing,” Mefran shared some of his wisdom.

“You know what they say, Mef, go big or go home,” Rodma laughed. “And speaking of going big, let’s finish this game,” she said, pushing her whole pile of tokens towards the main pot. “Last round.”

“I will go big then immediately after I will go home,” Cora laughed, pushing her pile to the middle too. “I’m all out of fucks to give.”

“So this is how you girls wanna play?” Melshi asked, and from the sudden drop in enthusiasm, Cora assumed his cards weren’t that good. Still, he pushed everything to the middle and everyone else followed.

And then they started showing their cards. Jav Mefran had bombed out, Rodma had -17, Selfa had 15, Melshi had 17, Cora had, surprisingly 20, a number that could have won her the game but both Cassian and Lewella had 22 points which called for a Sudden Demise. When two players have an equal winning hand both of them have to draw a card and the best new total would be the winning hand.

“So it’s just you and me in the end, Andor,” Lewella said, leaning back into her chair. “So many years of friendship on the line. And it all comes down to only two cards,” she said, dramatically, as if they had never betted against each other before.

“Let the best one win?” Cassian said, pushing the pack of cards towards her, a smirk playing on his lips.

Cora’s stomach did a double flip, becoming much too aware of how good he looked that night. He looked well rested, something that wasn’t that usual for him, his beard and hair were trimmed and his uniform, although still pretty worn out, looked clean. This seemed to be the most put together version of Cassian she’d seen until now. She tried imagining him dressed up in formal wear, but the image in her head was too ridiculous to be taken seriously.

“I’m better than you no matter the result,” Lewella said, making an obscene gesture towards him.

“Or you can both bomb out and Cora wins,” Melshi butted in, a shit eating grin on his face. Cora assumed that seeing his friends lose and not seeing her win was giving him so much pleasure.

“Or you can shut up.” Lewella threw him a dirty look before pulling out a card.

“But I already lost. Can I still win?” she asked as Cassian pulled a card from the deck and put it face down on the table, without even looking at it. This air of nonchalance with which he handled the cards was so different from his normal stiff demeanor, and Cora found herself staring once again.

“If both of those idiots bomb out the next best hand wins. Yours in this case,” Melshi explained.

“Awesome!” Cora said, her face erupting into a grin. So there was still a minuscule chance for her to not be a total failure tonight. “I hope you guys lose,” she confessed.

“Wow, Cora. After I lent you fake money so you could still play, this is how you repay me?” Lewella pretended to be hurt.

“If I don’t win I can’t pay you back.” It was a lie, she just wanted to win so she could feel better about herself.

“It’s ok, you can just pay me back 50 real credits from your first paycheck from the Rebellion,” she said, turning her card over, and counting the points once again.

“Can’t we let the girl win just this once?” Melshi asked, seeming to care a lot about Cora now that he had no chance of winning. “Since it’s her party after all. Let’s not be dicks and kick her ass every time.”

“If you were a tiny bit more condescending, I’d think you’re related to Draven,” Cora snorted.

“How do you know I’m not?” Melshi said, grinning widely. “He could be my daddy for all I know.”

“Too young,” Mefran laughed.

“Well, Cora, your wish came true,” Lewela said, crossing her arms over her chest and throwing a really dirty look in Cora’s direction.

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting her dejected friend’s shoulder, even though she was laughing inside. Now that she had a real chance at winning, the game suddenly became a little more enticing. “I’m going to share my candy with you if I win. And if I don’t I will just join you in suffering.”

Lewella rested her head on the table, groaning. “I hate you. But,” she said, getting up again, “now that you cursed me, you better win.” The icy glare she threw Cora made her swallow her giggle. It was funny how much Lewella seemed to care about this game.

Cassian, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care about it at all. But he had been really excited while explaining the rules to her, so Cora assumed he was just pretending to be as laid back as he was.

“So, Doctor,” he said, playing with the face down card on the table, “speaking of favours…”

“You’re not getting a ‘get-out-of-hospital-free’ card if you win. No way,” she said.

“Does he really need one?” Rodma asked, laughing. “You may have to win a ‘keep-him-in-hospital’ card if you want him to stay.”

“It’s ok, I have sedatives and restraints for that,” she chuckled. “There is no favour to win, Captain, just a bunch of fake credits and candy.”

The idea of having Cassian owe her a favour was really enticing at that point, but the mischievous look in his eyes made her think twice before risking to owe him one. She was sure he could get creative in his demands, even though, if they were of a certain nature, she was sure she wouldn’t mind that much.

“Are you sure?” Mefran asked, scratching his beard. “It would be a pretty big deal to win. Plus, the game would actually have a purpose.”

“Pretty sure.”

“You’re a coward,” Lewella added.

“I’m not a coward, I’m cautious,” Cora explained, but Lewella didn’t seemed convinced. “Look at him, would you risk owing him a favour?” They both glanced at Cassian who was currently looking surprisingly harmless.

“I’ve done dumber things in my life,” Lewella sighed, and Cora made a mental note to ask her one day what those were. Knowing her, they would be pretty outrageous and funny stories.

Cassian still looked suspiciously innocent. He seemed to have changed his demeanor in the blink of an eye. He was a spy, she remembered, and one of the best. He was supposed to be able to trick people into liking and trusting him. She wasn’t going to fall into his trap.

“Still no,” she said, pursing her lips.

“As you wish,” he said, flipping the card. Everyone leaned over the table to take a better look. It was a -2, which meant his new total was 20. He had won. The bastard had won.

“I have a feeling you cheated,” Cora frowned, leaning back into her chair. “You were way too sure of yourself. You knew you were going to win.”

“I didn’t cheat,” he defended himself. “And I didn’t know I was going to win.”

“You did,” Cora threw him a dirty look.

“Did you see me cheat? Did anyone see me cheat?”

There were a few shrugs and mumbles, but no one backed Cora up. “I still think you cheated.”

“You’re just a sore loser, Cora,” Melshi said, starting to clean the table, so everyone got up and followed his example.

“I’m allowed to be a sore loser. I lost every game tonight,” she mumbled, while putting the mugs aside so Melshi could gather the Sabacc set.

“I’m a loser too,” Lewella whined, leaning onto Cora’s shoulders, being the drama queen she always was.

“Yes. Now get off of me because you’re heavy,” Cora said, trying to shake her off.

“Heartless,” Lewella mumbled.

They finished cleaning up in record time, everyone eager to be done with it and be off to bed. No matter how much they enjoyed drinking and gambling they were all very aware that they had work in the morning. Cora especially, even though she was more aware that she won’t be seeing Cassian for god knows how long after tomorrow. She hadn’t expected something like this to matter so much, after all she was used to be away from the people she cared about, but here she was, moping because her crush - she couldn’t even call him boyfriend - was going away on a mission.

They turned off the music and the lights and left the room. The corridors resounded with their jokes and laughter, a sound so foreign in the usually silent underground. They were walking in almost complete darkness, the only light coming from Rodma’s flashlight, but it was enough for Cora to see the steps and turns and not fall to her face. Lewella had latched onto her arm and was making small talk with Lieutenant Selfa. Cassian was a few steps behind her, walking in silence. She could feel him more than she heard him, because even after drinking a few shots of liquor he was still as silent as ever.

Cora wished once again that she could spend a few moments alone with Cassian. Walking through the dark corridors reminded her of the time he walked her home. Her head was a lot clearer this time, but she still wanted to kiss him until she was out of breath. Unfortunately, she remembered how he didn’t kiss her this morning in the elevator, so maybe he wasn’t that interested in her anymore.

“This is where I leave you,” she announced, once they arrived in the lit part of the catacombs. Her room was opposite from the elevators, so she had to say goodbye now. “Thank you all for the party, I had a lot of fun. And now I know how to play Sabacc, a skill I will hopefully never need…”

“You never know,” Melshi said, waving her goodbye. “Maybe one day your life will depend on it.”

“Gods, I hope not…”

“See you tomorrow!” Lewella gave her a bone crushing hug. “I’ve heard we’ll have a supply shipment so arm yourself with patience.”

“Awesome,” Cora groaned, already knowing that it would be a terrible shift.

“Maybe if you get bored of working in the med bay you can request a transfer to Storage, you’re already used to the place,” Cassian offered, gaining a death glare from Cora and a stifled laugh from Lewella.

“I am pretty sure I can hide your dead body in C3 and no one would ever find it,” Cora threatened.

“You may be right,” he agreed. “But you’d have to kill me first.”

“Doable. Anyway, take care tomorrow,” she said, once Lewella had turned around and wasn’t paying attention. “I have enough work without having to patch you up.”

“One minute ago you’re threatening to kill me and the next you’re telling me to be careful?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t want them to deprive me of the pleasure of murdering you myself,” she said, trying to somehow hide how much she actually worried.

He chuckled. “I’ll try my best,” he said taking a few steps down the hall.

“And make sure Lewella goes to bed. I have a feeling that if you leave her alone she’ll find someone willing to drink with her until morning. And that wouldn't be a problem but I need her to be functional tomorrow,” Cora said, earning an obscene gesture from Lewella and a nod of approval from Cassian.

And so they were gone. She could still hear the rowdy bunch as she opened the door to her room. She felt a little lonely, she admitted. She always had roommates, right until she moved to the Star Destroyer, and no matter how much she loved the comfort of living alone, it was sometimes too silent. The only sound in the underground room was the constant whirring of the ventilation system and the quiet clicking noise Ben’s tank was making.

She looked at the alarm clock and realized it was terribly late, but the nervousness that had been ever present since morning hadn’t subsided, so even if her body and mind were aching for rest she knew it would be hard to fall asleep. A shower would help, she hoped.

She lazily took off her clothes and discarded them into the laundry basket. Before she stepped into the shower,  she took a peak in the mirror. She had lost some weight, she noticed. Either that, or the lack of physical exercise was making her lose her shape. She knew she should be hitting the gym from time to time, but without it being mandatory it was hard to find the time or energy to do it. The scar was still visible on her back, a bright, angry pink staining the scarred area. She scrunched her nose and stepped into the shower.

She spent longer that necessary just letting the water run through her hair and over her body, the sensation calming her nerves and easing the tension in her muscles. It was one of those very few moments of peace, when even the voice in her head had quieted down. When she stepped out, all warm and clean, she was ready to sleep. What she wasn’t ready for was a knock on her door.

At first, she thought it was her imagination, the knock more of a soft tapping than a loud and furious bang. But then came the second knock, just as weak as the first, but as clear as day, so all doubt was gone. Over the time she had gotten used to recognizing all sounds that were out of the ordinary, and a knock on her door in the middle of the night was certainly out of the ordinary. Unless it was an emergency. She hastily wrapped herself into a towel and hurried to the door, hoping she wouldn’t trip and fall in the process.

She relaxed once she opened the door and saw Cassian on her doorstep. Not that he couldn’t be the bearer of bad news, on the contrary, if anything bad happened she expected to see him, but there was something about the casual almost laid-back way he leaned on her doorframe and the smirk in the corner of his mouth that convinced her an emergency wasn’t the purpose of this late night visit.

She leaned on the other side of the door copying his stance, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Long time no see,” she said, smiling cheekily at him.

“I may have cheated,” he admitted, and even though she didn’t expect him to be ashamed, she certainly didn’t expect him to look so damn proud of it.

“May have?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “That’s a little vague, Captain. Not much of a confession.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t do something as despicable as cheat on a card game,” he chuckled. His eyes drifted to the exposed skin above her towel, a shadow of lust darkening his eyes. “But I may have influenced the result a little bit.”

She could feel herself starting to blush, a warm feeling taking over her body. He came back, and she could tell from the way his eyes lingered on her cleavage that he wasn’t here for another round of Sabacc. It was another game he wanted to play, one that she liked to think she was at least a little better at. One that she actually wanted to play.

“A little bit,” she repeated, extending her hand and straightening a barely visible wrinkle on his jacket, then letting it fall over his rank badge, following its outline with the tip of her finger.

“A little bit.”

“Aha, so you had to make sure I didn’t win. So I had to owe you a favour,” she said, pretending to be upset, even though she was sure it wasn’t very credible acting. “And now you couldn’t sleep because this was clouding your conscience, Captain?”

“Or maybe,” he said, catching her hand in his, making her heart skip a beat, “I couldn’t sleep because you didn’t wish me ‘goodnight’.”

There was a certain softness to him, one that she hadn’t really noticed before. It made him look younger, it made him look gentle, something that didn’t usually come to mind when you saw his usual frown and serious demeanor. That, coupled with the seductive way he was looking at her, made him really hard to resist. Not that she ever thought of resisting him, quite the opposite.

“Well, you didn’t wish me goodnight either,” she teased.

“Perhaps I didn’t want the night to end,” he said, bringing her hand up to his lips and placing a tentative kiss on the palm of her hand.

She grinned, the anticipation making her heart beat faster, and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him into her room. “Then you should come in,” she offered, taking a few steps back towards the center of the room. “And stay for… a coffee... that I definitely don’t have.”

He laughed, but gladly followed her inside, the door automatically closing behind him. The only light in the room was coming from the open door of the bathroom and the tiny light bulb in Ben’s tank, creating an accidental atmospheric lighting that was quite pleasant.

He didn’t waste any time and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. Cora eagerly fell into his embrace; the ache for his touch was almost physical, so she pressed herself into his chest and put her arms around his neck, burying her fingers into his soft hair. He took a moment to really look at her, before he did anything else. She could see her own desire mirrored in his beautiful brown eyes, but also something else, she noticed as she started getting lost into his gaze. A sort of longing, maybe.

Slowly and almost hesitantly he pressed his lips to hers. It was a tender kiss at first, so different from the few they had shared before, an almost chaste brushing of lips that sent shivers down her spine, but the gentleness lasted only a few seconds, and as lust took over it turned into a hungry, almost desperate kiss. He lightly bit her lip prompting her to open her mouth just enough for him to gain access. In response, she dug her nails into his scalp and scratched the back of his neck. He grinned and kissed her even harder.  

Her towel, already precariously tied around her, had given in and was now slipping off, only held in place by their bodies pressing together. Cassian took advantage of the sudden revealing to explore the roundness of her now bare ass, kneading her flesh with the fervour and neediness of someone who hadn’t touched anyone else in a long time. Cora gasped, his hands finally where she wanted them, finally touching her like she had dreamt of for so long.

She could feel him getting hard, his growing erection pushing into her hip, so she brought a hand between his legs and started stroking him through the coarse material of his trousers, making him swallow hard and squeeze her ass every time she applied a little more pressure.

When they broke the kiss, they were already panting. Their hearts were racing, adrenaline running through their veins, minds clouded by lust. Cassian’s hair, savagely mistreated by Cora’s restless hands was now sticking up. His cheeks were flushed and his lips parted, pink from all the biting and sucking. She couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. He was a really handsome man, she thought. Yes, a little rough around the edges, but it was those edges she liked so much. Especially in moments like these when he wasn’t all serious and composed.

She took a few steps towards the bed, the towel falling to the ground leaving her completely naked before him. She could feel him looking, even as she turned around, and was thankful for the dim light in the room, that hopefully didn’t accentuate all her imperfections. Yet, despite her insecurities, she still wanted him to look. She wanted him to look and she wanted him to like her just as much as she liked him.

He followed her and placed his hands on her back, his fingers gently tracing the outline of her scar. She kept her head down so hopefully he couldn’t see how furiously she was blushing. “You’re very beautiful,” he said, his voice a low whisper in her ear as he pulled her closer to his chest, his jacket feeling rough against her back, but it didn’t matter. He started kissing down her neck, sucking and nibbling at the delicate skin. Cora felt like she was melting under his touch, her mind a little blurry, her whole body burning with lust.

“You’re not half bad yourself,” she managed to articulate between shaky inhales. His hands had brushed over her stomach and then gone up to cup her breasts. He gently caressed her nipples, making them perk up under his fingers, his touch feeling almost like electricity on her skin. She could feel his erection rubbing over her ass through his trousers, and she could only imagine how uncomfortable that must have been. “Although, a little overdressed for the occasion,” she added.

“Mm,” he moaned into her neck. “That can be fixed.”

Cora felt a little lost when he broke the embrace, cold air suddenly rushing over her burning skin, but couldn’t help but laugh at how fast he discarded his jacket and kicked off his boots. Speak of the skills you pick up as a soldier: fast to dress up, even faster to undress.

“Almost there,” she said, as she grabbed his shirt and helped him pull it over his head. “Much better.”

It was now her turn to let her hands roam over his chest, enjoying the way his skin felt under her fingers. He kissed her forehead tenderly before bringing her lips back to his in another heated kiss. She unclasped his belt and undid his trousers, finally freeing his penis from its confines. She heard him let out a breath of relief as she did so, and the take in a sharp inhale as she touched him. He felt hard and hot as she started moving up and down, agonizingly slow at first, passing her hand over his length, insisting on his tip, then going down again, still too slow to give him the relief he wanted. She could feel him trying to push back, desperate for more friction, but she decided to tease him a little longer.

“Come on, Cora,” he growled, his gruff voice sending a wave of pleasure through her.

The first time they had sex it was impulsive and rushed, hiding in a cramped room on a spaceship, hurrying to finish so they could get back to base. There was no gentleness, just an almost animalic need to find relief. So this time she wanted to enjoy it, she wanted to really taste him and feel him and let herself come undone under his touch. Who knew if they’d ever have the time to do it again.

She let go of him for a second and brought her hands back to his chest, and in one sudden motion she pushed him onto her bed, meeting very little resistance from him.

“Feisty,” he said, as she climbed on top of him.

“This morning you were complaining that I had mellowed out,” she said, leaning over him to place a few soft kisses on his chest.

“Not complaining anymore,” he said, and then noticed the necklace that was now dangling between her breasts. “You’re still wearing this?” he asked, grabbing the chain.

“Yes.” She sat onto his lap, splaying her hands across his abdomen, idly caressing his scars. “I fear that if I take it off, someone will come and erase my precious memory.”

He laughed and sat up, letting go of the chain. “You think I’d just barge into your room late at night and go through your stuff?” he asked, placing a row of kisses onto her collarbone.

“I think you’d knock first,” she said, but she completely lost her train of thought once his mouth closed over one of her nipples and his attention shifted towards her chest. Her breathing became a little more ragged. She started mindlessly rocking her hips into him, trying to find some friction, but getting almost none. It didn’t take long for him to take the cue and push a hand between her legs, gently pressing it over her clit, giving her exactly what she was looking for. She was already wet enough for him to easily slip two fingers into her. She wasn’t able to think straight anymore, so she just grabbed onto his shoulders and shifted a little to give him better access.

She didn’t know for how long he kept doing that, before she felt herself get hoisted in the air and placed with her back on the bed. She pulled him into a kiss, but he wiggled out of her grasp, leaving a trail of kisses down her chest and abdomen, his stubble pleasantly tickling. He kissed the inside of her thigh, moving down agonizingly slow, a punishment, she thought, for her half assed handjob she gave him earlier, painfuly delaying the moment when his lips would finally meet her sex. And when they did, his tongue reaching deep between her folds, tracing a hot, wet line until finally settling on her clit, she had to bite the back of her hand to stop herself from moaning.

She kept silent even though there was no one that could hear her, but habits die hard. She kept her eyes shut, her breathing becoming more laborious with every flick of his tongue, clutching onto the sheets every time his fingers curled inside her and touched one of her sweet spots. He settled into a steady rhythm of licking and sucking and thrusting his fingers inside her that was threatening to bring her to orgasm much too soon.

“No… not like this,” she moaned, feeling herself dangerously close to coming. “I want you.”

He didn’t need another invitation. He stood up to get rid of the trousers that were already slipping off his hips and he was back on top of Cora in no time. She watched him with a dazed smile on her face and kissed him deeply once he was back in her arms.

Much to her relief, he didn’t waste any more time and entered her in a single thrust, filling her completely. She moaned despite her best efforts and grabbed onto his shoulders for support, angling herself to meet his thrusts. He started slow, but didn’t take long for him to pick up the pace, closing his eyes as pleasure gripped his body, losing himself in the moment. Cora wasn’t thinking straight anymore either, her mind completely taken over by ecstasy, feeling like she had no control over her body anymore. The only thing she could focus on was how good he felt inside her, how much she needed him to get her off.

It didn’t take long for her to fall apart under him, waves of pleasure washing over her, making her shudder and clench around him. He came shortly after her, his whole body tensing up and finally relaxing. He collapsed on top of her and stayed like that for a while, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his breath tickling her skin. She still held onto his shoulders, holding him close, stroking the skin on his back. It was comforting just staying like that, limbs entangled, skin slick with sweat, minds pleasantly numb.

When he finally rolled over she wasn’t ready to let him go just yet, so she moved closer and snuggled into him. He would be leaving tomorrow anyway, and she didn’t know when she’d see him again and if she’d ever have the opportunity to do this again, so she decided to allow herself to be as clingy as possible.

He didn’t seem to mind, instead pulled her closer and kissed her forehead, a gesture so tender she couldn’t help but feel overcome with happiness. They didn‘t say anything for a long time, they just laid there in silence. Maybe there was nothing to say, or maybe there was too much and none of them knew how to start. Cora was grateful for it, delaying the moment when she’d have to face her feelings, as always. Right now she was happy and content and that was all that mattered. Tomorrow was another day and she’d deal with it then.

She could feel weariness quickly taking over, her eyelids getting heavier and heavier, her body pleasantly warm and snug in his embrace. Before she fell asleep, she looked over to Cassian expecting to see him sleeping, but noticing he was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. She shifted a little, grabbing a sheet and covering them both before nestling in his arms again.

“Go to sleep, Cassian,” she mumbled, placing a kiss on his collarbone and then resting her head on his chest.

He pulled her close and nuzzled into her hair, his fingers lazily tracing her spine. “Do you want to leave?” he asked, his voice merely a whisper.

Leave where, in the middle of the night, she asked herself, blinking in confusion. It took her a minute to figure out what he was really asking: if she wanted to leave the Rebellion. A cold shiver ran down her spine when she realized what that could mean. Was he offering to help her escape? He could take her away, if he wanted. Taking her bracelet off wasn’t such a problem and he had the means to  leave the base unseen. But that would mean risking his career and his place in the Alliance, and all the trust they had put in him, and if they’d find out what he’d done, she didn’t think they’d just forgive him. Would he be willing to risk it all just to set her free?

And there was a second question she had to ask herself, did she really want to leave? He could take her away someplace safe and drop her there, let her be free, but she realized that she didn’t really want that anymore. She didn’t want to be alone anymore. And she was pretty sure that even if she asked him to stay with her, change their names, leave this war behind and start a new life, the both of them, he’d probably say no.

“Not tonight,” she mumbled, stifling a yawn. “Lewella will kill me if I leave her alone tomorrow,” she joked, trying to diffuse the tension.

He chuckled, and relaxed a little. Cora did the same and in no time she found herself starting to doze off, her worries forgotten for now in the safety of his embrace. She fell asleep in mere minutes, so she never knew if he’d eventually fallen asleep too.

Previous chapter

Masterlist

[weekegg2-blog]

There Were Zero Things Better This Week Than That Absurdly Historic Klay Game

Welcome to Good Stuff, HuffPost’s weekly recommendation series devoted to the least bad things on and off the internet.

Monday night, I found myself in the very top row of the United Center in Chicago, where I bore witness to an absurd bit of history, and what is quite possibly the most entertaining version of basketball ever invented: A Klay Game.

The game itself wasn’t that good, by normal standards. By the end of the first quarter, the Golden State Warriors had run up a 20-point lead on the hapless and injured Chicago Bulls. By halftime, the Dubs had 92 points and were winning by 40. It was pointless. Except for Klay.

Except for Klay. Thompson, that is, the Warriors’ gunner of two-guard who, up to that point in the season, had been trash. Thompson entered the evening having made just five of his first 36 three-point attempts of the season ― a 14 percent clip that was nearly 30 points below his career average from distance. But on Monday, he reverted to his old, dumb self, which unlike Stephen Curry and Kevin Durant ― his superstar teammates whose dominant nights always feel like reminders that they have absolutely broken basketball ― tends to feel more normal. Klay is the old dude at the gym who uses screens the right way, finds himself in the corner, and pummels you with an endless barrage of buckets ... if that old dude was also 6′6″ and one of the greatest shooters of all time.

He hit his first three less than 90 seconds into the game. By the end of the first quarter, he’d made five more. At halftime, he had 10, and at one point, he had made nine out of 11 threes. He finished the game with 14, setting a single-game NBA record in just 27 minutes on the floor. He had 52 points.

The amazing thing about it, though, wasn’t that he broke the record, but how. A Klay Game is a special phenomenon: on the occasions where Klay isn’t just hot but reaches thermonuclear status, the Warriors’ other superstars cease to even consider themselves a part of the game, and instead funnel the ball to him with a relentless, single-minded focus. So each time a Bulls shot clanked off the rim and landed in the hands of a Golden State player, they looked for Klay. In the corner. At the top of the key. Barely across half-court. It didn’t matter. Curry and Durant were passing up open shots to find him. Draymond Green, on one possession, set five screens in an effort to free Thompson from his defenders. They still got theirs, but the night was Klay’s, and they knew it.

So did the crowd. By the start of the second half, no one was paying attention to the score, or the Bulls. Not even their fans. Each time Klay touched the ball, the crowd urged him to shoot. Each time he did, the air burped with the anticipation that he was about to hit another one. And more often than not, it went in. The Warriors are dumb, and even though its cool in some circles to hate them now, I can’t. Not when they play basketball like this. And not when they can decide, on any given night, to let Klay be Klay, and remind us that there are still endless wonders in an NBA season, even when its ultimate outcome already feels certain. ― Travis Waldron

Kurt Russell As Cool Santa

I don’t really know how to explain the new trailer for “The Christmas Chronicles.” There’s Kurt Russell as cool Santa Claus throwing concerts in prison and bemoaning images on cola cans for making his butt look big. There are very CGI elves who don’t totally look like gremlins, but I wouldn’t want to feed them after midnight. The Netflix movie’s premise seems to revolve ― maybe? ― around the potential death of Christmas, which won’t be saved unless some kids travel around the world with Chris Pratt’s evil dad, who seems more worried about breaking out “Star Wars” references and dunking presents down chimneys. Hmm.

It feels like a Christmas miracle this is happening at all, so I for one will be counting down the days until it arrives in my queue. ― Bill Bradley

WHY IS LIZZO PERFECT?

A Very Good Paperback

Simon & Schuster

I know. I know! This book came out in February. But I missed it then, and this week I finally circled back to the book I’d heard glowing things about for months. If you haven’t read Halliday’s masterfully engineered debut yet, you should do the same thing.

The novel opens on the blossoming romance between Alice, a young editor at a publishing house in New York, and Ezra Blazer, an elderly acclaimed novelist who bears an unmistakeable resemblance to Philip Roth. Also an aspiring writer, Alice soaks up Ezra’s attention and guidance, as he showers her with blackout cookies, rolls of cash to spend at upscale department stores, and sacks of edifying books to read. Rather than fully flipping a narrative so often told from the older male perspective on its head, Halliday relates it from a remove that hovers between clinical and whimsical, as if their relationship is a case file put into the language of a fairy tale.

Then, just as Alice realizes she must choose between her own future as a writer or a real partnership with the ailing Ezra, Halliday throws us into another story. Amar Jaafari, an Iraqi-American economist, has been detained in Heathrow en route to see his brother in Kurdistan. In between dealing with the crushing bureaucracy ― repeated interrogations that cycle through the same questions, vague and inexplicable explanations for his detention ― he reflects on his life, the two countries that have been home to his family, and the violence that has surrounded his brother and other loved ones.

The novel ends with an eerily convincing transcript of a “Desert Island Discs” interview in which Ezra, some ten years on from the start of his relationship with Alice, recommends his all-time favorite songs, reminisces, and flirts with the interviewer.

A dazzling puzzle box of a book, Asymmetry melds ambition and restraint in its exploration of power, artistic imagination, empathy, geopolitics, and love. It’s recently out in paperback, so there’s absolutely no reason not to read it immediately. ― Claire Fallon

A Night of Short Horror Films (By Mostly Women!)

Nitehawk

"Cat Calls" (directed by Kate Dolan)

Every year, Nitehawk Cinema in Brooklyn hosts a short film festival. And every year, Caryn Coleman, director of programming and special projects at the theater, co-curates a midnight showing dedicated to mini horror flicks, the kinds that only require eight to 19 minutes to rattle your already fragile existence and catapult your adrenaline levels in glorious micro waves of fear.

This year’s showing will take place on Thursday, Nov. 8 at 9:30 p.m. And its lineup is like a pleasant middle finger to Jason Blum, a man blithely unaware of the many female directors working in horror today.

“When I read the Jason Blum article I had watched two brand new horror films directed by women in the previous 24 hours,” Coleman told HuffPost. “Genre films by women is nothing new to me or to the many people clued into what’s happening in horror. Therefore, what he said is a prime example of how out of touch certain parts of the film industry establishment are; they are completely unaware of a reality that is right in front of their face simply because they don’t care enough to look.”

Coleman and her co-programmer Sam Zimmerman have paid particular attention to women’s voices at her festival over the years. “This year we’re thrilled that our program not only features 70 percent female directors,” she said, “but that nearly all address the real horror of what it’s like to be a woman in the world.”

Three films to watch at the Shorts Festival’s “Midnite” screening this year are “Rape Card,” “Pumpkin Movie” (“I saw it the night of the Blasey-Ford testimony and it was utterly prescient, couldn’t get it out of my head,” Coleman said), and “Cat Calls.” Tickets are on sale here. ― Katherine Brooks

Rosé In October

Nestled halfway into Quavo’s new album, “Quavo Huncho,” is a track that dares to bring rosé out of the summer slums and into the autumn breeze. Understanding the pink-tinted bubbly should be a year-round affair, “Champagne Rosé” had the rapper “poppin’ bottles” in — gasp! — October. More significantly, he did so with the help of two incredible collaborators. One of them (Cardi B) comes as no surprise; the other (Madonna) is a left-field swerve that proves to be one of the record’s highlights.

Dominating the song with a high-pitched autotune, Madonna’s is the first voice we hear. She stretches “champagne” to three syllables and turns wine into sex the way only she can (“Please drink me up”). Her presence is the yin to Quavo’s full-throated yang, perfectly accentuated by a flute that graces the intoxicating beat. And then, before the four-minute bop ends, Madonna nails a verse that again lets her bend and elongate words with a crisp, clarion cadence: “Let me entertain you / Get inside your vein, too / Intoxicate your brain, ooh / Crazy, what I’ll make you.” It’s a frothy morsel, likely to remain an under-appreciated footnote in all three artists’ repertoires. But listen to it and try not to hit the repeat button a dozen times. You can’t do it. ― Matthew Jacobs

Witch Hunting

Halloween may be over, but witches rule all year long. If you haven’t yet checked out two spooooky witchy reboots ― The CW’s “Charmed” and Netflix’s “Chilling Adventures of Sabrina” ― the time is now. Both series take beloved ’90s shows and turn them into something darker, more complex and more overtly feminist. Neither show is perfect, but they both have done something interesting and timely ― and, dare we say ... magical? Plus, with all the talk of “witch hunting” powerful white men, it’s about damn time we saw some real witchy women get their due. ― Emma Gray

Martha Rosler Forever

In the 1975 video “Semiotics of the Kitchen,” one of multidisciplinary artist Martha Rosler’s most famed works, Rosler stands at a makeshift kitchen station in front of a refrigerator and stove. It looks like a cross between a Rachael Ray cooking demo and a Francesca Woodman photograph.

“Apron,” she says, as she pulls one over her head. “Bowl,” displaying a bowl to the world while pantomiming stirring. “Chopper,” plunging it into the bowl violently. “Egg beater ... fork ... grater,” she continues, rubbing the fork up and down the grater, emitting a jarring racket. She continues down the alphabet, naming different kitchen appliances and simulating their use for the viewer like an alien mimicking domestic rituals. When she picks up the nutcracker, Rosler glares at the viewer while spreading and shutting the tool’s legs with vigor. The video, critiquing the oppressive, domestic roles women are often forced to embody, becomes a jagged dance to the tune of a grating metallic symphony.

This is Rosler’s most well-known piece, but far from the only one worth knowing. A retrospective at the Jewish Museum spans Rosler’s five-decade career. Featuring installations, photographic series, sculpture, and video, the exhibit probes far beyond “Semiotics of the Kitchen” to show us one of the most witty and dogged feminist artists of our time. In one photo collage, blond women snap selfies in a mod mansion as flames blaze outside the windows. In an installation, various women’s lingerie and sleepwear congregate around a white mattress. The cluster of thongs and spanx and granny panties alludes to the stories clothes tell about the women who wear them. Or perhaps just the stories we buy into.

The show opens on Friday, Nov. 2 and is up until March. All feminists, Jews and bad chefs are encouraged to attend. ― Priscilla Frank

The Drawing of Lines

Screenshot

We’re all blessed to have lived long enough to discover that the Gateway Pundit apparently does have a line, and that line’s name is Jacob Wohl. ― Ashley Feinberg

Source: https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/there-were-zero-things-better-this-week-than-that-absurdly-historic-klay-game_us_5bdccf96e4b09d43e31efd6c

[peace-coast-island]

Band member Tommy Hulgren grew up in the small rural town of Wheatley. Up until the Great Dust Tornado, his family had lived there for four generations in the small and cosy farm. That summer, a huge piece of history for the Hulgrens was destroyed in one of the worst storms to ever hit Wheatley.

Wheatley was one of those places where if you blinked while driving by, you’ll miss it by a mile. Tommy’s great-great grandparents Megan and Jonathan Hulgren built a cabin next to the small creek that ran across the woods nearby. The young newlyweds built their farm where they raised their children and future generations. From hailstorms, tornadoes, droughts, and blizzards, the Hulgrens survived it all. Hardships were nearly as abundant as the crops but so was the family’s spirit and perseverance.

Fast forward over a century later and the Hulgren farm stood as one of the oldest farms in Wheatley’s history. The fall when Tommy started high school, hardships piled on to the family. After weeks of ill health, Tommy’s father was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. Then an early frost destroyed most of the crops, putting the family in financial strain as they also struggled to pay medical bills. Seven months later Tobias Hulgren passed away during a dry spring that followed a hard winter. Despite their best efforts, the Hulgrens struggled with the farm. And then came the tornado that ripped through parts of Wheatley, destroying most of the Hulgren farm. Repairs were made here and there for the next several months but eventually it was too much for the family to handle.

The following spring Amy Hulgren decided that it was time for a move. Tommy and his brother Kevin objected the decision at first but then felt that maybe it was for the best. Amy didn’t want to leave Wheatley but with the farm falling apart and harsh unpredictable weather, unless a miracle happened, there was nothing she could do about it. So her parents in California invited her to live with them and help her get back on her feet. It took a while for the Hulgrens to warm up to the idea and bid farewell to the place known as home.

Living in the city was nothing like how Tommy thought it would be. He stuck out like a sore thumb with his southern accent and so-called country guy ways. Marching band was the only place where he felt comfortable but even then Tommy never felt like he really belonged. His only friends were his drumsticks and whatever instrument he was playing at the time. The whole family wasn’t as happy but like Hulgrens do, they stuck it out and hoped for the best.

Fortunately for Tommy, he stumbled along something by accident. One afternoon he and his brother joked about transferring schools after dealing with an annoying teacher who made some remarks about farmers. Tommy decided to do a quick search about schools where he could go that might be better than City School 68 and happened to find a video of Peace Coast Academy’s marching band performing. Impressed, Tommy looked more into the school and before he knew it, he was standing at the admissions office waiting for his student ID and class schedule. It was another big move for him but this time Tommy had a great feeling about it.

And then another great thing happened. Months after joining Peace Coast Academy, Tommy heard from his mother that their friends back in Wheatley were planning to work together and restore the Hulgren farm. Unlike his classmates at City School, his friends at Peace Coast were interested to hear about his days on the farm. When he told the marching band about Wheatley’s plans to repair the farm, band leader Kelly came up with an idea to start a fundraiser to help Wheatley. That spring the marching band spent spring break in Wheatley with Tommy’s family and set up performances in nearby towns to fund for the project. By the end of the week and a half, the marching band raised hundreds of dollars. Summer came and Wheatley worked on fixing up Hulgren Farm and months later, the Hulgrens left California and moved back in for good. It was a town effort that the Hulgrens would be forever grateful for. While many things were lost in the storm, the farm still stands, a mix of the old and new. From natural disasters to hardships the Hulgrens always stand strong and Tommy is glad to help bring back the place he and his family always knew as home.