#because pj has some real pacing issues in the second half

[cogentranting]

I think the Disney+ Percy Jackson series and the Netflix ATLA series are about equivalent in terms of how good they are.

The casting is good, though the performances don't land 100% of the time. The effects are great and the overall look is impressive. The story line had to be adjusted to fit 8 episodes, sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't. Changes were made and sometimes they're great and sometimes they don't work as well. Sometimes it's just different. But you can tell the people making it really care about the original.

[caiminnent]

glass houses [Shaun & Lucy with mentions of one-sided shaundes & deslucy, rated T]

Prompt(s): sleep deprivation (BTHB, 2/25) + 14

Summary: “We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground.”

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: College AU, Bonding, Pining, Unrequited Crush

2.3K || Also on AO3.

Forty three—no, forty two minutes left to have lunch, get his essay printed and rush to Leonardo’s office on the other side of the campus—and Rebecca is still droning on and on about the part next Saturday, because clearly the life he doesn’t have is more important than the grade he won’t be getting unless they pick up the pace already. Murder on school grounds would probably get him expelled, among other things, which is why he’s only contemplating it; but an under-slept, under-caffeinated man has his limits and he is approaching his fast.

“No, Rebecca,” he repeats on a deep sigh as they finally get in line behind a couple in matching PJ’s, seemingly having a heated argument through sharp looks and contained gestures in that way only couples can. “I do not want to come to the party, thank you very much. I’m not even invited, remember?”

“I could ask Lucy,” she offers, unfazed. “We’re having lunch with her anyway, I could mention it then—”

His stomach drops.

“—I’m sure she won’t mind. I mean, the more the merrier—”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, “We’re what?” he cuts in. The Couple glance over with raised brows and pursed lips, as if he sullied their petty issues by having his own.

She frowns. “What?”

He just shakes his head. Lunch with Lucy, Christ. Today just keeps giving. “You won’t ask her to invite me,” he says, pinning her with his I Mean It, Rebecca look. “Or don’t even hope for a single page from my notes ever again.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll swear on anything, Rebecca.”

Fishing her phone out of her pocket, “Whatever,” she throws, fingers already dancing on the screen. His own remains suspiciously silent in his bag. “What’s your beef with Lucy anyway?”

The Couple aren’t even pretending not to listen in, half-turned in their direction as they are. He glares steadily at them until they get their noses out of his business and back into their own, although some of those meaningful looks are probably about him this time. Hell if he cares.

“I don’t even know Lucy,” he points out, rubbing at the throbbing spot over his brow—not that that’s ever helped. “Why would I have a problem with her?”

“You get weird whenever I mention her, man. Coulda thought you had a thing for her if I didn’t know better.” Pockets the phone again, shrugging a shoulder at his look. “It’s either that or hate.”

Oh for the love of— “I don’t hate her, either,” he says—the truth, too, no matter the disbelieving face she makes at him. He has no real reason to hate Lucy. He just... doesn’t prefer to share space with her if he doesn’t absolutely have to.

If he sometimes goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t, well.

By some miracle—more likely, because they’re finally within reach of food—she drops the subject, shoving a tray into his hands and grabbing one of her own. His stomach curls into itself at the sight of half the containers, the other half he can’t even recognise beyond had it before and didn’t die.

He accepts a serving of each and trails off after Rebecca.

Once they push past the growing crowd towards the tables, scanning the sea of heads, “You should try to get along with Lucy, you know,” she pipes up—because Rebecca leaving anything alone would’ve been too much like good luck to happen to him. “You know who she’s friends with.”

“Rebecca.”

“I’m just saying. Sheesh, someone’s touchy today.”

And whose fault is that, he’s about to snap when he spots Lucy off to the side, dumping an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee—from Creed Coffee, no less. His first stop as soon as he drops off his essay; he’s earned a treat.

Because it’s just that kind of day, Lucy chooses that moment to look up and catch him staring like a buffoon. She beams at him like there was no one she would’ve been happier to see, waving them over.

“There she is,” Rebecca says, taking a sharp turn in her direction. He follows suit, squeezing between tables she breezes through and almost spilling his chow all over people on three separate occasions until they safely take their places across from Lucy.

To his credit, when Lucy smiles at him again, he does try to return it. His face muscles ignore the command entirely.

The women have already jumped into conversation on nothing he particularly cares about; he tunes them out for the most part and buries himself into his ‘food’ instead, fielding Rebecca’s attempts to lure him in with one-word responses and the occasional grunt when he can get away with it. About twenty minutes left; he can make it if he hurries. Maybe. Hopefully.

“Ignore him,” she stage-whispers to Lucy—with ‘him’ sitting right next to them, thank you very much. “His coffee machine broke last night.”

The audacity. “She means she broke it,” he clarifies around his spoon. It’s not grumbling if he’s right.

“Semantics,” she waves it off, reaching for her coat. “I’ll fix it when I get back, promise.”

“Wait, where the hell are you going?”

Raising her brows, “To turn in our papers, like we talked?” Rebecca says, confusion so thick in her tone that he almost doubts his own memory—except he could recognise that glint in her eyes anywhere. “You’ll keep Lucy company while I’m gone, right?”

That meddling little—

“Right,” he says for Lucy’s benefit, who is glancing between them with polite curiosity, doing his best to convey you owe me so much for this with one look. “Of course I will.”

Rebecca dares to grin at him, dropping the pretence altogether. All of three seconds and she’s off, leaving only an unused fork behind.

Without her around, the table has gone alarmingly smaller, Lucy everywhere within his sight unless he stares straight down at his tray. Had he ever been alone with Lucy before? Alone alone, within speaking distance, without anything or anyone to hide behind?

He doesn’t even have coffee to hide behind now.

One slides in front of him.

Raising her hands, “You look like you need it more,” Lucy explains, that too-warm smile on her lips; he feels shittier the longer he looks at it. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He did catch a sight of himself on the way here—not his best moment.

The polite no, thank you he should say is on the tip of his tongue—almost impossible to get out with the warm temptation is sitting right there in front of him, right under his nose, smelling—well, sort of like a unicorn exploded in there and caramel. Not that he can afford to be picky.  

Besides, he’s survived vending machine sludge; it only goes up from there.

“Come on, take it,” she insists, honest-to-god batting eyelashes at him. “So that I can feel a little better about asking for your ComLit notes next week.”

He snorts and accepts the bribe, only too eager. It’s syrupy to the point of nauseating, not unlike those energy drinks Rebecca fills the dustbin with, except with a lot less immediate kick. He doubts there’s any caffeine in there, even.

Magic might be involved, however, given the way he’s already feeling a tad closer to human.

He nods his thanks. She returns it.

“You know, Shaun,” she starts slowly, with an odd sort of caution—or maybe he’s just not used to people who think before they speak anymore. “I don’t know what Rebecca threatened you with, but you don’t have to sit with me just to be nice. I know you don’t really like me.”

He can’t help a wince—then a deeper one, when it hits that this was probably among the worst ways he could’ve reacted to a statement like that. Leave it to him to put his foot in his mouth without even opening it.

“It’s fine,” she adds, saving him from himself. “I mean it. Not everyone has to be friends.”

That’s not it, not at all.

Thing is, under different circumstances, they could’ve been friends, he and Lucy. He doesn’t know her, not really; but by the electives they keep coming across each other in and the books she carries, he doesn’t doubt they could find plenty to talk about if, if, he could get his head out of his arse and get over—

Well. He obviously can’t tell her all that.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not you,” he allows, the closest thing to an explanation he can afford to give.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, those huge, impossibly blue puppy eyes of hers trained on his. “I know.”

Blood freezes in his veins.

It’s a simple phrase. It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond the face value. There’s no reason for it to; he’d been careful—more than, really—but that smile, all sadness and sympathy—

He swallows against the bitter taste in his mouth, a light burn all the way down his throat, pooling in the pit of his stomach. “You do?”

“I do,” she confirms, jerking her head somewhere to his far right. He follows her gaze to—

Oh, hell. She does.

“He doesn’t know,” she answers his unasked question, lowly enough that the rush of blood in his ears almost drowns out the words. “Don’t worry, you’re not obvious about it or anything.”

Clearly he is, if she noticed.

He risks another glance—he is sprawled on his seat with an arm resting on the other one, laughing at whatever bollocks story Cross might be telling, that stupid one-strap bag of his sitting on the table.

“You’re sure he doesn’t?” he has to ask, heart both at his feet and racing in his chest somehow.

She nods. “Positive. He’s the worst when it comes to this sort of thing, you wouldn’t believe it. He won’t notice unless you come at him with a brick that says I like you.”

Something at the back of his mind prickles like static.

See, past the initial shock, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where he’d gone wrong. As far as social circles go, his and his are on different planes entirely. They don’t have mutual friends beyond the tangential; they don’t frequent the same places unless Rebecca drags him out to Bad Weather; they hardly talked enough for him to develop this… thing he’s been saddled with, even. He’d thought—as long as he kept to his corner of life where he doesn’t have to face them, he’d thought he could pretend his feelings away.

It had never even occurred to him that someone might notice him not looking. That someone might have reason to care why.

He’s fairly certain of the answer when he asks, his stomach heavy with dread, “Speaking from experience?”

Her face goes carefully blank. It’s as good a confirmation as any.

He takes a deep breath, locking the irrational sting of disappointment down and away, where he can pretend it doesn’t exist, either. What does it matter if she is the competition? He had decided not to pursue that line of thought long ago. What does it matter if he’d already lost?

“You’re not obvious, either,” he tries. She smiles, if that rueful little curl can be called one. “He doesn’t know?”

She shrugs, too nonchalant to actually be that. “Or doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. I dropped, like, a lot of hints; no one’s that oblivious.”

Would it be awkward if he kind of sort of maybe wants to give her a hug?

It would, wouldn’t it.

What even is his life.

“Anyway,” she sighs, glancing at her watch. “Time to leave. Vidic’s class.”

Ugh. That he doesn’t envy her for. “Good luck,” he offers, reaching for the cup again—a bit sorry to have taken it from her, now.

She makes a face. “Thanks.” She drops her spoon on her mostly full tray, Rebecca’s abandoned fork with it. “By the way, it’s his birthday next Saturday. We’re having a party at our place; you should come.”

He almost chokes on the next sip, saved by a stray half second. “Me?”

She raises a brow, a perfectly arched duh.

His brain stutters. Why does she—why would she want him there, if she knows? If she—

It makes no sense.

Lucy is still seated across from him, calmly waiting him out like there’s nothing odd to this. Just two friends making casual weekend plans.

Not all that sure it’s not the exhaustion fucking with him, he licks his lips. “So you’re fine with…”

“That you’re on the same boat?” She shrugs again, zipping up her jacket. “We’re in love with the same person. Friendships have been built on less common ground.”

Huh.

Digging into her bag, she comes up with a blue marker, reaching for the other cup. “My number,” she says as she writes on the sleeve and puts it back, written part facing him—all neat, efficient lines, because of course. “Let me know if you make up your mind.”

He nods blankly, for lack of a better response. She smiles, standing up with her tray.

She’s already halfway to the door when he remembers: “I’ll bring the notes!”

She winks at him over her shoulder, fixes her bag and disappears into the crowd.

[junker-town]

Russell Westbrook and the Rockets are learning to grow together

Russell Westbrook is pushing the pace for the Rockets this season.

Westbrook’s Rockets remain a work in progress.

On Halloween, one day after they sprinted past the Washington Wizards for a 159-158 victory, the Houston Rockets held a film session. Aside from pointing out defensive lapses, of which there were and continue to be many, the meeting’s focus was clear: Fast is good.

Houston’s offensive coordinator, Brett Gunning, stood in front of the room to point out all the different reasons why the Rockets were playing faster than they ever have before. Houston hadn’t been a snail under Mike D’Antoni, but last year they finished 27th in pace. At the time of this particular meeting, they ranked second.

As Gunning spoke, Austin Rivers caught Russell Westbrook’s eye. Both started to laugh. Afterwards, Gunning walked over and asked him what was so funny. “When you were talking about our tempo and why [it’s fast], I just looked at Russ,” Rivers said. “BG just said ‘yeah, that’s the real reason.’”

The Rockets have always wanted to accelerate their attack, but past personnel and a wise decision not to fix what wasn’t broken—they finished second in offensive rating last season—kept them from doing so. Their front office believes that more possessions simply gives them more chances to widen their lead. Luck becomes a little less relevant. In this area, Westbrook is the conduit they’ve been searching for.

“He’s one of the fastest I’ve ever seen,” Rockets head coach Mike D’Antoni said. “It’s gotta be a blur a little bit on the sides. It’s just like going in the car, going 100 miles an hour.”

When he’s on the court, Houston sizzles up and down at a speed that begs for giant safety nets to be installed along the Toyota Center’s baseline. They currently lead the league in pace and average the fewest seconds per possession. After their opponent makes a basket, their possessions are almost a full second shorter than last year’s league leader: Westbrook’s Oklahoma City Thunder. Turnovers are an issue and a faster speed makes it harder to fortify their defense on the other end, but transition is where the Rockets can be their most unstoppable selves, and their new point guard is why. When Westbrook races towards the paint defenders must make a split-second decision: do we want to meet this demon in the paint or give up an open three?

“Not a lot of people know that, especially young guys. Everybody wants to score the basketball, score the basketball,” Harden said. “But he does an unbelievable job of using his athleticism to create opportunities for his teammates.”

It’s too early to say if Westbrook’s alliance with Houston will work, but what we do know is that championships are not won in the open floor. The Rockets have been at their best when Harden is on the court without his fellow MVP, and Westbrook’s force tends to lessen in half-court settings. The contrast between how he’s changed one area of his new team for the better while holding them back in another illustrates why this partnership is so fascinating. It’s a battle that could last as long as their relationship: Westbrook will either find ways to complement the Rockets or infect everything they stand for.

“You know, we’re not trying to change Russ. We’re bringing him here as the MVP and what he has done he’s done. Now can he just—we play a certain way—does he kind of move towards that a little bit? That’s on him. I hope he does. He has,” Rockets head coach Mike D’Antoni said. “If you’re gonna have to change a guy, you might not want to bring him in in the first place. So he’s adapted and we’ve adapted to him also.”

The good news for Houston is that Westbrook is using his newfound space to live at the rim, where he’s attempted a career-high 48 percent of his shots. So far, he’s also more accurate than ever once he gets there. Since 2014 he has never made more than half his field goal attempts when driving to the rim. This season he’s shooting 63 percent.

Westbrook is, at once, the most confident human being who ever lived yet also constantly needing to prove himself.

“There’s nobody in the lane...in his way,” Brooklyn Nets head coach Kenny Atkinson said. “He’s got that ocean open to drive.”

The bad news is that he’s been one of the worst three-point shooters in the league, and the unnecessary long twos that only look smart when they go in still exist. When off the ball, some defenses stick to Westbrook, in constant fear of him rumbling through for an offensive rebound or tip dunk, and when he catches a kick-out there isn’t a closeout defender in the world who can stay in front of him.

Others have used Westbrook’s man to squeeze Harden, taking away the drive and either forcing a step-back three or pass. Harden’s field goal percentage in the restricted area is 11.1 percent higher when Westbrook is not by his side, which isn’t a coincidence. It can be an awkward dance, and plays like the one below show how hard it’s been for Westbrook to get comfortable being uncomfortable.

As Westbrook adjusts to a different basketball aesthetic, his minutes, shots, and touches are down to levels he hasn’t seen in quite some time, if ever. Two years ago he averaged 5.72 and 5.34 seconds and dribbles per touch, respectively. Right now he’s down to 4.34 and 4.09. His stints have changed, too: A rhythm player if there ever was one, Westbrook is exiting games earlier than he ever has, resting through the middle of quarters in the same way Chris Paul once did.

He’s also used to having the ball in his hands more than everybody else. Last season, it was 4.3 more minutes per game than Paul George, and in their first year as teammates that number was 6.3. Now, Westbrook has possession of the ball for three fewer minutes than Harden. Some of that sacrifice is self-made, which is truly incredible coming from someone who treats every possession like it’s an outtake from the last 30 minutes of Goodfellas, and packs more please don’t try this at home fury into any one game than some players are able to unleash in an entire career.

But a general concern felt by the Rockets that may linger throughout the season is how insecurities held by most NBA megastars can subconsciously impact their own on-court decisions. Even when they wear the same jersey, stars are uber-competitive with other stars; Houston is toast if jealousy trickles onto the floor. It’s still early, and the season is long enough to draw raw feelings from even the best of friends, but so far Westbrook has been reserved in noticeable and necessary ways, embracing the fact that every play is no longer designed with his individual success in mind. From Houston’s perspective, the key is for Westbrook to realize that, as a ringless 31-year-old, he might need the team as badly as they need him.

“He has surprised me,” Rivers said. “I think he has adjusted his game. I mean, I think he knows James is by far our best scorer. Russ could be much more aggressive if he wanted to but I think he knows we wouldn’t win as many games because James is already shooting...James shoots a lot [laughs].

If he was trying to average 30 every game [while] James is trying to average 30 every game, it’d just be a shit show, and guys would start to say stuff and be unhappy, because everybody wants the ball, you know what I mean? I think he took a backstep in scoring for James...I think he’s looking to pass even more than he ever has.”

Despite collecting 300 more assists than any other NBA player over the past 10 years, currently leading the league in corner three assists and trailing only LeBon James and Luka Doncic in potential assists, Westbrook is better known for the scorched-earth, self-serving decisions that didn’t exactly motivate Kevin Durant or George to stay for the long haul as his teammate. That reputation is hard to shake.

But if he continues to accept that the team he plays for isn’t his—particularly in the postseason, against coaches who have time to exploit Westbrook’s need to do everything himself—that revelation can unlock the more supportive part of a skill-set Houston needs if it wants to be the last team standing.

“It’s a process but it’s not nothing that I haven’t seen,” Westbrook said. “So my job is to throw the ball where they gon’ be not where I think they gon’ be, and that’s the most important part about playmaking and making the right plays. And that’s all I do.”

That’s sort of what this is all about: Westbrook’s partnership with Houston hinges on a delicate balance between how they need him to fit in and the many ways he’s always wanted to stand out.

Westbrook is, at once, the most confident human being who ever lived yet also constantly needing to prove himself. He’s still prone to turning his one-on-one matchup into a holy war that harms his team more than the opponent.

But he isn’t taking the bait as often as he used to, and more mature elements of Westbrook’s game are still in bloom. “He’s still aggressive. He’s always been aggressive,” Rockets guard Thabo Sefolosha, who was Westbrook’s teammate for five years in Oklahoma City, said. “I think he understands the game better [now], rotations, where guys are open.”

One difference in Houston has been that instead of tallying assists because the defense is forcing him to pass, Westbrook is now assisting teammates when the defense wants him to shoot—similar to how Draymond Green realized he had to give up open open looks for the betterment of his Golden State Warriors. Look how he threads the needle to PJ Tucker; he’s wide open but doesn’t even look at the rim.

“He’s really good at finding the open guys. The right guys,” Tucker said. “I don’t know anybody who can guard him one on one and stay in front of him every time, so they’ll try to pre-rotate and come help.”

Westbrook has made steps in the right direction, but setting out to correct his flaws may be a lost cause—like negotiating with a pyroclastic cloud or telling a Tyrannosaurus Rex to go vegan—and even if he starts making the most brilliant passes in NBA history none of this will matter if he continues to hit just 14 percent of his spot-up threes while enabling a defense that’s routinely gored.

As a best-case scenario, the Rockets will eventually get Westbrook to buy into their tried and true philosophy. He’ll push the ball, live at the rim, crash the glass, and continue to set up his teammates while also eliminating the early-clock jump shots and hopeless gambles that hurt Houston on both ends. Less can be more, and there’s still enough fundamental talent here for him to put them over the top. But at the same time, if Westbrook’s stubbornness continues to invade possessions that otherwise would not self-combust, he can obliterate everything the Rockets built.

On a new team, surrounded by different teammates, coaches, and principles, the hope is he’ll find a way to favor the more brilliant dimensions of his game while bypassing everything about it that makes D’Antoni, Daryl Morey, and even his teammates want to pull their hair out.

Both sides must evolve for this to ultimately work, and so far we’ve seen them oscillate between growing pains and a breathtaking fireworks display. But to get where they want to go, Westbrook must commit even more than he already has. The Rockets are built to win it all. In many ways, it’s up to him if they ever will.