#have i intrigued you yet

[echo-in-the-bone]

I've been a shadow here for far too long. Perhaps it's time I introduce myself.

As you can see, I call myself Echo. (A generic name, indeed.) But I find it fitting.

There, now you know what to call me. I think this is a great start, don't you?

My interests are macabre based. Dark, foul. (Though, I suppose many here like to indulge in these sorts of things.) Being a shadow has given me an idea of just how damning we all are. Rest assured, I thrive on this.

I can't say I will fill your feeds with ramblings of a melancholic mortal, but know that I am always here. Watching you.

- Echo ⚸

[egophiliac]

LEON

LEON YOUR EYEBALLS

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Reasons to play In Stars and Time: Canon Pronoun Warfare.

[gingermintpepper]

Why did Apollo favor the trojans in the Illiad?

So, dear Anon, I've been thinking about how to answer this question since I got it a couple days ago and I think I kind of want to make something clear before I get into it.

The Iliad by itself as a poem only covers some of the events that occur in the final year of a long protracted conflict that had been brewing for at least two decades and was an active war for ten. Within the space of the Iliad itself, the motivations and affairs of the major players are often referenced but there are many, many parts of the story that are not there because they belong to a different story cycle that has been since lost or was never recorded with words. In the space of the Iliad Apollo's motivations are questioned a lot - his pride is questioned by Poseidon who thinks Apollo should be just as angry at the Trojans as he considering Apollo was treated equally as poorly by Laomedon while they worked together. His honour is questioned by Hera who chastises him for taking the Trojans' side when he'd proclaimed that Achilles would live a long life and prosper at Thetis and Peleus' wedding. His own sister calls him a coward for refusing to fight when Zeus gives permission for the gods to go wild on the battlefield. For all that there's this image of Apollo in the Iliad as some staunch and unwavering protector of the Trojans, believe it or not, I largely think of Apollo as neutral in the war.

Which, I suppose, comes back to the question - why did Apollo favour the Trojans? The truthful answer is that I don't know. The Iliad and all its connected stories isn't something I've done enough research on to have an answer or a reference to an answer off the top of my head. The reasoning I'm aware of is that Apollo was a Patron God of Troy and really a god doesn't need any reason besides that to protect his people but it's not like Apollo abandoned the Greeks either. Calchas is the biggest example of that I can point to - descended directly from a priest of Apollo and one who attributed his mantic power to the god, Calchas was pivotal in ensuring the Greeks even got to Troy in the first place.

From a personal perspective however, I think Apollo was more dedicated to the house of Priam than he was the city of Troy itself. Apollo's affection for that house and all its members ran deep - from his admiration of Hecuba and Hector to his love and attempted courtship of Cassandra to his blessings given to Helenus, Deiphobos, Cassandra, Troilus and even his partnership with Paris - Apollo loved the house of Priam. When you think about the times Apollo lashes out against the Greeks, it's generally because they've done some nonsense to earn his ire. The plague was caused by Agamemnon disrespecting his priest, his aid in the slaughter of Patroclus was because he didn't respect him, his minor grudge against Diomedes too was because he tried to test Apollo's mettle and well, the less said about Achilles the better. Apart from his obvious favouring of Hector in the skirmishes, Apollo doesn't really oppose the Greeks. He has a ton of reasons to by the time the Iliad rolls around, including avenging the death of two of his sons, but he remains mostly satisfied with conducting his father's business and overseeing the war from a somewhat professional perspective. To me, it's always been less about Apollo caring about the fate of Troy as a city itself and more about him just really wanting to protect the people in the city that he's come to love and respect.

Of course, I encourage you to take my words with a big tablespoon of salt - like I said, I don't really know enough about the facts in particular to give a solid, confident answer but I can give you my interpretation of it. Maybe consult someone like @littlesparklight for a more comprehensive and grounded response 🤔

[marlynnofmany]

I just learned the fascinating science fact that if not for air slowing the speed of snowfall to a gentle drift, snowflakes would plummet with enough speed to slice people. Like tiny ninja stars.

Of course, without air to hold all that moisture in the sky, snow would never condense in the first place. Unless there was some artificial snowmaker up there for some reason. Or there was a gap in the atmosphere somehow.

(I was trying to think up a sci-fi justification for lethal snowflakes. Instead I thought of a magical one.)

Hey, you know who could make a strategic gap in the atmosphere? Airbenders.

[pmpwbrrs]

I LOVE iterators with diseases. Not just rot

[bumblingbabooshka]

I hate when Chakotay is watered down to be Janeway's yes man because their disagreements are actually very interesting. [A lot of rambling analysis of this debate in particular below]

Chakotay in Parallax is very interesting in that he has to navigate a lot of different dynamics. Balance a lot of plates while being watched keenly by everyone around him. Immediately preceding this scene we see him ask B'Elanna for her opinion on the bridge - both as a chance to show her knowledge in his bid to make her chief engineer (because she wouldn't get a chance to otherwise as Janeway has clearly indicated that at this point she views B'Elanna as a troublemaker who won't be considered for the position) and because he just thinks she's a better engineer than Carey and wants the best possible chance of them succeeding. Janeway sees this as unacceptable. Carey is the chief engineer and so he should be called and Chakotay NOT asking for his opinion is an insult to Carey, Janeway, and might make the crew doubt Chakotay (and by extension the Maquis') loyalty to the Starfleet crew.

At this point it seems that to Janeway integration ["They're not your people"] means the path of least resistance, specifically tailored towards the Starfleet crew. She wants Chakotay by her side to keep the Maquis crew calm but also seems unwilling to consider them for important positions aboard the ship. Though she says that the Maquis are not Chakotay's people, not his crew, she certainly doesn't seem to consider them hers [Compare this to later instances where she stresses 'our' crew, here she simply says they aren't Chakotay's: Whose crew are they? Are they crew at all?]. This less leaves the impression of "We need to be a cohesive team" and more "You're not in charge here." She essentially accuses Chakotay of playing favorites. In her mind Chakotay's actions are not conducive to integrating the crews which would (again, in her mind) mean the Maquis being docile and accepting, obedient and content - not making trouble for the Starfleet crew. Chakotay counters Janeway's accusation with one of his own: That he IS trying to integrate them into the crew but her not allowing the Maquis any opportunity to prove themselves or succeed, not showing any trust in any of them (except, implicitly at this point, him) is making things difficult. At this point the Maquis crew are ready to mutiny on his word at any time. He knows this for a fact. Aside from that looming threat (the threat being that tensions are high and if nothing changes and they remain high there might be a mutiny even without his word) - Chakotay knows these people and trusts them. Though Starfleet and Janeway think of the Maquis as a violent bunch of criminal terrorists, Chakotay and a good number of the Maquis joined because they believed in the cause they were fighting for. These are people Chakotay knows WILL fight fiercely for what they believe in and conversely, AGAINST what they perceive as injustice. Even if they're not in the majority - they're used to picking fights which seem impossible to win. At this point Janeway admits that she ISN'T making it easy for Chakotay to integrate the Maquis - specifically talking about practical concerns; how she doesn't feel she can let Maquis crew have roles of importance on the ship because they lack the ability to hold them. "They don't have the discipline, they don't have the training," - asserting that they just aren't prepared for any such roles and it doesn't have to do with them being Maquis specifically. Ostensibly, she's treating them as she might treat anyone unqualified for the job.

Chakotay maintains that some of them, like B'Elanna, have the ability to be trained - challenging her point by saying that IF they're trained there's no reason for any Maquis member NOT to be given a more prominent role on the ship. He isn't suggesting they just unqualified people important jobs. If the problem is that they aren't trained, let's train them. These people have the ability to succeed if you give them the tools they need and a fair chance, he insists. Janeway then switches gears and her argument becomes not "The Maquis are untrained so they can't be given those jobs" but "The Maquis crew are unworthy of those jobs when compared to Starfleet personnel" saying that it'll cause insult and upset among the Starfleet crew if any member of the Maquis were to be promoted above them. Again, her idea of integration is based more on Maquis subservience to the Starfleet crew than it is the two crews working together. (Not that I believe she looks at it that way, it's just where her 'path of least resistance' leads) - though she accuses Chakotay of being too focused on "his" crew, she is admitting here that she believes her real crew are the Starfleet officers aboard, not the Maquis. She also admits here that the system she wishes to maintain (and is asking Chakotay to enforce) is one where there will ostensibly never be any chance of a Maquis crew member being promoted because no Maquis crew member will ever be more qualified, more worthy, than a member of Starfleet. We can see how it'd be difficult for Chakotay to convince his crew to remain calm under these circumstances. There's also Tuvok's behavior toward him at the beginning of the episode where the Vulcan nearly goes over Chakotay's head and when he doesn't do so (as Chakotay reminds him that HE'S the superior officer, the First Officer in fact,) Tuvok acts as if him backing down (partially) and conceding (partially) to Chakotay's authority is a favor to Chakotay.

Tuvok in this conversation is downright insubordinate to Chakotay. Despite Chakotay being the first officer, he doesn't take what he says seriously, argues that his own opinion on what should be done should be followed rather than Chakotay's, lectures the first officer about his conduct, and then almost seems to threaten him with a report. In Starfleet's rigidly hierarchical rules, acting like this to a superior officer (ESPECIALLY the first officer) wouldn't be tolerated and Tuvok knows this perfectly well. He isn't a rebellious character and clearly in other episodes adheres to these Starfleet hierarchies and codes of conduct very strictly. He values them highly. But Chakotay, a Maquis, shouldn't be First Officer. Why should he be given respect for a title he didn't earn? [Affirming Janeway's argument about how Starfleet officers won't be eager to follow a Maquis senior officer] Even though Chakotay tells Tuvok off for it ["I don't have to explain myself to you"] he doesn't threaten to put Tuvok on report or explicitly mention his insubordination. It's unclear if this is Chakotay's personality or if he just doesn't feel he CAN do that. Tuvok is one of the three most senior officers aboard and very close to Janeway. Chakotay has to think of the optics of any situation at all times - we see seconds after this conversation that rumors have already started swirling around B'Elanna being relegated to quarters that've fanned the flames of mutiny. Though we know Tuvok has personal reasons for behaving the way he does toward Chakotay (which he later admits), I really don't think it'd be out of the ordinary for this to be how most Starfleet personnel would treat the Maquis if they weren't outright hostile: Like they're only pretend crewmen. To a lesser extent we even see this with Janeway: In the following staff meeting, she clearly doesn't consider B'Elanna a viable option when Chakotay brings her up and almost ignores the suggestion entirely.

It also, again, leaves Chakotay in an impossible position. If he doesn't protect and fight for the Maquis crew, they won't ever be considered a true part of the crew and dissatisfaction will likely spread among them. Dissatisfaction which the Starfleet crew will then use to further label the Maquis as insubordinate, uncontrollable, unfit. Not to mention that if he doesn't advocate for them, he might lose their trust. However, if he DOES try to help the Maquis crew advance the Starfleet crew will view this as 'favoritism' and will further distrust him, won't respect the people he puts forth as worthy. Janeway seems to be intent on not advocating for any of the Maquis crew and also seems unwilling to ask that the Starfleet crew grant leniency. She implies that the Maquis crew need to learn to get in line and keep quiet and it seems almost like [we must remember the optics] she has Chakotay as the only Maquis in a position of power to facilitate that. Chakotay recognizes and pushes against that, saying that he won't just be her token Maquis - there only so she can point to him and say "See? We don't discriminate against the Maquis here." effectively a tool used to shut down any arguments of unfair treatment and a tool to quell the Maquis if any talk of mutiny DOES arise. In this model, Janeway can just tell Chakotay to calm them down and they'll listen because they trust him. She also doesn't have to really listen to anything he says: A token First Officer has no authority; his words don't hold weight. [Chakotay isn't Maquis anymore, they aren't his crew anymore - ok. What is he then? What are they? Nothing, without respect.] This plan seems untenable, as much as Janeway frames it as sensible: "I can't make it easy, Commander. Surely you can understand that," and alternatives as impossible "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" - in the long run, how would this be sustainable? In any power structure, you cannot expect a group of people you're unwilling to grant trust or agency to obediently follow you forever. This proposed form of 'integration' in which the Maquis are kept on the bottom rung and told intermittently to stay there quietly by the only one of them granted permission to stand at the top would never be sustainable - especially with a group like the Maquis who again, were founded on the belief that its members should fight against inequity and are already on the verge of mutiny.

I specifically find the statement "How am I supposed to ask them to accept a Maquis as their superior officer just because circumstances have forced us together?" to be interesting because personally I'd say that being forced together for the rest of almost everyone's natural life is a pretty good reason to ask people to adapt and Janeway does understand this but only applies it to the Maquis - the Maquis are the ones who have to adapt, not Starfleet. The only thing the Starfleet crew have to do is tolerate their presence on board.

At this point Janeway again claims that if Chakotay can show her a 'qualified' Maquis candidate she'll consider them. I believe this is true but we already know that Janeway's standards for qualification will likely not fit the vast majority of the Maquis and Chakotay ignores the claim in favor of putting forth B'Elanna again, firmly. Janeway predictably dismisses her as unqualified and Chakotay disagrees, arguing that he knows her. He's worked with her. He KNOWS that B'Elanna can excel at the job even if she doesn't meet Starfleet/Janeway's qualifications. He doesn't value those qualifications over what he's observed about her - just as he didn't value Carey's title over what he knew about the gap between his and B'Elanna's abilities. Then, Chakotay switches gears. He admits that Janeway's right - he does view the Maquis as his crew but that's because Janeway (almost self admittingly) doesn't and if he doesn't, who will they have? [What kind of captain, kind of man, would he be?] "You're going to have to give them more authority if you want their loyalty." "Theirs or yours, Commander?" Janeway frames Chakotay's words pointing out the flaws in this plan which I outlined earlier, as almost a threat (if she doesn't have Chakotay's loyalty it'll most definitely mean mutiny). Chakotay asserts that it wasn't a threat, he's only trying to help by telling her how the Maquis crew will react to what she's telling him. "I'm sorry you can't see that" - not an apology for what he said but that she isn't willing to budge, not willing to listen to him and acknowledge that she might be as biased towards her crew as he is towards his. Chakotay is trying his best to acclimate his crew but if Janeway isn't willing to do the same, to talk to her people as he's talking to his, then this will not end well and that isn't a threat. It's just the reality of the situation. He then asks permission to leave, showing he is willing to observe Starfleet protocol (just as when he asked permission to speak freely), and Janeway lets him go, exhaling at the intensity of their debate when alone in her ready room.

[landgraabbed]

played the demo for banquet for fools (dev. hannah and joseph games, launching into early access on september 30th).

i honestly just wanted to share this since this left a very positive impression on me and has all the hallmarks of a turbo lofi production with basically no exposure. so i might as well share in case anybody else wants to check it out.

banquet for fools is a party-based arpg that takes place in a fictional island called invimona. the game casts you as asal in the first act, who immediately gets to work as the other people around them are attacked (and attacking each other, as if they are being compelled to). it is after the first act that you create your four party members who are sent to investigate what happened in the first act.

the combat is simple but an interesting spin on the arpg, formula incorporating a sort of active time battle system that sees a bar fill up until you can perform an action, letting you move around freely as you do so and switch between party members. from what i could tell, currently only basic attacks are implemented, but there seems to be an interesting magic system that allows you to create your own spells. the character creator is surprisingly beefy. you can create characters of any of 5 races that sound interesting from the blurbs. stats and traits are based on a combination of race and sex (which is a slider that features 6 or so combinations of body type and height), in a way that reminds me of morrowind. you can assign stats and skills based on predefined archetypes or you can make your own custom archetype. during conversations, dialogue choices are assigned to each party member depending on their stats and skills. and the art style is gorgeous; it reminds me of claymation. an issue is that it seems that cutscenes are pre-rendered which may be associated with the limited resolutions which i wish were expanded.

overall i found it very interesting, albeit very vague at this point. i do believe the presentation of information could stand to be improved. but there is something very unique and interesting in this title that grabbed my attention. i'll be sure to keep an eye on it!

[starr-eaterr]

my opinion on arcane season 2 is that viktor could have and should have been worse

[midnightfire830]

😏

Stay tuned…It’s new AU time…

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I've been thinking about how Vash always seems to be hungry. Or at least, that he's shown eating quite often in the manga. Happily having his salmon sandwiches. Eating an entire box of donuts in the side car. Knowing the conversion rate of bullets to pizza. Seeing a flower and immediately wondering if it's edible. Pondering his life over breakfast. It's a really cute little character detail about him - he likes food.

But then I kind of started to think about the angel arm and its specific brand of destruction. How there were no bodies to be recovered. Nothing but a crater left of July, left on the Fifth Moon. It's all been incinerated. Devoured, even. Tristamp takes it even a step further and makes the power something akin to a black hole - a yawning drain; a constant destructive hunger.

Vash is clearly terrified of this potential for destruction, and for very good reason. But it's not separate from him as some kind of "power he can't control" - it's his arm. It's literally his arm. It is him. Vash is scared of himself, scared of losing control. He does what he can to repress it, even subconsciously (the gaps in his memory whenever it activates). He can't control it in the moment, so he takes steps to preemptively push it down, to avoid the use of his abilities entirely, to hide himself away.

I talked a bit in a previous post about how there are probably several interrelated reasons for Vash's chronically avoidant behaviour, but I'd like to throw one more into the ring and suggest that it's not just a matter of not deserving to want things, but maybe also that he's afraid of wanting. That if he allows himself to even think about what he wants personally that he'll want too much, take too much, and that the only cure in his mind for this is to give and give repeatedly.

I wonder how starved he is for love. Vash loves hard, after all. Once he loves (and I’m not talking about the broad, distant love/compassion he has in general), for better or worse, he carries them around with him forever, long after they've passed. Does he feel like it'd be selfish to admit this kind of want? His love isn't really a passive thing after all - it's the drive at his very core; a mournful inferno he is just barely suppressing. Does he remember how to love in a way that doesn't consume him entirely?

Is that part of the reason he checks out at signs of intimacy? Diverts gifts towards others? Tends to accept kind gestures only when under an assumed name? Intentionally starves himself in Tristamp? Runs and runs and runs? Is he afraid he won't be able to stop hungering? That allowing himself to want means his want will become insatiable?

I just have to wonder how much of his avoidance of connection is being scared that he will cause more destruction (to them? or to him?) by trying to take far too much into his hands than he ever caused by turning his back and running.

...of course I may just be entirely deranged here sorry.

[constantvariations]

I get why people say Wyll/Karlach is enemies-to-lovers but it's missing too many of its signatures for me to agree

By nature, E-t-L's are slow burn. A good chunk of the story waits for one party to discover they're on the wrong side/both parties to realize they have more in common with each other than their factions, then a whole other chunk is dedicated to them learning how to trust each other. The higher the stakes in the story, the slower the burn

Yet everything between Wyll and Karlach is revealed and resolved in a single conversation. There are no lasting consequences of that initial animosity. Both are too good to hold grudges and all the fault lies firmly in hands not their own. Karlach trusts Wyll instantly and he her. Their friendship is so immediate that it's easy to forget that we met Karlach with the intent to kill her

And then there's the source of their quarrel. Wyll was led to believe Karlach's a devil seeking destruction and Karlach was just trying to go home. The thing that sets them against each other isn't their own beliefs or loyalties or anything deep seated and personal, it's the chain of command, something they're both eager to be rid of by the time we meet them. While it gives them something in common, it leaves them with nothing to unpack or overcome together

Compare that to the king of E-t-L's, Zutara of Avatar the Last Airbender. Zuko spent most of the show's runtime trying to capture the Avatar to guarantee the Fire Nation's total conquest, something Katara wants to prevent at all costs. When the two are stuck together by happenstance, they lash out at each other only to bond over their lost mothers. Then Zuko betrays her, something Katara does not forget and does not forgive until he proves himself much, much later. Afterwards, they support each other, watch over the others together, and make a damn good team against Azula. Perfect, should have been canon, fuck Bryke

Honestly, I think Wyllach is just Faerûn's version of a meet-cute

[tulipe-rose]

Kazuha, sweetie, I'm not your biggest fan, but I'm going to be incredibly honest with you right now, and that's because I don't really understand what you're expecting from Heiji atp.

You're his self proclaimed, so called, 'older sister'. The first thing you do when you meet a friend of his, or a supposed girlfriend to be more accurate, is introduce yourself as his older sister. Whenever anyone claims that there's any romance between you guys, you refute it and call him your stupid little brother.

GIRL.

EVEN I STARTED TO GET MIXED SIGNALS AT ONE POINT. If not for the blushing we clearly see as the audience I would've been soldified in my belief that it's unrequited love for Heiji. Dramatic irony at it's finest.

Either way– WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM HIM?? You keep brother-zoning him to the point where only the Hattori Heji himself could be so stubborn to ignore this weird girl reverse psychology that would keep any other guy at a two meter distance.

Don't think you're any better, though, Heiji. If any third party who had never watched dcmk before had to give their opinion after looking at the overall confession bull crap you've been stalling these past three decades they'd think you're trying to impress Shinichi, not Kazuha. Won't blame them, I myself am pretty confused.

Who is this confession for???? KAZUHA.

THEN WHO TF IS SHINICHI TO THIS RELATIONSHIP AND WHY IS ONE UPPING HIM DETRIMENTAL TO Y'ALL?? WHY DOES HIS OPINION MATTER?? WHAT EVEN IS THE POINT OF THIS CONFESSION ANYMORE?? You're not even trying to think like ‘Oh, I'm doing this because Kazuha only deserves the best’ NO. IT'S ALL BIG BEN THIS KUDO THAT. I feel kinda bad for Kazuha.

Don't even get me started on how awkward it is to keep being so possessive over her when y'all aren't even an item (I'M LOOKING AT YOU TOO SHINICHI. GLARING REAL HARD HERE.). If she's seeing some other guy (which would never happen because of course she has fallen head over heals for you. Ugh- this is triggering my gag reflex.) then leave her be, because you either act like a chicken after being all bark and no bite or idk, grow a spine and fricking confess??? You can't go around calling her yours and then noping out of a confession. God my blood pressure keeps spiking because of these blockheaded teenagers I need to go take a few deep breaths.

I would like to know what they actually even talk about or bond over. From what I understood, Kazuha really likes the sound of his katana when he practices, which is high-key weird and makes me feel deaf cause how do you even hear that sort of stuff? And... What does Heiji like about her again? These guys need to explain what they like about their crushes more often. Or at least maybe ask themselves about it every once in a while, yk, just to make sure all of this stress is worth it. I will NOT be talking about Aoko and Kaito purely for the sake of my heart and blood pressure; they can only handle one dcmk couple at a time.

In conclusion, a man with an unresolved inferiority/superiority complex���because he somehow has both–so severe he cannot function without making it about his rival should not be looking for a relationship before seeing a therapist. Thank God his actual friendship with Shinichi isn't an eighth as bad as you'd think it should be; they're one of the most iconic duos ever, let's just keep their love lives outta the mix (Heiji is high-key supportive though, so there's that ig).

Edit: Came back after I realized I phrased my opinion on Heiji and Shinichi's friendship in a way that was easy to misinterpret. What I mean to say is that they're my favorite dcmk duo but I just can't stand how Heiji prioritizes one upping Shinichi rather than getting his feelings out there. I say Heiji ditches Kazuha as a love interest and forms a trio with Shinichi and Shiho. They'd be unstoppable homies that would do the unspeakable for each other.

[sabraeal]

Truth in Masquerade, Ch 9: Between These Wandering Hands

[Read on AO3]

Written as a late entry for day 1 of the Obiyuki Winter challenge (How It Started)...as well as part of a favor exchange with @claudeng80, who was perfectly happy to field a binding request for free, until I mentioned I could pay in fic 🤣 (and who could blame her)

With the lamps blown and her eyes still dark-blind, it’s impossible to tell when Obi joins her in the bed. The mattress may be eiderdown, dipping beneath the solid weight of muscle and bone— both of which Obi has in spades— but it’s also the size of a small country. What happens on one end hardly disrupts the other, unless there is a concerted attempt at an incursion.

And so the only sign of settling is his sigh; the smallest hitch of breath as the down catches him, cradling him in its cloud-like grasp. It had shocked her how soft a bed could be, that first night in the palace— years ago, now. The medical dormitory’s beds had been much like the one in her grandparents’ house: narrow, with a single rag-stuffed pallet intended to be sturdy and supportive, albeit newer than the one she left behind. But in Wistal’s guest chambers, enveloped between silk and velvet, the mattress holding her with all the gentle care of a babe in its mothers arms, well— Shirayuki finally understood how sleep might be seen as a luxury rather than a necessity.

The dark slowly fades to grays and blues, shapes resolving out from what had seemed to be unrelenting black. The washstand in the corner first, its linens taking an extra moment to settle; then the fluttering curtains by the window, left open to let in the breeze; followed by her own hands laid upon the silken sheets, the fine bones apparent even in the dim. And finally, Obi’s back, warm bronze turned to cool stone in the shadow of night, more statue than skin.

Pale scars bite into his flesh, ugly nicks and gashes so old they no longer pucker but lie flat, a fine tapestry darned like a sock beneath less skillful hands. Some might wear their hearts on their sleeve, or their thoughts written on their face, but Obi’s history cuts into him, carving him from flesh the way sculptors wrought wood or stone. Her fingers itch, desperate to reach out, to trace where not even time had healed.

If you’d been the one dressing the wound back then, he’d said once, his fingers wrapped like a whisper around her wrist. It probably wouldn’t have left behind such a nasty scar.

The knotty slash across his chest was always destined to silver and scar, and that gouge over his belly would have left something behind no matter how fine the technique, but those littler cuts just needed some care that didn’t come from the bottom of a bottle— or a ditch. An ointment could fade those slashes to slivers still; a nightly application, perhaps, though he’d need her help to reach more than a few of them. The handful between the blades of his shoulders, for instance, or maybe the pair of nicks at mid-back. The one just above his hip might even be—

That’s quite enough sight-seeing, Miss. Her whole body flushes from head to toe, so hot she could melt straight into the sheets. Experience has already shown that that’s not a place she should touch him. Not unless…

Her eyes narrow, adjusted to the dim light. Not unless she wants to spook him off the mattress entirely.

He’s hugging to the edge once again, one unwary roll from the floor. The carpet is soft enough to sleep on, she’ll grant him that, but that’s hardly the point. There’s more than enough mattress for the both of them, and even if there wasn’t, well— it defies the point of this to have him half-naked and still clinging to its farthest corners. Shirayuki may not have much experience with paramours behind closed doors, but even she knows they shouldn't seek to make space between them. Especially not on a bed as fine as this one.

“Shouldn’t you be”— she hesitates, the strange simmering beneath her skin making it hard to think, to keep her voice from sounding petulant— “closer?”

“W-what?” His yelp practically rattles the fixtures. If she weren’t in a different country, she might have even felt his shoulders clearing the mattress.

“We’re supposed to be i-intimate, aren’t we?” It’s silly the way she stumbles over the word, like she’s some apprentice pharmacist and not a master in her own right. “I don’t think we would be…I mean, that you would be”— her hand sweeps toward the edge of the mattress, and him with it— “You would want to be closer. If we were…”

Together, she fails to manage. Or maybe, like that. But certainly not, having sex, or, heavens forfend, making love. Not when he could just glance over and watch her make the words with her own mouth. The same one he’d kissed early, and she— she really should stop thinking about that.

Every muscle of his back stands out in relief, obvious without shirt or sheet to obscure it, practically stone-carved as he murmurs, “I wonder…”

An odd answer, even for him. “Obi?”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Miss,” he says, louder, voice rising and falling with its usual lilting sing-song. “I’ve never been what you’d call a post-coital cuddler.”

“Really?” She watches as each muscle loosens, not all at once, but a conscious relaxation of each group until he’s as languid and limber as a cat. “Then what did you do after, um…?”

A foolish thing to ask, far too personal, but Obi’s teeth flash in the dark as he flips to his back. “Look for an exit route, usually. I told you, Miss, I wasn’t the sticking-around type.”

Her mouth is too dry as he scoots toward her, the muscles of his stomach tensing and releasing with every sinuous scuttle. It’s a simple movement, silly even, and yet she still blurts out, “But you stuck around here.”

He stills, not even his breath lifting his chest— and then his smile widens to all teeth. “Well, you haven’t taken me to bed yet.”

“We’ve slept together,” she reminds him, those cold Lyrias nights a lifetime away from Tanbarun’s humid heat. “Plenty of times.”

“Th-that’s different, Miss,” he splutters, wide eyes darting toward her before he falls back on his pillow, the ceiling infinitely more interesting. “That’s just sleeping. Not…”

Participating in not-sleeping activities. The kind that often brought to young women to the pharmacy, for one reason or another. Ones she knew all too well, thanks in part to Garrack and her comprehensive lesson plan-- and another, much larger part to Suzu’s concerted effort in slithering out of any consult that might call for a professional recounting of both the birds and the bees.

“That’s still not very convincing,” she says, eyeing the gulf of silk between them. “The space I mean. If we’re supposed to have…ah, I mean if you had just been intimate with, um…” Lover is a whip crack of a word, a goad and a shock rather than a position, but partner is as sterile as the tools she keeps in her kit, not enough for what she means. “Someone…”

That’s worse; a withered flower in lieu of a bouquet. So bad, in fact, that Obi barks out a laugh, his whole chest shaking with the effort of keeping the rest from pouring out.

“I think you mean,” he hums, hands hooked behind his head, the molten gold of his eyes pouring towards her. “If we made love.”

Her hands flex against the mattress, and, ah, he didn’t need to— to make it sound like that. Like they were already skin-to-skin, the rough pads of his fingers catching on her spine, breath rasping in her ear as he—

“You would want to hold them closer, wouldn’t you?” The words squeak out of her, and she clears her throat before adding, “If you had just…just finished.”

There’s that glint of teeth, a knife’s edge in the moonlight. “Didn’t I just tell you, Miss? I wasn’t the sort to hang around after all was said and done. Always been the type to be more interested in the doing than the saying.”

*

(“Impossible.” Most people with a pedigree disdain the sort of noises that imply organs— or, ancestors forbid, mucus— but Miss Kiki snorts with relish, disdain saved solely for doubting him. It’s almost romantic, when Obi thinks about it. Makes a man feel special. “You’re in love with the sound of your own voice.”

It’s an ambush he doesn’t expect— a whole year talking up each notch on his bedpost to every uniform that would listen should have borne the sort of fruit that would make the dear Lady Seiren smirk over her glass and drive Sir choke on his. But instead it’s his tongue that gets tangled up, protest perched right at the precipice, flirting with the fall—

It’s not love, it’s that everyone’s too busy paying attention to your mouth to bother watching what the rest of you is up to—

Ah, damn. He’s had one too many tankards tonight if he’s already starting to reach for that top-shelf honesty. Obi sets down his own cup, too precise to be casual— a detail that won’t be escaping the iron trap of Miss Kiki’s mind, even if she saves him the trouble of calling him on it.

“I wonder,” he hums instead, smoothing the edges with his smile. “A man in my line of work learns to be silent, don’t you know?”

“I sure don’t,” Master mutters, fingers already pressed to his temples. “When does that happen?”

“I could be as quiet as a church mouse,” he insists, with all the gravity of a marquis. Well, at least the kind he’s had the displeasure of knowing.

“They squeak,” Sir offers, nursing yet another sip of his ale, and honestly, he might have taken offense, if only Miss Kiki didn’t add, “I’d bet he honks.”

“Honks?” Obi squawks— a noise at least a decibel nicer than honking. “You think I honk when—?”

“I think it would kill you to be quiet.” Miss Kiki’s tongue lashes him with the same unerring precision as her sword. “I’ve heard there are fishes who have to keep swimming to keep afloat. Maybe you have to keep talking in order to breathe.”

“I’ve been quiet loads of times,” he insists, even though he’s got to admit, there’s not many that come to mind. “I could probably be quiet all day, if I—”

“I think,” Master groans, drinking down the dregs of his own cup. “That I’d like to talk about anything else.”)

*

The night paints Obi in tiger stripes of light and shadow, the flex of muscles beneath skin giving them a hint of movement, like swaying stalks of long grass. Laying like this, a hint of his smirk still stalking the corner of his lips, it’s impossible to say whether he’s more a dangerous predator or indolent house cat— maybe both, in equal turns. He had played pet all too well the first time they had come here, only to shed his collar the moment her hand was out of reach, chasing her across half the country and out to sea. He’d cut a man down, right in front of her, but—

But he’d never turned his claws on her. Not since that arrow sunk itself into the wall, at least. If anything, he’d been too cautious about the way they touched, as if the barest brush of skin against skin might mark her, might leave her bruised.

Maybe he was right; even now the pressure of his lips still lingers, firm enough she’s sure she could lift her fingers and feel the dints where they had laid. His hands may settle softly onto silk sheets now, but the specter of them still burns over her cheeks and chin, scalded from where he cupped them. A whole handprint curving right around her jaw and up into her hair, tingling as if he still hovered there, just out of touch.

It’s distracting. Maddening. At least it must be, for her to say, “But you would, wouldn’t you? If it was me?”

There might be a gulf between them, a sea of silk it seems impossible to cross, but she’s still close enough to see the ripple of her stone’s throw, every muscle tensed into stark relief. It lasts for the length of a blink, the duration of one of her quick-caught breaths before easing, one by one, back to smoothness, his striped skin a still lake once again.

“I guess you have a point there, Miss,” he admits in his playful sing-song, but yet— his lilt is just out of key, too sharp in places and flat in others, like a piano fallen out of tune. “If it were you, I might hold on and never let go.”

It’s the same as that night, years ago— the way his fingers brushed over his chest, not bare as it is now, but covered in the unrelenting black of his formal dress. The way his voice lowered, not quite himself, to whisper, Will you hold onto it for me?

Why don’t I keep holding onto all of you, she’d decided, arms wrapping around a body that felt so much more solid than it ever had before. Just like this?

“Obi...” It's half a warning, half a wish, catching in her throat as he scoots along silk. He doesn't gently sweep of her into his arms, the way Yuzuri's books lived to linger on, but scoops— no, manhandles her until she’s half sprawled over him, head tucked into his shoulder and legs tangled together.

“There,” he huffs, chest expanding against the back of her fists, balled up between her sternum and his side. “That better?”

“Ah…” It’s certainly more convincing, but better made for a harder metric. Especially when there suddenly seemed to be so much more of Obi than she remembered. “Yes?”

“Good.” His head falls back on the pillow, every sharp angle of his face utterly spent, as if she were the one that manhandled him, and not the other way around. “I don’t think I can get much closer to you without Master asking me to draw swords at dawn.”

It’s such a simple excuse, one he’d used a half dozen times before. What would Master say, Obi would laugh, stepping out from under her hand, or, I think Master won’t be pleased when he finds out about this, when yet another lord took them for lovers. For years, she would tilt her head, trying to puzzle out which angle made them seem too close, what small gesture might be deemed too affectionate for friendship, but then—

Then Lord Eisetsu had found her in Obi’s room, looking between them with the wide eyes of a rumor well-proved and she��� she blushed. “I don’t think Zen has any right to concern himself with how close we choose to be.”

“Ah…” The muscles of his abdomen jolt against her thigh, only a scrap of linen to obscure their sharp edges before they smooth once more. “Of course not, Miss. Must have drank more than I thought to forget…”

That he left her. That they’re only in this spot because Tanbarun’s ears are too sharp in Izana’s court.  “It’s all right. I don’t”— mind, she means to say, but the lie of it sticks to her teeth— “it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he grunts, the sound harsh against her knuckles. “If he was going to lay all this on you, he should have come north. Or at least let you go back there when it was all said and done.”

“It’s not Zen’s fault we’re here.” Her eyes angle up, fixing on the way his throat bobs as he swallows his anger. “Izana’s the one who sent us. And if we’re being fair, Raj is the one who sent the invitation.”

“What would have been fair is letting Yuzuri at him after—”

“Obi.” His stomach tenses beneath the press of her palm, the more thickly settled dark hair crinkling under her fingertips. “It’s fine. There was no good way for this to happen, but it had to. I’m only happy that everything was…civil, in the end.”

His laugh pulses against her hand, so low, so soft that her stomach churns, confused by the heat of it. “You might try being civil with me, Miss.”

“I…?”

His fingers wrap so gently around her wrist, guiding it from his stomach to his chest. She frowns, brow furrowing, nearly about to ask, how have I been anything but friendly—?

But then she feels the heady thrum of his pulse against her palm, and, ah, perhaps she'd been too friendly with that touch. Her fingers curl, catching in the sparse hairs on his chest—

(“Where’d you get those?” Yuzuri scoffs, sweeping past Shirayuki’s side to take a choice seat on the training yard’s rail. Makiri’s been working the trainees hard this summer— letting them sweat out the weakness, Jirou had laughed, the last time they’d been by— and even the officers are down to skin and trousers now, sweat pouring off them like snow down a mountainside. “I thought you couldn’t grow a single hair to save your life.”

Obi grinned, toweling off with the cloth she’d handed to him before taking one of their iced teas for good measure. “Try getting close to the wrong side of thirty. Couldn’t miss ‘em even if I wanted to.”

Her nose wrinkles, hiding a faint spray of summer freckles in their folds. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.” )

— and just barely resist the urge to drift lower. It would be a more natural sprawl, for one. And for two—

Obi’s palm presses her hand in place, fingers lacing them tight. “Good night, Miss.”

“Obi…” His eyes are already shut, the frantic tattoo of his heartbeat lulling into a more sedate hum.

Will you hold onto it for me? Her fingers squeeze his tight as she answers, if you'll let me. “Good night.”

*

Obi comes to consciousness the way leaves float downriver: meandering, mindless, and to the downright incessant song of the birds outside his window. Awareness only comes to him in dribs and drabs; first the smooth silk pressed into his back, then the scent of oleander and jasmine wafting on the warm breeze, then the strange sense of contentment brewing in his chest. A comfort he’s tempted to sink into— wallow in, until sleep finally deserts him.

Not the sort of thing that’s part of his usual morning routine, that’s for sure. Maybe he’s been drugged— they like that sort of thing here, don’t they? Putting things into drinks and letting it sort itself out the next day. He’s immune to most of the usual sedatives— at least the kind that weren’t applied by a firm whack to the back of the neck— but clearly someone’s done their research. Be a pity to ruin all their hard work by waking up.

He shifts, mind sloshing, and ah— seems he’s the culprit here. Or at least, the two or three bottles of fine Tanbarun red he’d polished off himself, trying to keep up with Prince Raj. Obi’s no lightweight; Kiki and Sir would have seen to that over the years, if his natural talents hadn’t already shined through, and Lyrias’s top brass had kept him honest when they couldn’t do the job, but well…he’s flirting a little close to thirty to be playing such a young man’s game. His knees ache now when he takes those hard landings, and sometimes he’s even got to stretch before—

Nails prickle over his chest, a small hand flexing right over his heart, and haah, he’d had quite a few last night, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t indulge in anything to put him out that pleasant. But the warmth pressed to his side begs to differ, soft curves snug against his ribs and a too-smooth thigh thrown over his hip, knee dangerously close to a part of his anatomy that’s already starting to get ideas.

His eyes slit open, catching bare shoulders and candy apple red spilling across his chest, and his heart near stops. Well, fuck.

Miss complains about the sudden jerk of her pillow, snorting and groaning and rolling to keep his shoulder pinned beneath her. It’s enough commotion to make the bird song outside the window stutter— just like his heart— and the covers shift, baring not more skin but linen. The last night comes barreling back at him; not just I don’t think the maid will be convinced by you wearing buckskins to bed, and you know I prefer to sleep in the nude, but, most devastatingly, I trust you—

He nearly misses the clatter by the door.

Obi’s not fool enough to crane his neck toward the slightest sound, but he does let his head tilt, just so. Enough to catch black-and-white from the corner of his eyes, and the silver spilled out across the floor. Ah, so that’s what really woke him: the maid’s come, breakfast in hand, to fill the basin and pull the blinds. And spy for His Majesty, of course.

Mischief curls at the corners of his mouth. Well, if His Majesty wants a show, then Obi would hate to disappoint.

The sheets he’d been so careful to tuck around Miss’s shoulders last night— after she’d fallen asleep, her kitten snore muffled in his side, and every inch of his skin had felt electric under her touch— ruck around his waist instead, leaving only the most interesting bits to the imagination. He makes a real production of it, groaning and stretching and letting every bit of the muscle seven days of weekly training carved into him have its day in the sun. By the catch of breath by the basin, it doesn’t go unappreciated.

Step one, complete. He doubts the king’ll be hearing about this part, but it’ll set the tone for the rest of the gossip this girl pours in his ear. Margravine Entaepode’s shameless lover makes for a more scandalous story than our guest’s living bedwarmer.

The next bit is harder— in more ways than one. There’s no natural way to roll up to his hip, for one, not when Miss is clinging to him like soil to a root, unwilling to cede a single inch to him unless he moves her first. She seeps into every space he manages to make with no more than a disgruntled huff, burrowing more tightly than before.

In the end, he has to half pull her on top of him first, then roll as single unit from flat to upright. From there he’s got to sling her leg over his hip; an easier proposition a few minutes ago, before he crushed all that soft girl flesh against his chest, and certain parts started to take notice. Now he’s got to negotiate that freckled thigh of hers around his cock, so hard it strains against the strict binding of his drawers, dying to bury itself somewhere, anywhere that resembles warm flesh.

He manages it, though. Gracefully, even. Almost natural, he’d say, until—

Until the much looser fabric of her chemise rides up, no longer nestled between her thighs but pulled taut across them, the rest of it trapped between her and the mattress. Her wet heat splits over the muscle of his thigh, only the thin linen of his drawers to keep them from being skin-to-skin, and he— he groans.

Between this and the kiss last night, it’s the closest he’s come to a good fuck in years. A mortifying thought-- made worse by how every lick of good sense in him scatters the moment Miss squirms closer, her heavy breath skittering over his neck. There’s already barely enough space for a breeze to pass between them, but one jerk of his arms traps her breasts against his chest-- all the encouragement his cock needs to test its restraints.

Really, all this following Miss around, playing at being a good knight has him strung tighter than he was at thirteen and just discovering what five minutes alone and some imagination could pull out of him. One hard twitch wins it enough play to jut right into her belly, which would be bad enough, really, if only—

If only she didn’t squirm into it. And he didn’t let out a noise more at home on a wounded mutt than a man.

There’s another clatter— trays being set down too hastily on the side board, by the sheer amount of jangling silver, setting his teeth on his edge— followed by hasty heels and the hurried slam of the door.

Haah, well— that's one way to complete step two. His Majesty will definitely be hearing about this one.

He just has to hope it's only the one on this side of the border.

*

It’s not the birdsong that rouses her— though it’s loud enough; a pair of nightingales scolding each other right outside the balcony doors. There’s a bunting there too, chattering as if it were only a friendly neighbor, come to mediate between another two, but the whole conversation takes place at a pitch that would cause dogs to howl and cats to pace. Shirayuki, however, simply turns over; it’s nothing compared to the jackdaw that’s taken up residence outside her room at Lyrias, arguing with every swallow and rock dove and crow that comes close enough.

No, what finally drives her from sleep is the empty space her hand finds when it splays out, searching for a place to perch. For the lack of warmth curled against her side, blankets smooth over the space where a body should be.

She lifts up her head, disoriented. This isn’t her room at Lyrias— she’s in Tanbarun now; Raj's guest of honor, complete with a set of chambers that would prove it. A carved bedstead with curtains, fashionable paper on the walls, and a balcony that looks out over the woods she’d run through that night, over half a decade ago. The only thing that’s missing from it is— “Obi?”

“Here, Miss.” He wheels out from the parlor door, toast in hand, one cheek bulging around what she assumes is the rest of it. “Seems they brought both our breakfasts to your room.”

“O-oh.” It’s too early for her to try to parse out all the layers of that, but at least it seems that the domestic staff have noticed their…cohabitation. Though whether it's made its way to the king’s ear is a different matter entirely. “I suppose I do have the bigger parlor.”

Obi snorts, sauntering out from the shadows to her bedside, bare chest a burnished bronze in the light from the balcony. “And the bigger bed.”

Her mouth is too dry when she says, “They looked about the same size when I was in there yesterday.”

“Right you are, Miss. Same size down to the sheets.” He slants her a hooked sort of grin, one that sets a simmer right beneath her skin. “But I think in these sorts of situations, it’s the knight who kneels for his lady, and not the other way around.”

It would be easier to talk, if her tongue didn’t have to be peeled from the roof of her mouth. “I don’t see…?”

“Let me put it this way, Miss,” he says, far too amused, and bare chest much too defined where he sits. “There’s only one of us who comes when they’re called.”

It’s terrible how quickly the heat fills her cheeks, hot enough to cook her own set of toast— and char it too. “I-I listen to you. When you call for me.”

He hums, taking another thickly buttered bite. Her own stomach grumbles with envy. “When it suits you.”

Hardly a fair assessment, when he’s the one that’s been leading her around these part few days, taking her to task when she extends too far past their plans, but—

Ah, hm. Her brow furrows. This is the sort of argument that shouldn’t be picked on an empty stomach. “Do you sleep well, at least?”

If she had blinked, she would have missed it— the flinch before Obi turns all smiles, playful lilt pitch-perfect as he says, “Like a baby.”

Shirayuki frowns. “Really?”

There’s a small hesitation, a flicker of his eyes to the doors, the windows, before he settles into a much more rueful grin. “Sleeping wasn’t the problem, Miss. Getting out of bed, though…”

*

(It’s a miracle that keeps Miss from waking as he slips out from the bed— and the tangle of their limbs. Ones she tightens as he begins to pull away, like the vines they’d grown in the hot house that one year, until they’d found one of the city’s stray cats mewling in its tendrils. Shidan hemmed and Suzu hawed and Kazaha dug in his heels, but eventually, Miss convinced them to forgo whatever medical advancements murderous vines might provide until the university board saw fit to provide them with a more secure location to cultivate them.

Which they hadn’t in the three years since they’d had him lug the things out with the other brush to be burned, but that’s neither here nor there. And hardly something he’s got time to think about, when Miss keeps growing two hands for every one he manages to pry off.

With one last gentle sweep of his wrist— and a disgruntled whimper from Miss— Obi finally disentangles himself, snatching his trousers from the floor before she can figure out a way to grow longer, stickier limbs to grasp him with. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, but from a safe distance; a lump wedged at his back when the braziers burned too low and only the heat of two bodies could keep out Lyrias’s chill. A belligerent hillock of blankets when Suzu flagged him down after a late night of celebrating, asking if he’d go check on their star pharmacist— or else she’d be late for her shift. But this…

Well, he’d have a whole new reason to keep her at arm’s length tonight. One that didn’t have to do with how much he’s struggling to button his trousers.)

*

“Don’t worry about it, Miss.” He waves her off before she can open her mouth to ask, popping the rest of his toast past his teeth. “You’ve got what they call ‘more pressing concerns.’”

Shirayuki squirms upright, settling her back along the pillows. “Do I?”

Both of Obi’s narrow brows hike right to his hairline. “At this point you’re made of them.”

“Well, I suppose Raj’s father is trying to make me queen.” An utterly strange sentence for a girl who, six years ago, barely knew anything of her country’s royalty besides a few names and the way the king's profile carved into her fingertips as she clutched every last penny. “But besides all that…”

Obi snorts. “And your cousins are trying to kill you.”

“No one has tried to—”

“Yet.” It’s impossible to miss the look he gives her, fond and frustrated all at once. “And that’s not even getting into your social schedule…”

She blinks. “My what?”

“The maid brought the post in with breakfast this morning. Seems like you’re a popular young lady, Miss.”

A shower of cards rains down onto her lap, the scent of rose and lilac and a dozen less overpowering scents wafting up from their envelopes. Her hands hover half-curled above them, uncertain; Shirayuki could compose protocols and troubleshoot pesky variables with the best of them, but she’d never had what she would call an analytic mind, the way Kazaha does. She might do well enough sifting through her own day-to-day data, or casually compare observations while wading waist deep in the morass of her own journals, but she could not sit surrounded by stacks of numbers and compose correlations the way he could. Strategy was a skill, and staring at this scattered array of invitations, she realizes— it’s not one she’s cultivated. Not in the way a woman born to this world would have. Not in the way she would need to navigate it.

“What am I supposed to do?” she murmurs, splaying her hands over the mess. “A real lady would be able to tell which card came from whose desk with just a glance and a whiff of the glue. But I…?”

Can’t. That’s what she meant to say. But she knows what she means is, don’t want to.

“Will have to open them one at a time.” She glances up, right into the same he’d worn that day outside Makiri’s office. It’ll be fun, he'd said, and it wasn't, not even a little, but she'd come out of it better a better ally than she'd gone in. For all that it had mattered, in the end “Good thing your trusty knight brought you the kind of blade that can cut through these things like Sir’s sword through Hisame’s shoulder.”

She doubts Mitsuhide would appreciate the comparison— not when he’s so adamant that it’s all water under the bridge at this point— but she barely gets the opportunity to muster an, “Obi!” before he brandishes said blade before her: a letter opener, silver and filigreed, and almost certainly not hers.

“Courtesy of the Little Highness,” he assures her in his most cultured tones, though she can’t possibly imagine when such a gift might have been tendered. Knowing Obi, it was probably best to not. “Now give one of those things over here. I think one of ‘em might be for a horse race, and I’ve—”

“We are not going to a horse race,” she informs him firmly. The last thing she needs is Obi trying to trade favors among Tanbarun’s nobles the way he did with Lyrias’s guards. “And I’m perfectly capable of opening my own mail, fancy opener or not.”

“Think of my reputation, Miss. If you scrape up those little fingers of yours, what would everyone say? That your knight wasn’t taking proper care of you, that’s what.” He doesn’t wait for her to hand him an envelope, instead seizing on a thick one faintly citrus smell before sliding the knife beneath the seal. “Ah, this is the one for the picnic Little Highness is putting on. Tomorrow, before all the ball claptrap. We’ll have to put on a good show.”

Shirayuki blinks. “Show?”

“Miss, haven’t you heard anything about the princess and her set?” He shakes his head, tongue clucking behind his teeth. “They run fast and loose, and if we want to convince them that there’s some...extra care going on behind closed doors, well…”

“T-that shouldn’t be a problem.” She doesn’t dare look at him when she says it, but she can feel it— the way his eyebrows raise, surprised. “We convinced Raj last night, didn’t we?”

“We did.” It’s careful, the way he says it, like the ice is too thin under his feet. “Though I don’t suppose we'll need to go that far. Unlike His Highness, that bunch can read between the lines.”

She nods, ignoring the strange swoop in her belly as she says, “I’ll tell her we’re going.”

“Doubt you would have had much of a choice.” His mouth hooked as he tore open the next envelope. “The Shenazards aren’t known for giving them. Ah, this one is from the Countess Katares—”

“Nereida?” Her nose wrinkles. “We just had lunch yesterday.”

“And she is inquiring after brunch today,” Obi informs her, “along with a post-meal ride around the grounds. I bet if you played your cards right, you might even get dinner out of it.”

If there had been one thing Raj had impressed upon Shirayuki during her visits to Tanbarun, it was that one must not appear desperate to make a person’s acquaintance. It was fine enough to seek out a morning stroll one day and perhaps dinner the next if you were eager to make friends, but lunch precluded an invitation the next day for all but the most bosom companions. For Nereida to ask her now— “Can I see that?”

“Sure thing, Miss.”

The letter folds over her hand as he passes it, but a quick flick sets it to rights. It’s just as he said: brunch with a fortifying ride after, and a heavy implication that it might run into the evening hours—

The exercise might help you keep up with your strapping young night, she adds, so helpful. I’ve heard the ones in Clarines are quite vigorous.

Heat slaps itself across her cheeks, so hot she must be giving her hair a run for its money— and though he’s too busy slicing open the next seal to look at her, the twitch at the corner of Obi’s mouth tells her he’s well aware why. “Ah…well, you don’t need to worry about this one, Miss. Nothing of note here—”

“It’s no use,” she tells him, “I can see Milan’s signature from here.”

Her cousin is hardly subtle. But neither is Obi, the way his mouth twists up, like he’s taken a hearty bite into a lemon, rind and all. “You already had dinner with him last night. He doesn’t need to get greedy. Listen, why don’t I handle tendering your most heartfelt regrets, Miss, and you can—”

“Read the invitation you’ve hidden in your pocket?”

His smirk stiffens with all the subtlety of rigor mortis. “Ah. So you noticed.”

“You did a good job trying to distract me.” Between the bare expanse of his chest and the suggestive contents of Nereida’s letter, he’d nearly managed it too. “But you’ve got a better memory than me for things like house crests…and personal seals. If you’d seen Milan’s in the pile, you would have already had it taken out with the trash. Unless there was an invitation you wanted me to see less.”

There’s not a shred of contrition in his star as he pulls out another envelope— nearly as fine as Rona’s, with a sweeping hand curled across the front— and hands it to her, offering her the opener handle-first. With a swipe, she opens it, and she doesn’t need to see it fully unfolded to know why he’d scurried it away before she could miss it.

Sincerely, that same steady hand writes, every loop precisely placed, Theodosia.

“Obi…”

There's no contrition in the way he shrugs, only resignation. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

[annoyingcat413]

Was the first cbs Watson episode great? Not reallyyy. Am I interested? Absolutely! Will keep watching

[tired-demonspawn]

hey. so.

didnt plan on reading sonic the movie fanfiction of all things, right? right.

but alas the picture of outsider pov mean bean customer witnessing stone pining on main between movies 1 and 2 was so utterly VIVID in my mind i ended up looking some up.

because i mean. the setup is so obvious, it is practically begging to be written and then read by some fanatical idiot like myself. no way an author hasnt yet taken advantage of the premise.

ONLY TO FIND OUT NOBODY HAS

WHAT ARE YOU GUYS DOING?????

(left an essay in the tags, christ 💀)