#but they’re good enough that in theory someone could say they’re passable

[takeasadsongandanalyzeit]

12 Bar Blues in F

This recording is the second instrumental from the April/May 1960 home recording made at Forthlin Road (also known as the Kirchherr Tape). It's a little long, so be warned. Though, @peaceloveandstarrs did such a fantastic analysis, you'll want to listen to every second so you can follow along.

This seems to be an improvised blues instrumental. We can hear a steady bass, keeping a good rhythm (more evidence that Stu is unfairly maligned as a bass player). Our working theory is that Stu played the bass kind of how Ringo plays the drums, there to serve the song. We both think, had Stu actually tried, he could have become an incredible bassist. Stu was just talented, at everything, so even though he wasn't trying very hard, it's still more than just passable.

There are at least two other guitars, possibly three.

We had some discussion about who was playing lead guitar. We originally thought Paul, but this was 2 years after Paul flubbed the solo in Guitar Boogie, so the likelihood he'd take lead was low. It's therefore likely George. It's interesting hearing him mess with some chords higher up the neck. It shows the beginning of Geo's talent pretty well, we'd say.

But neither of us our instrumentalists, so we're gonna leave the rest of this analysis to someone who is.

@peaceloveandstarrs has been kind enough to write another guest post about this song:

This is definitely improvised going by how rambling the intro is and how it takes them about a minute or so to finally settle into a key signature. As with the last one I listened to, I wish the balance had been better, but again, I get that the technology at the time made sound quality less than great. There’s a lot of really neat lead guitar stuff, like the picking around 1:23 and then the bit around 1:32. I’m not a guitarist, but I know that any technical playing on any instrument takes a lot of skill and practice. So whoever was on lead on this, my kudos! (Not that that means anything 62 years later, ha!)

The bass is definitely keeping a steady tempo, which is what’s expected of a bass player when there’s no percussionist. Stu isn’t the best bass player, but he’s not as bad as people make him out to be. I love all of the chromatic runs from whoever’s playing them, like the one at 3:37. They’re such a good transition between different melodic ideas or the start of a new chord progression. The random bits of dissonance, like the one at around 5:02, are jarring now that the key’s been settled. But hey, it keeps the listener on their toes and attentive.

I love the moments where the whole thing really comes together and the individual lines fit together perfectly, such as around 5:40. And just when that settles in, you get another cool, technical line at around 5:56. Whoever is playing this (Paul? I can’t tell individual playing styles apart yet) made it sound easy. As an instrumentalist myself, technical runs always give me the most difficulty, so I can say pretty confidently that it wasn’t that easy. At least not right off the bat.

There’s a neat little groove at around 7:33 in one of the guitar lines. It’s simple, but the way it’s played (first note accented, slurred into the second part of the line) makes it have a kind of jazzy feel. I listened to that one a couple of times just because I liked it. And we get to more technical bits in the guitar line around 8:24 or so. It’s a repetitive line, but it’s so clean-sounding. Again, not easy to do. I have a hard time articulating quickly and making it sound that clean! (Granted I play clarinet, so I’m not sure if I can really compare it to a guitar…)

It sounds like Stu is trying to bring the chart to an end around 9:20 and the rest of the group didn’t get the memo! That’s a classic ending bass line, descending the scale to the tonic tone (so in this case, he landed on an F since the piece is in F… music theory classes coming in handy finally!) The last 40 seconds or so sounds like they’re trying to figure out how to end the chart. I sort of wish they’d all ended with Stu’s little descending line, but hey, the way they end it works too. Overall, it’s a nice little improvisation with lots of signs of developing talent, especially in whoever played lead guitar.

#april 1960 #the beatles #improvisation #12 bar blues in f #guest post #peaceloveandstarrs #george harrison #stuart sutcliffe #john lennon #paul mccartney #forthlin road tapes #braun tape

[ultraviolent-brontosaurus]

Thought I looked cute, might delete later

#so for the first time in my life I’m drawing and i don’t feel entirely ashamed? #like #obviously these aren’t good #but they’re good enough that in theory someone could say they’re passable #for someone who can’t and doesn’t draw #I’m not unhappy with these #and hey #there are worse ways to procrastinate during lectures #not that I’m in a lecture #it’s two am and I’m watching August Underground Mordum #anyway to clarify #the drawings are of Brodie and Quint #not of Jaws #but Mallrats #I’ve been watching a lot of Kevin Smith #I’m a proper student get me #I’m rambling because I’m uncomfortable about sharing shit like this #but I hope someone stumbles across it and is vaguely amused if nothing else #Jeremy London looks nothing like Jeremy London #And all of Jason’s features are offset by different degrees #Anyways #Thanks for listening #If you see these and you know me #No need to bring it up in person x #Thought I looked cute might delete #Mallrats #Kevin Smith #be glad you can’t see what’s under that folded bit of paper #TS Quint more like Mason fucking Verger #I need to sleep

[uselessundertalefacts]

Frisk Month '22 Day 19 - Alphys

Oh god, thinks Alphys. This was a bad idea. This was a really, really bad idea.

Alphys likes Frisk. They’re an interesting kid, very emotionally intelligent for their age and full of love for everyone they meet. Their taste in TV shows is… passable, for a kid. She understands why they like Mew Mew 2, even if they’ll grow out of it soon. And above all, she trusts them to make good decisions. Toriel fusses over them a lot and acts concerned about how independent they are, but even she knows that Frisk is smart enough to take care of themself.

Which is why she listened to them when they asked her about parallel universes.

“Back underground, you said they really exist,” they said. “How do you know? Could we go visit one?”

“U-Um!!!! Well!!!” Alphys didn’t want to admit that she was just joking back then. She and Mettaton teased each other like that, she wasn’t being serious. Sure, she’d done a bit of research on multiverse theory and tinkered around with some of the old equipment that the last Royal Scientist left behind, but she isn’t actually an expert in these things. But she didn’t want to say that to the kid who’d basically changed her life.

“Okay, so, um, my theory is that other worlds exist as a sort of alternate set of rules about reality. Like, maybe there could be a universe that doesn’t have gravity, and it would develop in a completely different way from our world. Or, it could be like…” She rambled on for a while. Frisk actually paid attention to what she was saying, which is probably why she was dumb enough to agree to show them the old, broken-down machine.

“So this has been around for ages,” she says as they descend into Sans’s basement in the underground. “We, um, tried to fix it up, but… well, I think it might be impossible to-“ Before she can stop them, Frisk pulls off the sheet covering the machine.

Alphys gasps. Last time she’d seen the old thing, it had clearly been broken, with loose wires everywhere and chunks of the metal shell missing. But now, it looks brand new. “Did Sans do this???” she asks, bewildered.

“I think someone else did,” says Frisk. “They told me to come here in a dream. Said it’s not finished yet, but they want to show it to me anyway.” They examine the hollow center of the machine, which she and Sans had theorized was meant to hold a person. It seems impossibly dark. “So… I’m gonna climb in, okay?”

“W-WHAT? NO?” Alphys grabs their arm, then remembers that Frisk hates being grabbed by surprise like that and quickly lets go. “S-Sorry, but you really shouldn’t? I mean, we don’t know what’ll happen if-"

“It’ll be fine,” says Frisk. “I've got Chara to look after me if anything bad happens.” They give her a smile. It doesn’t make her feel any better. But before she can stop them, they climb into the machine and disappear into the darkness.

For a moment, the whole room goes completely dark. All Alphys can hear is the sound of rushing wind, and something like whispering coming from the machine. Then there’s a great flash of red light, and Alphys thinks she can see a heart-shaped object inside the machine before it goes dark again.

She’s about twenty seconds into figuring out how she’s going to tell Toriel that her child is gone before the light returns and Frisk climbs out of the machine, which seems to have powered down. They seem to be unhurt, though they look tired. “Hi,” they say.

“Uh… hi?” Alphys smiles at them weakly. “So… um…. wh-what happened in there?”

“Just normal stuff,” says Frisk. “Except you like Mew Mew 2 better in the alternate universe. That part was kinda weird."

"...okay?????"

"Also maybe we saved the world. By the way, do you know anyone named Susie?"

#frisk month 22 #undertale fic #been wanting to write something with this kind of premise for a while actually #maybe one day i will write an actual serious version. but for now there's this :) #my fic

[veorlian]

sacred rituals

for @kanejweek day 5: love (atypical affection & domesticity)

pairing: Kaz Brekker x Inej Ghafa

rating: T (they're talking about murder)

set a few weeks pre-canon so only minimal spoilers!

read it on ao3 here

Kaz rarely spent time on the main floor of the Slat unless he had to. He didn’t want the Dregs getting the wrong idea; he wasn’t their friend. Kaz Brekker wasn’t anyone’s friend.

Instead, he spent most of the time in his office, when he wasn’t walking the uneven streets of the Barrel. It was quiet, far removed from the raucous laughter and fighting and close quarters that generally filled the Slat. It was mostly warm, and mostly dry. Generally, everyone left him alone, and that was the way he preferred it.

Almost everyone.

The fact of the matter was this: Kaz preferred solitude, but he always kept his window open. Even on cold nights, when the wind chilled to the bone. Nights like this one. It was a kind of standing invitation, although he would never admit that. It was an invitation that was nearly always accepted.

He glanced down at the papers on his desk, and he felt the air shift almost imperceptibly.

“Hello Inej,” Kaz said, not looking up from his ledgers. The Wraith moved silently into the room, tugging down her hood.

“How do you do that?” she asked, not for the first time. His eyes flicked to hers before looking away.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he said. “Now, what did you find?”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she shrugged off her cloak and moved closer to the fire, stoking it from where it had burned down. Kaz pointedly did not pay attention to the way the firelight danced along her hair, the graceful movements of her hands as she warmed them.

“I checked every inch of the washroom, and I don’t have the faintest idea how they pulled it off,” Inej said. “It’s more secure than most mercher safes, from what I’ve seen. No trick tiles, no removable mirror, no vents. The only way in or out is the drain pipes, and I doubt anyone’s managed to train rat assassins.”

“If it was possible, I’d have done it by now,” Kaz replied. Inej snorted, and Kaz’s heart stuttered briefly.

“So that rules out rodent killers, then,” she said wryly. “Floor plan?”

“No trap doors, no secret entrances. No way in or out other than the front door.”

“The locked front door,” Inej finished. “You’d have to walk through walls to get in there. Maybe we’re looking for something otherworldly. Ketterdam’s got no shortage of ghosts.”

“None of whom can hold a knife,” he pointed out. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“Got any theories?” she asked.

He shrugged. “A thousand. None likely.”

“Tell me,” she said. She settled down next to the fire and took out her knives, one by one. There were three new ones, he noted. Soon enough he wouldn’t have to worry about her being injured at all — she was effectively wearing chainmail. Not that he spent time worrying that she’d be injured.

Kaz unfurled the floor plan on his desk and motioned for her to come look. Inej only raised a dark eyebrow.

“I’m half-frozen, Kaz. I’m not getting up until I thaw out,” she said.

“I don’t pay you to relax,” he replied, but he moved over to the fire and set the blueprints down between them. Inej leaned forward, tugging the paper towards her. Her eyebrows knitted together as she looked more closely.

“Where were the guards positioned?” she asked.

“Here, and here.” Kaz used a pencil to mark down the locations. “The main event was taking place here, and there were people with a view of the door here, here, and over there.” He sketched out the lines of sight, and made a note of the guard rotation.

“Whoever it was, they certainly didn’t make it easy for us,” she murmured.

"I doubt they had us in mind when they made the plan," he said dryly.

"Do you share your rapier wit with everyone, or am I the only one that has to suffer it?" she asked, not looking up from the blueprints.

“I notice you haven't offered any suggestions," he said. "Giving up already, Wraith?”

Her eyes met his, holding his gaze for a moment. “If I figure it out first, I expect waffles.”

He couldn’t help the wry smile that flickered across his face. “Dream on, Inej.”

She had perfected the art of silence, and she didn’t make a sound as she looked over the blueprints. The only sounds Kaz could hear were the gentle crackle of the fire and muffled fighting in the distance, filtering in through the open window. He looked everywhere in the room except at her.

“Alright,” she said at last. “Venomous snakes.”

He must have heard her wrong. “Venomous snakes?”

“Trained venomous snakes. Send them up through the drain pipes, they bite the victim, and then they’re well on their way before anyone’s the wiser.”

“There were no bites reported by my source,” Kaz said.

“That doesn’t mean there weren’t any. You know the coroners of Ketterdam aren’t renowned for their attention to detail. And if someone paid them to look the other way…” she let the sentence hang in the air a moment.

“Corruption and bribery? Awfully cynical of you,” he drawled. “What ever would your Saints say?”

She scoffed. “Moral posturing? From you?”

“Me? I’m a pillar of the community. Never set a foot wrong in my life,” he said, entirely deadpan. The look on her face was something that he might well treasure for years.

“Do you think I’m right or not?” she asked exasperatedly. Kaz shook his head, running a hand through his uneven hair to hide the small smile on his face. He realized with a jolt that he was having fun. It wasn’t a feeling he was familiar with.

“All the pressure coming down from the top brass on this one, I doubt that kind of detail would be left out,” he said.

“And what’s your brilliant suggestion, Kaz?” she shot back. Good question, he thought.

“Easy. They bribed the guards and re-locked the door on the way out.” As he said it, he knew that it was weak. A rookie tactic, not something you’d pull to assassinate a high-ranking politician.

“Too risky,” Inej said, confirming his own thoughts. “Too many people there, and there’s no guarantee the guards wouldn’t sell them out. Like you said, too much pressure from the top brass.”

“I’m open to other ideas,” he replied, crossing his arms. Inej shrugged.

“Maybe he killed himself?”

“No weapons found. It’s like you’re not taking this seriously.”

“Still better than ‘they bribed all the guards and re-locked the door at a crowded political event,’” she said, in a passable impersonation of his voice.

They tossed ideas back and forth, each more unlikely than the last. Inej cleaned her knives, quietly setting each down next to her. The fire slowly burned down, casting long shadows across his office. At some point, Inej went to grab some food from the kitchen downstairs. She brought a mug of hot, bitter coffee and set it down next to him.

“Why, thank you, Inej,” she said, in that same rough impersonation of his voice. “How considerate of you to enable my caffeine addiction. So thoughtful and kind of you, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Why would I bother thanking you when you do it for me?” Kaz asked dryly. Inej flashed a rude gesture in his direction before tucking into her dinner.

“It has to have been a Grisha,” Kaz said thoughtfully.

“I’m eating, Kaz, wait a minute,” Inej said around a mouthful of food. She looked pointedly at the second plate she’d brought up. “And it wouldn’t do you any harm to eat something other than coffee.”

Kaz narrowed his eyes at her, but he picked up the food all the same. They were quiet for a few minutes. When she’d finished, Inej shut her eyes and leaned back against the wall. There was a pause, long enough that Kaz began to wonder if she’d fallen asleep.

“That’s not how Grisha work,” she said at last.

“We’ve ruled out every other option,” Kaz argued.

“If Nina or Jesper could pull off something like this, we’d know about it,” she replied.

“And they’re the experts?”

“Certainly more than you are.”

“...I suppose.”

Inej raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Is Kaz Brekker admitting that I’m right?”

“Don’t push your luck, Wraith,” he warned. Her smile widened, and Kaz felt dizzy looking at her. He focused on his too-bitter coffee instead. He heard her let out a sigh.

“I don’t like this, Kaz,” she murmured. “If there’s someone this dangerous out there, I want to know who they are and what they're after.”

He risked a glance at her. The candlelight haloed her face in a way that bordered on angelic. He wondered — not for the first time — if her hair was as soft as it looked.

“I'm sure we'll find out. Someone with this kind of power won’t stop at one hit. I know I wouldn’t.” His voice was calm, but she was right. Anyone that could walk through walls was a very real threat, if only because they were competition.

“Should I go back to have a second look?” she asked. Kaz shook his head.

“If there was a way to crack this, we would’ve figured it out. The truth will come out sooner or later. This city leaks information like a sieve.”

They wouldn’t learn how it had been done for a few weeks. But by then, of course, they had other things to worry about.

#domesticity for kaz and inej is discussing crime and i love that about them #six of crows #kanej week 2021 #kanej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #finished prompts

[gay-otlc]

Perfect (Keefitz)

Summary: And yet... he can't shake the feeling that, if he wasn't a Vacker, if he wasn't stuck in the cage of perfection... he would love to be with Keefe.

That didn't matter. Whether he likes it or not, Fitz is in his cage of perfection, so he can't want Keefe.

He can't. Because he's perfect.

(Alternatively: 4.5K words of Keefitz angst and about 100 of Keefitz fl*ff)

Trigger warnings: Internalized homophobia, cursing

Words: 4352

(Read on AO3)

Fitz Vacker is perfect.

His friends call him Wonderboy, and that's for a reason. He knows they're making fun of him when they say it, but he can't help but feel the smallest glimmer of pride when he hears the nickname. Maybe a bit more than that. Yes, people are making fun of him for being perfect. That still means they see him as being perfect.

And that's good. That's exactly how he wants it to be.

No, he corrects himself- not how he wants it to be. How it is. People don't just see him as perfect- he is perfect. (Or so he tells himself. But is he, is he really perfect? Or is he just lying, trying to convince himself. Convince everyone else.) Wonderboy is at the top of his class. He's passable at Base Quest and actually quite good at Bramble. Even though his father doesn't approve of the hobby, his talent at baking is undeniable. Every girl at Foxfire is in agreement that he's handsome, with bronze skin, teal eyes, and a smile that makes all of them swoon.

(He doesn't care how many girls like him. He's never liked any of them.)

And Sophie. He's a key member of the Black Swan, and he's Sophie's cognate. They're cognates. And everyone expects them to be a couple.

He's supposed to love her. He can't.

They would be a perfect couple, if only he could feel what he was supposed to.

He can't.

The point is, Fitz is perfect. He's sunshine, blue skies. Flawless. Golden.

Fitz Vacker is perfect. And he can't shake the feeling that perfection is a cage.

---

Keefe Sencen is anything but perfect.

It's obvious from the very moment they meet. Keefe is too loud, too energetic, too obnoxious. He barely pays any attention in his classes and lands in detention every other day. Taking anything seriously seems to be impossible for him. Even his appearance, with messed up hair and the way he "forgets" his cape, reflect on his personality.

Alden disapproves immediately. Keefe would never be a good influence for Fitz, could get him in trouble, damage his reputation. Blah, blah, blah. He does make sense, too; Fitz is a Vacker, and he's the golden boy, so he can only be surrounded by the best. Which likely doesn't include Keefe. But after one conversation with that boy, he finds himself inviting him over to Everglen after school.

After that, they're inseparable, no matter what Alden says.

And Keefe is still far from perfect. He hides everything in jokes and spends too much time obviously crushing on Sophie. (A fact that gives Fitz a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He isn't sure why; maybe it would be weird if two of his best friends started dating?) Keefe's mom is part of the Neverseen and the council banished him to Exillium and he makes reckless decisions.

Odds are, Keefe is a ticking time bomb, and Fitz needs to get away. That's what his brain tells him to do. Then, Keefe tells him Lord Cassius's theory on head and heart emotions, and something clicks. In his head, he wants Keefe gone. In his heart, he needs Keefe to stay.

Shit, he thinks.

Keefe is anything but perfect. He's a hurricane, a natural disaster. Flawed. Broken glass.

Keefe Sencen is anything but perfect. And Fitz cares about Keefe way to much to ever let it come between them. Shit.

---

Fitz nearly dies once, a time most people have forgotten about. He remembers it perfectly.

It's soon after he, Sophie, Dex, Biana, and... Keefe, though Fitz doesn't yet know why he has the ellipses, run away to join the Black Swan in Allavuterre. When they break into Exile to visit Prentice, and the Council comes to stop them. It's the most stupid way to nearly die, but a giant bug stabs Fitz. An arthopleura, eight feet tall and full of poison, stabs him.

And he nearly dies.

Even though he doesn't have a photographic memory, the time plays out perfectly in his mind- everything suddenly aches, he can barely breathe and the world swims before his eyes. His brain feels foggy, clouded by the poison. Through the fog, he can only think of one thing. A name, that he clings to like a lifeline.

And it should be Sophie's name. It should be Sophie's name. He's usually perfect enough to keep control of his thoughts, make sure he wants the right thing and doesn't spend too much time ever longing for the wrong thing.

In his poisoned state, that sort of control is gone, and all he can think of is what he actually wants.

Keefe.

The name echoes in his mind, over and over. When he feels himself only at his last point of consciousness, Keefe's name is still repeating, but he doesn't remember what it means.

Who's Keefe? he thinks.

A memory tickles at the back of his mind. Keefe... he... I... I think I'm in love with him.

He gives into the poison, consciousness gone.

---

When he wakes up, his head still feels foggy and slow. Keefe's name is still there, and it doesn't take long for the rest of Fitz's memories to come slotting into place. I think I'm in love with him.

Where the fuck had that thought come from?

Fitz isn't in love with Keefe. He can't be. He isn't. Fitz is the perfect Vacker, the golden boy. He's going to marry someone on his match list that his father approves of, and then he's going to further the Vacker family name and not dishonor generations of Vackers before him. He'll continue being perfect, something that can't happen if he loves Keefe. Because Keefe is so far from perfect, nothing like anyone those generations of Vackers want him to marry. He's chaotic and disobedient and, well, a boy.

If Fitz is to be perfect, he can't like Keefe.

And he will be perfect.

No, he is.

---

His friends come in, full of concerns and well wishes. Keefe comes in carrying Mr. Snuggles, and thought he's laughing at Fitz, all Fitz can think about is how cute his laugh is, how Keefe hasn't smiled in so long and he's so happy that Keefe is happy. Keefe lights up Fitz's world, and after a bug-induced realization, Fitz notices that Keefe is... well, really hot.

Don't think about that.

Eventually, the rest of his friends leave, and Livvy gives him various elixirs. Della and Biana stay behind, but eventually, Livvy and Della have to talk about something, and he's left alone with Biana.

Biana smirks. "Does Fitzy have a crush?"

His face burns. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Please," she scoffs. "You've been making heart eyes ever since our friends came in. Spill."

"I don't- I'm not-"

"Fitz, you're a terrible liar. Come on, just admit you like Sophie."

Sophie. Yes, he likes Sophie. Sophie is the Moonlark, the most powerful elf; just who the perfect Vacker boy should like. She's pretty, and she's a girl, and she's just as perfect as he is. They're meant to be together.

---

"Yes," he lies. "Fine. I like Sophie. I realized it after almost dying. Happy now?"

"Very."

"But don't... don't tell her." Fitz knows that Sophie has a crush on him; no matter how hard she tries to keep it a secret, it's fairly obvious. He doesn't want her thinking that he likes her, though, because then they'd have to date, and he wouldn't like her. Well, he likes her a lot, but not like that. He likes her enough to not lead her on like that.

Biana gives him a strange look. "You know she likes you, right?"

Shit. Now he has to think of a lie, and as Biana pointed out, he's not good at lying. "I'm... I don't really want a relationship right now. While we're dealing with the Neverseen and all that. I kind of just want to wait, and I'm worried Sophie will take that as I don't like her."

He feels Biana's eyes on him for a long time, but she finally nods. "Makes sense. I'm gonna go... get some sleep, Fitz."

When she leaves, he feels like he can finally exhale. He was nearly caught with a crush on Keefe Sencen, of all people. He managed to lie and divert the attention to Sophie... but that was fucking hard.

It shouldn't be hard. He should forget all about Keefe right now, before he falls in deeper, and like Sophie instead. That's what he has to do, to be perfect again.

And yet... he can't shake the feeling that, if he wasn't a Vacker, if he wasn't stuck in the cage of perfection... he would love to be with Keefe.

That didn't matter. Whether he likes it or not, Fitz is in his cage of perfection, so he can't want Keefe.

He can't. Because he's perfect.

---

As the world continues on, with a mess of Neverseen attacks and near death experiences and drama with their friends, Keefe Sencen never fucking leaves Fitz's head. His stupid smirk and stupid Hair and stupid, stupidly imperfect beauty. He's so stupidly funny and caring and brilliant, and oh, Fitz is so stupidly in love.

It's infuriating.

And yes, he's well aware it's kind of an asshole move, but ever since he recovered from the bug stabbing incident and the feelings for Keefe didn't go away, he's been avoiding him. Every second he spends with Keefe makes him fall even deeper in love. And as he falls deeper in love, he comes closer and closer to falling off his throne.

He can't risk that.

Even strained conversations are difficult. Fitz feels something he can't name, a combination of fury and frustration and love bubbling up in his chest, and he sometimes thinks he'll explode if he doesn't scream it. I'm in love with Keefe. I'm in love with Keefe.

But he can't scream it. So he'll just have to stay away.

Keefe thinks he's jealous, that he and Sophie have something going on, because he thinks Fitz likes Sophie. Fitz is jealous whenever Keefe and Sophie are together, it's true. He wishes he were jealous of Keefe. It's safer to have him believe that. Safer to stay away.

It kills him.

But he can't have both Keefe and perfection, and he's chosen perfection.

---

The perfection he wants (this isn't what he wants, he wants Keefe, he's never wanted this) comes in the form of Sophie Elizabeth Foster and a walk through Everglen. They're discussing matchmaking, dangerous territory- and then the danger becomes real, tipping Fitz into the deep end of a conversation he'd rather avoid.

Sophie starts crying. He's not an idiot; he knows why.

Because she thinks he'll never like her.

(And she's right. He can't like her. He can't like girls.)

Before he can think it through, the words are out of his mouth: "I want it to be you," he blurts. "I want it to be you. On my match list." It's not a lie. He wants her on his match list, and him to be on hers, so they can be matched, and together... and, well, married, as horrifying as that thought is. Married to Sophie. Together for eternity.

(That sounds like a nightmare. He loves her, but not like that. The mere thought of spending eternity together feels like he's already trapped. Caged within perfection.)

He wants to want Sophie like that. And that means he wants her, right?

(He wants Keefe.)

This is what he wants, he reminds himself, as he leans towards her, ready to kiss. He'd never admit it to anyone, but when they're interrupted by Silveny, he's overwhelmingly relieved.

No he isn't.

This is what he wants.

---

He's relieved again when he and Sophie break up. And terrified. She was his safety net, and now, when he falls for Keefe, nothing is going to catch him. Then, he regrets feeling any bit of relief- what kind of boyfriend does that make him?

A gay one.

That's what he is, isn't he? He's not perfect. He's gay. And he thought it would go away. It hasn't. It isn't going to. He's gay, he's gay for Keefe Sencen, and he'll never be perfect. Never be fucking perfect. Unless he pushes the feelings down until he forgets about them. Unless he never tells anyone. Unless he bites his tongue and marries a woman and does everything exactly right. Never slips up. Convinces himself, and everyone else, that he's... normal.

Not just normal.

Perfect.

Fucking perfect.

His plans to repress all Keefe-related emotions fails horribly within a few days. Keefe, the fucking idiot, manages to get himself in a coma, and now Fitz doesn't know whether he'll wake up, and dammit, even ignoring Keefe was better than this. 

He just wants Keefe back, even if it'll be harder to be perfect.

---

The universe rewards him, the time he spends by Keefe's bedside whispering I'll stay away from him, I won't fall in love, I'll forget all about him, if he can stay alive works, or maybe it was just luck. Either way, Keefe is awake.

At first, he has no idea what to feel. Overwhelmingly happy, for one. It's hard to push that down.

He's your best friend. It's normal to feel happy about your best friend not dying. It's fine. This is fine. You're fine.

You're still perfect.

Then, everything spirals very quickly, and it turns out Keefe's mother- shit, Fitz hates her- has managed to ruin everything once again. Fantastic. Now Keefe is scared of himself, and if Fitz is being honest, he's a little scared... but then again, he was always scared of Keefe, wasn't he? Scared of how his laugh made Fitz feel like he'd won a million lusters and how he could be so imperfect yet so wonderful and how sometimes, Fitz thought maybe, it'd be worth it to not be perfect, as long as they could be together.

And scared of how he can't stop thinking about Keefe, so he buys flowers- fucking flowers- and goes to visit him at Elwin's house.

Elwin opens the door. He glances at Fitz, then the flowers, then Fitz again, and smiles knowingly. Fitz wants to shrink into a hole, knowing that Elwin knows- or even suspects- his secret, that he's so far from perfect. Elwin doesn't think of it as a bad thing, though. It's still terrifying. "Keefe is in his room," he says. Fitz nods, not trusting his voice, and walks up the stairs.

---

Keefe opens the door. "Elwin, I said I'd- you're not Elwin."

"Not unless something very confusing just happened, no," Fitz agrees.

"What are you doing here?"

Fitz swallows. "I came to check on you," he says. Then he holds out the flowers. "And to give you these." Keefe stares at the flowers for a long time, long enough to make Fitz extremely uneasy. Oh why did I do this, this was so stupid, Keefe thinks it's stupid, it obviously is, and now Elwin knows, or at least suspects, and maybe Keefe suspects too, and why am I such a fucking idiot? But Keefe takes the flowers eventually.

"Thanks."

The word is clipped, not particularly grateful, but Fitz lets his eyes meet Keefe's and he seems sincere. "No problem." Awkwardly, he shuffles his feet. "How are you?"

"I'm... I'm alright, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay." When Fitz nods, Keefe gives a small smile. "How about you? I heard you and Foster broke up."

Truth be told, Fitz had nearly forgotten about that, which didn't bode well for his whole Yes, I definitely like girls act he was trying to do. "I'm... I think it was the right decision for us. Can I tell you a secret?" he blurts, the last sentence not planned. He hopes Keefe will say no, but of course he says yes, so Fitz swallows. "I don't think I ever liked her, really. I mean, I like her a lot. But not like that. Never like that. I've never liked a girl like that."

Instantly, Fitz regrets specifying a girl, but that was the only way to keep it truthful. Despite that, he regrets not lying as he watches Keefe connect the dots. "You like me, don't you?" Before Fitz can say anything, really even register the question, Keefe continues "It's not bad if you do. In fact, it's good, because I... I like you. A lot. Like that. So it's okay to tell me if you like me. And I promise I won't tell anyone unless you're alright with it."

Fitz nods. Almost in a whisper, he answers "I like you. I... I really like you, so much, so much it physically aches, but Keefe, I can't. You know I can't."

A look Fitz can't quite decipher comes over Keefe, a mixture of pain and anger and joy and... determination. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispers, before cupping Fitz's face. Even before their lips touch, Fitz knows it's so unlike the times he and Sophie almost kissed. This time, it feels exactly right.

It feels perfect.

That word, that fucking word, draws Fitz back abruptly away. "I can't," he repeats, taking a step back towards the door. Twists the doorknob. "I can't. I'm sorry, Keefe, but I can't."

Keefe nods. "I know. You have to be perfect." He doesn't sound angry; just resigned.

"I have to be perfect," Fitz agrees, and he leaves.

---

Once again, the world continues on. Keefe slowly begins trusting himself around other people again. Fitz still doesn't trust himself around Keefe. If they're too close for too long, he thinks he might just disregard everything and kiss him again. He thought it was hard before, but after he knows who fucking wonderful it is to kiss Keefe, it's nearly impossible. Keefe is like a drug, and Fitz has to do everything he can not to relapse.

So he stays away.

They fight the Neverseen a few more times. Nearly die once or twice. Elwin basically adopts Keefe. He and Sophie work to rebuild their trust as cognates, but it's hard, because now he's keeping such a big secret.

I never liked you.

I don't like girls.

I'm gay.

I like Keefe.

I kissed Keefe once.

He can't tell her any of that. Can't tell anyone. Keefe is the only person who knows, and even that is far too many people. He has to trust that Keefe won't tell anyone- though Keefe doesn't have as much to lose from it, it can't be good for him either. And Sophie... she's a really good friend, but he still... he can't. He just can't.

Even as their friendship repairs itself, they never date again. He's glad.

And disappointed.

Because he really needs a safety net, now more than ever.

---

Alden convinces him to get a match list, one without Sophie on it. One with a hundred girls, each one of them someone he can never love. Maybe he'll find one he likes well enough. And he can pretend to love her until he's convinced everyone, including himself. A new safety net.

A new mask of perfection.

He throws a Winnowing Gala then, mostly for the food. Unfortunately, he doesn't get to just eat the whole time. He has to dance with people, talk to them, hope to find some sort of spark. It never comes, of course. When he first met Keefe first, he knew that boy would be bad for him, but he couldn't stay away. Every moment talking to him felt like electricity. This is just... dull.

It's nearly torture.

Also, it's what the rest of his life is going to be like.

Fitz already knew perfection was a cage. He chose the cage instead of Keefe. Now he's living with the consequences. This was his choice, and he made his choice, but it's still... so hard. It feels like he's suffocating.

---

"I need some fresh air," he chokes out to the girl he's dancing with now. He can't even remember her name. She's nice, but nothing like Keefe. All of these girls blend together, because none of them are Keefe, and he's too focused on surviving the next few hours to concentrate on any of them.

Without waiting to here her response, he stumbles outside.

"Fitz?" a voice asks. He groans. Keefe. Why did it have to be Keefe?

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you too. I came to pine as you chose a girl to marry, of course. Didn't expect you to come outside."

Fitz groans, burying his head in his hands. "Sorry to snap at you. I just..."

"You hate this. You hate this so much."

"How do you know?"

"Empath. Also, I know you," Keefe says. Fitz sighs. They fall silent for a long time, but finally, Keefe speaks again. "I still... I can't stop thinking about the kiss. It feels like forever ago, and I still sometimes feel your lips on mine like some sort of phantom. All I can do is think about kissing you again. I really want to kiss you again. I... I really want you." He takes a breath, then resumes, cutting off whatever Fitz was about to say. "But I know. You can't. I understand."

"I... it doesn't feel like I can. At all. But..." Fitz took a deep breath, gesturing at Everglen. "I can't do this either. I can't keep doing this, pretending to be perfect."

Keefe tilted his head to the side. "Fitz?"

"I'm done pretending," Fitz said, and he kissed Keefe once again.

Perfect.

---

When they finally separate, Keefe's ice blue eyes are wide, pupils dilated. "That was... incredible." He touches his fingers to his lips, never taking his eyes off Fitz. Fitz can't see himself, but he's sure he looks just as lovestruck. He's wanted this for years, and finally, finally...

"I want to tell people," Fitz says, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. He didn't plan to say that, but repeats it. "I want to tell people about... about us."

"You know there's no going back after that," Keefe says, the beautiful smile on his face widening anyway.

Fitz nods. "I know. I don't want to go back. I told you, I'm done pretending."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." He pauses. "Unless you don't want to?"

After a quick kiss that makes little fireworks go off in Fitz's head, he smiles again and says "No, I want to. Do you know what you're going to say?" Fitz shakes his head. "Just making it up as you go along. That works. Honestly, the best way to do things. Can I come in with you?" In response, Fitz takes Keefe's hand in his and squeezes it. "Great. Let's go."

With every step Fitz takes, he knows his time being perfect is running out. He's never been happier.

---

"I want to thank you all for coming tonight," Fitz says, waiting for the room to fall silent from the talking and laughing and music. While he waits, his eyes meet Keefe's. His boyfriend's. Keefe smiles, and he gives a tentative smile in return. His stomach flips with anxiety, and doubts of Do I really want to do this? start to creep back in. He briefly closes his eyes and lets the memory of the kiss wash over him, and it's the only thing to get them to go away.

Distantly, he hears a girl whisper-scream "Is he about to propose to someone?"

He clears his throat and continues. "I've really enjoyed getting to speak of all of you and get to know you. Unfortunately..." he swallows. "None of you... my perfect match. There's nothing wrong with any of you, and if I could be attracted to any of you, I would have some good options to choose from. But... I'm not attracted to girls. Any girls. At all."

Behind him, he hears his father hissing "Fitz, what are you doing?"

"Let him finish," his mom murmurs, voice low.

After letting his eyes drift back to Keefe, he takes a deep breath and blurts it out to the entire room. It's been bubbling up in him for so long, with no one knowing, and by tomorrow, everyone in the Lost Cities will know. That's terrifying. But strangely liberating. No more pretending. "I'm gay."

"Fitzroy," his father snaps, instantly. "Stop talking at once."

"No."

"Fitzroy Avery Vacker-"

"No," Fitz repeats, meeting Alden's eyes and ignoring every voice of wisdom telling him to look away. "No. I'm done pretending. And I'm done being perfect. I'm gay, and I'm in love with Keefe, and you're just going to have to fucking deal with that."

---

Without waiting for a response, he turns and walks over to Keefe, collapsing into a hug. "I'm proud of you," he hears in a whisper.

"That was terrifying," he breathes.

"I know. But it's going to be okay."

Fitz tangles his hands in Keefe's stupidly beautiful hair and meets their lips in another earth shattering kiss. "I love you."

"I love you too, Wonderboy."

Things won't ever be perfect again. Alden and Della divorce, and though neither of them says it, Fitz knows it's his fault. Keefe's father is furious, which he knows upsets Keefe even though he lives with Elwin now. Some elves are supportive, and some even come out after Fitz- including Sophie and Biana, who have apparently been dating for months- but other elves whisper about the gay Vacker boy, and how unfortunate it is for the family. The Council has been arguing for months about whether or not Fitz should be allowed to be matched with Keefe. Fighting the Neverseen is still a necessity, and they keep getting hurt.

Things won't ever be perfect again. Fitz won't be "perfect" again.

But it doesn't matter whether he's perfect. He's happy.

#simone types things #keefitz #kotlc #fitz vacker #divorce alden vacker 2021 #cursing tw #internalized homophobia tw #shai's writing

[megashadowdragon]

coldhands identity is brave danny flint

Could Coldhands be Brave Danny Flint? It sounds crackpot, and very likely is, but the more I thought about it the more it appealed to me. I've done a quick search, one or two people seem to have floated this before but it's never had much in-depth analysis. This is my first meta, so please be gentle and C&C welcome.

The Gender Agenda To start with, I'll start with the elephant in the room - Danny Flint was a girl, Coldhands is male. Or is he? Gilly, Meera, and Bran all refer to him as male, but they have no idea who he is, so would see Night's Watch clothes and assume. He wears a scarf over his face, and while they can see his eyes and that his face is pale, it took Bran's gang a decent amount of time to work out he was a walking corpse, so I'm not sure I trust them to figure out niceties like gender. Leaf's "They killed him long ago" is more of a problem - she's a colleague, she would probably know. My best defence is that maybe Children of the Forest don't do gender in the same way as humans? This feels like a reach, but we have had another magical species with sexual fluidity leading to trouble with pronouns in the series. Otherwise, Leaf tends to hang out in the cave, Coldhands can't get in, maybe they're just not that close. Finally, the main person to ask - Coldhands his or her self. The only other post I could see on reddit about this theory had someone respond with the quote "Once the heart has ceased to beat, a man's blood runs down into his extremities, where it thickens and congeals. His hands and feet swell up and turn as black as pudding. The rest of him becomes as white as milk", but I'd point out this is in third person and a generalization - "a man", not "me, Coldhands, the man".

Okay, now I've convinced everyone my theory is terrible, let's get into the meat of it.

Hands cold as stone This was what got me into this rabbit hole in the first place - House Flint's sigil is "A grey stone hand upon a white inverted pall on paly black and grey". A stone hand would be pretty cold, right? In point of fact, when we first met Coldhands, the final line of the chapter describes "fingers hard as stone." On top of that, the white and black background seems to fit the Night's Watch blacks, pale face, black hands, white snow, etc.

Who the hell else could it be? This has always been the weird thing about Coldhands for me. Honestly, there's a very good chance this is a non mystery mystery, he's a zombie Night's watch ranger riding an elk, do we really need a secret identity? However, "who is Coldhands?" is one of the most commonly asked questions in the fandom, so let's assume it's getting an answer. We know: a) night's watch member b) killed a long time ago, as reckoned by a 200 year old, c) not Benjen. There are essentially 3 historical periods where we know any specifics about the Night's Watch: 1) the long night/age of heroes, 2) Targaryen era, 3) recent history. If we work through these backwards, we can pretty much rule out the recent era for not meeting the criteria of "killed a long time ago". The Targaryen era didn't have much Night's Watch drama, a few kings sent to the wall at Aegon's conquest, Raymun Redbeard's invasion is wall related but the whole point of that story is that the Night's Watch failed to really get involved... the only strong contender from this period is a mysterious magical Targaryen bastard who went to the wall and went missing... but he's the other mysterious good zombie wandering around up north. The long night has a lot of Night's Watch focus, but it was 10,000 years ago. Allowing for this being in-universe exaggeration, it's still ~2,000 years ago, and if Coldhands were that old, I'm not sure he'd be in elk-riding mutineer-killing form, or at least not look passably human to Bran and co. This rules out specific timeline characters, which leaves more folkloric characters like Danny Flint, who isn't associated to any one point in time. There's a song, and she's treated as a well-known tale, which implies a fairly long time, but overall could be whenever. This works for any of the folkloric Night's Watch characters, but the Rat King is already otherwise occupied with a different cannibalistic pseudo immortality, leaving Mad Axe, who does have the massacring fellow brothers down pat, but doesn't feel thematically right to me. This section really grew in the writing, but TL;DR - assuming Coldhands is someone we've heard of before, no specific historical figures seem to match up chronologically, leaving figures from folk tales and songs, which there are only so many of.

Mutineer Massacre For a character we've all obsessed over so much, it's easy to forget how little we've seen of Coldhands. His role in the story has effectively been "transport Sam and Gilly to the wall, transport Bran and co to Bloodraven, massacre the Night's Watch mutineers". Hold up, one of those things is not like the others. During his quest to get Bran to Bloodraven, to awake the messiah and save the world, Coldhands takes a break and makes a detour to kill the Night's Watch Mutineers from Crasters. This is explicitly noted to be something they slow down for, when time is critical. Admittedly, it secures the party some delicious Long Pork when supplies are low, but even in aDwD it seems like there are other ways to get meat than to hunt humans, besides which he kills not one but five mutineers. He claims it is because the mutineers are following them, but Meera points out they've been circling for days - it seems Coldhands deliberately sought the mutineers out. The brutality of the kills also suggests more than utilitarian pragmatism - there are entrails slung through branches and severed heads! All of this to say, Coldhands is deliberately shown as both a member of the Night's Watch, and willing/going out of his way to punish Night's Watch brothers who break their vows and harm their fellow brothers, something Danny Flint might take personally. Basically, it's a classic exploitation movie with an elk-riding zombie as the wronged woman hunting down wrongdoers. Someone call Tarantino to direct this.

A True Night's Watch One of the big themes GRRM loves is the idea that outsiders to an institution can be the truest embodiment of that institution - Dunk and Brienne are the truest Knights, Davos is the truest lord, the Manderlys are the most loyal northerners. Coldhands already seems to tie into this - the Night's Watch are tireless defenders from the Others and their Wights, so ironically the staunchest ranger is undead as well. It would only emphasise this theme if this ultimate Night's Watch ranger was someone who was barred from entry, had to sneak in, and was murdered by their brothers for not belonging. There also seems to be a thematic tie in that Danny Flint had to essentially infiltrate the Night's Watch and keep her cover in hostile terrain, much like Coldhands in the Others controlled north.

Bonding over being murdered by your brothers Coldhands has so far been very much one of Bran's cast, but it's worth noting characters can switch storylines, and we have someone else in the North who can soon relate to being a back-from-the-dead Night's Watchman fighting the Others - I'm hardly the first to note the Coldhands/Jon parallels, but Coldhands being another character who was murdered by the Night's Watch due to their conservatism and hatred of outsiders would add another layer.

Miscellany A couple of quotes I found while researching for this: “Did Mance ever sing of Brave Danny Flint?” “Not as I recall. Who was he?” (ADWD Jon XII) - Tormund and Jon talking, Tormund mistaking Danny Flint for a man, this feels like one of those throw-away lines GRRM likes to include to make a little double meaning once the truth is out, or just seeding the idea of mistaking Danny Flint for a man. “The ranger wore the black of the Night’s Watch, but what if he was not a man at all?" (ADWD Bran I) - again, I could see GRRM giggling as he typed that if this theory were true.

Conclusion Honestly, there is every chance this is absolute nonsense, and I've just lost it waiting for TWoW. I tend to lean towards Coldhands not having a big identity reveal, he's an undead ranger co-opted by Bloodraven and that's enough. However, if Coldhands is to have an identity reveal, I think Danny Flint deserves consideration: there aren't that many viable candidates, her story is emotionally intense enough and has been referred to often enough that a casual fan could be expected to go "oh!" instead of "...let me google that", and it would fit with existing themes of the story. The angle of Jon parallels even gives an opening for the reveal to be natural and facilitate character and thematic arcs, which is what I look for in a theory.

comment on reddit

Yeah, the Flint (of Flint's Finger) sigil literally being a Cold Hand is what sold me on this when I started looking into it. There's also some other intriguing textual stuff about it...

The weird thing about Danny Flint is that she is only mentioned three times in all of ASOIAF. Three! Bran recounts her tale in Bran IV, ASOS; Theon hears Wyman Manderly demand her song in The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD; and Jon discusses her tale with Tormund in Jon XII, ADWD.

This was kind of shocking to me. Danny Flint is a pretty recognizable name to, I’d figure, the majority of attentive readers. I thought she must have been mentioned before the third book, at least, but… nope. Her tale is first introduced to us in Bran IV, ASOS, the Nightfort chapter… Oh, what’s that? Wait, isn’t that… the very same Nightfort chapter where we first hear about Coldhands? (Well, no, actually, he appears at the end of Samwell III before that, but this is the first chapter where he is identified as Coldhands.) Chronologically, Sam meets Coldhands, Bran thinks about Danny Flint, and then Sam introduces Bran to Coldhands, in fairly quick succession.

So it seems GRRM came up with Danny Flint and Coldhands around the exact same time. Interesting. Danny Flint is then not mentioned again until ADWD, when the Coldhands mystery is developed further. Double interesting.

Also, the Bran chapter directly preceding the Nightfort chapter– our first introduction to Danny Flint– is the one where Meera tells him the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, another tale of a northern warrior woman dressing as a man and hiding her face in service of some greater goal. Stretch? Maybe.

And why would Coldhands' face be covered at all if there WASN'T some big reveal upcoming? What utility would that have? That scarf clearly seems like a setup for SOMETHING. He doesn't need it for warmth. He's likely hiding a face that would make him recognizable to Bran/Meera/Jojen (and the readers), but died long ago... the only way that reveal could work without a ton of laborious exposition is if he took off the scarf and it was obviously a 'female' face, making it obviously Danny. It also seems likely Coldhands will interact with at least Bran and Meera again, both of whom are somewhat connected to Danny Flint’s story– Bran via his love of stories and legends, and Meera via the breaking of gender roles. So there's thematic levels to it as well.

source www . reddit . com/r/asoiaf/comments/llwm8m/coldhands_identity_spoilers_extended/

#asoiaf #A Song of Ice and Fire #asoiaf theories #asoiaf theory #asoiaf coldhands #danny flint

[midshipmank]

i wanted LWJ with a motorcycle & somehow ended up with this librarian!LWJ & art student!WWX au

LWJ is a librarian at a public library 

WWX met LWJ when he returned some books 3 months late

LWJ looked at him all judgy like “these are 3 months late,” & WWX promptly became obsessed 

WWX is now a much more responsible library user, mostly because he’s there all the time

but listen he’s not great at focusing in the library, that’s why he doesn’t even use the one on campus. so now he’s his usual amount of restless + distracted by LWJ

trying to figure out how to make a move 

meanwhile LWJ is just like “do not throw crumpled pieces of paper through the air”

some of those crumpled pieces of paper are failed sketches of LWJ

one day WWX stays all the way to closing because LWJ PRETTY OKAY? also he has an art theory paper due pls don’t talk to him about it

so anyway he’s there when the library is closing & LWJ is like “leave”

so he goes :((( but he’s so late LWJ practically follows him out 

which 

is when WWX discovers that that pretty white & blue motorcycle that’s always parked out front?

that’s Lan Wangji’s 

he absolutely loses his mind

all of his friends know about his ridiculous librarian crush by now & they all make fun of him for it

but anyway, the poor boy has it bad

he’s like “A-Cheng, you don’t understand, he could step on me & i’d thank him. actually i think i need him to step on me.” 

JC is like “i did Not want to know that”

meanwhile WWX is bemoaning the fact that he ever became a responsible library user

“how am i supposed to interact with him. i can’t return books late anymore bc i’m always there! what would my excuse be? & he’s already explained how to use their database to me 3 times, i can’t keep looking this dumb” 

JYL is very gently like “maybe just ask him out?” 

“but he doesn’t like me! i committed library crimes! i have to get him to like me first!”

then WWX sees a flyer in the lobby asking for volunteers. there’s gonna be an event in the kids section! for some special reading day! who tf knows, WWX doesn’t care, the point is, he’s good with kids. that would probably be appealing to LWJ. right? right? WWX really doesn’t know. LWJ is so hard to read. on the one hand, he’s the most tight-laced & responsible person WWX has ever met. on the other, he has a very sexy motorcycle. WWX doesn’t know what to do with that

but okay he has a plan

he calls up WQ & goes “can i borrow A-Yuan”

he already babysits A-Yuan every week, so it’s not that weird right?

WQ is like “i stg WWX if you are going to use A-Yuan to attract hot guys like in that movie with the people who love dogs....”

& WWX is like “i would never use A-Yuan like a dog! WQ do you even know me!” 

he gets A-Yuan, barely

anyway, he gets to the library ready to read to a bunch of kids & gets side-eyed by a lot of parents, but he still has fun!!

LWJ is, unfortunately, not the librarian supervising the event, but he is reshelving when WWX is off reading duty & A-Yuan gets the zoomies

ie, zooms right into LWJ’s legs

LWJ is, surprisingly, good with kids. WWX may need to marry him. he somehow manages not to make a complete fool of himself after this revelation

in fact, after this interaction, WWX thinks he may actually have scored some points with LWJ. he’s elated

he’s building all these elaborate future schemes in his head when suddenly he gets a call from Auntie Yu

she wants to know why his grade in his art theory class has plummeted. 

oh right. that class. that class that’s taught by that professor who hates him & that he honestly can’t understand a word of & honestly he hates art theory, he’s good at art, why does he have to take theory too? 

Auntie Yu lets him know in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t improve his grades by the end of the semester, she will stop supporting him—it’s bad enough that they let him go to art school after he flunked out of his business degree anyway 

so—fuck. fuck. 

WWX throws himself into the redo paper he manages to beg off LQR. he has 3 days & he’s gonna make them count 

the first day goes well, if by well you mean that he raids the art section of the library & works himself until closing & tries desperately not to look like he’s dying in front of LWJ

day 2 goes........similarly, except he falls asleep at his desk & doesn’t wake up until LWJ tells him the library is closing, which? wtf? LWJ usually wakes him up when he falls asleep in the library. WWX has been asleep for hours. 

& also he looks like a wreck, which is not cute

he flees from the library only to find that the bus is going..... going......... gone

fuck. he doesn’t have a car. 

he’s staring down the road after the bus, trying to figure out which friend with a car is available for him to call when he hears someone say “Wei Ying?” behind him

it’s Lan Zhan.

how mortifying. 

he tries to laugh off his situation, but LWJ gets this set expression on his face & says, “i will give you a ride home” 

& WWX is like kinda definitely freaking out because this was not how his first ride on LWJ’s sexy motorcycle was supposed to go. WWX had a plan. he was supposed to be flirtatious & ask LWJ about his bike & then LWJ would offer to give WWX a ride & they’d go all around the scenic parts of the city & when they stopped WWX would be all flustered & breathless & he’d wobble getting off the bike & maybe fall into LWJ & maybe—

okay so his plan was more like a daydream, but at the very least, he wasn’t supposed to look like he’d spent the last 48hrs out of the sun, drinking unhealthy amounts of shitty coffee, wearing a ratty hoodie & art-grimed jeans. like, they’re not even grimey in a cute way

but LWJ is insistent & WWX is weak, so somehow he ends up on the back of the bike wearing LWJ’s helmet with LWJ telling him to hold on tight

he’s half-convinced he’s fallen asleep on the bus stop bench & is dreaming the whole thing

but soon enough, it’s over & they’re stopped outside of WWX’s shitty student accommodations

he gets off & is trying to awkwardly thank LWJ when LWJ says, “you’ve seemed upset these past 2 days”

“ahaha, yeah, i’m just writing a paper”

“for an art theory class?”

WWX is like ????? but then he remembers that LWJ knows what books he checks out 

“yeah. it’s a redo actually. professor Lan hates me.” he forces a laugh. why did he say that. being hated by a professor is not cute, especially not to sexy librarian LWJ. 

“my uncle has high expectations,” LWJ says. 

WWX brain short circuits. 

“your uncle???” shit shit shit Lan Qiren is LWJ’s uncle! LWJ’s uncle hates him! he has no chance now! 

“mn.” 

WWX wants to die

LWJ looks considering, then says, “it is my day off tomorrow. if you would like, i can help you with the paper.”

WWX is already the least cute, most pathetic version of himself he’s ever been in his life. he says yes. 

so they meet up at the library the next day & WWX apologizes profusely for making LWJ come into work when it’s his day off. he promises LWJ endless free coffee from the coffeeshop he works at (even if he has to pay for it himself—he doesn’t tell LWJ that part). 

LWJ is way too nice to him & also manages to explain this school of art theory in a way that?? sort of?? makes sense?? though not in a way that makes WWX like it. but LWJ seems neutral about it, so at least he’s not trying to get WWX to agree with it. 

but anyway, WWX manages to pull a passable paper together & in the process LWJ reveals that he’s noticed WWX sketching in the library a lot more than WWX realized, and that he likes WWX’s art. 

WWX is lightheaded

he stares at LWJ for a while & LWJ looks at him & says, “Wei Ying. you should be typing.” 

WWX gets the paper done by 5pm somehow. somehow! he sends it off to LQR with a groan of relief. he’s so tired his bones are aching, but he looks over at LWJ, art theory & citation king, who of course always looks perfect & beautiful, & goes, “i could kiss you.” 

instead of “i don’t know how i’m ever going to thank you for this,” which is what he thought he was gonna say

LWJ’s eyes widen slightly & his ears go red. WWX wants to smack himself in the face. he wants to eat his words. he wants to crawl into a cramped dark place like a disgusting little mole & never see the sun again.

then LWJ says, “have dinner with me first.” 

WWX gapes at him. LWJ looks back, ears still red but eyes steady. 

“okay,” WWX squeaks. 

they go to dinner. WWX still feels like trash, but they end up having a rousing discussion about art & WWX learns all about when LWJ studied art history in undergrad & how he actually doesn’t like the kind of theory his uncle teaches (“but you’re too good to ever tell him that,” WWX teases. “....most of the time.” WWX laughs in delight.) 

LWJ reveals that he brought an extra helmet today, in case WWX needed a ride again. WWX is embarrassed & pleased & wants to marry LWJ again. feeling foolish, he leans into LWJ flirtatiously & suggests they go for a ride—just for the view. LWJ looks at him so long his knees turn to jelly. then LWJ says, “mn.” 

they make out on some scenic ridge somewhere

the end! 

other things about this au:

WWX does digital painting mostly, his ideal job is illustration/comics; he has a instagram/patreon he uses for art commissions (some of which are pornographic—LWJ catches him sketching in the library one day, early in this tableau. it does not go well.) 

his instagram/patreon is mostly anonymous. it’s not that he minds people knowing he draws explicit stuff sometimes, it’s that he doesn’t want Auntie Yu to find out 

he draws LWJ a lot

not explicitly

(at least not until he’s got a life model and LWJ’s consent)

he’s not at the library 24/7. he has a coffeeshop job, classes, studio time for non-digital art, A-Yuan, and friends. but he’s at the library a lot.

this is undergrad for WWX, but he’s non-trad. he flunked out of a soul-sucking business degree in his first go at undergrad & was on pretty shaky ground with the Jiang family for a while. then he sold some of his art & Auntie Yu said they would support him through art school if it was the only thing he was good at. kinda stung, but at least he doesn’t have to pay tuition.

he’s desperate to prove he can make it as an artist

when anyone asks LWJ about his bike, he says he got it because it allows him to weave around traffic. yes, there’s more to it than that, but no he won’t go into it. (this entire au formed because i found out WYB rides motorcycles professionally & went, “wow that’s hot.” we have no thoughts here.) 

WWX did not have to try to make LWJ like him. LWJ liked him. & while WWX might not have gotten his ideal first bike ride, you better believe LWJ got his. he daydreams about scooping WWX onto his bike & riding off into the sunset

#posting as a bullet point fic bc while i wanna write it as a real oneshot i have other things i need to do & i think it works like this too #mdzs fic #mdzs #cql #wangxian #The Untamed #fanfic #my writing #idk what to tag it's literally been 4yrs since i posted fanfic here #my fanfic #author assumes art theory works similarly to lit theory in that some is great and some is bs #author clearly grew up in the les mis fandom #also has anyone read juliet takes a breath?

[grump-the-deer]

stuff about HDM ep 8 + overall season thoughts

in other words.....

FINALE TIME BITCHES

this episode was INCREDIBLE. A+++, perfection.

this is what I expected from the get-go, and what I got a lot of the time.

we got some great exposition + bonding double time with Asriel, some excellent portrayal of Asriel and Marisa’s relationship, plenty of dæmons being cool and adorable respectively (Pan and Salcilia running around playing anyone???), some STUNNING visuals, an epic little fight scene with the fire-hurlers and the zeppelins, some great culmination for Iorek and Lyra’s relationship, good ol’ Thorold development, some more Lyra & Roger development (ESPECIALLY the tent and end scenes - Roger’s death KILLED ME OH MY GOD) - just the perfect fuckin meal.

this was exceptional. round of applause for HDM.

(except the Will being 15 thing. what? why is he so old? he could pass for a tall 13- or 14-year-old. that makes it a little weird. I hope Lyra is supposed to be like 13 now then, idk. that’s still a pretty big difference at that age.)

I really have to wonder though - if they show they can do the above stuff perfectly, why didn’t they do it before???

the Bolvangar episode still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. this episode proves that they can make intercision horrific and emotional, and make it mean something with the dæmons interacting. Salcilia and Roger had good reactions - hell, Lyra reacting to remembering almost being separated from Pan was more emotional than the actual scene itself!! Roger’s death was HEARTBREAKING, thanks to his and his dæmon’s reactions!

they put the dæmons in enough, especially in speaking roles, that even when they weren’t around you didn’t really forget about them. I could always do with more background dæmons, but I can absolutely understand budget restraints - so long as you put them in enough. we need to feel they have an emotional impact on the characters. we need to feel like they ARE characters. not accessories.

Pan was a character in this episode. the things he says and do make an impact on the story. he was not a character in the Bolvangar episode, despite the fact that that was the MOST IMPORTANT episode for him to be around and active in.

they can do it right, but they didn’t. this series would be wonderful if they cut out that episode and reshot it and replaced it with a better take. hell, even just the intercision scene. it wouldn’t be perfect, but it would work.

so, overall:

HDM season 1 was a spectacular ride. the dæmons and bears look fantastic (when they’re actually in the shots), the voices are spot-on, the actors do a phenomenal job, and the writers actually added some interesting extra material and development.

some highlights for me are:

- Iorek and Lyra’s relationship. they got it absolutely perfect, if not better than the original. Iorek is perfectly stoic and bearlike and resolute, but Lyra earns his respect and even adoration, as best a bear can. it feels organic and has plenty of development scenes. just heartwarming.

- Lord Asriel all around. really awesome take on him, James MacAvoy loves him to pieces I can tell. he’s way better than the original, and that’s saying something. he’s got a lot more heart and I feel more connected to him despite him being a complete mad genius.

- Mrs. Coulter, for the most part. she’s got a bit of shaky characterization with Lyra towards the end - I’m not really certain of her motivations at the end - but generally she’s fascinating to watch on screen and absolutely horrible. I love her and I love Ruth Wilson as her. she’s positively uhinged. they did some really bold stuff with her character and her relationship with Lyra and I enjoyed every minute of it.

- Farder Coram ended up being great. he and Lyra are always a pleasure to watch interact. he really grew on me as soon as he started getting characterization, particularly with Serafina and the story of his son.

- the cinematography, lighting, set design, and graphics. I couldn’t ask for anything more. they went above and beyond and the framing and this world and its creatures look AMAZING. 10/10. hats off to the animation team in particular, of course.

- the acting. the acting is absolutely brilliant. particular standouts include Dafne Keen as Lyra, of course, James MacAvoy as Lord Asriel, Ruth Wilson as Mrs. Coulter, the voice of Iofur Raknison, and Farder Coram. honorable mention for Will, because he gets the character down so incredibly well.

- the respect for the source material. we’ve seen it blow up once with the Golden Compass movie, but this production obviously has every ounce of loyalty to the original. well, almost every ounce. the stuff they added ended up working very well and feeling organic to the original, and the stuff they kept, especially the verbatim lines, was delivered exceptionally. it’s clear they really care about the story they’re giving us.

- the opening credits are the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. a beautiful tribute to the magic of this series’ themes and world.

and some notably bad stuff, a couple that almost come close to ruining it for me:

- Lee Scoresby. an absolute mess. one moment he’s true to the original character and being sarcastic and selfish, and the next he’s stealing pocketwatches for funsies, yelling out his dangerous motivations in the middle of a town infested with armed Magisterium soldiers, and cooing over Lyra like she’s his flesh and blood and he got injected with Mother Hen Juice. he’s genuinely stupid. his characterization is all over the place. his “development” with Lyra is either nonexistent or rushed, and the only thing he actually does for the plot is fly the damn balloon for about 5 minutes tops. Hester is his only saving grace, and even she can’t do it all. I’m sorry Lin, I really love your work in Hamilton, but this was really disappointing. and I have to blame the writing mainly. they wouldn’t let Lin act a character, they had to shape the character around him. and the whole thing suffered for it.

- the intercision, and dæmon relationships. the Bolvangar episode wasn’t terrible overall, but it did not build up well to the intercision scene, and the episodes around it didn’t help either - especially the previous one. Billy’s death was not sad for me, because the middle of the show did not utilize dæmon relationships with their humans and dæmons as actual characters. we didn’t see them interacting enough with their people to matter consistently to us. the first couple of episodes did this bonding beautifully, even with budget restraints to how many dæmons could be in a shot, and how frequently they could come up. they showed us just enough for us to care about them and what they mean to their humans, particularly Pan and Lyra, and conveniently kept them out of frame when they weren’t necessary to the dialogue between humans.

they can do it properly, but they chose to let it fall by the wayside towards the middle, and it really shot the show in the foot. almost irreparably, I’d wager. Bolvangar, for all its masterful horror trope usage and suspense, was not nearly horrific enough nor emotional at all, thanks to the lack of buildup. we did not care about dæmons and their humans beyond knowing the humans are basically dead without them. there was no feeling behind the threat of Lyra and Pan getting split apart, other than Lyra becoming a shell. the focus was on Lyra and Mrs. Coulter’s relationship, which I don’t have a problem with - but not at the cost of Lyra and her dæmon. you know, the very FIRST line of the books? the main theme of the entire book? arguably the whole SERIES? dæmons as souls, as a person’s sense of free will and consciousness? kind of important to develop an emotional attachment to, don’t you think?

- the Gyptian leads (sans Farder Coram). Ma Costa was passable. she did a lot of crying and a lot of being desperate and pining for her son, and not a lot of kicking ass, proportionally. she didn’t come off as a strong boat mother at the center of her family with sway in her community. she came off as a wiry and lost soul who is somewhat capable but more interested in being depressed and worried. she did get to shine when she killed the Bolvangar doctor, but that wasn’t enough for me.

John Faa was boring. he was a hardass and only every so often came across as the original jovial, caring, but no-nonsense King of the Gyptians. most of the time he was just telling someone not to do something or insisting someone do something. no real personality other than being serious.

Billy Costa had no real character. a waste, considering we’re supposed to care about his death.

Tony Costa was alright. he was kind of a loser, which I guess is okay. I liked capable Tony and his gobbler-fightin’ gang from the books better though. he had a couple good moments with Lyra, and Benjamin was a good addition.

- the themes of belonging. I don’t like how they changed the message about Lyra belonging in different groups. the point isn’t that she can “be anyone she wants to be” - that’s not how real life works, or should work. she can live with the gyptians and like them, but Ma Costa in the books asserts that she can’t be a gyptian, because she’s not part of their ethnic group. a similar message was overlooked with the bears - Iorek gave her the name Silvertongue because of his deep respect for her and what she had done for him, not because she was “one of us bears” now. she isn’t a bear, she’s a human.

the point is that she doesn’t have to be something to find an emotional home with the people themselves. it’s about what she builds, surpassing what she is - which is a product of two twisted, misguided people - taking what’s given to her and making it into something beautiful of her own volition. it’s a very nuanced theme and it’s basically thrown aside in this adaptation in favor of pseudo-colorblindness theory that origins don’t matter and you can stuff yourself anywhere you please. it’s not a deal-breaking point and most people probably won’t pay attention to it, but it’s worth mentioning anyway.

-

so overall, the show was really really spectacular. a ton of fun, beautifully crafted, with a few hiccups and one major major issue. the dæmon thing gouged out a good chunk of the enjoyment for me, and the integrity of the actual story too. a huge huge blunder on Jack Thorne’s part. I’d like to say they recovered from it, because they did do a pretty great job wrapping things up, but it still lingers in the back of my mind as a big blemish on an otherwise incredible work.

I have high hopes for the future seasons though, when dæmons aren’t around as frequently and less characters are on screen, so there will be more time and budget available to be devoted to them, particularly Pan as a character. they’ve shown they can handle this material skillfully, and I have a good amount of faith in them. I can’t wait to see what else they do with the concepts I’ve come to adore so much.

#hdm #hdm spoilers #his dark materials

[bogprincess-kira]

1,6,9 for ZokVar!

ah yes, my favorite Skeksis pair, Frollo and the Brick

... i say, right before getting unnecessarily fake-deep about cartoonishly evil birds,

1. Where in Thra would their ideal date be?

Knowing Zok’s... Everything, he’d probably prefer to go somewhere out-of-the-way, for a week or two relieved of Castle duties. In theory, anyway. Things like camping or vacations outside of the Empire are out of the question; while he enjoys privacy, he would probably starve to death if Ayuk’s team wasn’t cooking for him (and everyone else), or at least bringing him lazy food. Var might fare a bit better, because he’s built like a wrecking ball and knows how to use that to hurt things, but even if he did learn how to hunt with any semblance of skill, the lack of other creature comforts would still be a disaster waiting to happen. Besides, he doesn’t want to stray too far from the Emperor’s side, and it would be a pain trying to call a carriage back home from the middle of nowhere if he received word of an emergency with the Guard or Court. They need distance from big gatherings, but enough access to be back on the road in under an hour, just in case.

With those limitations in mind, they’d probably find some secluded spot just north of Ha’Rar on the cliffs - ideally, somewhere with a view of both land and sea, as Var gets stressed when he can’t get a read on his surroundings quickly. Though they’d be careful not to let many people know where they are, they also need access to first aid on short notice.

I’m sure I don’t have to explain why that’s a concern, when one of these guys is a creepy, knife-collecting priest infamous for being Horny On Main 24/7, and the other is a reckless, eager-to-please soldier with pain tolerance for days. After all, the main motive for choosing a spot out-of-the-way is that less foot traffic means lower chances of someone passing by and asking questions about whatever they might overhear. They really don’t want to know.

6. If Skeksis or Mystics, how do their other halves feel about the relationship?

UrZah is... Unamused. He doesn’t know urMa terribly well - they never could see eye-to-eye on anything from clothing colors to whether or not Unity was even worth the wait - and doesn’t think highly of him at all. He’s not all that surprised by skekVar setting his expectations even lower; urMa is gullible, starry-eyed and far too willing to waste his time and effort on things that have absolutely no bearing on his own success, but at least he has the sense not to go out and commit horrendous acts of violence in the name of an Empire doomed to crash and burn for its crimes. At least urMa hasn’t given up on his naïve dreams of world peace or whatever he’s always going on about in favor of the fleeting, bloody attention of two powerful Lords who have him wrapped around their little fingers and (as far as urZah can tell) would just as quickly lose interest, break him down and leave him for whatever starved beast may take pity as continue to bend the limits of his trust for their own entertainment.

Truth be told, he loathes his mirror even more, knowing that skekZok has had a hand in turning the ever-optimistic, ever-foolish Ambassador into just another murderous beast like the other Skeksis.

The Peacemaker doesn’t exactly see much potential for good in the pair, either, but he doesn’t think it’s necessarily as manipulative as urZah does. Whether that’s because urMa trusts too easily (or so it appears) or because he knows his mirror better than any other Mystic ever will, he doesn’t seem interested in skekVar’s affairs, and changes the subject whenever it comes up.

This isn’t the first time VarMa has been in a shady relationship - far from it, actually. Back then, though, it never lasted long enough for him to regret much. He was lonely and easily swayed, but he always knew it wasn’t permanent, even in the rare occasions it had any emotional weight. As an expendable soldier - a future killing machine at best, cannon fodder at worst - he, along with everyone else he had the pleasure of working with, knew they could be transferred at any time, assuming they lived through the night. Not everyone was kind or patient, but they were useful as distractions.

UrMa isn’t happy with himself for that, but he knows, at the time, it seemed like a good idea, and it was probably a good thing he learned his lesson before getting in too deep. SkekVar, apparently, doesn’t share the sentiment; it appears that the General is still just as desperate for attention as ever, although at least now he knows what kinds he wants.

9. Who is the big spoon/little spoon?

This one’s always easy. A little more complicated than the Jen/Kira answer, though - not because I’m overly invested in this semi-rarepair, this time, but because usually there are three parties involved rather than two.

SkekVar’s sort of a middle spoon; once in a while he’ll give that spot up so skekSo can take it, but So gets uncomfortable with that arrangement fast, because he hates seeing Zok’s horrible shrimp-leg teeth when he’s trying to catch some beauty sleep. Besides, all that muscle makes for a great pillow at the right angle, which means they prefer to have him right in the middle, and if he’s not, one or both of them will get fussy and/or handsy until he moves so they’re comfortable again.

When it’s just them, Var usually holds So, since the Emperor is so much lighter than him and the General is big enough to more or less “shield” him from anything that So used to think in the early days might sneak up and hurt him; besides, Var gets worried about him being so thin, and it’s a passable excuse to check that he’s not getting any tinier. While he’s with just Zok, though, he’ll generally just fall asleep quickly and let the Ritual-Master figure out the rest. Zok almost always ends up with as many gangly arms around Var as possible. He’s territorial as all hell, and - whether he’ll ever admit it or not - that possessive streak gives way to sappy shows of affection pretty easily, as long as they’re alone. 

#ask meme #bog answers

[withthebreezesblown]

Fair Trade

It’s a pity, Sweeney thinks, that Irving won’t let the girl go.

Normally he can’t be bothered to concern himself overmuch with the apprentices. And it’s certainly not that he’s fond of any of them. Best not to get too attached while they’re still unHarrowed. He’s seen too many not come out the other end of that, at least not as--well, that’s really about the same as not coming out at all in the end, isn’t it? So he does not care for the apprentices. But the ones who laugh at the things he mutters that he shouldn’t say out loud at all, instead of staring at him in abject horror and searching around for a lurking templar--well, it’s not fondness, he assures himself, but maybe there’s just a little soft spot for those few. Neria Surana, whose shameless cackle is sure to draw templars if there weren’t any around before. Anders, who occasionally forgets to make sure the mischief in his eyes is hiding all that rage underneath; who reminds him of himself, except he thinks sometimes that that boy still has a shot at letting his bitterness turn him into something other than a crotchety old senior enchanter who will never leave this hold. And little Solona Amell, who tries so hard to hide all her delighted giggling. If she catches it in time before it bursts out, she makes a noise like a little piglet. He’d forgotten he even knew what piglets sounded like, in some other life before armored men dragged him off of his family’s farm. Every time she makes that noise, he remembers just for a moment what he thought he’d forgotten entirely. What life outside the Circle was like.

Still, it’s not any attachment that makes him watch the Amell girl in her lessons with Irving more often than he should. Not that there’s much to see. The two spend half of every lesson enacting the same parody of education that is playing out now, as they have ever since the day he watched her magic snap back on her when self-doubt and uncertainty broke the lightning spell she’d been weaving, the day when he finally took it upon himself to tell little Solona Amell what Irving himself would not—that she was allowed to tell the First Enchanter, “No.” That she couldn’t stay between all things forever—she would have to say, “No,” to something eventually, whether it was Irving or the fear and shame that held her back.

Sweeney had known that day what her decision was, had seen it in her eyes.

She’s still quiet and attentive as she’s ever been, but when Irving tries to hand her a staff, she sits and folds her hands together in her lap. When, determined, he goes through all the motions and gestures as surely as though she actually were practicing along with him, explaining the theory as he moves and lightning flashes through the air or ice snaps across the floor, her hands clasp harder, fingers twining together so tightly the knuckles go white. Only when he puts down the staff, as he finally is now, and the lesson moves on to Creation magic do her hands release and her shoulders lower from where they’ve slowly risen up to near her ears. Her shoulders fall, but the tension between the two of them lingers.

Sweeney watches the girl practice a simple spell meant to mend flesh, and he can’t help thinking she’s paying more attention to Irving from the corner of her eye than the rubbery spindleweed frond, torn nearly in two and slowly knitting itself back together, that’s she is ostensibly focusing on.

She doesn’t have that natural affinity for Creation magic that she does for the Primal schools to begin with, and she really can’t afford the lack of focus and precision.

...The spell is sloppy.

Irving should let her go, he thinks again. Wynne would do better with the girl than he’s ever going to at this rate. Solona doesn’t have the gift for Creation that’s clear in the Primal magic that slips out from time to time, despite her best efforts, but that’s a gift many mages don’t have at all, in anything, and they manage well enough. If Irving would let her go, she could still make a passable healer, if not a gifted one. If he goes on refusing like this, the poor child will end up proficient at nothing at all.

When the lesson ends, Solona smiles at him as she passes, warm and genuine and grateful. He doesn’t like it. Fool child. The right to refuse Irving’s tutelage was always hers. He only let her know she could; he didn’t give it to her.

He manages not scowl at her smile. He does not manage to keep the surliness from his voice when he strides up to Irving and demands, “Why are you holding that poor little girl hostage? Let someone else mentor the little mouse before you ruin her altogether.”

Irving sighs. “I’m not holding her hostage, Sweeney.” He uses that particular tone of his that Sweeney hates most… tired patience.

“If you let someone else mentor her, she’d learn ten times as much as she ever will from you. And yet you won’t let her go.”

“She’s wasting her time with Creation magic.”

He didn’t exactly start this confrontation on an even keel, but Sweeney feels his temper rising, and that look on Irving’s face does nothing but fan the flames. It’s something like pride, and it rubs Sweeney entirely wrong. It reminds him of the way he’s seen the way the man look at his apprentice when she isn’t paying attention—pride, and every bit of the patience he’s famed for, despite his impatience with her refusal to practice Primal magic, and if Sweeney didn’t know how the man is using the girl, there’s something he’d even call affection. But how can it ever be that when he subjects the girl to this daily, and for what? “She isn’t a piece of clay, Irving! She’s a living being with her own will—quite a bit more of it, I dare say, than she likes to let on, and no matter what potential she has, it’s hers to use—or not use—as she will, not yours! Don’t think I don’t understand why you’re pushing so hard! A mage with that kind of power of destruction is quite the bargaining chip. I don’t know exactly who you’re so keen to sell her off to or what you think you’ll get in return—”

“That’s enough.” Irving’s voice is cold as the ice he spent an hour trying to wrest from his pupil.

Sweeney forgets, sometimes, just what it was that got the man elected as First Enchanter. They’ve known each other since Sweeney was fourteen and Irving was nine. He forgets what he’s only rarely seen and understood at all: just how intimidating Irving can be.

It’s only later, years later, that he understands. His vision isn’t good anymore, but that hair, red as blood, is hard to miss. As he watches it disappear beyond the same doors they all arrive through but so few ever exit, Sweeney finally understands both what Irving wanted all along and what he was willing to pay for it. What Irving had seen in that girl’s grasp was nothing the First Enchanter had ever planned to use for himself. And the price he’d paid for it was the resentment of him that grew in her year by year as he forced on her lessons she did not want but which were the only currency that would ever buy her the thing that Irving was so stubbornly sure was within her reach. Finally, Sweeney thinks, little Solona Amell is free.

#dragon age fanfiction #solona amell #da fic #mage freedom #breezes drivel #look tru has been doing some beautiful stuff with her amell preBlight #(you should all go read what she's posted so far) #and i was *inspired* #the tempest inside #the heart of the storm

[modernlcve]

*  —  stats —   jacob vogel !

* — basics !

full name:   jacob christopher vogel. nickname(s):   jake, in some circles. age:   twenty - eight. date of birth:   may thirtieth. place of birth:    new york city, new york. gender:   nonbinary. pronouns:   he / they. sexual orientation:   pansexual. level of education:   high school graduate.

* — physical !

tattoos:   he’s got a pair of dahlias on his right shoulder,   ‘to define is to limit’ in a simple font around his left wrist, and a slice of pizza stick and poke on his ass . piercings:  once had a tongue ring, no longer wears it. notable features:   broad chest and shoulders. weakness(es):   anemic. scar(s):   one under his chin.   one covering half his left knee.

* — domestic !

occupation:   bartender. residence:   lives w his besties brandon, kaleb, and mila. social class:   lower middle. parents:    kristen vogel,  age 49.  raised solely by her til age 8.   still visits her around the holidays,  but their relationship is certainly strained.  no contact with his father. siblings:   none.  facebook friends with some former foster siblings, but that’s about it. extended family:   none worth noting.

* — personality !

positive traits:   gregarious,   steadfast,   jocular. negative traits:   desirous,   mercurial,   flakey. myers-briggs ( x ):    enfp,  the champion. temperament ( x ):   choleric. moral alignment:   neutral good. horoscope:   gemini,   the twins. hogwarts house:   hufflepuff.

* — favorites !

movie:   unbreakable. tv show:   scrubs. book:   fight club. drink:   vodka and cream soda. food:   vegetarian chili on rice. animal:   turtles. color:   anything bright. favorite song:   carried away by passion pit. artist:   billy joel. celebrity crush:   currently 

* — impressions !

first impression:   exudes confidence.  sure in what he says,   but says it in a warm and friendly way.   the loudest laugh in a room and the first to make sure someone feels included. self impression:   his self concept is blurry.   he sees himself as someone trying to make the best of what they have going on. lover impression:   charismatic,   but in a way that sours.  his carefree nature quickly turns careless.  he’s good for a few nights, but any more and he leaves things on poor terms.

* — et cetera !

turn ons:   an infectious laugh,  assertive attitude,  scratching. turn offs:   pda,  pretentious attitude,   playing therapist. drink/drugs/smoke:   yes/weed/yes. dominant hand:   right. clean or messy:   messy. early bird or night owl:   night owl. hobbies or special talents:   writing,   juggling,  fun lil bartending tricks,   can tie a cherry stem w/ his tongue.

* — QUESTIONNAIRE !

01. where was your character born? what brought them to new york? what do they like most about the town?

jacob is a new yorker babey born and raised.   he’s from staten island and while he’s hopped burroughs,   he’s never really felt a strong pull to leave new york   ( carina whom, ).   he loves new york,  loves the liveliness and the static of living in a big city,   and how easy it is to just disappear into crowds,   to feel included in some special club of residents of this Great Place

02. who are your character’s friends and family? who do they surround themselves with? who are the people your character is closest to?

closeness isn’t his forte.   he’s not on the best term with his mother.   he’s kept in touch with past foster siblings,   but they’re not close enough to be family.   living with the gang is really the closest he’s come to having a family,   but,   even then,   he knows he’s just the roommate on the periphery of their Deals most the time.   he doesn’t consider himself close to much of anyone,   but,   at the end of the day,   he doesn’t really mind it.

03. what is your character’s biggest fear? who have they told this to? who would they never tell this to? why?

jacob’s biggest fear is missed opportunities.   he realizes that many times in his life he’s chosen to change his path completely because he thinks it’s going to keep him safe or keep him from feeling rejected,   but at the end of the day,   he knows it’s keeping him from living his best life.   he’s afraid to pursue his art,   afraid to really connect,   afraid to put himself out there because he knows how it feels to be rejected with your heart on the line.

04. has your character ever been in love? had a broken heart?

he’s always in love,   just a little bit.   so he’s always a little bit broken - hearted.   by keeping those he has loved beyond arms length,   he knows it’s his own fault.   his non - commitmental nature makes him this way,   he sabotages his own relationships,  as cliche as it is.   but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

05. your character is doing intense spring cleaning. what is easy for them to throw out? what is difficult for them to part with? why?

he’s not a materialistic person.   if he needs to get rid of it,   he gets rid of it.   the hardest thing to part with is probably books.   he prefers to buy them second hand:   books of poetry,  defunct astronomy textbooks,   guides on queer theory,   self help books.   they litter most of his room and while he could sell them back,   continue the cycle,   he keeps them,   appreciating the writing in margins as much as the published text.

06. it’s saturday at noon. what is your character doing? give details.

more than likely,   he’s asleep.   he takes the weekend night shifts whenever he can,   he likes the bustle of the bar when the town is all out and about.   at noon,   he’s still catching up on his sleep.   if not,   he could probably be found haggling at the farmers market or maybe he’s just up in the gym working on his fitness.

07. what is one strong memory that has stuck with your character since childhood?

his mother was uninvolved for most of his childhood.   her interest in being his mother came and went in phases.   one of the strongest phases of being in was when she was seeing a man with children.   he vividly remembers a sunday afternoon when his mom and her boyfriend took all the kids to the park and then for ice cream after.   it was a short lived relationship,   as most of his mother’s were,   but it was the one that left the most impact on him.

08. what is in your character’s refrigerator right now? on their bedroom floor? their nightstand? in their wastebasket?

the fridge is primarily takeout and cheap beer.  it’s what comes from a coupla bachelors with wild schedules who aren’t necessarily concerned with having the finest cuisine.  jacob personally keeps meat substitutes and frozen fruit on hand.   on his floor,   laundry from the week he simply sheds waiting til he has a minute to tidy it up.   in his wastebasket is crumpled up napkins he always ends up bringing home,   q-tips,   and condoms.

09. what is something that upsets your character? where do they go when they’re upset? on the opposite end, what is something that makes them laugh out loud? where or when are they at their happiest?

jacob isn’t frequently upset.   when he is,   it’s usually by his own overthinking of a situation.   when he’s upset,   he goes for a run on the beach to clear his head.   a laugh out loud is easy to get from him,   he’s easily amused.   he’s at his happiest in a room filled with people who are having a passably good time.   it’s why he’s a bartender.

10. when your character thinks of their childhood kitchen, what smell do they associate with it? why?

there were some mornings his mom would bring home cinnamon rolls from the 24hr diner she worked at.   while there wasn’t much cooking done in his childhood kitchen,   the smell of those cinnamon rolls would definitely take him back.

#( jacob vogel. ) #( stats. )

[lilywriteshere]

the new kazoo kid

The purple plastic gleams in the sun, inviting me in. There’s a collection of them in all different colors lying on the table in disarray and I don’t know what they are except I know I want one. I wander a little closer, hyperaware of the theatrical performance happening behind me and not wanting to disrupt it. It’s the beginning of the new school year; the arts and humanities clubs and departments are tabling their wares, complete with live shows and free tote bags. “What are these?” I ask, peering at them closely. They’re on the small side, only five or six inches long. Each had a distinctive hornlike and tapered shape like miniature submarines.

“Oh, they’re kazoos,” someone responds. This is the Musician’s Club and of course they would give away tiny musical instruments.

“Are they free?” I say, hand hovering over them warily. I don’t really know what a kazoo is, but my desire has intensified. I remember a video clip of a blond boy called Kazoo Kid vigorously playing a kazoo that went viral a few years ago. They are so bright and colorful and as a musically untalented person, I want to learn how to use it too.

“Well…no. You have to answer a trivia question first.” A girl fumbles with her paper, clears her throat, and asks, “What was the first video on YouTube to reach a billion views?”

I’m surprised at first, that they don’t want to peddle their club’s information to me before sending me on my way. Last year I spent a lot of time out on Library Walk, on the prowl for free stuff, and I know that clubs usually want an email address on their signup sheet or feigned interest in return for their wares. Much to my relief, I know the answer anyway (Gangam Style) and am gifted a purple kazoo. I put my lips to the smaller end of it and blow. Nothing comes out, certainly nothing akin to music. A little child walks by with their mother, tooting away on their own kazoo, and I’m immediately embarrassed. “You have to hum,” the girl offers. “Not blow.” I try again and there’s no music, just sputtering. Shrugging, I toss it into my bag, smile sheepishly, and leave.

 A few hours later, I’m finally at home after an arduous lecture. Collapsing on the couch in the common room, I take the kazoo out of my bag and show it to my curious friends. “It’s a kazoo,” I say. “I won it from the Musician’s Club.”

“How do you play it?” my friend Lauren asks. She picks it up and examines it closely. It looks so vibrant, a smudge of light purple in her outstretched hand.

“I don’t know! I haven’t figured it out yet.” She gives it back to me and I try to play it again, attempting to hum like the girl told me earlier. A honking noise comes out. “Oh my god, is that it?” I hum again and there’s a longer note that sounds low and reedy all at the same time, a swarm of bees coming in for an attack.

The curious thing about a kazoo is that even I, someone who doesn’t know anything about reading music or music theory, can play almost any song I want instantly. If I can think it, I can kazoo it. I might not know the song’s chords or notes, but I can passably hum along in sort-of the right key and so I can make music too. I don’t need to know anything more than its vague melody and that’s the magic of a kazoo. Any song I can think of is within reach.

My good friend Michelle has been playing the flute for a very long time. She’s my musical antithesis: classically trained musician in flute, piano and piccolo; first chair in high school orchestra; featured soloist. I give her my kazoo and ask, “Do you want to try too?” She accepts my offer and to my delight and surprise, her first attempt sounds a lot like mine—sputtering and spit. After a few tries, she gets the hang of it, buzzy notes flowing freely from the little purple kazoo. I had assumed because I’m untrained, my kazoo-playing is off-key. But listening to Michelle play too, I realize it’s just the nature of the kazoo. Everything played on it sounds honky and off-kilter, just coherent enough to sound like music but not nearly as melodic. It doesn’t sound like a piano or harp or flute, its notes aren’t lilting in the traditionally beautiful sense. People don’t crowd looming orchestra halls to attend kazoo concertos or write poignant think pieces about its cultural influence in American society. Even its name “kazoo” invokes an image of a children’s toy and not a real instrument.

After a successful cover of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” I bow to my enraptured audience. “What if you played at a musical festival or something?” Lauren jokes, huge smile spreading across her face. “Could you imagine?”

I laugh. “Me all alone on that stage? Just me and my kazoo?” I feel so childlike playing my kazoo; it looks more like a party favor at a child’s birthday party and the noises coming out of it barely qualify as music. “No way, I’d look so stupid.” My friends and I have a dumb competition anyway, to see who can shred on the kazoo the longest. Michelle wins of course, as her lungs are heavily conditioned after years of playing a woodwind instrument. We take turns playing covers of popular songs like Lil Uzi Vert’s “XO TOUR Llife3” and Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me.” I catch my breath repeatedly, my own lungs not used to my breathing being hindered in any way. The songs sound funny being played on a kazoo, uncanny renditions from another dimension where only membranophones exist.

I haven’t played my kazoo in a while but in thinking about things that have personal meaning to me, it jumped to the forefront of my mind immediately. To remind myself of the kazoo’s unique sound quality, I find myself tooting along to songs on the radio, accompanying crooning voices with my background honking. It’s something fun and light-hearted but if someone researched the kazoo online, it would sound much more impressive than its reality, at least to me. My kazoo isn’t metal or carved from wood. I don’t think about the oscillating air pressure that makes the kazoo’s membrane vibrate. I don’t learn about its history or how to play it in music appreciation class. According to Wikipedia, kazoos are professionally played in jug bands and comedy music and by amateurs everywhere, including me. Nothing about it is or should be taken seriously. It makes me happy though, a point of interest for my friends and I to explore our love of music and sense of humor without a lot of musical ability. As someone who is tone-deaf and attended piano lessons for years, whose own musicality is always just out of reach, I can’t even play a kazoo correctly. But with such a silly plastic toy jutting out of my mouth like a Care Bear taking puffs out of a cotton candy cigar, it hardly matters.

#essay #writing #writer #care bear #kazoo cover #musical talent #musical instrument #kazoo #the new kazoo kid #music #talent #author #prose #nonfiction #story #flash fiction #short fiction #lil uzi vert #taylor swift #you belong with me #xo tour life #spilled ink #spilled words #my essay

[wrecktify]

*  —  task 2   —   stats  —   jacob vogel  !

* — basics !

full name:   jacob christopher vogel. nickname(s):   jake, in some circles. age:   twenty - eight. date of birth:   may thirtieth. place of birth:    new york city, new york. gender:   demiboy. pronouns:   he / they. sexual orientation:   pansexual. level of education:   high school graduate.

* — physical !

tattoos:   he’s got a pair of dahlias on his right shoulder,  ‘to define is to limit’ in a simple font around his left wrist, and a slice of pizza stick and poke on his ass . piercings:  once had a tongue ring, no longer wears it. notable features:   broad chest and shoulders. weakness(es):   anemic. scar(s):   one under his chin.   one covering half his left knee.

* — domestic !

occupation:   bartender at ripley’s. residence:   tucana apartments. social class:   lower middle. parents:    kristen vogel,  age 49.  raised solely by her til age 8.   still visits her around the holidays,  but their relationship is certainly  strained.  no contact with his father. siblings:   none.   facebook friends with some former foster siblings, but that’s about it. extended family:   none worth noting.

* — personality !

positive traits:   gregarious,   steadfast,   jocular. negative traits:   desirous,   mercurial,   flakey. myers-briggs ( x ):    enfp,  the champion. temperament ( x ):   choleric. moral alignment:   neutral good. horoscope:   gemini,   the twins. hogwarts house:   hufflepuff.

* — favorites !

movie:   unbreakable. tv show:   scrubs. book:   the picture of dorian gray. drink:   vodka and cream soda. food:   vegetarian chili on rice. animal:   turtles. color:   anything bright. favorite song:   carried away by passion pit. artist:   billy joel. celebrity crush:   currently idris elba.

* — impressions !

first impression:   exudes confidence.  sure in what he says,  but says it in a warm and friendly way.   the loudest laugh in a room and the first to make sure someone feels included. self impression:   his self concept is blurry.   he sees himself as someone trying to make the best of what they have going on. lover impression:   charismatic,   but in a way that sours.  his carefree nature quickly turns careless.  he’s good for a few nights, but any more and he leaves things on poor terms.

* — et cetera !

turn ons:   an infectious laugh,  assertive attitude,  scratching. turn offs:   pda,  pretentious attitude,   playing therapist. drink/drugs/smoke:   yes/weed/yes. dominant hand:   right. clean or messy:   messy. early bird or night owl:   night owl. hobbies or special talents:   writing,   juggling,  fun lil bartending tricks,   can tie a cherry stem w/ his tongue.

* — questionnaire !

01. where was your character born? what brought them to carina bay? what do they like most about the town?

jacob was brought to carina by chance.   he wanted a change of speed,   to take it easy for a little,   and he heard one of his buddies mention the vacations she took there as a child.   he loved new york,   but it was bringing him down.   he was in rut.  it was a lot to stake a move like that on something,   but he had nothing to lose.   in the end,   he’s glad he did it.   he likes the slow pace of the town.   he’s used to the speed of the city,   the overbearing desire to be moving on to the next thing,   new people.   there isn’t that kind of pressure here.

02. who are your character’s friends and family? who do they surround themselves with? who are the people your character is closest to?

closeness isn’t his forte.   he has a mother back home,   but they’re not on the best terms.   he’s kept in touch with past foster siblings,   but they’re not close enough to be family.   the closest he’s come yet is the type of kinship he feels with his roommates,   but,   even then,   there’s things the three of them keep behind closed doors.   he doesn’t consider himself close to much of anyone,   but,   at the end of the day,   he doesn’t really mind it.

03. what is your character’s biggest fear? who have they told this to? who would they never tell this to? why?

jacob’s biggest fear is missed opportunities.   he realizes that many times in his life he’s chosen to change his path completely because he thinks it’s going to keep him safe or keep him from feeling rejected,   but at the end of the day,   he knows it’s keeping him from living his best life.   he’s afraid to pursue his art,   afraid to really connect,   afraid to put himself out there because he knows how it feels to be rejected with your heart on the line.

04. has your character ever been in love? had a broken heart?

he’s always in love,   just a little bit.   so he’s always a little bit broken - hearted.   by keeping those he has loved beyond arms length,   he knows it’s his own fault.   his non - commitmental nature makes him this way,   he sabotages his own relationships,  as cliche as it is.   but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

05. your character is doing intense spring cleaning. what is easy for them to throw out? what is difficult for them to part with? why?

he’s not a materialistic person.   if he needs to get rid of it,   he gets rid of it.   the hardest thing to part with is probably books.   he prefers to buy them second hand:   books of poetry,  defunct astronomy textbooks,   guides on queer theory,   self help books.   they litter most of his room and while he could sell them back,   continue the cycle,   he keeps them,   appreciating the writing in margins as much as the published text.

06. it’s saturday at noon. what is your character doing? give details.

more than likely,   he’s asleep.   he takes the weekend night shifts whenever he can,   he likes the bustle of the bar when the town is all out and about.   at noon,   he’s still catching up on his sleep.   if not,   he could probably be found haggling at the farmers market or maybe he’s just up in the gym working on his fitness.

07. what is one strong memory that has stuck with your character since childhood?

his mother was uninvolved for most of his childhood.   her interest in being his mother came and went in phases.   one of the strongest phases of being in was when she was seeing a man with children.   he vividly remembers a sunday afternoon when his mom and her boyfriend took all the kids to the park and then for ice cream after.   it was a short lived relationship,   as most of his mother’s were,   but it was the one that left the most impact on him.

08. what is in your character’s refrigerator right now? on their bedroom floor? their nightstand? in their wastebasket?

the fridge is primarily takeout and cheap beer.  it’s what comes from three bachelors with wild schedules who aren’t necessarily concerned with having the finest cuisine.  jacob personally keeps meat substitutes and frozen fruit on hand.   on his floor,   laundry from the week he simply sheds waiting til he has a minute to tidy it up.   in his wastebasket is crumpled up napkins he always ends up bringing home,   q-tips,   and condoms.

09. what is something that upsets your character? where do they go when they’re upset? on the opposite end, what is something that makes them laugh out loud? where or when are they at their happiest?

jacob isn’t frequently upset.   when he is,   it’s usually by his own overthinking of a situation.   when he’s upset,   he goes for a run on the beach to clear his head.   a laugh out loud is easy to get from him,   he’s easily amused.   he’s at his happiest in a room filled with people who are having a passably good time.   it’s why he’s a bartender.

10. when your character thinks of their childhood kitchen, what smell do they associate with it? why?

there were some mornings his mom would bring home cinnamon rolls from the 24hr diner she worked at.   while there wasn’t much cooking done in his childhood kitchen,   the smell of those cinnamon rolls would definitely take him back.

#cbtask2 #*⋆ ❝ task ↻ jacob . #no proofing babey its 1230 on a friday night #riskee buisnez

[ganymedesclock]

Hey, I saw your work on Shiro's Look & I think you're absolutely right. It's keying us up to Shiro finally opening up a bit more about his PTSD & learning to live with it instead of just avoiding it. I also think after some much needed character development, we might see Dual Black Paladins Shiro and Keith. What's your opinion on this theory?

I feel like personally, the underlying themes of, everyone keeps the same-colored armor, and Allura gaining armor but not in the color of any of the Lions, is telling us something.

Because I don’t really think Keith ever stopped being the Red Paladin. Or Lance Blue, or Shiro Black for that matter.

I’ve kinda touched on this before but what I feel like is happening is that the paladins’ relationship with their Lions is deepening, and because of this, they’ve hit a level where they’re able to work passably with any of the Lions.

Which is good! Because magical destiny bonds are really all well and good, but... Lance says so himself: “This isn’t a participation game, this is war.”

Ideally the Lions only want their seated paladins. Ideally they work best with those people.

They’re not dealing with ideals. They’re dealing with survival.

Black had to take someone other than Shiro because Shiro was inaccessible, and there’s probably something important keeping Black from sweeping him back into her figurative arms again.

Allura stepping up, and the alternative formations, are basically that the paladins have gotten good enough that their success is not all or nothing. They can do pretty well with a Lion that isn’t theirs. And they can learn some things in the meantime.

Keith being able to see how it actually feels to be in charge is already helping him understand Shiro. Touching on the content of the prior post, I think it’s a really good thing that Keith challenged Shiro in s3e6- because that’s another point in, breaking the pedestal that Shiro’s on. Because frankly what we saw vividly in s3e7 is that a leader who can’t be challenged, whose subordinates feel like they can’t voice legitimate concerns or question something when they might have a better idea, is a recipe for disaster. It’s something still shooting Zarkon in the foot millennia after Voltron when Lotor is literally exploiting Zarkon’s refusal to listen to his subordinates to get away with what he’s doing.

It’s important that the team trusts Shiro as leader, and we see that’s still a thing- but it’s also important that they’re agreeing with Shiro because they’ve looked this over for themselves and are agreeing. Keith’s quick thinking saved the day and Shiro points that out afterward.

Lance is getting a much better understanding of Keith through working with Red, and Allura and Blue... well, it’s actually a match made in heaven considering what we’ve heard in official interviews. Blue is the archetypal nurturer of the Lions. Allura and Shiro both arguably have character arcs about opening up and actually asking for the help they need, and not trying to obstinately power through the awful weights they’re carrying.

Allura only bonds with Blue when she doesn’t try to lead her- but when she backs down and opens to Blue’s guidance. Because for the love of all that’s holy if there is anyone here who needs some good-old-fashioned mothering, it’s Allura. There’s a reason the main figures we’ve seen her unburden herself to emotionally are Alfor and Coran- one’s literally her father, and one took a role very close to it.

Frankly, I really hope this means at some point we see the other classic Voltron formation and Shiro also will get his moment with Blue. Because, as I said, Allura’s not the only one who could really use an older and wiser shoulder to rest her head on for a while.

Shiro just staying back at the castle, while it’s well-intended, he’s a little too alone with his thoughts and he’s a little too sure this means he wasn’t really needed, or that he’s not actually paladin material. Being able to take the field- but firmly in a support role- might be a good compromise between letting him indulge in his usual coping mechanism, in that he feels important and proactive and Part Of This Team again- while not letting him immediately try and pick up Everybody Else’s Problems again.

So I think it’s just, nobody’s becoming less of their original paladin, it’s just, everybody’s becoming more of a paladin in general and this allows them to have new opportunities and alternative configurations. Think about it- they basically now have the luxury to grab which Lions are best suited to the task at hand regardless of who’s around rather than where they were in s2e6 with “Sure could use Red right now, too bad Keith’s busy being lost in space...”

#voltron legendary defender #vld #Shiro #long post #fullmetaldude1

[welllpthisishappening]

Sliding Down the Hill

Emma Swan's phone rings and she makes a quick, split second decision. She keeps doing that. She makes choice after choice and change after change and, suddenly, she's crying on ESPN. That's probably the last thing she expects.

Or: A not-quite a Little League World Series AU.

Rating: G, with lots of sports emotions Word Count: 10K’ish because I have no control

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll. 

AN: This was an exercise in brevity that didn’t really work and probably should be two chapters, but here we are. The Google Doc name of this story was actually “WHY ARE YOU WRITING THIS?!?!” but this got in my head and wouldn’t leave me alone and it’s not really about the Little League World Series, but also is kind of about the Little League World Series and parents on TV. 

It all happens quickly.

One day Emma Swan is barely making ends meet on a tiny apartment in SoHo, constantly worried Henry will notice and, suddenly, two weeks later she’s on the phone with an overly-enthusiastic Mary Margaret screaming about he just retired, Em. just packed up his desk and said he was going to go live by the ocean or something and, whatever, it doesn’t matter, there’s a job!

A job.

In Storybrooke.

In Maine.

Probably with David.

Working with David in a tiny, little town in Maine with the one friend Emma has managed to keep and a cast of characters that belong on some sort of Hallmark Channel mini-series and, she’s fairly positive, only one stop sign. She’s not convinced Storybrooke has a traffic light.

It does, however, have a meticulously cared for Welcome to Storybrooke sign at the town line and Emma bites her lip when she drives by it, the ancient, bright yellow bug she used one of her last paychecks to buy rumbling slightly when she and Henry barrel down Main Street.

Mary Margaret nearly crushes several of Emma’s internal organs as soon as she steps out of the car, but Emma doesn’t argue it and Henry almost looks passably amused – in a way that no ten-year-old should ever have to understand and maybe this was a good idea.

She starts work at the Sheriff's Department the next week – David claims she needs time to settle in and Emma resists the urge to roll her eyes and rattle off a string of sarcastic responses because it’s Storybrooke and there’s not much to settle when Mary Margaret has already gotten her a job and an apartment with a view of the ocean and a refrigerator filled with Tupperware containers.

It doesn’t matter.

The whole town seems to collectively adopt Emma and Henry as soon as they lay eyes on them, Granny sneaking a few extra pieces of bacon on their plates when they wander in late on Sunday mornings and the ice cream shop on Tidepool Court –  Tidepool Court, honestly – absolutely does not give everyone four scoops on their medium cones.

Emma doesn’t mind.

And that’s kind of weird. A few minutes before that phone call with Mary Margaret, Emma would have hated all of it, being catered to and possibly placated just a bit, but Storybrooke is suddenly home in a way that nothing has ever been and every single smile is like someone reaching out and telling her it’s ok. Everything is going to be ok.

It all happens quickly, settling into that life and a year goes by without much more trouble than Leroy nearly taking out the town sign with his truck on a particularly snowy January night, but then things change again and that happens quickly too.

He shows up on a Tuesday in May.

It’s unnaturally warm – not even Memorial Day and Henry complains for several straight minutes about spending the day in school when there was so much sun and beach potential, but Emma just presses her lips together and pushes on his shoulder, directing him back towards Granny’s door and the sidewalk and the very solid, very attractive man on the other side.

“Well, that’s quite a welcome to town,” he laughs and his voice is deep and amused and Emma’s stomach clenches at the sound of it.

Henry’s lemonade – with a questionable amount of cherries and probably way more sugar than he should have at seven-thirty in the morning – is sitting in a puddle at his feet. And all over the man’s shoes.

“Oh my God,” Emma groans, trying to move Henry out of the way and there’s not enough space for three people on the top step, particularly when they’re trying to dodge a lemonade river. “I’m so sorry, I’ll um….I have no idea how to fix this.”

He laughs at her blunt admission and she finally manages to look up at him, all blue eyes and dark hair and a smirk on his face that is absolutely unfair and Henry gapes at both of them. He’s far too perceptive for his own good.

“It’s alright, love,” the man says, shaking off his left sneaker and it’s clearly soaked through. Emma groans – although she’s not sure if that’s because of the lemonade disaster or because this stranger in a town where everyone knows everyone has already started throwing out nicknames with ease. “I hardly think anyone’s ever died from a lemonade attack.”

She scoffs and Henry laughs and there’s a line behind them, frustrated Storybrooke citizens all trying to get out Granny’s and none of them move.

Eventually, when she looks back on the moment and tries to remember when she knew,  Emma is loathe to admit that it might have actually been then – frozen on the top step with her kid pressed against her side and a smile in front of her and it all seemed to happen quickly.

“Even so,” she argues and the man’s eyebrows quirk slightly. “I feel like I should fix your shoes or buy you coffee or something.”

His eyebrows shift again and the smirk is bordering more on genuine than teasing. “I’m not sure you can fix my sneakers, love,” he says softly, pressing forward and there’s an audible squish that makes Emma wince. “Although I might take the coffee.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but doesn’t actually argue it and she’s just about to agree to the coffee when someone shouts behind her to C’mon Emma, move, we’ve got things to do and Henry reminds her that he has to go to school and there’s no time for coffee.

“Emma, huh?”

She nods slowly, blinking against the sunlight and the ridiculous force of his smile and she’s not quite sure how she gets the words out. “Swan,” she clarifies. “Emma Swan. And uh...this is my son, Henry.”

He blinks once and her stomach sinks at the idea that that’s, somehow, a deal breaker, but then she blinks and the look is gone and he’s smiling at both of them with a hand extended towards Henry. “Killian Jones,” he says. “I’m sorry about your lemonade.”

“That’s ok,” Henry grins and Emma’s not sure she’s taken a deep breath in the last five minutes.

Someone yells at them to move again and, that time, Emma can’t ignore them – something about responsibility and the badge tacked to her belt that requires her to take a step around Killian Jones and get her kid to school and they both mumble something about seeing each other later.

They don’t.

And that frustrates Emma more than she’s willing to admit until, two weeks later, Mary Margaret tugs her to the side of the kitchen and levels her with a very specific type of look. “What’s your problem?” she asks bluntly, a very un-Mary Margaret tone to her voice.

Emma stutters slightly, flinching when the edge of the counter presses into her spine and she’s run out of places to move. “Who’s that guy?” she asks softly, glancing at David to make sure he’s still preoccupied with the video game and Henry’s endless string of trash talk.

Mary Margaret narrows her eyes. “Guy,” she repeats slowly and Emma can practically hear the gears working in her head when she gasps loudly and smacks at her shoulder.

“Announce it a little more, M’s. It was just a question. No one shows up in Storybrooke unannounced like that and I was...curious. From a professional standpoint.”

It’s the biggest lie Emma has ever told – and once she and Mary Margaret told Mr. Blanchard that they absolutely, positively loved the matching sweatshirts he’d bought for them on Christmas when they were twenty-two.

“From a professional standpoint you probably could have figured all of this out on your own,” Mary Margaret points out and Emma scowls at the look of triumph on her face. “Also,” she continues, stabbing her pointer finger into Emma’s arm. “You showed up in Storybrooke unannounced, so you are disproving your own theory.”

“Are you going to answer my question or are you going to continue to lecture me?”

“That is my job.”

“Your job is energetic first-grade teacher of Storybrooke Elementary,” Emma argues. “Not my quasi-mother.”

Mary Margaret almost looks disappointed, but she just pushes her finger even harder into Emma’s arm and rolls her shoulders. “I heard about the lemonade debacle. Didn’t he introduce himself? If he didn’t, don’t tell David, he’ll yell at him.”

“David knows him?”

“Yup,” Mary Margaret nods. “Went to college together and he knows Robin too from Boston or some other seafaring city and now he’s in Storybrooke to take over the harbor or whatever. David keeps calling him harbormaster, but Killian thinks that’s old fashioned.”

“It’s definitely old fashioned,” Emma agrees, trying to process any of this information. “Ok, so...then what you’re telling me is that you and David are just the fairy godparents of all your lost and out-of-work friends, providing them with fresh, new starts in your charming little town when job opportunities crop up.”

She means it as a joke, but Mary Margaret just shrugs and she almost looks pleased with the title. “Don’t fairy godparents require magic?” she asks and Emma snorts slightly, drawing the attention of her kid and David and she waves them off quickly. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret continues, “he’s super nice and…” There’s a knock on the door and Mary Margaret beams at Emma – those same gears almost whirring to life in the space of their not-so-tiny kitchen and it’s all so obvious Emma is a little disappointed she hadn’t realized earlier.

“Oh, M’s you didn’t,” Emma sighs, but Mary Margaret brushes her off quickly and practically sprints towards the door, swinging it opening and letting Killian Jones, just as attractive as he was on Granny’s steps, into the house.

“Her heart was, at least, in the right place,” David mutters, appearing next to Emma suddenly. She lets him snake an arm around her shoulders and she doesn’t object when he places a kiss to her temple, twisting her lips instead and trying to swallow down every argument she could come up with.

It takes, approximately, three minutes for Killian Jones to work out of Mary Margaret’s clutches and find his way into the kitchen and Emma isn’t quite sure what any of her organs are doing as soon as he looks at her.

It’s like they’re expanding and contracting and maybe just exploding all at once and it should probably be painful, but it’s just kind of….nice. He grins at her, stuffing one of his hands into pocket and looping his thumb through his belt and she groans as soon as she blurts out “I promise not to spill lemonade on you this time.”

“That’s fair,” he says, mumbling the words into the empty space between them. “You know, I think we’re being set up here, Swan.”

She nods, glancing at the living room and an expectant Mary Margaret who ducks her eyes as soon as she realizes Emma is looking at her. “Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s because Mary Margaret thinks she’s magical or something.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Fairy godparents,” Emma explains like that explains anything and she probably should have been more upfront. That’s not exactly her strong suit or, she learns rather quickly, Killian’s.

There is, after all, a reason the Nolans brought him to Storybrooke and Killian Jones might smile and do vaguely ridiculous things with his eyebrows, but he’s just as cautious as Emma and, maybe, just as broken.

Storybrooke, however, has a way of fixing broken things.

They’re not exactly friends – not at first. And Emma is reluctant to put a label to it, even when Mary Margaret widens her eyes and asks if she’s talked to Killian recently and of course she has. It’s a small town with, exactly, two grown adults who are not already tied down to someone else.

That’s part of the problem.

Everyone just...expects it to happen. Emma wishes they wouldn’t. She’s not...that’s not for her.

Of course not.

She has Henry to worry about and a job to worry about and she doesn’t spend a questionable amount of time wondering  – half certain it could work if she’d let it and half terrified that it would just explode her in face, like everything else, and she can’t lose this.

She can’t lose this town.

Except no one in Storybrooke seems to have gotten that memo.

Killian smiles at her and she rolls her eyes at him and, eventually, they do get that coffee at Granny’s and it becomes a thing and he shows up at the station with onion rings more than once during the winter when there’s not much to do at the docks and, well, maybe they are friends.

She tells him about Neal on a Saturday night – Henry at a friend’s house for the night and a pile of paperwork she should have finished two days ago sitting forgotten on the corner of her desk. She bits her lip when she finishes the whole, depressing story, how he left and didn’t come back and it’s probably ironic that a kid who spent time in jail is now law enforcement in a tiny town where they hardly need one sheriff, let alone two, and she’s talking just to fill the space, to chase away the silence and whatever he’s doing with his eyes when he keeps staring at her.

Maybe they’re not friends.

And then he reaches forward and wraps his fingers around hers and Emma’s lungs do that contracting and expanding thing again when he squeezes tightly. And then he talks. And talks.

He tells her about Liam and Milah and losing them both and then, maybe, losing himself and how he’d barely listened to David the first twenty-six times he’d tried to get him to come to Storybrooke.

“Yeah, I get that,” Emma mumbles, staring at their hands and the fingers he’s laced through hers and his thumb starts moving across the back of her palm. It makes her breath hitch.

“I know you do,” Killian whispers.

She’s not sure who moves first or if that sound she hears is him or her, but that happens quickly too and suddenly Emma’s lips are on his and his hand is in her hair and she feels herself sigh into him like she’s only just learning how to breathe.

Mary Margaret is going to be insufferable about this, Emma thinks at one point and then nearly scoffs at herself for thinking about Mary Margaret when Killian Jones is kissing her and she refocuses all of her energy on that. At some point she shifts out of the chair she’s sitting in and she’s not quite sure how two hands can be seemingly everywhere at once, but she realizes she’s straddling his hips and his feet are planted flat on the station floor so they don’t actually tip over in the ancient roller chair.

All things considered, that would almost make sense.

They have to breathe eventually and Emma rests her forehead on Killian’s, trying to memorize the feel of him underneath her – the stubble on his jaw and the way his eyes seem to trace over every inch of her and how warm his hand is once it’s made its way under the hem of her shirt.

Emma rolls her hips slightly, trying to make sure she doesn’t actually slide off his lap and that’s a mistake because he makes a noise that is absolutely unfair and decidedly wrecked and she can’t think when he does that or when his lips crash back down on hers like he’s been waiting seven months, six days and, maybe, twelve hours for it.

Or however long it’s been since the lemonade incident.

“That was….” he stutters and Emma smiles at the way he stumbles over the words.

“Good,” she finishes, pressing a kiss to lips again. He chases after her and her heart hammers in her chest.

Killian nods once and now that they’ve started his whole kissing thing, neither one of them can seem to stop. “Good,” he repeats and, well, that’s that.

It seems to just...happen from there and Emma sees David slide Mary Margaret a twenty-dollar bill on the other side of the booth at Granny’s the next morning, her jaw dropping slightly in frustration and she really shouldn’t be surprised. Killian’s whole body shakes when Henry walks into the diner to find an arm around his mom’s shoulder and he doesn’t even bother taking another step towards the booth, just stalks towards a less-than-pleased looking Ruby and holds his hand out expectantly.

She drops a ten dollar bill in Henry’s palm and he rolls his eyes, crooking his fingers as Ruby sighs dramatically. “A deal is a deal, Rubes,” Henry mutters. “I want my fifty cents.”

“Ten fifty,” Emma cries, moving quickly enough that Killian’s arm nearly flies off her shoulder and Henry actually blushes.

He shrugs, but doesn’t drop his hand and Emma hears the ding of the register as Ruby grumbles under her breath. “That’s just good bargaining, love,” Killian mutters, kissing the top of her hair and Mary Margaret makes a triumphant sound, nearly knocking over the maple syrup by her elbow.

“God, what?” Emma groans, somewhere close to sensory overload and Killian tightens his arms around her shoulders.

Henry hooks his foot around one of the few open chairs, flopping down at the end of the booth with a smile on his face, ten dollars and fifty cents richer. “She thought you’d give into the PDA early,” he explains. “Uncle David thought you’d...how did you put it?”

David glares at Henry, fishing in his wallet for more cash while Mary Margaret beams at him. “Thanks a lot, kid,” he mumbles and Emma actually kicks him under the table. “Ow, Em, jeez, what the hell?”

“You are a member of the law, David Nolan,” she seethes. “An upstanding citizen. You do not get to bet on my public displays of affection.”

He looks properly ashamed at that, ducking his eyes and taking a far-too-long sip of coffee and the whole diner seems to freeze, all of them waiting anxiously for Emma’s judgemental stare. She doesn’t stop staring at David.

“Can I still get my five bucks though?” Mary Margaret asks quietly, tugging David’s wallet out of his hand. “Because, you know, that’s a good amount of coffee in the morning here and, well, it’s cold.”

Emma sighs, but she can’t argue the look on Mary Margaret’s face and it does get freakishly cold in the mornings and maybe she’s earned her twenty-five bucks. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “We’re not paying for breakfast though because you guys are all questionable degenerates.”

“That’s fair.”

He keeps bringing her onion rings and hot chocolate, only there’s a lot more kissing now and a lot more of David gagging in the background and Emma just grins and reminds him that you bet on this and that usually gets him to shut up.

It doesn’t take long for her to realizes she’s ridiculously in love with him. She comes home one day and there’s still some snow on the ground – a trend, she’s learned in Maine, where winter seems to last into April and spring only lingers for a few days before the humidity descends and it’s an endless cycle Emma is happy to repeat.

She can hear them in the backyard and she gives herself a moment to marvel at the idea of that, before trudging through the slightly too-high grass to find Henry laughing loudly, a glove on one hand and a ball in the other and Killian slumped over dramatically with a bat pressing into the dirt.

“You aren’t even trying,” Henry accuses and Emma can see Killian’s shoulders stiffen at that. He stands up slowly and she can only imagine the incredulous look on his face.

“Excuse me, kid,” he says slowly, resting the bat on his shoulder and taking a step towards Henry. “I am trying as well as my hand-eye coordination allows me to. Maybe you’re just good.”

Henry scrunches his nose and Emma sees herself in the expression, biting her lip so she doesn’t actually make a noise. “You don’t know that,” Henry grumbles, scuffing his shoe in the dirt as Killian rests his hand on his shoulder. “I don’t even know if I’ll make the team.”

“You’re eleven. There are no cuts on teams like this. I can’t even believe there are enough kids in this town to field a team.”

“Wow, your pep talks suck.”

Emma does laugh at that, eyes going wide when both Henry and Killian realize they have an audience and Killian nearly drops the bat still resting on his shoulder. “Swan,” he says brusquely and she can hear the nervous edge to his voice like he’s terrified he’s overstepped some line they haven’t even begun to discuss. “I didn’t know you were here, love.”

She shrugs, stepping forward and resting her palms flat on his chest. “I didn’t want to interrupt practice. Where did you even find a bat?”

“David had it.”

“Ah,” she nods, glancing quickly at Henry who still looks uncertain about his future on Storybrooke’s one baseball team. “How come you don’t think you’re going to make the team, kid? Killian’s right, there shouldn’t be cuts.”

Henry groans, rolling his head and tossing the ball absently. He doesn’t drop it. “You guys are both horrible at this and you have to say that kind of stuff you’re my…” He cuts himself off and Emma’s stomach lurches at the suggestion lingering in the air. None of them move for what feels like several centuries, Emma staring at a patch of grass in between her booths as she tries not to let herself wonder.

No.

It’s way too fast for any of that.

They haven’t even….even if she does. Irrevocably and completely and she really needed to stop thinking about Mary Margaret in moments like this.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Emma mutters, kicking her foot towards Henry as he picks the ball out of the air again. “God, have you always been so good at this?”

Henry makes a face that has come to just mean ehhhhh and Killian clicks his tongue softly, wrapping his arm around Emma’s waist. “Who’s the coach?” he asks suddenly and Henry’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“August,” he answers. “He’s been doing it forever, but I don’t think he even played baseball before and he’s loud in the dugout and he eats all the sunflower seeds.”

Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat – she’ll never understand sunflower seeds. Henry glances at her, confusion in the furrow between his eyebrows, but she just grins and tugs the ball out of his glove, trying, and failing, to catch it with her left hand. He laughs loudly at her, any frustration over rosters forgotten for the moment, but Killian doesn’t move and Emma can hear him thinking.

“What?” she asks, only vaguely distracted when she can see the tip of his tongue pressed against his lip.

He doesn’t look at her when he responds, staring intently at Henry instead. “What would you say to a regime change, kid?”

“I don’t understand,” Henry admits and Emma shrugs when he looks to her for confirmation.

“I’m just saying maybe it’s time someone with baseball experiences takes over the Storybrooke squad. Or whatever you guys call yourselves.”

“Seagulls.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah.”

“God, maybe we can change that too.”

Emma’s head is spinning – mind racing three steps ahead of herself and she’s standing still, but she feels like she’s already tripped over her own feet. “Killian,” she starts, but he doesn’t stop looking at Henry and it takes her eleven-year-old kid seven seconds to realize what’s going on.

“Oh,” he exclaims, dropping his glove and practically leaping in the air and if Emma wasn’t sure before, she’s positive now, the smile on Killian’s face likely to power most of Storybrooke for the remainder of the year. “For real?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t going to follow through.”

“You know how to play baseball?”

Killian nods, the smile on his face still there like it was carved and Emma’s not sure how she’s still standing. “I do,” he promises. “And you do too. So you should do that and you should play for a team that is not called the Seagulls. Deal?”

“Deal,” Henry shouts and he’s already planning college scholarships and MLB Drafts and something about pitching at Fenway and Killian, finally, looks at Emma, a hopeful expression on his face that seems to settle into her very center and possibly melts the rest of the snow in her backyard.

“You ok, love?” he asks, when Henry dashes into the apartment to call friends and plan some kind of baseball mutiny.

Emma nods and it’s not entirely true, but she can’t seem to remember a single word and his hopeful look has morphed into something that’s just a bit more cautious and he’s still holding that goddamn bat. “Fine,” she breaths out eventually, but it sounds more like a sigh and Killian’s eyebrows furrow. “You didn’t….”

She wishes she could finish a sentence, but there seems to be a distinct lack of oxygen outside and she’s not quite sure what to do with the expression on his face. “I wanted to,” Killian says easily, but he hasn’t moved his eyebrows yet and his eyes are still tracing across her face quickly like he’s nervous she’s going to explode. “I wasn’t, well, I should have asked, I guess. I just...he thinks he’s not going to make the team and he should the starting pitcher on the team and I can tell him…”

“No,” Emma says sharply and she can actually hear Killian’s jaw snap shut.

“No?”

“No,” she repeats, resting her hands on his chest again and she can almost feel his breathing even out underneath her. And she shouldn’t be surprised, not really, not when everything has been like this and for how settled she seems to be, Emma has been living some kind of whirlwind for the last year and a half and so it almost makes sense that she nearly shouts the next few words out before even realizing she’s opened her mouth. “I love you,” she says, quickly and maybe just a bit aggressively and Killian blinks when he registers the words.

And for half a moment she’s terrified – certain it’s too soon and they haven’t even really used the word dating, just sort of settled into this, but it’s still freezing and he was playing baseball with her kid and offering to coach baseball for her kid and Emma gasps when she realizes he’s kissing her.

“God, Emma,” he mumbles against her mouth and she thinks she can feel him smiling.

“Good?” she asks and he actually has the audacity to laugh at her, his hand heavy on her hip and she wishes he would just kiss her again so she would stop talking.

“Better. I have...I love you.”

She realizes later on that he doesn’t say I love you too – not once in the next few weeks when they still can’t quite stop mumbling it to each other, whispering it against lips and skin and cheeks when they’re not making out like teenagers. She tries not to think about it too much, but Emma is still Emma and she’s nothing if not prone to overthinking and overanalysis and he never says the word too , just says I love you like he’s been waiting forever to promise it, like it’s just a statement and a sentence and not absolutely everything.

It makes her smile.

August doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to being relieved of his coaching duties, announcing that he never really liked baseball anyway,  and David becomes some kind of assistant without really applying for the job.

They crisscross New England that summer – the space just behind the front door of Emma’s apartment suddenly filled with equipment and more than one bat and she finds baseballs in every room and two sets of uniforms in her laundry.

Robin gets them tickets to Fenway in August and they have to take two cars to Boston, but Emma can’t stop smiling when she sees Henry’s eyes widen as soon as they approach the gate and he’s tugging on Killian’s sleeve and mumbling facts in historical order and it’s everything she’d never quite allowed herself to hope for.

The Red Sox lose – a blown save in the bottom of the ninth, but Henry is thrilled all the same and even Regina cracks a smile when he offers her the prize at the bottom of his Cracker Jack box, resting a hand on Roland’s back when he dozes against Robin’s shoulder.

Killian mumbles I love you in her ear when they walk back to the parking lot at the other end of the block.

Henry gets even better the next summer – a pitch arsenal that makes Emma wonder just a bit again about what ifs and maybes and dreams that seem not-quite so out of reach for a twelve year old on a baseball team that’s won its Little League regional.

“So what happens now?” Mary Margaret asks as soon as Killian makes it back to the dugout, uniform clinging to every inch of him after the entire team managed to dump Gatorade on him. Emma has a strong suspicion he let them.

Henry groans, his own hat lost to celebration on the first base line. David ruffles his hair and shoots his wife an exasperated look. They’d been over this no less than eight-hundred times. “Williamsport,” Henry shouts and the whole team whoops on cue.

“That was impressive,” Emma mutters, leaning back against the fence in front of the dugout as Mary Margaret passes out post-game cookies that she must have made in the hotel because they’re a hundred miles away from Storybrooke.

Killian flashes her a grin that seems to shoot into her toes and Emma gasps when he tugs her against his side. “Oh, you’re all gross,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut when he leans down to kiss her and several drops of Gatorade land on her cheek. “Did you make them practice that cheer, Coach?”

“Surprisingly enough, Swan, they did that on their own,” he grins. “Although I’ll take credit for it if you want.”

“Greedy.”

“Ah, well, you’ve already called me gross today, love. I think I can handle one more insult.”

Henry and David make matching noises of disgust and Emma is half a second away from reminding them about bets when more parents descend on the dugout and there are plans to make and forms to pass out and they’ve only got a few days before they have to get to Pennsylvania and an international event with TV cameras and ESPN and Emma is suddenly treading dangerously close to overwhelmed.

“Deep breaths, love,” Killian says softly and he kisses her hair again. She doesn’t worry about the Gatorade that time. “We’re going to win the whole thing.”

It sounds like a guarantee and Emma resists the urge to make some sort of dated Broadway Joe reference, but David does it anyway, incredibly pleased with himself when he shoots an over-exaggerated wink at Emma.

“Oh my God,” Mary Margaret sighs, but she’s smiling too and it’s all so...small town Emma can hardly believe any of it is real.

They’re totally going to win the whole thing.

The week goes back in a blur – trying to find suitcases and get Gatorade stains out of uniforms and Mary Margaret is on some kind of baking mission, determined to feed the entire team when they arrive at the farmhouse for one last pre-game dinner before they pile on the bus the next morning and Emma’s only slightly nervous about that.

Killian knows. Of course he knows. She feels the bed dip when he climbs into it later that night, an arm around her waist and his nose burrowed against her neck and maybe, eventually, they should discuss that too – how easily he’s just settled into their lives and this apartment and Emma can't remember the last time she’s fallen asleep without him wrapped up around her.

“You going to make a sign, Swan?” he asks softly and that was the last thing she expected.

She twists around until she’s facing him, eyes bright even in the dim light of her – their – room. “Is that a thing?”

“It’s definitely a thing. Have you never seen this before? It’s on TV every year.”

“I am painfully aware of the TV coverage, thank you,” she groans and he chuckles lightly, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Honestly though, do people really make signs?”

Killian hums in the back of his throat, not quite able to nod when his head is propped against a small mountain of pillows. “I can guarantee signs, love. And people. And an entire hill full of fans.”

“I thought they just slid down it.”

“That happens too. See, you know what’s going on.”

“Why do you know so much about this? Is this just common knowledge that I missed out on?”

He clicks his tongue and she can almost feel the nerves radiating off him, shifting the air around them and she can hear the ocean a few hundred yards away. “This is not some misplaced attempt at missed childhood glory,” Killian starts, tracing out a pattern on her arm and grinning when he notices the goosebumps there. “But when I was a kid, Liam coached our team because he was...well, there weren’t a ton of other options and we were ok, but we never even came close to this and…”

Emma can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows and she tries not to ask the, approximately, eight-thousand questions sitting on the tip of her tongue. “I want Henry to have all of that,” Killian finishes, voice barely more than a whisper.

She’s glad she’s laying down. She’s glad it’s dark. She hopes he doesn’t notice her crying.

He does.

Figures.

“Swan,” Killian says scandalized when he brushes a tear away from her cheek. “God, what…”

“No, no,” she stammers, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and God she wants so much it feels like the entire building will shake with the force of it. But she can’t say that and so she says the only thing that makes sense because it all seems to happen immediately. “I love you a questionable amount.”

He gapes at her, air practically bursting out of his lungs in disbelief and maybe Emma can make a sign for her son and her boyfriend and maybe they can have it all. Even baseball. “Questionable, huh?” he laughs and Emma tries to shrug. “Ah, well, that’s good since I love you an absolutely ridiculous amount.”

She stops crying after that and they don’t really get much sleep and Mary Margaret asks about the bags under Killian’s eyes when he stuffs his equipment on the bus the next morning.

David cackles when he notices the blush on Emma’s cheeks.

It turns out she doesn’t need to make a sign. They provide them for her.  A small piece of cardboard that’s handed to her as soon as she and the entire Storybrooke contingent walk into Volunteer Stadium.

It reads That’s my kid on the top and there’s a line for a name and number and Emma barely opens her mouth before Mary Margaret presents her with a bright blue Sharpie that perfectly matches the uniforms.

“You are almost too prepared, you know,” Emma accuses with a smile on her face and Mary Margaret just laughs, filling out her own sign.

“Shouldn’t you have two?” she asks and, of course, she’s stolen them an extra sign. “I figured I’d grab another one if one of us made a mistake, but I guess we’re all capable of writing letters on cardstock.”

“A true talent,” Regina drawls, resting her feet on the back of the chair in front of her and she brought a scorebook with her.

"Although you really should have two.”

“It says my kid on it,” Emma reasons, but Mary Margaret seems unconcerned with any of that, already crossing out kid and writing boyfriend and it all feels a bit juvenile, but if there’s a place to be a kid, it’s Williamsport, Pennsylvania in August.

They win the first game. Henry hits his pitch count, but only gives up four hits  – Regina is quick to inform them, as if Emma isn’t absolutely keeping track already – and he connects on a double in the fourth and there’s barely enough time to hug him before he’s being pulled towards cameras and back to team-only lodging on the other side of town, but he looks thrilled and Emma wants all of this for him too.

Killian kisses her, quick and meaningful with a squeeze to her hip and a nervous energy that’s almost catching and the cameras certainly pick up on that too.

Mary Margaret takes pictures of everything and her photo series might as well be called Emma Swan watches baseball through her fingers because, by day four, Emma is a caricature of a parent, peering through her hands every time Henry comes up to bat and he hasn’t pitched since that first game and she’s trying not to be the pessimist she still is deep down, but they’re losing and they can’t mount a comeback.

They fall into the loser’s bracket and, suddenly, they’re fighting for their Little League lives and Killian’s shoulders are tense and Henry’s pitching in an elimination game.

“This is so much pressure,” Emma mumbles in between innings, Regina’s eyes focused on her book and Mary Margaret shoots her an understanding look. David barely said two words that morning and this was supposed to be fun.

God, she’s a nervous wreck.

She can feel the camera zeroing in on her.

Emma is not a person with many beliefs. Or she hasn’t been for a long time.

She believes in her kid and herself and the best friend next to her who keeps mumbling quiet encouragements every time Henry winds up. She believes in the town that she knows is holding viewing parties at Granny’s every game and, although she didn’t expect it, she believes in the coach that she’s certain is pacing the dugout and chewing on a ridiculous amount of bubble gum.

She believes in all of that and because of that, she finds herself hoping and allowing herself to wonder and consider and what if they win? It takes one hour, forty-two minutes and six innings of no-hit baseball for her to realize that it feels pretty damn good.

“Still alive,” David shouts as they stumble onto the field and they probably aren’t supposed to be out there, but Emma can’t bring herself to care when she crashes into Killian’s chest and feels herself lifted off the ground and that probably made on TV too.

Henry’s lying just off the mound and Emma stumbles towards him, Killian never more than half an inch behind and they drop down next to him and stay there until a security guard kicks them off the field.

Emma’s hands finds Henry’s and Killian’s and she holds on with everything she has.

Mary Margaret sends her the picture later that night.

They win the United States title in two games on a Saturday afternoon and it is hot.

Emma can feel the sweat pooling at the base of her spine even underneath a vaguely ridiculous hat and paper fans that they handed out when they walked into the stadium. She keeps forgetting to use it, too focused on the game and every pitch feels like it has a direct line to her pulse and her lungs have all but collapsed by the bottom of the fifth inning.

“Comeback, comeback, comeback,” Mary Margaret chants like it’s the only word she’s ever learned. Emma can’t watch. She has to watch.

She’s a mess – an actual, sweat-covered mess. She grips her signs a little tighter and tries to believe again when Henry steps into the batter’s box.

One out and a runner on first and Aurora and Philip’s kid is fast and this is Little Leauge so the possibility of a double play seems unlikely and Emma can’t remember when she became a person who knew what would make a good double play ball.

He’s got one strike to his name when she hears the telltale sound of bat hitting ball and she’s out of her seat before she can even consider how that will look on national TV, but Mary Margaret is screaming and Emma is jumping and the ball just keeps sailing through the sky.

“Oh my God,” she gasps as she loses track of the ball and it’s sailed over the fence, the commotion at the bottom of the hill the perfect indication that her kid just hit a go-ahead home run. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Emma can’t think of another word to say and Mary Margaret is laughing and clinging to her – any worry about the heat forgotten as soon as Henry dashed into the scrum of waiting teammates at home plate. She thinks she sees Regina try and swipe her knuckle underneath her eye, but decides against saying anything, waving her arms instead and trying to catch the attention of anyone in the dugout.

She doesn’t – not until the final out in the next inning and they’ve won and then Emma's crying and she sprints onto the field without much regard to rules or security or anything except hugging her kid as tightly as she can.

He finds her quickly, the smile on his face so bright and happy and everything and Emma bites her lips so she won’t just dissolve into a puddle in front of the backstop. Her knees buckle when Henry crashes into her, but she’s saved from the ground by a strong hand on her back and a familiar laugh in her ear and they’re a mess of limbs and smiles and family and they get mentioned on the midnight SportsCenter.

She gets forty-six text messages about it.

The championship is the next day because, of course it is, and Emma has almost gotten used to things moving at the speed of light, but she is decidedly less used to sleeping on her own anymore and it takes Killian nearly ten minutes outside her and Mary Margaret’s hotel room door before he finally agrees he has to leave.

“This is stupid,” he grumbles and Emma blushes like she’s sixteen and following curfew.

“That’s what you get for volunteering to coach,” she points out. “You could have just been a plebe parent like me with my signs and sunburn, but you had to go and take over the whole thing. Captain saves sinking ship.”

“It was hardly sinking, Swan. Floundering at best.”

She scoffs, but her heart beats a little faster and she thinks she notices something that might almost be nerves on Killian’s face, but it disappears quickly and maybe she’s just trying to project. It’d be easier if they were on even ground.

And she used the word parent. Oh. Maybe she isn’t imagining it.

God.

“Have I ever said thank you?” she asks softly, tugging on the front of his t-shirt, United States champion emblazoned on the front.

He stares at her, eyebrows pulled low and mouth just a few inches away from hers and maybe they could just kiss instead. He probably had curfew to make. “For what?” Killian asks and he sounds genuinely confused.

“This,” Emma shrugs. “Everything. Letting Mary Margaret push the set-up and offering to coach in the first place and I…” She licks her lips, throat suddenly dry and tongue far too big for her mouth and she’s entirely distracted by his eyes and that slight quirk of his mouth. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “It’s nice and you’re nice and I...I love you.”

“That was almost aggressive, Swan,” he laughs, resting his forehead and he’s absolutely smiling at her now. “But still not anything to thank me for. I wanted to. All of it. Every single thing. As much as I wanted you when you dropped lemonade on my sneaker.”

“Ugh,” Emma groans and it’s not very articulate, but it’s late and she’s half certain the sun drained most of her energy.

Killian laughs again, ducking his head until his lips find hers and it’s not one of their most intense kisses, but it’s far more emotional and far more meaningful, Emma’s back pressed up against the door and her fingers dancing on the edge of his shirt and he groans against her when she cants her hips up.

“If you’re trying to get me to leave, love,” he mumbles and Emma tugs a bit tighter on one belt loop, “that’s not going to help the cause.”

“I wasn’t aware we were a cause.”

"The most important one.”

“Smooth talker.”

"Honest.”

"Go,” she says, pushing lightly on his chest and she knows her face proves just how much she absolutely does not want him to leave. “You’ve got to win tomorrow.”

"The kids have to win, Swan. I’m just there to make sure they all get in the game.”

"You’re selling yourself short. You were on ESPN!”

"That was weird.”

“You blushed a lot. The tips of your ears went all red and you did that thing where you tug on the back of your hair.”

Killian twists his eyebrows and tries to smirk at her and it probably shouldn’t work as well as it does, but she’s wearing her own United States champions t-shirt and she really can’t figure out why he’s so nervous. “They were trying to ask me about strategy,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes and Emma can hear Mary Margaret’s feet moving behind the door. “There’s no strategy. I tell them to stand in front of the base and try and catch the ball.”

"Please,” Emma argues. “It’s so much more than that. Henry hit seventy on the radar gun, so Regina informed me, and that’s only because you spent an entire year practicing with him and Roland’s already talking about coming back here and what it’s going to be like when he plays and that’s...that’s all you. Ah, blushing again.”

She taps her finger on his chin and smiles as wide as she possibly can, trying to instill some kind of certainty in him and she’s not sure when it happened, but Emma Swan seems to have found home right there in a hallway in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

“And you said I was a smooth talker,” Killian mumbles, but his ears are still tinged red and he’s chewing lightly on his lip. “I’ve really got to go, love. They’re going to lock me out of the compound or whatever it is.”

"Won’t let you play ping pong tomorrow.”

"How’d you know about that?”

“I do, sometimes, talk to my kid,” she grins. “When he deems it acceptable to talk to me. And also there was a thing on ESPN and M’s told me.”

"Efficient.”

"Get out of here, Coach. I’ll see you tomorrow with a trophy and medals. Do they give you medals?”

"I’d assume there are medals, yes.”

"Then I’ll see you with medals.” He kisses her again before he leaves.

Williamsport, Pennsylvania is a lot like Storybrooke. It’s small and quiet and Emma assumes that most of the people who spend their actual lives in that tiny corner of the world know everything about the person who lives next door to them.

It’s small-town America in a big-time kind of way and there are kids everywhere and everything kind of smells like sunscreen. Emma can’t sit still even once they find their seats and there’s a camera that is, apparently, just for them and their reactions and they have to sign a release because some ESPN intern who’s been assigned to work the crowd wants to interview her in between the third and fourth inning.

They play anthems and Emma tries not to actually cry before the first pitch and Mary Margaret elbows her in the side, eyes wide and mouth hanging open when she notices who’s on the mound.

Henry. Pitching in the Little League World Series championship and no one told her.

“Oh God,” Emma breathes, drawing the attention of the small crowd around the Storybrooke contingent and Mary Margaret wraps her arm tightly around her shoulders.

“Did you know?” she asks. Emma shakes her head. She can’t talk. She just holds her signs – the same ones from the very first day because they have to be the same ones, mom, there are rules and they’re a little dirty, smudged from her fingerprints and sunscreen and there are more than a few creases down the middle – and tries to focus on breathing in and out.

The game, despite what Emma may wish, starts while she’s in the midst of her complete and, somewhat, literal meltdown and Henry throws a strike.

Of course.

“Game on,” Regina mutters, scratching out a “K” on her book.

In the grand scheme of things, the last two years flew by – a mix of memories and excitement and home, but the championship game of the Little League World Series seems to drag on endlessly.

Emma is convinced she’s spent most of her life sitting in row C, seat 17 of Lamade Stadium.

There’s suddenly a camera in her face and an intern with a microphone and she’s answering questions and trying to keep one eye on the field and Storybrooke is, apparently, some kind of story that the country is obsessed with and this tiny little town that Emma never wanted to visit has somehow become the center of the baseball-watching universe.

Or so the ESPN intern informs her.

She still can’t really talk. She hopes this video doesn’t end up all over the Internet –  terrified mom ignores questions on national TV station.

The interview goes longer than scheduled and Henry is up to bat and Emma leaps up when she hears bat hit ball. Again. “What is he hitting?” Emma asks, glancing towards Regina and her scorebook and she shrugs in response.

“I’m not doing math. Just keeping track of striekouts, but, I mean, it’s good.”

Good.

Emma’s phone buzzes non-stop for the remainder of the inning – a mix of reactions to her live ESPN interview and Henry’s hit and the very detailed handshake he and Killian came up with that was featured as the cutaway to commercial in the middle of the fifth.

They aren’t supposed to win.

Emma knows that. SportsCenter informed her that an American team hasn't won in nearly two decades that morning, but she’s discovered she’s a bit of a believer now and none of this was supposed to happen, so winning the LIttle League World Series just makes sense.

She absolutely cries when they win.

And so does Mary Margaret and so does Regina and, probably, the entire population of Storybrooke, Maine some four-hundred and seventy miles away.

They run around the bases once more, waving to the crowd and forty-thousand fans who are all cheering and screaming and the kids actually pause by the third base line to sign autographs and Emma finds herself leaning against Mary Margaret out of necessity.

Mary Margaret takes, at least, seven thousand pictures.

Emma will probably think about the smile on her son’s face for the rest of her life and she closes her eyes when she feels arms wrap around her waist and a head resting against her shoulder and, for half a moment, that’s the only thing that matters and has ever mattered and she’s so happy, she can’t quite decide what to do next.

Probably keep crying.

Henry notices that, leaning back and staring at her with a scandalized expression. “Mom, are you crying?” he asks, shaking his head slightly to try and move the hair away from his forehead.

She brushes it away out of instinct and and he grumbles a bit at that. “Yeah,” Emma admits. “I am absolutely crying. You did so good, kid.”

He beams at her and hugs her a bit tighter and there are more cameras and they both get drenched in the post-game Gatorade bath.

It takes forever to get off the field and the entire team joins Killian and David at the post-game press conference – there’s a post-game press conference – and it’s late by the time the Storybrooke contingent finally walks out of the stadium with smiles on their faces and jaw muscles just a bit sore and there’s still one thing left for them to do.

They have to slide down the hill.

“It’s tradition, Mom,” Henry cries, grabbing a piece of cardboard from the pile that Mary Margaret, somehow, organized. “And we’re the only team that hasn’t done it yet!”

The rest of the team agrees and they’re a blur of excitement and lights flashing on medals that none of them are willing to take off, laughter lingering in the air behind them.

“C’mon, Swan,” Killian grins, that same enthusiasm etched in his face as well. “The kid’s right. It’s absolutely tradition.”

“Peer pressure,” David shouts. He’s already three quarters of the way up the hill, Mary Margaret’s hand clutched tightly in his. Regina resolutely refuses to slide down anything, taking Mary Margaret’s phone instead and announcing she’ll document it.

"Let’s go, Em,” David continues, yelling when he gets a head of steam on his piece of cardboard. Mary Margaret has her eyes closed.

“If I break a bone, I’m blaming you,” she tells Killian and he hums in agreement.

She does not break any bones.

And Henry slides down the hill six times before more security guards show up and try to chase them off the grass.

“You’ve got to do it now,” Henry shouts, jumping off his torn-up piece of cardboard and racing towards Killian with an expectant look on his face.

Killian blanches, eyes going wide and he purses his lips, a hand falling on Henry’s shoulders to keep his feet on the ground. “Henry,” he cautions, but the kid just groans and Emma feels like she’s missing something.

“You said you’d do it if we won.”

“I said I’d consider if we won. Winning was not a precursor.” He glances at Emma and his whole body has gone tense, shoulders tight and spine straight and she tilts her head in confusion.

It’s still warm out – the quiet buzz of the lights above them matching up with the hum of the bugs in the grass and near-constant click of the shutter on Mary Margaret’s phone.

The security guard is shouting for them to leave again.

“Killian,” Henry whines and even David laughs at the drawn-out expression. “It’s perfect. C’mon. C’mon. We had a deal.”

Killian rolls his eyes, but he’s got a bit of color back in his cheeks and maybe just a bit of confidence in the way he shifts his stance. “We had an understanding at best,” he argues. “But you did pitch a complete game and, well…”

He takes a deep breath and turns back towards Emma with a look that makes her wonder about all sorts of things that are happening very quickly and she tries to swallow down the wad of emotion she can feel in the back of her throat.

“You’re going to have to change your sign,” Killian mumbles, taking a step towards her and it takes far too long for her to understand what he means.

She gasps when he does, eyes flitting towards a still-beaming Henry and a once-again crying Mary Margaret and Emma’s hands fly to her mouth. It’s the single most cliche thing she’s ever done and she cried on ESPN that afternoon.

That seems to boost Killian’s confidence.

He absolutely get a grass stain on his knee when he bends down and Emma’s eyes bug slightly when she realizes there was a ring in his pocket during the whole game.

“Swan,” he starts and Emma nods like she’s agreeing to her name. David snickers a few feet away. “I love you. And if you get to try and thank me for any of this, then I get to tell you that I am…”

He takes another deep breath, pressing his lips together tightly and Emma isn’t sure what to make of a visibly nervous Killian Jones. She crouches down in front of him and he makes a face – something about the moment likely on the tip of his tongue, but she just smiles and rests her hand on his cheek and it kind of happens in a blur from there.

He tells her he loves her, at least, five more times.

“You made it all feel like home,” he says and they’re still kneeling on the hill, a security guard a few feet away and Mary Margaret may never actually stop crying. “And I want that, indefinitely and selfishly and if you’ll let me. So...thank God for lemonade.”

Emma lets out a shaky laugh, tugging on her lower lip and there is a ring and more photos and Mary Margaret brought the blue Sharpie with her.

“Just in case,” she mumbles and Killian takes it with a smile on his face, crossing out boyfriend on the sign Emma had dropped a few feet away and scribbling in fiancé.

“Seems presumptuous to write it without asking though, huh?” he grins and Emma’s stomach does several cartwheels and maybe slides down the hill again. “Emma Swan, will you marry me?”

She kisses him.

And it’s not really an answer – a fact pointed out, loudly, by Henry several moments later and she’ll probably never get the grass stains out of her knees. “Mom,” he cries, dropping down next to them and Killian wraps an arm around his shoulders with that same, self-satisfied smile on his face.

“The kid’s right, Swan,” he agrees. “You didn’t actually answer.”

Emma rolls her eyes, reaching forward to ruffle Henry’s hair and it’s the easiest question she’s ever been asked. “Yes,” she says and even the security guard claps.

The drive home seems to take two seconds – Mary Margaret already going through color schemes and reception locations and what about a honeymoon, have you thought about a honeymoon and Emma doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s barely thought about what to make for dinner that night.

And maybe telling Killian he should just move his stuff into the apartment. Most of his things are already there anyway.

She’s selfish too.

They make it back to Storybrooke before the team bus and there are banners everywhere and people on the sidewalks and Granny’s is completely decorated in blue and white and NATIONAL CHAMPIONS plastered across the front.

Ruby grins knowingly when Emma and Mary Margaret climb out of the car, glancing down at Emma’s left hand and shouting “you owe me ten bucks, Archie” over her shoulder.

Emma can’t find it in herself to be frustrated.

There’s more cheering when the bus parks on Main Street and the team barrels out like they’re walking through the Canyon of Heroes, Henry’s smile just as wide as it was before. Killian finds Emma immediately, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her up and there are almost certainly whistles and shouts as soon as his lips find hers.

“I love you,” he mumbles against her cheek and it seems impossible to cry again, but it’s been that kind of week and that kind of life and she’s stumbled into home quicker than she ever thought possible.

Mostly because she never thought it would be possible.

“I love you,” Emma says and Mary Margaret takes another picture when Henry presses in between them, the medal still around his neck.

They get married on a Saturday in the fall.

“It’s the only season we haven’t done something major, Swan,” Killian reasons and that’s as good an explanation as any.

They stand next to the ocean and David walks Emma down an aisle that isn’t quite an aisle and Henry stands next to Killian with something that almost looks like pride on his face.

It’s over before Emma realizes, words and promises and rings and it isn’t until they’re tucked underneath blankets and wrapped up in each other in the corner room at Granny’s later that night – a gift from Mary Margaret and David before they head that honeymoon location Emma finally decided on – that it suddenly hits Emma, they’re married and she’s home and happy and loved.

She laughs out loud.

“Did I miss the joke?” Killian asks and she can feel the words pressed against her neck, the distracting way his fingers trail across her hip and back over her stomach and Emma has to bite her lip before she answers.

“No, no joke,” she mumbles. He quirks an eyebrow. His fingers don’t stop moving. “I was just...thinking.”

“You’re supposed to be doing the opposite of that, love.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but then her mind drifts back to thoughts and realizations and she flips towards Killian, pressing her palm flat on his bare chest. “We got married,” she says, a note of wonder in her voice. “Like actually married.”

"We did,” he agrees and she thinks she hears a bit of amusement in the words. “Is that what you were thinking about, Swan?”

“Yeah, I guess. I just...I never even imagined. I mean, M’s called me and told me about this job and I didn’t want to be here. And then she pulled you into the equation and I didn’t want you to be here…”

“Really selling it,” Killian interrupts and she scratches her nails lightly against him. “I’m glad she tried to force me into the equation.”

“Me too,” Emma promises. “That’s what I’m getting at. I’m just...I’m happy. It still surprises me, I guess.”

Killian laughs softly, brushing his nose against her cheek and pressing feather-like kisses against the slope of her shoulder.

“Me too,” he whispers and she swears she can feel it in every single inch of her. “That’s not going to change.”

“No?”

"No.”

It does. Sometimes. They fight and they argue about whether or not they should cancel the cable and if Henry should play fall ball when he decides baseball is the only sport he cares about and what kind of creamer they’re going to buy every week, but they always come back to happy – quickly and easily and it’s like coming home all over again.

The years go by and it all happens in a blink and they don’t go back to Williamsport, but they do go back to Fenway when Henry makes his quasi-hometown debut and pitches six innings of two-hit, shutout baseball and all of Storybrooke cheers.

And Emma might cry again, the camera finding her and Killian in the stands with his arm around her shoulder and a smile on his face and it isn’t just good – it’s better.

#cs ff #cs fic #captain swan ff #ouat ff #captain swan #i don't know why this happened #but it did #and there is baseball involved #but also mostly just sports emotion

[emjenenla]

If You’re Gone, Maybe it’s Time to Come Home [SoC Fanfic]

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Title: If You’re Gone, Maybe it’s Time To Come Home

Author: Emjen Enla (Fanfiction)/emjen_enla (Wattpad)/emjenenla (Tumblr)

Teaser: (There’s an awful lot of breathing room, but I can hardly move) Or Kaz goes into a downward spiral after Crooked Kingdom.

Rating: PG-13/T

Canon/Timeline: Mainstream, post-Crooked Kingdom

Dominant Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, appearances of various other characters, a couple relatively minor OCs

Pairings: Kanej (Kaz/Inej), perhaps one OC/OC if you squint (and/or can read my mind)

Warnings: depression, panic attacks, anxiety, some drinking, Kaz being Kaz, Ketterdam being Ketterdam

Notes:

-I think the time has come for us all to admit that I’m not going to be posting as much as I once did. I’ve been really busy in the last year with school and work and my own original work. I’m not saying that I’m completely done with fanfiction, but updates might be pretty slow from now on.

-I did not intend for this to be a multi-part fic, but I was working on it tonight and realized that the part I have written (which I think it roughly half) was already over eight thousand words. I figured that I may as well release it in parts to make it a bit more manageable. I’m hoping this will be a two-part fic, but it might get up to three. Hopefully I’ll be done before I go back to college at the end of August, but I’m honestly not sure what will happen.

-I read the Six of Crows Duology over Christmas break and it (mostly Kaz, let’s be honest) has stuck with me ever since. This story is mostly inspired by the fact that I’m honestly really worried about Kaz now that his only real reason for living (revenge on Pekka Rollins) is gone.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Six of Crows or the song “If You’re Gone” by Matchbox 20.

--

Part One

(1)

After they beat Van Eck and Pekka Rollins, everything and nothing changes.

Kaz is now king of the Barrel. Of course, the rest of the gangs haven’t figured that out yet. Everyone is expecting Rollins to eventually dig his way out of the hole he’d fallen into. The rumor of him on his knees at Kaz’s feet is spreading through the Barrel like wildfire, but Rollins has been in power for so long that no can fathom the idea that his time as ruler might be over. However, Kaz knows that it’s only a matter of time before that minor annoyance is rectified.

He also has four million kruge slowly siphoning into his accounts. Between that and the shares of the Crow Club and Fifth Harbor that he bought off Haskell, he figures he’s easily the richest person in the Barrel and probably comfortably in the top fifty richest people in Ketterdam. Not bad for a person who was flat broke two weeks before.

Still he makes the rest of the people involved in the Ice Court job keep the payoff quiet. It won’t do any of them any good for people to realize just how much kruge they’re each rolling in. Kaz has built his life around stealing from the ridiculously wealthy and he’d rather not become one of those pigeons for some other angry upstart.

He should be ecstatic, even with the Council of Tides still breathing down his neck, but he’s not. Firstly, Inej is leaving. He’s not surprised, though, and he’s not going to try to stop her. He understands why she needs to go, he just…wishes she wouldn’t.

Inej and her parents stay for a few days so Inej can show them around Ketterdam. She’s always with them so Kaz tries to say out of their way. Being around Mr. and Mrs. Ghafa makes him nervous. He’s not positive, but he’s pretty sure that Inej’s parents know exactly how he feels about her. (He shouldn’t be surprised, nothing says “I’m completely and totally, illogically in love with your daughter” like “I bought her a ship so she can go fulfil her purpose in life.”) That transparency makes him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. He’s not ashamed of what he is, but he knows that he’s not the kind of boy that the Ghafas want their daughter to end up with.

(Will he and Inej end up together? He’s not even sure.)

He tries to tell himself that Inej is the only thing bothering him, but if he’s truly honest with himself Matthias is weighing heavily on his mind as well.

Though it’s a truth he’ll take it to his grave, he was not completely surprised by Matthias’ death. He’d planned hundreds of possible scenarios for the auction scheme and he’d known that the chances that at least one of them wouldn’t make it out were much higher than he would have liked. He’d also known that after Kuwei, he and Matthias had the worse odds of them all. If something went wrong, the rest of the gang had a chance of being able to vanish underground and wait things out. He and Matthias would be forever chased by the powerful people who wanted them dead.

Still, he hadn’t mentioned any of that to Matthias. He’d told himself that he didn’t want to risk Matthias backing out, but he’d known that Matthias would never back out while Nina was still in danger. There had been no excuse. Perhaps telling Matthias about the dangers would have saved his life, perhaps it wouldn’t have (they still aren’t sure what had happened, though Kaz has his theories). Either way, the idea of Matthias going to his death knowing it was a possibility seems like it would make things a little better.

Kaz has lost crewmembers before, but somehow Matthias weighs on him heavier than all those others. The night of the auction, after he left Van Eck’s—Wylan’s—house, he returned to the Slat. He made a mug of the herbal tea Inej keeps around and makes after big jobs when he feels like crud because of shear exhaustion. He couldn’t get it to taste right so he corrupted it with a double dose of a painkilling tonic and couple shots of whiskey because why not. Then he downed the whole vile-tasting thing in a couple gulps. His stomach was empty so the concoction hit him hard and knocked him out in a matter of minutes. He slept until late the next morning and expected to wake up feeling more like his normal self, but he didn’t.

He hadn’t felt quite right since then either, but it would be okay. He’d had low times before and he always snapped out of them.

It would be okay.

(2)

Inej leaves long, long before he’s ready. The night before the Wraith is due to leave, she shows up at the Slat and they spend a night wandering the city, just like they did before the Ice Court. Kaz leaves his gloves off and tries not to flinch when people come to close. Inej pretends not to notice when he fails.

“So how exactly are you planning to catch these slavers?” he asks while they’re walking down an empty street even though they’ve already talked about this a number of times.

“Well, first I’m taking my parents back to Ravka,” Inej says. “I want to see the rest of my family again, plus they’ll need a ride back. While I’m there I might try to add to the crew. Papa says that I have a couple cousins who might be interested in signing on and there are a lot of purposeless Grisha in Ravka now. After that, I start looking for slavers.”

“And how are you going to find them?” he asks.

“Well, I know there’s a slaver hideout somewhere between here and Ravka,” she says. “I don’t have the crew or experience to take it now, but knowing where it is will help me to intercept individual ships.”

He nods and they’re quiet for a couple more minutes while he considers if he really wants to do this.

“I’ve thought about what you said about me helping you catch slavers,” he says after what feels like an age.

“Really?” she looks at him. Her expression is passably neutral, but he knows her well enough to see the tension.

“I’ll help you,” he says before he loses his nerve.

A huge grin spreads across Inej’s face. She moves like she’s going to hug him and he leaps out of the way, wrenching his bad leg. The smile fades as she realizes what just happened. Her arms drop back to her side and her lips press together. “Thank you very much,” she says formally.

The mood never quite recovers from that.

(3)

More people show up to see the Wraith off than Kaz anticipated. He hadn’t realized Inej had integrated herself so well into the Dregs. Even people like Beatle and Swann who had tried to literally beat Kaz’s brains out a few weeks before are there. A small group of people crowd the dock as Inej and her crew off.

Kaz leaves his gloves on. The crowd isn’t big by Ketterdam standards, but the dock is narrow enough that people bump and brush up against each other. He knows that if he tried to go barehanded he’d probably end up having one of his episodes like the one in the prison cart. (He knows what the proper name for those is, but he feels less pathetic and weak when he doesn’t think of them by that name.)

He waits until everyone else has finished saying goodbye to Inej before he approaches her. They stand there, staring at each other, neither knowing what to say, how they should part.

“Remember to write,” Inej says. Perhaps that sounds sweet to someone who doesn’t know that they ended last night by coming up with a plan on how he can get letters to her and an overly complicated code so he can send her information without blowing his involvement. There’s nothing romantic about her telling him to write; it’s just business.

He wishes it wasn’t. He wishes he could tell her he loves her. He wishes he could throw his arms around and hold her until she agrees to stay here with him. He wishes he could kiss her just so he could know what it’s like.

Instead he nods stoically, showing no hint of any of his desires. “I will,” he says and the promise is too audible in his voice so he goes on with something cutting, “And try not to get killed. It would be a waste of perfectly good kruge I spend on that ship.”

Her expression is somewhere between fond and disappointed. When she speaks again, her voice has dropped to a near whisper. “Kaz, about last night-”

He does not want to talk about this ever, let alone in front of all these people. “Wraith-”

“Kaz,” she cuts in her voice rising slightly, but when she next speaks her voice is quiet again. “Don’t give up hope, okay? Just keep trying. It’ll get better.” Then she reaches out, takes his gloved hand and squeezes.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, but he finds himself nodding stiffly and squeezing her hand back. They stand like that for a couple seconds. He can feel the gazes of the other people burning into him. He’s uncomfortably aware that for most of these people this is probably the first time they’ve seen him touch someone in a way that isn’t violent.

He pulls away first and steps back to put a little more space between them. “No mourners,” he says because he doesn’t know how to put words to what he actually wants to say.

“No funerals,” she says. “Take care of yourself, Kaz.”

When he doesn’t respond right away she turns away and heads up the ramp onto the Wraith, leaving him in Ketterdam all alone.

“You too,” he says too quietly for anyone else to hear.

(4)

The next few weeks are busy ones. Kaz consolidates his control of the Dregs and begins to use his inside knowledge of the falsity of the plague to encroach on the territories of other gangs (namely Rollins’). He begins searching for more spiders after it becomes obvious that Roeder won’t be able to fill Inej’s shoes on his own. He quietly starts tracking down slavers and their compatriots.

He’s very busy. Given that, if he’s eating and sleeping less than he should, that’s okay. If he’s drinking more coffee and whiskey than he probably should, that’s okay too. He’s a general now, not a lieutenant, he has more responsibilities than he did before (never mind that he was practically running the Dregs before the Ice Court job).

He’s not trying to ignore his stubbornly lingering guilt about Matthias. He’s definitely not trying to distract himself from the gaping hole in his heart and by his side where Inej is supposed to be. He’s fine. Just fine, thank you very much. There’s absolutely nothing wrong.

Nothing.

(5)

A month after the auction, Kaz pulls his first job as leader of the Dregs. There shouldn’t be much difference between this and any other job he’s ever done. After all, after the Ice Court and everything that happened afterwards, Kaz is pretty sure every job he’ll ever do should seem easy.

Still, no one knows about the Ice Court, and it doesn’t look like anyone ever will. This is his first job as leader of the Dregs and all the gang members in Ketterdam will be watching and waiting to see if he chokes.

That shouldn’t bother him—if anything it should make him more confident—but it does.

The job is a raid on a particularly rich mercher’s private jewel collection. It’s a job that requires a fairly small number of members (himself, Anika, Pim, Roeder and Mina, the thirteen-year-old Grisha Heartrender he’s letting try for a position as a spider). The job also doubles as a chance to look through the mercher’s records to see if the vague rumors Kaz has been hearing about the man being involved in the slave trade are accurate.

The break-in goes off without a hitch. The mercher and his family are still waiting out the “plague” in a summer home and it looks like the servants have taken this as an opportunity to take a paid vacation. Once inside, he leaves the others in the showroom to bag the jewels while he goes upstairs under the pretense of doing some reconnaissance. In reality, he picks the lock on the mercher’s office door and goes through the man’s papers.

It takes him four and a half minutes to find the information he’s looking for. Yes, the man’s involved in the slave trade. Yes, he knows when the next shipment’s coming in. There aren’t any routes in the information, but there are locations of launches and when they’re supposed to come in. That information will be a start for Inej. It takes him three minutes to memorize the information, then he puts the office back the way he found it, locks the door again and gets back to the showroom before the others have time to start wondering what was taking him so long.

The rest of the job goes off without a hitch. They’re back in the Slat within a few hours a couple thousand kruge richer. As soon as he’s sure everything’s settled and the jewels are locked up in the big safe that only he knows the combination to, Kaz retreats to his upstairs rooms (he’s taken over Per Haskell’s office, but his private rooms are something else entirely). He lights a candle, gets out a sheet of paper and starts his first coded letter to Inej.

He takes all his self-control to focus on the business and not say anything pointless about how much he misses her.

(6)

He doesn’t get a return letter from Inej for almost a month and when one does come it’s a list of the ships they’d raided (mostly ones from that first list he’d sent her) and people rescued. Perhaps Kaz feels a little pride at knowing his information was put to good use, but mostly he wishes she’d have said something, anything about herself and how she was.

He forces those thoughts out of his head with a couple shots of whiskey, then sits down and writes her another completely impersonal letter about the new information he has for her.

(7)

Almost three months after Inej left, Kaz dreams that he’s in the harbor again, swimming for his life. Not that unusual an occurrence, especially now. He would have thought that his nightmares would have gotten better after he got his revenge on Pekka Rollins, but if anything, they’ve gotten worse.

Still none of that matters in this moment. He struggles to keep hold of the corpse under his arms and struggles to keep kicking towards the lights of Ketterdam which never seem to get any closer. His breaths burn in his throat, his teeth chatter from the cold, his chest is tight with fear.

A wave washes over his head. He almost loses his grip on the corpse but manages to pull himself back onto it at the last moment. He blinks saltwater out of his eyes, harsh breaths that are just a little like sobs ripping out of his body.

Then he looks down and realizes the corpse he’s clinging to isn’t Jordie’s but Inej’s.

He jolts back to reality in his bed in the Slat, blankets twisted around his legs, sweat soaking through his shirt and sticking it to his chest and back. He takes two heaving breaths before he turns and vomits over the side of the bed onto the floor.

When he’s done he collapses onto his side and twists his bare hands into the sheets. He’s been trying not to wear the gloves as much so he can surprise Inej if she comes back (when she comes back, Kaz tells himself, when), but now he wishes he was wearing them. He’s sure that if he was just wearing the gloves he could deal with this, but they’re lying on his desk in the other room and he’s shaking too hard to make it in there to get them.

He curls up in a ball, biting the insides of his cheeks so hard he tastes blood. He stares at the opposite wall until his vision starts to tunnel. Images both from his memory and from the dream play over and over in his head. He can’t stop shaking.

He lies there, almost too afraid to blink as the night drags by and sunlight starts to slowly creep into the room.

The sun is quite high by the time he’s able to get up and go retrieve his gloves.

(8)

Inej comes back to Ketterdam two weeks later. Kaz meets her on the dock under the pretense of having just been passing by. He can tell she doesn’t believe him, but he finds that he doesn’t really care. He’s just happy to be near her again. Her quiet, steady presence relaxes and completes him. He feels more like himself than he has in months. Which is relieving, but also a little scary, mostly because he hadn’t realized he wasn’t feeling right until it stopped.

“So, you managed not to die or destroy my investment,” he says jerking his head at the Wraith.

Her smile is superficially fond, but he can see disappointment underneath it. Her eyes shift to his hands, encased in his gloves. She doesn’t say anything but he knows what she wants.

“Sorry,” he says beginning to peal the gloves off. “Forgot.” His stomach clenches into a series of knots. He’s been wearing his gloves constantly since the nightmare, because the thought of that happening again gives him cold sweats. He feels ashamed; he really wanted to be less reliant on the gloves the next time they saw each other.

He doesn’t mention any of this as he tucks his gloves into his coat, careful not to let his hands shake. Inej is studying him, with her head cocked to the side. He expects her to have noticed his nerves, but what she says is, “You look tired.”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’s been trying to avoid sleeping as much as possible because he’s terrified of having a nightmare about clinging to her corpse again, so he just gives her a thin smile. “Been busy.”

Now her smile is definitely fond, he feels like he’s floating. “You do know that even demons need to sleep, don’t you, Kaz?”

(9)

She leaves again long before he’s ready. Again, he wants to beg her to stay, again his bites his tongue and covers his true feelings with biting comments. Still he stands on the dock and watches until long after the Wraith has vanished over the horizon. Though he’ll never admit it, he’s hoping she’ll realize that there’s more for her here with him than out at sea.

That’s ridiculous though, Inej is nothing if not a noble person. There are a lot of people in the world who need her way more than one demon-boy in the city of Ketterdam.

By the time he heads back to Slat, a cold rain has started to fall.

(10)

Several months later, the Razorgulls start a gang war with the Dregs. People have been slowly realizing that Pekka Rollins is not coming back. That makes things more difficult for Kaz. He’s been slowly moving the Dregs into Rollins’ holdings since the plague scare. Up until this point, people have just been letting him, assuming that he’ll regret it once Rollins comes back. Now that it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, people realize that Kaz has been allowed to snag a huge amount of territory with little to no resistance.

The conflict with the Razorgulls comes down to a massive fight through the streets of the Barrel while the stadwatch stands by helpless to control the violence. Torches light up the night until it’s nearly like day as Kaz chases the Razorgulls general through the alleys near the fighting.

He comes out into a dark dead end and the general is nowhere in sight. He has half a second to wonder where he went before the man leaps on him from behind wrapping bare forearms around Kaz’s neck in a headlock.

The waters rise up before Kaz has time to breathe and he drops like a stone. Within instants the other general is on top of him, one bare hand around Kaz’s throat and the other punching him in the face. He was probably yelling, but Kaz couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears.

Kaz can’t breathe, he can’t think. He struggles against the weight of the body on top of him, looking for a way out. Eventually he gets his fingers around one of his hidden knives and stabs it into the other general’s stomach. The man’s grip loosens and Kaz is able to shove him off. He finishes the job, then collapses against the wall gasping.

He waits until he’s no longer shaking like a Grisha on parem before he drags the general’s body up onto a high balcony above the main body of the battle. He declares the war over and gives the Razorgulls an ultimatum: join the Dregs or die.

Unsurprisingly most of them opt to join the Dregs.

That surrender takes place a few hours before dawn but it’s still well into the afternoon by the time Kaz gets back to his rooms. He’s profoundly exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since the Ice Court and he can’t quite shake the tremors from the memory of someone else’s hands around his neck. He collapses onto his bed and loses his grip on the world.

He wakes up late the next morning by Anika pounding on his door with a list of questions, as exhausted as he was when he fell asleep.

(11)

The surrender of the Razorgulls nearly doubles the size of the Dregs. Granted, it’ll be a while before he can actually trust any of these new recruits, but the Barrel runs on strength. Kaz is confident he can win them all over given time.

One of the more interesting new members is a scrawny eleven-year-old boy. He’s newly orphaned and worked cleaning chamber pots in one of the Razorgulls’ hideouts. His name is Espen and his eyes gleam with the same cold, calculating anger Kaz sees in himself every time he looks in a mirror.

Perhaps Kaz should take Espen under his wing and attempt to put the boy back together in a way better than the way he put himself together. Perhaps he would if he was a better person. Perhaps he would if the mere thought of putting up with another person’s issues on top of his own wasn’t utterly exhausting.

So, he doesn’t try to help. Instead his foists the kid on Mina and tells her to teach him to be a spider instead.

Maybe that will be enough.

(12)

His letters to Inej are starting to get out of hand.

Not the ones he actually sends to her; those are just as impersonal as always. It’s the drafts of those letters that are starting to become problematic.

They’ve gotten long.

Kaz has always been a master of brevity when it comes to letters. He can normally fit anything he could possibly need to say to anyone into under a page. His average letter is only a couple sentences.

The drafts of his letters to Inej go on for pages and pages.

His words scrawl across the paper, rambling in ways that don’t sound like him, and to make matters worse, he’s not really talking about anything. He does talk about the Dregs and Ketterdam news sometimes, but mostly he just talks about how much he misses her and begs her to come back and stay with him.

He realizes that this is getting beyond ridiculous the night he writes almost thirty pages of a logical, step-by-step argument for why she should abandon her quest to bring justice to the slavers and return to being his spider.

He stares at the letter for a long time, a strange feeling of disgust and fear swirling inside him. He can’t possibly send something like this to Inej. Hunting slavers is her purpose, and she will keep doing it no matter what. All this letter would do is guarantee that she really will never come back.

He crumbles the letter into a ball and throws it into the fire. Then he starts another draft. He intends for this one to be a short, to-the-point passing of information, but somehow it devolves into an even longer argument. This one is about how he is a horrible, corrupt person with no hope for anything better and how Inej would really be better off if she left him behind and never looked back.

The sun has risen by the time he finishes this letter. He sits at his desk and stares blankly at the letter. He images that a normal person would probably be crying right now, but there are no tears for him. There haven’t been since that night in the harbor all those years ago. It’s like something about that night locked all his tears up somewhere inside him and threw away the key. He hasn’t been able to cry since, even as an act.

So, his eyes are dry as he looks at the letter, but his chest is tight. He has never hated himself, never felt a sliver of shame about what he is, but he feels it now. If only he wasn’t like this, maybe Inej wouldn’t have left him. Sure, she’s come back a couple times, but how long will it be before she realizes how much better off she is without him in her life and stops coming back? How long before she leaves him completely alone?

The sunlight creeps into his room. The Slat is coming awake around him. He has a million things to do. He’s the leader of the Dregs, he has everything as long as he does the things he needs to do. He knows that he needs to get moving, but he doesn’t want to. He’s empty and sad and so incredibly tired.

So, for the first time that he can remember, Kaz Brekker ignores his responsibilities, he shoves the letter aside, pillows his head on his arms and hopes things will be better when he wakes up.

They aren’t.

(13)

Kaz is tired.

He’s used to being tired—he has a tendency to ignore things like sleep when on big jobs and doesn’t sleep a normal amount even when he’s not on jobs—but normally he can just slam a couple cups of coffee and be fine. This is something different. Even with his veins seemingly swimming with coffee, he still finds himself fighting against a deep-seated exhaustion. Even sleep doesn’t seem to shake it, even though he’s sleeping more than he normally does.

He tells himself that it’s no big deal. He knows that his sleeping habits are unhealthy, and if they’re finally catching up to him, Inej would probably say it’s for the best. It’s not like he’s sleeping an insane amount, anyway. If anything, he’s probably just sleeping a normal amount now and it just seems like a lot because he’s not used to it. It will only take him some time to adjust.

Still, he is tired and it’s hard to care about any of the things that used to take up his full attention. He hasn’t destroyed the letter. He keeps it tucked carefully away in one of the drawers of his dresser, nestled among his ties and spare pairs of gloves. He takes it out and reads it sometimes, as a reminder of why he’s so lucky for the chances he’s had with Inej and why he should never expect too much.

(14)

He, Roeder, Mina and Espen are on a job. They get in easy enough, but while they’re bagging the man’s inappropriately stuffed safe, the owner of the house comes home. They all freeze in shock when they hear the front door open. Kaz had calculated that they had another hour and a half before the mercher came home from his mistress’ house. For a few blank seconds, all Kaz can think is “How was I so wrong?” then survival instincts kick in.

“Clear out,” he orders and they make for the windows.

They aren’t fast enough. Within minutes the stadwatch are on their tails. They’re crossing over the river when one of the stadwatch gets lucky and hits Roeder. The oldest spider takes a dive over the edge of the bridge and into the water. Mina skids to a stop on the bridge and stares over. “Dirtyhands!” she yells (he has never heard her call him anything else, even Brekker) “You need to do something! Espen and I are too small!”

A voice whispers that he should just let Roeder die, but he needs Roeder. Roeder is the only one of the spiders who’s obviously useful in a fight and he’s not about to lose that advantage.

“Take care of the stadwatch,” he tells Mina giving her a look he hopes she interprets it correctly. Then he thrusts his cane into Espen’s hands. “Be careful with that; it’s worth more than your life,” he says then vaults over the side of the bridge and into the water.

Kaz knows how to swim; he is honest enough about his own life to know that is a useful skill, but he doesn’t like it. The water in the river tonight is cold and the memory of the barge returns. Still he does his best to push it down and he lunges to Roeder.

He grabs the back of the spider’s shirt and pulls him into his chest. He wraps his other arm around Roeder’s chest and almost immediately has one of the biggest flashbacks he’s ever had. He is nine years old in the harbor clinging to Jordie’s body, he has little to no recognition of ever being anything else. His head goes under and the only thing that keep him from shoving Roeder’s body away is the belief that he is Jordie and the only thing keeping him drowning.

His free hand strikes something hard. He grabs on and manages to drag his head above water. His mind is whirl of panic and revulsion. He knows that he needs to get out of the water, but the panic is so much that he can’t move.

When another hand clasps around his arm, he loses himself completely and trashes, letting go of whatever he was holding onto completely in an attempt to get away. The hand doesn’t let go, actually another joins it and jerks him to a stop just as his head goes under again.

The next moment his heartrate starts to slow and the edges of his panic fade. He realizes that his head is underwater and kicks until he’s above the water again and can get a gasp of air. His vision clears and he realizes the person attached to the hands holding his arm is Mina. She’s kneeling on the pier he grabbed onto, water sticking her mouse-brown hair to her face and her gray eyes wide. She’s using her abilities to lower his heartrate.

Mina helps him pull Roeder and himself out of the river and they drag the spider onto the shore together. Immediately, Mina pulls Roeder’s shirt open and positions her hands over his chest. Kaz knows that she’ll now use her powers to draw the water out of his lungs. She’ll do it carefully so no one knows exactly what she did. It’s still dangerous to be a Grisha in Ketterdam, so Mina keeps her powers carefully under wraps. Kaz isn’t even sure if Roeder and Espen know she’s a Heartrender. She would have been careful to find a very subtle way to incapacitate the stadwatch when he ordered her to.

Kaz just wants to collapse and not move until he can breathe again, but the instant Mina starts tending to Roeder, Espen is in his face.

“What was that?” the little boy snarls with an expression that even Kaz will admit is slightly demonic. “What is wrong with you?”

“What are you talking about?” Kaz asks more to buy time than anything else. He almost winces at how wrong his voice sounds.

“You were supposed to save Roeder, not freeze and make Mina pull you out!” Espen has his face in very close to Kaz’s, so close that flecks of the boy’s spit hit Kaz’s cheeks. “What kind of general are you?”

Kaz wants to pull away and put miles of distance between himself and every other human in Ketterdam, but he forces himself to react to Espen’s taunts and closeness in the way that helped to earn him his reputation, the way that will save face.

He punches the kid in the jaw.

Espen, for all his bravado, does not know how to take a punch. The kid goes sprawling across the ground, gasping. Mina looks on in surprise. Kaz takes a fortifying breath and stands up even though his legs feel no more solid than the water he almost drowned in both tonight and all those years ago.

“You really should learn that you’re not in charge here,” he tells Espen, keeping his voice steady through sheer force of will. “You only have a place in this gang because you the good you outweighs the annoyance of putting up with you. Understand?”

Espen is staring. For once, he’s actually wearing an expression other than anger. He looks shocked and a little scared. His mouth opens and closes mutely.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kaz snarls. “Now, what did you do with my cane?”

--

#six of crows #Kaz Brekker #inej ghafa #kanej #kaz x inej #crooked kingdom #leigh bardugo #fanfiction #part one #Kaz is trying #and sort of failing #I will have you without your armor #depression #anxiety #panic attacks #Kaz needs help but won't ask for it #Inej doesn't realize Kaz needs help #post-Crooked Kingdom #Mina #Espen #Kaz needs three spiders to do Inej's job #Inej is hunting slavers #Kaz wishes she'd come back #also posted on Fanfiction.net #Emjen Enla #emjenenla #emjen_enla #grishaverse #I did not expect to love Mina and Espen as much as I do #Kaz's gloves