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videogameroses · 3 years ago

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Demure Flower

A/N: So on my other blog, @linkswife and I were discussing what would happen if our d&d characters meet and what they would be like as friends. So I decided to wrote about the first time they ever met and started their friendship 🙂

The garden is peaceful, quiet. It allows her to focus on the yellowed pages of the tome resting in her hand. Words in a text much older than her loop and curl elegantly as she reads the sentences, taking in every piece of information they have to offer. Amelia's mind consumes the book, eagerly sucking up the new arcane knowledge. For an indescribable amount of time, she's content to read and take in. But eventually, her brain grows weary.

In a brief reprieve, she allows the book to close on one of her fingers to hold her place among the pages as she takes in the scenery around her.

The drooping silvery strands of a weeping willow offer privacy, a sort of isolation. She feels almost protected within the clutches of the shaded bench. Her only companions are the gently swaying lilies that grow up from the earth and fill the ground around the tree. Some are a deep bleeding crimson, others a lively tangerine. And in between the stems of those are pure white lilies. A stark contrast to the others but still just as beautiful.

It's a pretty sight - one that she will certainly come back to paint should she find time among her studies. Though the sight is interrupted by a group of three men entering the garden.

They seem far enough away that she decides to pay them no mind and go back to the tome.

Silent blissful moments pass as she reads page after page, up until the sound of footsteps arrive close to her. When she looks up, the men have strayed to the edges of the willow tree, talking amongst themselves and glancing at her.

They are close enough now that she can see the expensive clothing upon their bodies and the condescending looks on their faces.

Her heart immediately jumps in her throat from nerves.

Whatever they want cannot be good.

The man in front whispers one more thing to his friends before moving through the willow branches.

His features are handsome but they hold a certain superiority that destroys them. With a smooth hand, he pushes back his hair and sends her a dazzling smile.

"Hello there. My friends and I noticed you all by yourself. We came to keep you company."

The hair on her neck raises in warning as he leans closer. He expects her to invite him to sit next to her but Amelia tries her best to be kind as she stutters, "I, uh, I don't r-really want c-company right n-now i-if you d-don't m-mind."

Snickers come from the men still lingering around the willow branches. The one in front of her does nothing to hide the cruel smile that crosses his features.

"Have a problem with enunciation there, love?" He jests meanly, looking back towards the other two with a cold laugh.

Her face blushes bright red in embarrassment. Humiliation isn't far behind as each one takes a turn mocking her, each word more viscous than the last. Frustration brews hotter and hotter with each time she tries to interject. But her stutter only makes any sentence she starts a horrible failure.

Finally, when she is on the verge of tears, a rustle draws Amelia's, as well as the men's, attention off to the right.

Brushing branches out of the way, a woman steps forth.

She is breathtakingly beautiful.

Long, dark curls drip down her back, bouncing against a coat that sparkles the shade of a midnight sky. Tight silver pants adorn her long legs while black boots wrap up and around her thighs. Between her delicate fingers dangles a bright red lily that the woman tucks behind her left ear as she gracefully steps forward.

"Pardon my sudden appearance, but I couldn't help overhearing your little gathering while I was passing by."

Her vivid green eyes look from the men to Amelia, where her gaze stops and stays.

She takes in Amelia's distressed face and glassy eyes. Her trembling hands and uncomfortable stance.

The woman's demeanor changes then. She steps forward, placing herself closer to Amelia. A beautiful, charming smile appears on her face, but there is an edge to her words when she addresses the men.

"Excuse me, kind sirs, but I believe this nice lady would like to be left alone."

The lead one scoffs at her words, looking down at her from his slightly crooked nose.

"Who are you to tell me what I can and can't do? You're no more than a lowly peasant sticking her nose where it doesn't belong."

Amelia quickly looks over to the woman.

Her eyes flash in annoyance but she covers it with an alluring smirk. She almost resembles a tiger as she prowls closer. The smirk becomes all teeth as she says, "You're just a bunch of privileged boys looking for a good time. If this is how you get your amusement then I can understand why your mother and father never gave you enough attention."

The air becomes charged with magic as the man physically recoils from her words. Gripping the velvet cloth of his shirt, he glares at the woman, spit flying from his lips as he gasps out, "What did you do to me?!"

She tilts her head with a polite but bemused expression. Her eyes are anything but innocent as she folds her arms over her chest.

"I didn't do anything except point out the obvious. Maybe you're just incompetent."

The man jerks back far more aggressively this time, eyes wide in pain and fear.

"You're.... you're crazy!! My father will hear about this, do you hear me? He'll hear about it!"

Though his face is scrunched in anger, his voice trembles with each word he says. His pompous demeanor is ruined by his cowardice, Amelia thinks. As it should be.

The lady cocks an eyebrow up and she opens her mouth again but the man is quick to make himself scarce, scampering away like a scared little puppy. His friends glance, wide-eyed, between his retreating back and her nonchalant figure. Amelia watches her tap a finger against the side of her face as she speaks into the open air.

"Your friend seems soft," The woman murmurs, dragging her gaze to the ones remaining. "I wonder if you two are the same."

The way her eyes shine dangerously speaks volumes.

Be gone or face the same consequences.

They seem to decide it's not worth the trouble, tucking tail as they run back the way they came. Relief curls throughout her body like vines as Amelia turns toward the woman. With a flip of her long curls over her shoulder, she faces the wizard with a bright, easy smile.

"Normally, I'd have a kinder introduction of myself but they seemed insistent."

Amelia nods her head timidly.

"It's al-alright. Thank y-you."

Some small part of her braces for the woman to make fun too, but instead, her smile only becomes kinder as she gracefully bows, the tails of her coat flaring out dramatically.

"You're most welcome, my lady."

Shock is the first thing to come to her mind, then gratitude. Before she can change her mind, Amelia gestures at the empty spot on the bench beside her.

"If you, um, if you have the time, I uh, I wouldn't mind some company."

The woman's eyes sparkle warmly as she stands upright again.

"But of course. I couldn't refuse such an offer from a lovely lady."

She blinks her eyes in confusion.

"Amelia. My name's Amelia."

The woman takes it all in stride, posing herself in such a way that Amelia knows there will be a grand introduction. The woman doesn't disappoint as little music notes begin to swirl through the air and magic flairs up all around them.

"Ever so pleased to meet you. My name is Serene: bard extraordinaire, traveling musician, and very well known for my talents in other places."

She does a magnificent show of gesturing to herself and making it look elegant.

Amelia smiles at the theatrics as Serene drapes herself across the bench next to her.

"Did you perform here then?" She inquires to the bard, who leisurely crosses one leg over the other.

Serene gazes out at the field of lilies, eyes flashing like emeralds as she does so.

"Somewhere close. I was passing by to meet someone for a….formal meeting."

Amelia peers at her curiously for her choice of wording.

"Formal meeting?" She echoes, to which Serene turns her head to look at her. She seems almost playful as she swings her crossed leg back and forth.

"Yes. One of the highest matters. Though I might now be a little late thanks to those regal bastards."

She sits on the sentence a moment before she straightens and quickly looks at Amelia apologetically.

"Not that I regret helping you. I'm certainly glad I came when I did. I just detest people who think it's okay to bring others down for their gain."

Instead of being offended, Amelia smiles at her. Kind words are all she offers.

"No, no. You're fine, I promise. But…."

She trails off, a concern arising within her mind. A troubled furrowed brown and deep frown are what greets Serene as she glances over in inquisitive contemplation. She tenses when she sees the expression, sitting up with worry. It soon dissipates at the wizard's words.

"You know they might come back and arrest you for that."

Serene grins as she reclines further into the bench, carefree.

"They could. But I can be…. persuasive." A mischievous glint enters her eyes as she curls a lock of hair around her finger.

"The most they might do is a slight slap on the wrist. Nothing more."

The wizard fidgets with her sleeve as she frets, body unable to keep still as she speaks.

"You're sure? I'd hate to see you end up in a jail cell for defending me."

Curiosity rearranges Serene's features before a softer look settles over them. Amelia would almost venture to say it was appreciation, but before she can say for certain, the other woman stands and takes a few steps from the bench, ducking down to pick a few nearby lilies.

When she returns, she holds them out with a flourish.

"Beautiful lilies for a demure flower."

Amelia looks between the white petals and Serene in confusion and disbelief.

"Why are you calling me a demure flower? Those two words don't exactly belong together now, do they?"

Serene's laugh is musical, lovely when she throws her head back, eyes closed. Amusement dances along her features, lingering in the form of warm words and curled rosewood lips.

"One day, dearest, you may yet understand the meaning. But today, please, take them. Enjoy them. Soon they'll be gone to winter's clutches."

She holds them out again but Amelia gets the impression that if she doesn't want them, she doesn't have to take them.

She decides to anyway.

Her nimble fingers wrap around the long stems and she takes them, placing them on top of the book.

"Thank you."

Serene bows deeply, arms held out wide in an elegant stance. Her long mane of curls slips on either side of her neck when she looks up with a brilliant grin.

"Anything for you, my lady."

She stands straight again, adjusting the lily behind her ear and fixing her coat.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend that meeting. I hope that we cross paths again someday."

Amelia only smiles and dips her head down in a nod, strands of juniper hair brushing against her pale cheeks.

Serene returns it with one of her own before strolling back through the willow branches, singing a sweet song. Amelia watches her cross the garden for a few seconds more before she turns back to her tome, feeling a bit more hopeful than before.

As the pages fall back open and she settles down to read again, she finds herself humming the same song.

#d&d ocs #d&d bard #d&d wizard #d&d #features linkswife oc Amelia #and my oc Serene #actually had a lot of fun doing this #maybe one day i might continue this lol

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jackoshadows · 5 years ago

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So this is a write up on the Jon Snow - Sansa Stark relationship in the books with quotes and excerpts. For the folks who are interested in knowing where these two characters really stand with each other rather than the fanon version that’s often seen on the interwebs.

The relationship between Jon and Sansa can be best described as ‘Indifferent and distant siblings’ and they are the least close out of all the Starks.

The 5 times Jon mentions Sansa in his 42 POV chapters include thoughts on Sansa brushing lady and singing, Sansa being with Arya in KL and losing Lady, her being enchanted if she sees the magical wall, and her telling him how to talk to girls. Like Arya often does, Jon qualifies his description of Sansa with an ‘even’ to indicate how she is different to his other siblings.

He missed his true brothers: little Rickon, bright eyes shining as he begged for a sweet; Robb, his rival and best friend and constant companion; Bran, stubborn and curious, always wanting to follow and join in whatever Jon and Robb were doing. He missed the girls too, even Sansa, who never called him anything but "my half brother" since she was old enough to understand what bastard meant. And Arya . . . he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful.

Compare the descriptions he gives his other siblings to what he says about Sansa. I have often read that Sansa calling Jon ‘Half brother’ or bastard was not a big deal because all of Jon’s siblings did it. And this is true. But the difference is that Sansa ALWAYS made sure to treat Jon that way, when his other siblings interacted with Jon normally. Something that Jon noticed enough that this was the only thing that he highlights for her.

It’s clear from the text that Sansa treated Jon with condescending pity. I would argue that Sansa’s treatment of Arya was actually far worse than the way she treated Jon. For Sansa, Jon was just a low class bastard and his faults were only natural because he was ‘common’. Sansa even condescends to educate him on how to properly talk to girls. Arya on the other hand got bullied because she was a high class noble but committed the sin of being unsatisfactory in terms of looks and behavior.

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon's mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn't been some mistake.

This is why it made no sense when the show had Sansa apologizing to Jon and completely bypassed Sansa’s treatment of Arya in the books, making it look like Arya was the mean sister. If Sansa had to apologize to anyone it would be to Arya and not Jon.

Sansa’s patronizing pity for Jon comes from the fact that he is of low birth. She attributes emotions like ‘jealousy’ to his birth and pities him for it

Sansa sighed as she stitched. "Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard." - AGoT

If this was what the Night’s Watch was truly like, she felt sorry for her bastard half brother, Jon. - AGoT

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. - AGoT

These are the only times Jon is mentioned in Sansa’s POV chapters till AFfC.

When we come to their emotional thoughts of connection and longing and love, let’s see what happens there. For Jon:

He remembered the day he had left Winterfell, all the bittersweet farewells; Bran lying broken, Robb with snow in his hair, Arya raining kisses on him after he’d given her Needle.

Even the thought made him feel foolish; he was a man grown now, a black brother of the Night’s Watch, not the boy who’d once sat at Old Nan’s feet with Bran and Robb and Arya.

That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont’s permission. It would be good to see Arya’s grin again and to talk with his father.

Jon Snow straightened himself and took a long deep breath. Forgive me, Father. Robb, Arya, Bran . . . forgive me, I cannot help you. He has the truth of it. This is my place.

Playing, Jon thought in astonishment, grown men playing like children, throwing snowballs the way Bran and Arya once did, and Robb and me before them.

We know Sansa has played with Bran and Arya and snowballs. But she is not included in Jon’s nostalgic memories.

We see something similar in Sansa’s POV chapters about her family

Tommen was all of eight. He reminded her of her own little brother, Bran. They were of an age. Bran was back at Winterfell, a cripple, yet safe. Sansa would have given anything to be with him.

If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.

Merry Crane always had an amusing story, and little Lady Bulwer reminded her of Arya, though not so fierce.

She had last seen snow the day she'd left Winterfell. That was a lighter fall than this, she remembered. Robb had melting flakes in his hair when he hugged me, and the snowball Arya tried to make kept coming apart in her hands.

I don't want any Lannister, she wanted to say. I want Willas, I want Highgarden and the puppies and the barge, and sons named Eddard and Bran and Rickon.

That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm and safe. If only dreaming could make it so . . .

If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are dead but me. She was alone in the world now.

She remembered a summer's snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They'd each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she'd had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless.

She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya.

Jon is completely absent from her thoughts about her childhood in Winterfell and missing her family.

Let’s next look at how Jon treats Arya and Sansa’s respective marriages to Stark enemies. Upon being told by Stannis that Sansa is now lady Lannister, Jon’s immediate thoughts about all this is how Tyrion is faring as a kinslayer! He does not spare a single thought for a sister forcefully married off or her whereabouts and if she was doing okay. Contrast his complete indifference to Robb and Catelyn’s reaction to this news:

Robb took her hand. "They married her to Tyrion Lannister." Catelyn's fingers clutched at his. "The Imp." "He's the Kingslayer's brother. Oathbreaking runs in their blood." Robb's fingers brushed the pommel of his sword. "If I could I'd take his ugly head off. Sansa would be a widow then, and free. There's no other way that I can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a crimson cloak." Catelyn remembered the twisted little man she had seized at the crossroads inn and carried all the way to the Eyrie. "I should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet Sansa . . . why would anyone do this to her?" - ASoS

Their rage here is exactly what Jon feels when he hears about Arya’s marriage

By now she’d be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. “I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you.” Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton’s throat as easily. - ADwD

Sansa is the same when it comes to her complete indifference to Jon. We hear all the time about how Sansa is the queen of compassion and that there’s no character in the whole of asoiaf who is kinder than Sansa Stark. But get this – Sansa has been masquerading as a bastard in the Vale this whole time and not once – not once – does she think of the bastard brother that she grew up with. There is no regret there for how she looked down on her bastard brother.

Catelyn for instance feels a twinge of guilt when she meets Mya Stone in the Vale

It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard's name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned's bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply.

Meanwhile after being reminded by Myranda Royce that Jon exists, Sansa:

She had not thought of Jon in ages. - AFfC

This is true. The last time she thought of Jon was the three times mentioned above in book one AGoT. Even in book 4 we see Sansa thinking of a way to get away from Littlefinger and never once remembers Jon at the wall.

Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike. She would have fled them both, perhaps, but there was nowhere for her to go. Winterfell was burned and desolate, Bran and Rickon dead and cold. Robb had been betrayed and murdered at the Twins, along with their lady mother. Tyrion had been put to death for killing Joffrey, and if she ever returned to King's Landing the queen would have her head as well. The aunt she'd hoped would keep her safe had tried to murder her instead. Her uncle Edmure was a captive of the Freys, while her great-uncle the Blackfish was under siege at Riverrun.

This is a contrast to Arya trying her best to get to the wall and Jon after leaving KL and sadly failing at every attempt. That’s why the show’s decision to reunite Jon and Sansa while leaving out Arya till the very end is a massive disservice to both relationships in the books. GRRM has invested everything in Jon and Arya’s relationship and nothing in Jon and Sansa’s. Arya trying for 3 books to get to Jon and failing and finally getting there? That’s actual payoff. Sansa thinking once of wanting to see the bastard brother that she forgot about? D&D – let’s unite Sansa with Jon!

Much is made of the ‘it would be sweet to see him again’ line, ignoring the couple of lines that comes before.

She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again.

Lines that demonstrate that Sansa STILL does not get it when it comes to class and relationships. Her attitude here is more – oh well, all my real brothers are dead and only Jon is left, so I will have to make do since I have been reduced to his level it’s ok now.

Then there’s the other line – “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa". I have already discussed this in another post but this was more about Jon kicking down the position to the next in line rather than his overwhelming love for Sansa. At this point Jon had already decided not to accept the offer because of Stannis’ precondition that he burn down the Winterfell Godswood. It’s possible that Jon does accept the KITN/Lord of Winterfell position in the next book if Robb’s will comes into the picture.

And finally we have heard often of Jon’s sexist dislike of the ladies when it’s more Jon’s disdain for a type that embodies Catelyn and Sansa. Jon likes the ladies just fine – he has an appreciation for Alys Karstark and she is not running around waving a sword. It’s their personality - a personality that mirrors Arya’s - that he finds attractive.

A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.

Here Jon demonstrates a weird contempt for ladies brushing their hair. Where does he get this from from I wonder?

Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart's desire. She had Ned's long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. - Catelyn VII, ACOK

He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest.

And Arya . . . he missed her even more than Robb, skinny little thing that she was, all scraped knees and tangled hair and torn clothes, so fierce and willful.

She had never cared if she was pretty…Only her father had ever called her that. Him, and Jon Snow, sometimes. Her mother used to say she could be pretty if she would wash and brush her hair…the way her sister did. To her sister and her sister’s friends and all the rest, she had just been Arya Horseface."

“…my hair’s messy and my nails are dirty and my feet are all hard.” Robb wouldn’t care about that, probably, but her mother would. Lady Catelyn always wanted her to be like Sansa, to sing and dance and sew and mind her courtesies. Just thinking of it made Arya try to comb her hair with her fingers, but it was all tangles and mats, and all she did was tear some out."

Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.

Poor Arya’s disdain for hair brushing is probably why Jon looks down on the ladies spending time on their hair. Jon has always considered Arya an outsider like him and sees the both of them as being unfairly treated by the likes of Catelyn and Sansa. Everything that Jon appreciates in a woman shows us glimpses of Arya and everything that Jon dislikes shows us glimpses of Cat and Sansa.

This is indicative of the fact that growing up Arya was pretty much the only positive female figure in his life and that is why he is looking for an ‘Arya’ in the women he loves and befriends. This is why he gives Needle to Arya, allows spearwives to take over an entire castle and defend it and is appreciative of ‘warrior princesses’.

For example, Alys is physically supposed to look like Arya and both Melisandre and Jon mistake her for Arya in her visions. But, it’s only after they interact and speak that Jon compares her to Arya – because it’s her bravery that reminds him of his little sister.

Jon turned to Alys Karstark. “My lady. Are you ready?” “Yes. Oh, yes.” “You’re not scared?” The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. “Let him be scared of me.” The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled. “Winter’s lady.” Jon squeezed her hand.

There’s also some nonsense being peddled around that Jon had a crush on Sansa because he described her as looking “radiant”. It’s more likely that this is GRRM just being descriptive using character POVs. I mean, we also have Ned gushing about how hot Bobby Baratheon was - thoughts that spawned a thousand NedRob shipping fans...

Fifteen years past, when they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm’s End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He’d had a giant’s strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

This does not imply that Ned had a crush on Robert Baratheon. Jon also calls Jaime and Cersei beautiful – does not mean he has a crush on them.

This is Jon’s description of Satin

The boy claimed to be eighteen, older than Jon, but he was green as summer grass for all that. Satin, they called him, even in the wool and mail and boiled leather of the Night’s Watch; the name he’d gotten in the brothel where he’d been born and raised. He was pretty as a girl with his dark eyes, soft skin, and raven’s ringlets.

Soft skin? Uh... But - no offense to the many valid Jon/Satin shippers out there - Jon/Satin is not a cannon romantic relationship unfortunately. Even though there is more interaction and an emotional connection between Jon and Satin in the books to justify shipping them romantically than there is for Jon and Sansa.

So in conclusion, Jon and Sansa have pretty much a non-existent relationship in the books and their plots do not in any way cross or connect with each other. I suspect that will not change in the near future considering Jon is most probably going to become enmeshed in the grand Northern conspiracy that includes Rickon and Arya and has to fight the Others beyond the wall where Bran is. If he does meet up with Sansa, it may well be at the very end as these are two characters who don’t have much of a plot purpose or relationship that requires meeting up.

#Jon Snow #Sansa Stark #Arya Stark #Catelyn Stark #Jon Snow and his relationships with the women in his family #ASoIaF #anti-D&D #anti-GOT #Sansa and Jon #anti Jonsa

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thoughtlessthinkythoughts · 4 years ago

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Why this episode really worked for me...

So, I’ve had my experiences with bad therapists/psychiatrists. There was the therapist who asked me “Why do you consider yourself mentally ill? I don’t think you are,” after describing my struggles. She meant it as reassurance that I was “normal” but it felt incredibly invalidating.

There was the psychiatrist who responded to my description of being in an entirely flat emotionless state unable to feel anything with “That’s good. Extremes are signs of illness, and you are no longer feeling actively terrible. If you were feeling much better it would be a sign of bipolar.” (I shit you not. A licensed psychiatrist told me this once.)

But that isn’t really what this episode was about. No, this episode was about the cruel things mentally ill people say to themselves:

“You’re fine. There is no reason you couldn’t have done more today. You are just lazy.”

“There is no reason for you to procrastinate. Your inability to do anything without an immediate deadline is just an excuse.”

“You should just make that phone call. You’re anxiety is ridiculous. You are being a child.”

I’ve said so many of the things in this episode to myself so many times. But here is why it was brilliantly cathartic to me.

I spent the whole time wanting to punch Dr. David in his smug, condescending face. His attitude made it clear just how hurtful this kind of self talk is. I spent the whole time raging against thoughts that, when spoken inside my head in my own voice, I often accept without question.

This episode to me was in no way “trauma porn” or “unnecessary.” I didn’t leave it feeling sucked into a spiral of these thoughts. I left with a deep sense of, “No. Dr. David is full of shit. I know my own mind, I know when I’m not okay, and my struggles are real. I need to be kinder to myself, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.”

#mental health cw #tma spoilers

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franstastic-ideas · 5 years ago

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Oh *hugs you* People being insolent again? Welp, that would inevitable with jobs involving customer interaction, but still. I guess too many tired parents come, with an already soured mood affecting their manners, or still-not-yet-socialy-aware usually young come in, still on the mindset of favoring themselves over being kinder. But, what they do would say more about them than you, like tsunderes (though I doubt they are tsunderes, but who knows) And no matter what happens, we still support you!

The last forty-eight hours have been really rough on me.

Here’s the full breakdown, because I can’t take it anymore. I need to vent.

Basically what happened yesterday is, this man had bought some glass items. Whenever a customer buys something made of glass or something else that’s easily breakable, you’re supposed to wrap it up in newspaper.

Here’s the problem, though - I couldn’t find any newspaper. So I asked him if it was alright if I could wrap the items in extra plastic bags instead. He wasn’t happy about it, but since there was no other option here, that’s what I had to do.

He was also super rude and bossy, telling me how to do my job and butting into a conversation I was having with a co-worker of mine, about how we felt thirty minutes wasn’t long enough for a lunch break. He piped up and said that where he had worked, they only gave you ten minutes, in a super condescending tone. I have a slight hunch he came from somewhere up north and I’m from the south, so he might have thought I was some dumb uneducated subhuman hick.

So anyway, here’s the kicker. I wasn’t even aware that I’d done anything wrong, but after I gave him his bags he asked to see my boss outside. Now, I didn’t actually connect what happened while I was ringing up his items to what was happening. My first and only fear of what was going on was... well, my boss is an openly gay man. And I was terrified that this man knew that and was going to hurt him. I know that might sound strange coming from a Christian, but I wholeheartedly believe that Jesus would never tolerate violence towards those of the LGBT spectrum, so I won’t either.

I watched them closely outside, preparing myself to burst out the door and defend my boss at the first sign of a weapon being drawn. But no, thankfully nothing like that did happen.

But what did happen was, that guy honestly dragged my poor sweetheart of a boss outside to yell at him over something that I did - that thing being how I wrapped his glass items up. My boss wasn’t even going to tell me that I’d received a complaint, but I kept pushing him until he did. Whatever that hateful old coot said to him must have been pretty bad, because my boss refuses to tell me just what it was he said and has quickly dismissed the subject every single time I’ve brought it up since then.

My biggest problem with this is that, instead of telling me I did something wrong, he went to my boss and took all his frustrations out on him.

I took my ten minute break immediately after and spent all of it crying my eyes out in the restroom.

And it got even worse today. Because apparently I made another mistake yesterday, one involving the register and the money, and my boss chose to secretly cover for me so I wouldn’t get into trouble.

My boss isn't mad at me at all, or at least he doesn’t seem mad at me, and this is coming from someone that frequently assumes that everyone secretly hates her and they’re just too polite to say it.

But my story doesn’t end there, oh no. My mom got new glasses yesterday, fancy prescription ones. She’s spent the past few weeks excited that she’d hopefully be able to see so much better with them. But now that she’s got them? She hates them. It’s not that she can’t see out of them, no, it’s because she thinks the frames are ugly.

I keep telling her that I love them, and I really do - they’re the prettiest shade of caramel brown I’ve ever seen, but all I’ve heard out of her for the past two days is how much she hates them. Finally, I asked her if she was going to complain about them for the rest of her life, and that I thought she would have just been happy to be able to see again.

She got mad at me, of course, and she went to bed mad at me tonight. And now I feel awful and guilty because that really wasn’t a nice thing at all for me to say.

But what really made all her comments about them sting was, I helped pay for them myself. Those glasses were her birthday present from me this year.

But anyway, I’ve just felt worthless ever since. This job is supposed to be one of the easiest things someone could ever do, and I can’t even do this right... And everything I say or do is wrong. I can’t ever make anyone happy, no matter how hard I try. I’m a terrible person that won’t ever amount to anything.

I’m just completely worthless...

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thalrahylune · 5 years ago

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Thalra Hylune

Character Development Questionnaire

BASICS -

1. Height? 5’2 2. Eye color? Lavender in dark lighting, lilac in bright light. She also doesn’t appear to have irises or pupils. Her eyes are just solid color. 3. Do they need glasses? No, though her eyes are slightly sensitive to sunlight. 4. Scars and birthmark?

She has an old, faded scar on her palm from childhood when she went exploring a dilapidated house on a dare. It looks like a small crescent moon and matches the one on her brother’s palm. Otherwise she’s been very careful to keep her skin unmarred.

5. Tattoos and piercings?

No tattoos but she does have her ears pierced. The other piercings she has are… concealed most of the time.

6. Right or left handed?

Ambidextrous, though she prefers her right hand. .

7. Any disabilities? Physical or mental.

When she was younger her aversion to sunlight was much worse, but after so many years on the surface it doesn’t bother her anymore. Beyond that, she has undiagnosed PTSD that she herself doesn’t recognize.

8. Do they have any allergies?

She does not.

9. Favorite color?

Purple, especially the lighter shades. It brings out her eyes.

10. Typical outfits?

While out in public she wears understated, but obviously well made dresses, low cut but not obscenely so, with boots that have a two inch heel to make her appear taller. Usually she also has a parasol with her to keep the sun out of her eyes. At home, she has a wide variety of silk robes and lingerie to lounge around in when a client is over, though when she has no company at all she doesn’t bother and has a very comfortable set of pajamas she can wear nearly all day if she has nothing to do. Occasionally she��ll also be seen in tight pants and loose, flowing shirts that expose a scandalous portion of her chest, only sometimes supported by a brassiere.

11. Do they wear any makeup?

Sometimes, but only to enhance her features and never to obscure them. She likes bright eyeshadows and dark eyeliners and deep red lipsticks.

12. What weapon do they use, if any?

She uses a hand crossbow when she’s not using a medley of instruments to channel her spells. Her fiddle is a new addition to her arsenal, relatively speaking. She only learned to play it after she met Pyrope but it’s quickly become her favorite.

PERSONALITY -

13. Are they more optimistic or pessimistic?

She has trained herself to be pessimistic about all scenarios. She plans for the worst and never hopes for the best, no matter how much she might want to.

14. Are they introverted or extroverted?

Completely extroverted, she thrives off attention.

15. What are their pet peeves?

Arrogance. Men being condescending to her.

16. What bad habits do they have?

In her building in Myrefall, on the third floor apartment that’s inaccessible except through a secret staircase, Thalra keeps a substantial stack of very tacky romance novels near her bed. All the spines are cracked and the pages dog-eared and it would be obvious on first glance they have all been read through dozens of times.

17. Do they have any phobias?

She fears the day a particular cat will learn to communicate his desire for deadly poison to a potion shop clerk and use a very specific 170 gold pieces to acquire said poison.

18. How do they display affection?

It depends on the type of affection the person she’s talking with wants to recieve. She learns what people want and then either gives it to them or withholds it. That’s the basics of manipulation. Genuine affection from her though is different and much less filtered. She’s not shy about paying the people she loves compliments or showering them with physical affection and gifts. Thalra becomes much less subtle and, oddly enough, she usually stops flirting.

19. How competitive are they?

Thalra can’t be suckered into a competition she knows she has no chance in, but if its something she’s good at, she gets incredibly competitive. Her self worth hinges on what she’s good at, so she’s very protective of those skills and doesn’t like the thought of being bested or considered lesser.

20. If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

Physically, nothing, but sometimes she does wish she could carve the piece of herself that cares so much for certain people out of her chest. It would make things easier, and she wouldn’t have so many vulnerabilities.

21. Do they have any obscure hobbies or routines?

Sometimes, every few years or so, her mentor, Jelxi Silvershaper, aka the Silver Tongue of Myrefall, will run this very elaborate role playing game for some of her former and current employees. Everyone gets to make characters who get to go on adventures and fight monsters. Thalra gets really into it and she has several character sheets with pages of backstory.

BACKSTORY -

22. What are the names and ages of their close family members? Parents, siblings, etc

Rinnil Hylune is her twin brother and is currently her only living relative who doesn’t live in the Underdark. They’re both 203 years old and Thalra thought him dead until very recently. Presumably, she has grandparents or cousins or other distant family, but she’s never met them. Her parents’ names were Jastira and Vaeril.

23. Is their family alive and are they still in contact with them?

The only family Thalra is currently in contact with is Rinnil. Their parents died nearly two centuries ago after trying to escape the Underdark.

24. Where are they from? City, nation?

She was born in the Underdark but only lived there until age twelve when her parents tried to flee due to religious persecution and their criticism of the government. She has lived in Myrefall for most of her life.

25. Did they have a childhood best friend?

Just Rinnil. She was a very quiet and antisocial child and didn’t make much of an effort to make friends at the orphanage they were raised in. For a few years she was practically non-verbal if not speaking to her brother.

26. Have they had any pets?

No. She doesn’t see a purpose in getting attached to an animal who will live for such a short fraction of her life.

27. Did they grow up rich or poor? What were their living conditions like?

Thalra didn’t become wealthy until much later on in life. Even in the Underdark her parents were poor, though her mother came from a noble family, she had left it all behind to be with Thalra’s father. Resources were scarce, but Thalra’s parents were much kinder than some drow elves are known to be and never ate a meal without first ensuring Thalra and Rinnil had eaten. After the Underdark, Thalra and Rinnil were taken in by an orphanage where conditions weren’t much better. This is where Thalra learned what actual hunger felt like, the kind that claws at your insides like an animal begging to be released.

28. What is their educational background?

Her education was better than most drow children who didn’t come from nobility thanks to her mother’s formal education. Her father was also a religious man who worshipped Berronar Truesilver, a dwarven goddess that Vaeril had come to worship after he’d fled the Underdark many years ago, ending up in Khaggon. He taught his children all about the goddess of truth and safety, but Thalra had was skeptical even then. Education at the orphanage was nearly non-existant except for their preachings of the goddess of misfortune, Beshaba, who seemed to be the exact opposite of her father’s goddess.

29. As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up?

Powerful. It didn’t matter what else she was, as long as she wasn’t helpless.

30. What advice would they give to their younger self?

“Don’t let him leave.”

31. Growing up, were they ever bullied or were they the bully?

For the first few months after arriving at the orphanage, the other children ostracized Thalra and her brother because they were different. Drow elves are an uncommon sight and the twins’ sunlight sensitivity was an easy target. This didn’t last long however, as Thalra quickly made it clear she and Rinnil were not to be messed with. They were never outright threats, as she would stay silent and dull eyed during most abuse, but terrible things would always befall the children who were cruel to her or her brother. Dead, bloodied rats in their beds, hair cut off while they slept, proof of crimes they didn’t commit showing up where the priests could find it. Thalra was merciless.

32. Who do they look up to/who is their role model?

Jelxi Silvershaper runs the brothel that bought Thalra when the orphanage sold her and Rinnil, and ever since she’s been like a second mother to Thalra. She too is a whisper bard and taught Thalra most of the magic she knows now.

PRESENT -

33. Do they currently have a place of residence?

Yes. She owns an entire building in Myrefall though she’s currently abandoned it now that she’s on the run from a shadowy order of assassins who know where she lives.

34. What is their most treasured possession?

Currently: a parasol and a sending stone, both from Efrain and a dagger made by The Order of Shadows.

35. What is their drink of choice?

Red wine, but only the expensive stuff.

36. Which king/queen are they loyal to, if any?

None, but she thinks Ivana is the hottest among the siblings.

37. Have they ever killed anyone?

Of course. Unrelated, but when a particularly possessive client oversteps they occasionally have unfortunate accidents or become terminally ill or go on trips they never come back from. It’s all very unfortunate.

38. What was their last promise and did they keep it?

She promised her brother they’d have time to have an honest conversation later. It was never a promise she intended to keep.

LOVE -

39. What was their first kiss like, if they’ve had one?

It when she was still young, around fourteen, with another girl who had recently come to stay at the orphanage. It was pretty terrible and more of a headbutt than a kiss because she had done it so suddenly and without warning. She then immediately ran away to find Nil and cry.

40. Are they in a relationship/have a love interest?

Thalra has been courted before and been on dates, but it’s all been with people who are paying her in one form or another. It’s always a transaction, so it’s never actually been a romantic relationship.

41. Have they ever been in love?

She doesn’t think she’s capable of falling in love, and even if she was what would it matter? She doesn’t need more tragedy in her life. But objectively speaking, yes, she’s been in love. Parts of her fall in love with numerous people all the time.

42. Have they ever had their heart broken?

Yes. And not just in the romantic sense. Her heart never fully recovered after her brother left.

SPIRITUALITY -

43. Do they follow a god, if so who?

No, but she likes Mask. She used to send little prayers to him when Nil would go out on jobs for the Thieves Guild.

44. What do they think happens to them after death?

She knows the pantheon exists so she knows the afterlife exists as well, she’s just overly concerned with where she ends up. Death is a far away concept that she won’t have to consider for a very long time.

#romtask #character development questionnaire #about #child abuse tw

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binsofchaos · 6 years ago

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Mistake

SUNDAY - JUNE 17, 2018 SUN - 06/17/18 “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'” - MISTER ROGERS rantnrave:// Glad to be back. I missed you... On this Father's Day, I'm reminiscing about a special surrogate father figure many of us had but never met. Someone who's POV is more important than ever. Someone who lived and taught kindness, patience, acceptance, and tolerance. I went solo to see the MR. ROGERS documentary, WON'T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR? He was destined for the seminary but then a new invention called television that fascinated him. It also repelled him as programming was violent, often condescending and not nurturing of the newest viewer, children. Through clips and interviews with friends, colleagues, and family, the film takes a look at a remarkable man that had an immeasurable impact on generations of children, parents, and government policy. I was too young to understand the influence of MR. ROGER'S NEIGHBORHOOD (1968–2001). Clearly, some of my ethics, morals, and behavior were shaped by the show. No different than watching my mother's behavior. A great history of the man with many stories I didn't know. His teachings were nuanced via narratives and characters. Many were his alter egos. He taught children that they were unique and special. When crazies took him to task, accusing him of creating an entitled generation (nonsense) he explained that it wasn't about entitlement but rather every child had something special to offer the world regardless of race, gender, nationality, etc. He was YOUTUBE for kids before YOUTUBE. Speaking directly to the camera in such a way that you thought he was speaking to you. And you. And you. On May 1, 1969, he testified to Congress about the importance of public broadcasting when there was huge momentum to kill it. He's calm and mesmerizing. Rarely do you see someone change opinions of negative, skeptical politicians immediately. In the NIXON era, no less. And it was televised. My sister says I'm going through my terrible twos at 47. Largely because the state of the world is so confusing, so mean lately. Challenging any ideas I had of commonality and kindness. And we, including me, so often revert to anger and name-calling. Mr. Rogers wasn't allowed to show anger when he was a child. And that temperament, which also had some strange effects, also allowed him to deliver his message in such a cadence that children understood him. They loved him and most important they listened. Listening was his talent. Employing conversational tricks like silence after a statement so that the other person would offer a feeling and thought they might not have. He understood the of gift silence. Something I am still afraid of. I don't mind solitude but I mind silence. I have more to learn. Later in life, he was ridiculed by vicious protesters and parodied by the likes of EDDIE MURPHYand JOHNNY CARSON. Some of which he enjoyed, others he didn't. He never preached until the end of his life. But as times changed and his message was getting ignored or misinterpreted he was more vocal and direct. The timing of the film is uncanny. The message very much needed. And thus I texted 50+ people to run to see this film. I hope you enjoy it and take in the message of tolerance. He was a life-long Republican and Christian and found room in his heart for all and acknowledged mistakes when he didn't. I was choked up multiple times but in a good way. I hate mean, and he was the opposite of mean. The show had no explosions. No shootings. No slime. No sassy kids without parents. Just kindness and life lessons. And some tough topics like assassination and how to talk to your kids about it.

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/sandirankaduwa/mister-rogers-documentary-self-care

On being kinder...

https://www.raptitude.com/2019/12/kindness/

#mistake #mr. rogers #daniel #pbs

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maporp · 4 years ago

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KIM EUNSOL

1995.25.12 UNEMPLOYED SLND_04 / TGPY_01

“Jaesuk oppa.”

“Mhmm… Yeah?”

“Let’s break up.”

Her statement jolts her boyfriend awake immediately. His head whips around to face her, sleepy eyes widened in such a bewildered expression Eunsol finds it cute. It’s almost comical how her first thought is to tell him it’s a joke, that she’s not serious about it. She would want nothing more than to jump back into the bed with him and feel safe in his arms, under the blankets. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she forces herself to follow through with it. If you love something, let it go, right?

“I’m serious.”

Good, her voice isn’t trembling.

“Why?” he finally voices the question he’s been asking with his eyes. Hearing it with such raw emotion breaks her heart even more. Was it selfish of her to leave him as she wanted? Or was it more selfish of her to stay with him even when she knew she was weighing him down?

She’s been through numerous breakups before and initiated most of them. None of them was as difficult as this. They’d met through a mutual friend when she was still working. Han Jaesuk: young, bright-eyed, and beautiful. Their friends would joke that he was too good for her, way out of her league, how she would never have snagged such a great catch if not for Jisoo introducing them. Eunsol had laughed along with them then, slapping on their backs and telling them not to spout such bullshit.

At first, when the production company she worked for filed for bankruptcy and she was left without a job, having him there for her was comforting. But as the weeks passed and she remained unemployed, it began to feel a little upsetting. They no longer celebrated his small achievements at work. He always came home late at night, drunk as a skunk, smelling of alcohol. Having so much time to herself allowed her to reflect, to dissect and pick apart meaningless conversations. His encouraging words falling on ears which would eventually hear them as condescending.

It’s always the little things piling up to amount to a force powerful enough to tear open a rift.

Except Eunsol’s the only one drifting away. And God, how much it fucking kills her.

“I started seeing someone else.” Better lie than truth, it would be easier to deal with his hate and indifference than receiving his pity. “You knew about my reputation during university, right? It was only a matter of time before I started my shit again.”

Each word that comes out of her mouth is a blade, sharp and cutting, but who were they meant for exactly? If his face was an open book, then hers would be a canvas. Painted over and hidden. Her suffering shelved away for someone else to deal with. His is in plain sight, still having trouble processing her words, yet there’s nothing she could do to help him ease the pain even if she wanted to. Eunsol blinks back the tears that were starting to well up in her eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles in her pants as she abruptly stands up amidst the heavy tension in the room.

“I’ll start packing my things.”

(Was this really the right thing to do?)

II.

INT. AN APARTMENT IN MAPO-GU – LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

EUNSOL is drinking with her third sister, EUNHA, in the latter’s apartment. Beer cans and soju bottles are strewn on the coffee table and on the floor. There’s a plastic container, containing half-devoured jokbal, on one end of the table.

EUNSOL: You know, when I was younger, I thought… I thought that once I turned 20, once I became an adult, I would finally understand.

EUNHA has a look of concern on her face although it goes largely unnoticed by EUNSOL, who is busy taking her nth shot of the night.

EUNHA: Understand what?

EUNSOL: I don’t know. The world, I guess. How things work. How people work, why they do stupid things… [sighs contemplatively, tracing the outline of her now-empty shot glass with her index finger] I don’t really know.

EUNHA: [snorting incredulously] You thought the knowledge of the world would magically transfer to you once you turned 20?

EUNSOL: With all due respect, unnie; die in a fucking ditch. I’m being serious here, pouring my heart out to you. Don’t laugh.

EUNHA: Ugh, fine. Continue.

EUNSOL knocks back a couple of drinks, wiping her lips with the back of her palm once she’s finished. EUNHA pours more soju in her shot glass.

EUNSOL: So, it’s like… Why can’t reality be kinder to me? Like my childhood imagination was. Why do we have to suffer? Haven’t I done well enough? What more do I have to do? Can’t life be as easy as it was 20 years ago? I should have just done what I wanted to do back then.

EUNSOL rests her head on the coffee table.

EUNHA: I thought you did? The four of us always fought because of you, you spoiled brat.

SILENCE hangs in the room after EUNHA’s half-joking interjection; the older sister taking her time to pick out her next words carefully. When she’s about to speak, she realises EUNSOL has fallen asleep across the table, clutching the shot glass tight. Carefully, she pries it out of EUNSOL’s grasp and throws on a blanket on her sister’s back. With her spare hand, she strokes EUNSOL’s hair.

EUNHA: That’s how you grow, Sol-ah.

#mpg:accepted #tgpy #slnd

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stormquill · 8 years ago

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Misconduct, Ch. 9 [Soldier 76/Reader]

You have an extremely inappropriate crush on your commanding officer. Maybe if you work hard enough, you’ll stop having feelings.

[ AO3 Link ]

Author's Notes: Collaboration with @antiloquist. Follow the blog @ http://miss-conduct.tumblr.com/

Chapter Notes: we...can't really explain.

This year, September marked a large cultural event in Le Havre, a small commune on the northern coast of France. The city was the final port in a major transatlantic sailing race that began at the end of the previous month. Travellers and tourists alike flocked to the city for the mass celebrations, and the drawn crowds would make it that much easier for friend and foe alike to blend in.

Because airline service to Octeville-sur-Mer had been discontinued years ago, the two of you landed in Caen before embarking on the three-hour train ride to Le Havre. Not wanting the enemy to catch wind of your infiltration, you packed light and dressed inconspicuously. The possibility of being ambushed kept tensions high, even when you both made it safely to the train car. You weren’t in the clear until you arrived.

Gentle rain tapped against the window of the booth, scattering droplets across the glass. 76 sat across from you, his arms folded while he kept half-slouched in his seat. He couldn’t have looked more ornery if he had ‘fuck off’ written across his forehead, and you suspected it was that very aura that kept anyone else from joining you in the booth. He’d been so still, however, you weren’t sure if he was awake or asleep.

76 had a nasty habit of sacrificing polyphasic shifts to get more work done. With everything going on, you knew he was running on empty, and the exhaustion would compromise him if he didn’t start taking care of himself. If he was sleeping, he needed the rest. You took care not to bother him, either way.

Suddenly, Winston’s voice came to mind.

“I don’t recall you two being quite this inseparable, before.”

Your gaze flickered back out the window.

Winston wasn’t surprised by the rogue mission proposal, but that didn’t keep him from being extremely irritated about the whole damn thing, anyway. With you and 76 sitting side-by-side in front of him, the meeting felt less like asking for his permission and more like asking for his blessing. Knowing as much, the scientist feathered through the stack of papers you’d provided him, talking in circles, trying to negotiate some way for you to stay behind and provide much-needed manpower to the base.

Then came your dear Commander’s curt reply.

“You said it yourself. They’re at their best when they’re with me.”

Flustered at the memory, you shrunk in your seat.

You remembered how much Winston got embarrassed on your behalf—muttering something about those not being his exact words, surely—but he didn’t take long to relent, as long as the two of you added another objective to your mission on his behalf in exchange.

“I should’ve known better,” he’d finally sighed, shaking his massive head. “You weren’t training a new recruit, you were training a new partner.”

76 didn’t respond. The vague, backhanded jab raised more questions for you than answers, but you knew better than to inquire about it then and there. Maybe you could ask 76 about it, eventually.

Sighing, you leaned against the train car window, watching the smattering of rain and racing stray droplets against the glass.

Whoever your Commander’s old partner may have been, all you could do was hope you could live up to the expectation.

Your intel revealed Amélie Lacroix was being held by ex-agents of Talon who wanted to retain control of her services after the fall of the organization. She was currently being kept in stasis—most likely to eradicate the possibility of her going rogue—but her consent in the matter was unclear. In a few days’ time, after Le Havre’s festivities were over, she would be smuggled aboard one of the many vessels travelling back across the Atlantic after the race, to rendezvous with contacts at the Port of New York and New Jersey.

If the intel was accurate, and Amélie was being transported while unconscious, it would have been nigh impossible to carry her by air—agents couldn’t force her through a commercial airline for obvious reasons, and they no longer had the resources to get proper clearance for a private flight. Logically, the ports of Gibraltar provided the fastest transatlantic route by sea, as sailors and tradesmen alike would take advantage of the northeastern tradewinds to cross the ocean; Gibraltar was, however, being heavily monitored ever since Overwatch’s reinstated presence.

Le Havre’s race provided the perfect opportunity.

Due to the nature of your mission, the more sensitive (see: deadly) of your supplies were retrieved from a drop point once you arrived. The tourist season breathed enough life into the small city to allow you to breeze through your multiple checkpoints without attracting attention.

76 kept his visor on throughout the journey. In an era where both Omnics and advanced prosthetics were commonplace, people didn’t think twice about the presence of a faceplate—yet, you knew your Commander was still known as an infamous vigilante within certain circles. This was a reasonable point of concern for you, especially considering that his idea of ‘going undercover’ was shedding his trademark jacket and switching the coloured light of his visor from red to blue. Still, he insisted it was enough for him not to be recognized.

And it was, surprisingly enough.

Even so, most people were too intimidated to address him directly, and the strangers you met along the way would defer to you—the smaller, kinder looking of the two—whenever they spoke. Your Eastern Canadian heritage afforded you fluency in the native language, but native Quebec French and native Parisian French were quite different, especially in the smaller communes, where the influence of dialect and regional slang was directly proportional to their distance from larger cities. The difference wasn’t too severe in Le Havre, but it was enough for the hotel clerk’s flow of speech to slip into something a little more comfortably condescending when he heard you speak.

All things considered, everything was going rather smoothly, up until you unlocked the door to your shared room.

If the fact that your accommodations only came with a single bed was going to be the biggest hiccup this mission, you’d take it.

“I’ll take the floor,” 76 grumbled, shrugging off his bags before you even had a chance to react.

“No need,” you said. “We’re sleeping in shifts, remember?”

“Neither of us got any sleep on the way here. We should rest while things are quiet.”

“Then I’ll take the floor.” You dropped your bags, as well. “You’ve been up way longer than I have, you should make yourself comfortable.”

“I don’t need to be comfortable,” he said, sternly. “I’ve slept on worse.”

“With all due respect, sir, so have I.” You made your way over to the closet to grab a spare set of blankets. “Look, we can take turns between the bed and the floor. I don’t need you to make room for me.”

“Reader, I’m taking the floor.”

“No, I want to sleep on the floor.”

“No one wants to sleep on the floor.”

“So you admit it.”

“I—”

But it was too late—you’d already folded up the sheets and set up a makeshift bed below, burying yourself beneath the blankets by the time he found the right words to argue back.

The hotel room floor was hard and cold and uncomfortable, but you had a point to prove.

“Get some rest, Commander,” you said, sounding final as you kept your back turned to him.

He knew better than to object.

You woke a few hours later to the scent of coffee and something else, something warm and hearty that made your stomach rumble with craving. The sound of soft crackling filled the room. Something was being cooked, which in itself was confusing since the place wasn’t equipped with a stove or kitchenette.

You spotted 76 across the room, hunched over the old-fashioned coffee maker by the entrance. The glass coffee pot it was supposed to contain was set aside on the counter.

It took you a full minute to realize he was warming something on the heating plate of the goddamn coffee maker.

“...Commander?”

“Hm.”

“Um...” You thought twice about questioning his methods. “What, uh. What are you making?”

“Burrito.”

This response did not aid your confusion. “Can’t you just throw it in the microwave?”

“Room doesn’t have one. Don’t know enough French to call down and ask.”

“So you...bought microwave burritos without checking to see if we had a microwave?”

“Didn’t buy ‘em.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said I didn’t buy them. I packed them.”

“You...packed them.”

“Yes.”

“You packed your own microwave burritos.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t know.” You ran a hand through your hair, shaking out your bangs. “Microwave burritos sound so...normal. I guess I was expecting you to have military rations in there, or something.”

“You’re military, aren’t you? You think I would willingly bring rations with me?”

“I didn’t think you would willingly bring microwave burritos with you, but here we are.” You stretched out and yawned, slouching and lazily rubbing your eyes afterwards. “There’s a McDonald’s around the corner. A French McDonald’s. I could’ve gotten you a Royale with cheese.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You know fast food is bad for you, right?”

“Yeah, and that’s the pinnacle of healthy dieting right there.” You sat up, fully. It was then when you realized, to your abject horror, the plush softness of the mattress beneath you. “Wait—did you move me in my sleep??”

He chuckled.

You tried to scowl the blush away. “Commander.”

“You were shivering,” he said. “Couldn’t just leave you down there to freeze, could I?”

Choosing not the chase the topic, you watched him poke his now-steaming goddamn burrito onto a plate, then immediately waving his ungloved hand to cool off his stinging fingertips.

“Coffee?” he offered.

“...please.”

He didn’t have to ask how you took it, you noticed. He already knew.

Distracted by the unsettling normalcy of the scene, it wasn’t until he poured your cup when you realized something important.

You pulled the blankets off yourself. “Did you want me to leave?”

“Why?”

“You need to eat,” you said, hopping off the side of the bed. “I can give you some privacy, come back when you’re done.”

76 paused for a moment.

He walked across the room and handed you your coffee. “Mind sitting back-to-back?”

You took the warm mug from his hands, glancing back up at the unfamiliar blue of his visor. “Not at all.”

So you folded your legs and sat on the floor, on top of the mess of sheets you laid out for yourself earlier. The blankets around you smelled like him, meaning he must’ve slept down here, after all.

The blush returned to your cheeks, and you were suddenly thankful you weren’t facing him.

Before you could regain your composure, you felt his back press flush against yours as he took a seat behind you. He was warm, and solid, and you could feel him move a little with every breath he took. There was a click and a quiet hiss of released pressure as he undid the locking mechanism of his faceplate, and your heart slammed against your chest.

He was letting his guard down.

Around you.

Your fingers curled tightly around your cup. You took a deep breath, but remained unmoving, resolved to continue facing the other way. It would be so easy to turn around, right now—if you scrambled, you could probably get a good once-over of his face before he managed to get the mask back on. Then you could finally know. Then you could finally stop wondering.

You swallowed, hard.

It was a hollow plan, you knew. You would never do something as egregious as denying him the right to his own privacy, not after everything you’d been through together. You wouldn’t look. You couldn’t. You wanted to—oh, how you wanted to—but not at the expense of the trust he’d placed in you. He did trust you...

...didn’t he?

“Sir.” You took a deep breath. “If we really are going to be partners, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide yourself around me.”

“Some things are better left hidden,” he grumbled.

“You know I don’t care what you look like, right?”

“I care.”

His words stung for a reason you couldn’t place.

“So you’re just gonna leave me hangin’, then?” You shrugged, your tone making it obvious you weren’t being serious. “That’s alright. Guess I’ll just have to keep guessing in the meantime. I’ve been imagining all sorts of things.”

“...like what?”

“Like a bear attack, maybe. Or a skiing accident.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, teasing, “I don’t ski.”

“Snowboarding, then.”

“Now that’s more like it.”

You smiled at yourself and at the mental image of 76 snowboarding, satisfied to be lightening the mood. “Hey, I mean, maybe you were just born that way. Like The Phantom of the Opera. Or that guy from The Goonies.”

“...do all of your backstories involve me being some kind of anomaly under here?”

“Well, there was this one idea I had where one of your missions went awry and whatever you lost had to be rebuilt with prosthetics and, plot twist, the mask is actually your face and has been all along.”

You heard him breathe his laughter, unimpeded by the visor for the very first time, and the sound sent shivers down your spine. Staring into your coffee, you went wide-eyed, wrapping your fingers even tighter around the mug as your cheeks grew hotter than the porcelain in your hands.

“Anyway, whatever it is,” you began, “I hope I get to see you, Commander. I hope you’ll feel ready to trust me with that, one day.”

After some considerable silence, you felt his back shift against yours as he turned slightly in your direction.

“...one day.”

You tipped your head back until it touched the back of his. “Then I’ll wait.”

He was not deaf to your disappointment.

You had a right to be curious, considering how much closer the two of you had become since you first met. If he were being honest, the thought of simply turning around and shattering the illusion once and for all tempted him, greatly. He remembered the day in the training room—the day you straddled his waist and smashed his visor in an effort to prove your own strength—and he wanted to level your eyes with his own, again. He wanted to take your chin in his hand and look at you and watch your expression shift as you finally saw him for who he really was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

It may have been dishonest and selfish, but he’d rather have you admire his enigma than despise his reality.

Returning to his food, he shook himself from his reverie.

“You must be hungry,” he offered, changing the subject. “Want me to make you something?”

“No thank you, Commander.” You finally raised your mug to your lips. “Got my heart set on a Royale with cheese.”

The two of you headed out in the morning for your preliminary investigation. According to your sources, the transportation of Amélie was set for the day after next. 76’s decryption of the encoded intel revealed all the relevant whens and wheres of the event, but if ex-Talon members were scouting or making preparations within Le Havre ahead of time, you needed to know about it.

76 never liked wearing civilian clothing. They never seemed to have enough pockets, never enough places to store emergency supplies, and going into public barebones during a mission made him feel particularly vulnerable. Yet, he couldn’t very well conduct an undercover investigation in broad daylight brandishing his now-infamous leather jacket, and he certainly couldn’t do it with a pulse rifle slung around his shoulder. If he were alone here, he wouldn’t have left the hotel room until it was time to infiltrate enemy lines, but having your support afforded him the liberty of taking a more subtle, strategic approach.

He still wasn’t a fan of civilian-wear, though. At least, not until he saw you.

Your outfit was simple enough. A hunter green cargo jacket long enough to reach your thighs, with a thin grey turtleneck layered beneath it. A black scarf was wrapped around your neck, tucked neatly beneath the dipped collar of your jacket. Black jeans—form-fitting, but comfortable enough for extended movement. Black boots—stylish, but practical enough to make running viable.

Leave it to you to bring a reasonable undercover outfit.

Your cargo jacket had so many pockets.

You’d never seen your Commander out of uniform or standard-issue clothing before, and you tried to keep your gaze from lingering too long. He was wearing a collared sweater, a light undershirt, and a pair of dark-washed jeans.

(Focus.)

The colours looked good on him, and the jeans fit him well.

(Don’t stare.)

“Ready?” you asked, voice weaker than you intended.

He gave you a quiet nod, and you headed out into the city.

The skies were slightly overcast, and the streets were still slick from the early morning rain. It was abnormally chilly for a September morning, cold enough for you to see your breath in the air whenever you spoke, but in spite of the cold, the whole area was still buzzing with tourists in town for the multi-day celebration put on by the city. You stuck with the crowds, and in turn, the two of you went mostly unnoticed, making your covert investigation that much smoother.

You were there to overhear, to keep your eyes and ears open for anything peculiar. Drifting from place to place in silence would’ve been conspicuously strange, so the two of you talked sometimes just to break the quiet; you’d even rattle off some words in French to your Commander to stand out less, depending on who was around.

Athena did most the eavesdropping work, though. The AI was downloaded to your hidden communication devices, running an algorithm that sorted through all surrounding dialogue faster than any human ear could manage. Until Athena raised an alert about any relevant or suspicious tidbits of dialogue, all you had to do was walk around and let her listen in.

As they had yesterday, the people you interacted with deferred to you for conversation, as apparently, something about a tall, strong-looking man in a blue visor seemed intimidating. Not understanding the language anyway, 76 simply followed your lead from shop to shop, from street to street, feeling like dead weight all the while.

He supposed subtle, strategic approaches weren’t really his style.

In the boring, idle moments, when he’d linger in the background while you spoke to others, he found himself pretending he was on some sort of vacation. That maybe, just maybe, on one of your strolls down the rain-soaked streets, you’d take a hold of his arm and comment on the sights around you, wide-eyed with wonder. Had you ever been to France before? Would you want to be seen with him, if it weren’t for the mission?

Now that you were alone together, did you even enjoy his company?

He couldn’t quite get a read on you, so far. Unlike him, you had no time to daydream—you were far too busy chatting with people of interest, far too busy pulling out your pocket notebook every other second, writing down all the information you were gathering in an attempt to make some kind of new connection between it all.

76 had a passing conversational understanding of a few languages, but French was not one of them.

He had no idea what you were saying, but you were mesmerizing.

It was a secret shame, but damn, did he ever have a thing for foreign languages. A lifetime ago, soft endearments would be whispered to him in Spanish, a gentle hand in his hair and a reassuring voice in his ear, making him feel vulnerable. And now here you were, with your bright eyes and your soft laughter and your tongue wrapping so naturally around more words he didn’t understand.

He caught himself and tore his thoughts free from his flights of fancy.

That comparison was dangerous.

He had to tread lightly.

No, his opportunity for happy, mindless gallivanting with another person had long since passed. He had to stop being such a hypocrite and instead concentrate on the mission—right here, right now—no matter how nice the language sounded on your tongue, or how endearing you looked when you knitted your brow as you jotted down more notes, more connections, more leads to follow. He tried to compose himself. He tried.

But then the sun came out, and all his efforts were in vain.

He hadn’t noticed before then, but you’d worn your hair down, today. Your hair framed your face, brilliantly, catching the sunlight peeking from behind the overcast, and it was all he could do to keep himself from running his fingers through it to see if it was as soft as it looked. You were so engrossed in your note-taking, you didn’t see him staring, at first—you were so determined, so driven to get this job done, the mere thought of you working this hard to help him succeed on a mission that had absolutely nothing to do with you made that familiar warmth return to his chest.

“You doing alright?” you asked, glancing up. You’d finally noticed his reserved body language, his silence.

“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s colder than I thought it would be.” A lie.

You laughed, and the sensation in his chest caught in his throat.

“Don’t go a lot of places without your jacket, do you? Here.”

You tucked a couple of fingers past your collar and pulled off your scarf, wrapping the long black fabric around his neck and folding it just so.

You patted it in place. “There we go.”

“...thanks.”

“No problem.”

A beat of silence as he examined himself.

He remained unmoving. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“You really don’t!” you said in a hurry. “You actually look really, um. Not ridiculous.”

“Very reassuring, thank you.”

You looked defeated for a moment, before muttering something in French.

He raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you said, sounding exasperated as you tucked your notebook back into one of your many, many pockets. “Let’s go.”

A couple of hours passed, and your informal investigation led the two of you to an independent vendor by the port. The shop was run by an older French woman with thin, greying hair and too much kindness in her eyes; she held a straight cane as she kept seated behind the counter, wearing the paint stains on her smock like badges of honour. A small gallery of paintings surrounded her: vibrant country landscapes captured with oils on canvas.

76 kept to the front of the shop as you approached the counter. He watched you fall back into the conversational routine you’d established during the course of the investigation; you feigned interest in her wares, striking up friendly small-talk while steering the conversation in a way to get your own questions answered. You were good with people—he wondered if that was from the personal or military side of you.

Before you arrived at the gallery, you’d explained that the majority of your discussions yielded recurring mentions of a freak hailstorm earlier that week, one that upset the skies and waters alike. Further dialogue revealed a few of the ships sustained enough damage to delay their expected departure by a few days’ time. One of the ships wounded by the storm matched the description of the vessel your ex-Talon agents were planning to use for the transatlantic crossing; now, you were verifying that ship’s description with this vendor, whose shop was one of many set up in direct line of sight of the port.

It was an extremely roundabout way of doing things, sure, but you couldn’t go sniffing around official sources for reports and risk the enemy catching wind of your presence.

After several minutes, you thanked the artist before making your way out of the shop, holding a packaged, rolled canvas under your arm.

“Bought one?” 76 asked, following you out.

“Yeah,” you laughed on your words, shyly. “Wasn’t planning on it, but this one...I don’t know, I liked it a lot. It’s silly.”

The artist said cheerfully called out something in French as you left her gallery.

At first, 76 didn’t think much of it—by her amicable tone, he assumed it was some sort of farewell, but by the way the blood immediately drained from your face, he knew whatever she said had gotten to you.

You stammered back what sounded like a goodbye and stormed out of the shop, taking off down the street a pace and a half ahead of him.

“Wait,” he called, rushing to catch up with you. “What’s happened?”

“What?” You turned halfway, clearly distracted. “Oh, n—nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

“I said it’s fine.” You glanced away, absently rubbing the back of your hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Talk to me.”

You froze. There they were, those three magic little words neither of you could seem to ignore.

“Intel’s good,” you said. “Her description of the ships she saw moved for repairs corroborates the information from the others. One of the vessels that got damaged in the hailstorm is definitely ours. We need to find out whether they’ve made alternate arrangements, or if the trip itself is being delayed with the repairs.”

“Good, but that’s not what I meant.” The frown was clear in his voice. “What did she say to you back there?”

“She said...” You cleared your throat, embarrassed. “She said, ‘thanks for coming in, you and your father have a nice day.’”

76 felt his heart drop through his stomach. He’d been so enamoured with his own idle thoughts, he’d forgotten what this—whatever this was—must have looked like to other people.

Even worse, he neglected to consider how that must have made you feel.

“Sorry,” you said, your eyes avoiding him completely. “I’m...gonna head back to the hotel. Need to make a game plan for what we’re doing next. Let me know if Athena picks anything up.”

You took off before he could respond, leaving him high and dry in the rain-soaked streets of the city harbor.

The sun had set some time ago, but your Commander hadn’t yet returned.

Athena updated you on his status and location every half-hour, so you knew he hadn’t run into any trouble. He was still walking the length of city, it seemed, letting Athena pick up recordings on the stray conversations leftover from earlier celebrations. He was looking for new intel.

Avoiding you.

You’d been alone with your thoughts for several hours, now, and you couldn’t help but feel like you’d done something wrong. You tried not to think about what happened earlier that day—how awkward you probably made him feel, how terrible it was of you to just up and leave like that.

...what on earth were you thinking?

You buried yourself into your journal, but your thoughts were racing too much for you to read any of the words right. You wondered if you should’ve gone back out and re-joined him. You wondered how to go about an apology when you saw him next, and if you did, what exactly it was you were apologizing for. Had you offended him with your attitude? Would he be upset you abandoned the investigation early? Hell, maybe he wasn’t angry at all, maybe he was just confused as to why you had such a visceral reaction to the woman’s comment in the first place.

Why had it gotten to you so badly?

Clicking your tongue, you slammed your journal shut. What would he think of you if he knew you’d been spending the entire day trying not to romanticize the idea of being alone with him? If he knew you hyper-fixated on walking around and asking questions just to distract yourself from the irrational happiness you felt simply being at his side? If he knew your heart damn near stopped when you saw him that morning?

Collared sweater. Light undershirt. Dark-washed jeans.

The undershirt was lighter than the altered beam of his visor—a soft shade of sky blue, that looked white at first glance. His sweater, a deep navy, was thick enough to be warm in the cool weather, heavy and loose around his strongly built form. There was an undone button at the collar. A button on a sweater, for god’s sake, like something a preppy dad would wear. Still, the colours looked good on him.

And the jeans made his ass look great.

Heat flared across your cheeks, and you shook your head to rid yourself of any untoward thoughts. The last thing you needed was to make things even more awkward, so far out in a foreign country with only each other for company, and on assignment, no less.

You tossed your journal aside in frustration, and it landed softly on the floor across the room. As you sat up and prepared to get out of bed, a bit of red and blue caught your eye: 76 had left his jacket on a chair in the corner of the room.

A thought.

You rubbed your face in your hands.

No.

Absolutely not.

No, no, no—who cared if you constantly daydreamed about wearing the damn thing—the one time you did, you were delirious from pain and bleeding out in his arms, and you figured that was more than enough memories to make with it for a lifetime. Plus, how would you explain yourself if he walked in and caught you with his jacket on?

...but he’d been gone for most of the day, and Athena was set to alert you if he was on his way back. If you just...wore it for a few minutes, no one would be any the wiser. Except Athena, of course. And keeping secrets was kind of her job.

Your heart raced inside your chest as you slid off the bed and tiptoed across the room, approaching the jacket as if it could attack at any moment. After a moment’s hesitation, you reached for it. You could tell it was well-loved; the leather was soft under your touch, yet worn from years of wear and tear. You noted how soothingly familiar the texture of it was, just like it felt back in the infirmary.

Your thumb brushed up against what felt like a recently mended tear on the left shoulder. Did he get that in Romania?

You looked over both your shoulders, in case someone had somehow ghosted behind you over the course of the past 30 seconds. You knew you shouldn’t have been doing this.

But it was now or never.

With a deep breath, you pulled the jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it around your shoulders, clumsily shrugging it on. Since it had been left alone for a while, the leather and inside lining were cold to the touch. You wondered how he came across it in the first place. Was it something he had made for him, or was it something he found and claimed as his own? What kind of adventures had he faced in this thing? What kind of dangers? You wanted to hear about them all.

The jacket was, of course, pretty big on you. Height-wise, 76 had nearly an entire foot on you, and the sleeves alone just about completely covered your hands. But it kept you warm.

You weren’t quite sure what possessed you to nuzzle the inner neckline of the jacket, but the resulting scent of leather and plasma and musk was nearly overwhelming. It was almost like he was standing right next to you, and your eyes flew open to make absolute certain he wasn’t.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and sighed, completely content. It was almost as nice as hugging the real thing. It would be nice to find yourself in his arms again, for him to hold you like he held you in the infirmary, with warmth and strength and a touch of desperation. You thought about that moment often, maybe too often. You knew firsthand how firmly he could hold you, how easily he could carry you, like you were featherlight. You wondered what his hands would feel like beneath you, instead, keeping a firm grip on your thighs as he lifted you against the wall and—

Warmth rose to your cheeks, again.

The heat building inside you was tempting, but...here? Now? Where he could easily walk in and catch you?

A shiver trickled down your spine, prickling your arms with goosebumps. The thought was the opposite of a deterrent.

A few steps took you back to the bed.

You pawed at the clasp of your pants as you climbed in, fumbling with the button and undoing the zipper, loosening your jeans. A part of you wondered how much he’d like all these clothes of yours on the floor, instead. A part of you wondered how quickly he could do away with them if he tried.

Not wanting to dirty what wasn’t yours, you had the courtesy of shrugging up the sleeve on your dominant hand; you lifted your other arm to your face, bringing the leather of his jacket to your nose. His scent flooded your senses again, and you bit the inside of your lip. If you were all worked up just from this...

This was so, so dangerous.

What would he think of you if he walked in on you like this?

...god, how you ever wanted him to walk in on you like this.

You could hear the way he’d chuckle at you, low and deep.

“I don’t think that belongs to you.”

In your mind’s eye, there was no pretense—no anxiety or discussion or sense of uncertainty—just his strength suddenly pinning you hard and heavy to the mattress, his ungloved hands rough and eager beneath your clothing, his knee prying your thighs apart. You imagined the low noises in his throat when he carelessly grabbed at every inch of you he could reach, skilled and experienced and hungry.

You brushed your fingers lower, breathing a hazy sigh as you felt the evidence of your own arousal through the fabric. With the sleeve of his jacket still pressed to your face, every inhale was thick with his scent, making the lewd visions flickering behind your eyelids that much more tangible.

“On your stomach,” he’d order.

“Yes, sir,” you breathed, out loud.

You turned around, imagining his hand threading through your hair, cupping your scalp, pushing you face-down into the mattress with a sense of command that shot a jolt of arousal straight through you. It wasn’t your grasp that yanked your jeans down your hips; those weren’t your fingers unceremoniously shoving your underwear aside to make enough way to work against you.

“Nice and loud, now. Don’t be shy.”

You gasped into the pillow, your breath warming the fabric until it was hot against your cheek. You were holding back, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity through all this, but the thought of him burying the length of his cock into you and bottoming out, over and over again, with his deep, husky voice strained from the effort, and the indecent sound of skin against skin—it was too much, it was far too much, and you breathed stammered, uneven moans into your pillow, muffled yet unrestrained, as you rounded quick fingers against yourself.

You imagined the view—with you, face-down against the mattress, your hands grasping at the sheets in a mad effort to find anchor, your loose hair cascading messily against the insignia across back of his jacket as he fucked you hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes.

You imagined it drove him crazy.

His voice was thick with lust, his want evident in every syllable.

“Is this what you think about when I’m not here?”

You never wanted him to stop talking.

He wove his hand tighter into your hair, getting a good grip and tugging sharply to steady his own erratic pace. His other hand was exploring you, hastily bunching your shirt above your chest, his fingers gliding around a beaded nipple.

Oh, you were close.

You imagined he knew.

You buried your face deeper into your pillow as you imagined him suddenly gripping your waist and half-lifting you from the mattress, angling himself against a spot inside of you that made you choke on your breath, damn near pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust as he chased your climax.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just a little more.”

You bit back a needy whine as you breathed into the sleeve of his jacket, imagining the tightness of his grasp on your waist and how those hands of his would hold onto you hard enough to leave bruises. You could almost hear the dark growl in his voice, rough and unsteady, his hips stuttering as he felt himself falling from the edge alongside you.

The thought was enough to send you spiralling, your own voice tumbling into a desperate, repetitive keen.

“Commander, Commander, Commander—”

Suddenly, you were much too warm, everywhere, and all at once; your nerves washed over with staggering wave upon wave of pleasure, making your toes curl and your breathing stop and your voice stammer wildly into his sleeve—and then, relief.

You toppled onto your side, dizzy with heat and effort, savoring the cold air filling your lungs hard and fast with your sudden panting.

You took deep, heavy breaths as you rolled over onto your back, facing the ceiling. That had been the best you’d had in a while, actually. You must have been more pent-up than you thought you were. It had been very cathartic. Very...

...inappropriate.

Now that you were sobering from your arousal, shame had the chance to occupy the vacancy.

Had you seriously just done that?

It wasn’t as if you’d never jerked off before, keeping your hands busy to private, indecent thoughts of him, but never while you were in training or on assignment, and certainly never while wearing his fucking jacket. This was creepy.

This was disgusting.

Fantasizing about him wanting you that way, as if he chose to be here with you, as if you were here for any reason other than being skilled enough to survive and being stupid enough to willingly follow him off the grid. If you weren’t useful, you’d be back at headquarters and he would’ve left without you. This mission was the only reason he had you by his side—it was the reason you were so resolved to accompany him.

It was the only way he’d let you stay.

Still cloaked in his jacket, you suddenly felt small and impossibly pathetic, harboring feelings like this after he made it clear you weren’t someone he wanted to pursue. This was disrespect of the highest caliber. He didn’t deserve to have to deal with you—he had enough on his plate, and you should’ve known better. Why would he ever look your way?

He didn’t feel a thing for you but pity.

You pressed the back of your bare wrist over your eyes, shielding the unfeeling blankness of the ceiling from your vision.

What would he think of you if he knew?

Though the evening was no longer young, cities like this didn’t sleep during seasons of celebration. Scattered groups and couples alike were still enjoying the midnight scenery, and stragglers from the bars were still struggling to reacquaint themselves with their lost sobriety. None of them paid 76 any mind as he walked down the same major avenue for the third time that hour, with his hands in his pockets and his attention kept to his own business. He’d come to terms with the fact he’d stopped searching for intel hours ago; he had no purpose being here, outside of running from his own thoughts.

It had only been a couple of days, but he’d already gotten careless.

Removing his mask in your presence was a dangerous move. Though you assumed his secrecy was a mark of self-consciousness, it wasn’t the scars or the burn marks he wanted to hide, not really. His true name was household once upon a time, a million years ago, and that very same name became particularly unpopular during the course of events leading up to the incident in Switzerland. As the initial disbanding of Overwatch had occurred less than a decade ago, you were old enough to not only remember those events, but also to have formed presumably strong opinions about it.

How would you react if you knew he’d been hiding this entire time?

Not that it mattered—he didn’t deserve a chance in hell with you, either way. So what if you had opinions of Jack Morrison? That man was dead. All that remained was a dusty shell of what he once was, withered and broken by trauma and time. Why, he was old enough to be your—

He recoiled at the thought, reminded of what happened earlier that day.

Jesus, you were so embarrassed. You had such a thick skin, normally. You were never one to let yourself become poorly affected by others’ opinions of you; instead, you took negativity and criticism and shaped it into something constructive, something you could use to improve yourself. 76 wasn’t completely oblivious—he saw the shift in attitude, sometimes, when your foreign dialect was made obvious and strangers would adjust their postures and enunciate their words as if you couldn’t understand them.

Come to think of it, 76 hadn’t a damn clue what you’d been saying all day, much less whenever you rattled off in French while you were alone together. Although he knew you were doing it to blend in, he was only ever in on half the conversation, left to infer what you might have been saying by reading your small smiles and your light blushes and the tiny gestures punctuating your dialogue.

And now he was curious.

“Athena,” 76 muttered under his breath.

“Commander Morrison,” came the artificial voice from his headset.

“Compile the recordings from today. Just the ones from our private conversations.”

“Compilation complete. One hundred and seventy four sequences found.”

“Isolate Reader’s dialogue.”

“Isolation complete. Ninety-eight sequences remaining.”

“Isolate non-English sequences.”

“Isolation complete. Fourteen sequences remaining.”

“Translate.”

“Translation complete. Mapping sequences to voice replication.”

Still walking the streets of Le Havre, 76 kept his pace steady as your voice, slightly computerized from Athena’s generated translation, spilled through his headset. It was all scattered dialogue of yours, from random points throughout the day.

“I’ve never been to France, before,” you started, and he could tell you were smiling. The confidence in your tone made it clear you knew he couldn’t understand what you were saying, and you were much braver when you thought he couldn’t hear you.

76 found himself retroactively filling the other half of your empty conversations.

“Wish we had more time to sightsee.”

(Me, too.)

“Does this outfit look okay?”

(You couldn’t ask me that in English?)

“Navy’s a good shade of blue on you. That sweater makes you look all dignified.”

(‘Dignified’ is just another word for ‘old’.)

“Is blue your favourite colour? It’s mine.”

(Noted.)

“This weather’s lovely.”

(Of course you’d like the rain.)

“I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I guess I’m a little nervous...I’m running out of things to say.”

(Don’t stop.)

“I’m trying to say you look handsome with the scarf, damn it.”

(Oh.)

“Sorry—I’m losing focus, again. Can you blame me? I’m out here with you, after all.”

(You’ve always had terrible taste.)

“Thanks for letting me help you.”

(Thank you for helping.)

“I promise I won’t let you down, this time.”

(That’s my line.)

“I’ll protect you.”

(I know.)

With the emphasis you put on the words ‘this time,’ he couldn’t believe you were still beating yourself up over what happened, as if Talon’s interference in Romania was nothing to you but a personal shortcoming. It was a wonder that you still trusted him at all, that you were still trying to return a favour of protection he himself had spectacularly failed to provide.

“I know this isn’t a date, but maybe when this is all over...”

(You don’t want that.)

”...we can go out for real.”

(You don’t want me.)

He couldn’t keep himself from wondering if you’d wear your hair down then, too. You’d been so damn cute in the early autumn sunlight, he’d wanted nothing more than to just reach out and hold you, then and there.

“I wonder if you’d be embarrassed, to be seen with me like that.”

76 stopped in his tracks.

It was no secret you’d always been concerned over how he perceived you—as you were a new recruit and he was your commanding officer, you worried about being prepared, being taken seriously, and being good enough for him and his team. When he thought back to how intense your reaction was to the older woman’s misunderstanding, he came to a sudden conclusion that made his stomach turn: you weren’t embarrassed to be seen with him, you were afraid he was embarrassed to be seen with you.

Why hadn’t he figured that out earlier?

The idea of anyone holding someone like him in high regard seemed absurd, nowadays. Affection was a luxury he could no longer afford, and a part of him hoped you would eventually come to your senses—that the more you learned of him, the more he’d differ from the ideal you’d envisioned, and the sooner you’d realize you deserved better than he could provide. The years had transformed him into someone far different from who he once was, but he was who you admired, somehow; you, with no prior knowledge of the man he used to be, thought the world of the man standing in front of you now.

You were wasting your time and he was running out of excuses. If he wanted this whole affair to stop once and for all, he’d have to put an end to it himself. He knew that. He’d known that all along.

But he didn’t want to end it.

76 sighed, rough and heavy, running a hand through his hair hard enough to rake his nails across his scalp.

Before you left on this assignment, you’d given him two choices: to keep things the way they were, or to try something new—and instead of giving you a straight answer, he drew in his own checkbox labelled ‘Undecided’ and left you alone to decipher what it meant. In his self-righteous efforts not to lead you on, he ended up doing it, anyway—he’d taken you for granted, and as he busied himself with excuses for his apprehension, he failed to realize how lucky he was to have you around in the first place.

It had been such a long time since he had someone by his side, as you were now by his. After all the time you’d spent together, integrating each other into your daily lives without knowing it, the idea of returning to the way things were before he met you made him feel hollow.

76 still had concerns. He still worried about your difference in rank, and about his position of authority over you. He still worried about the years between you, and whether or not the gap in your life experiences would prove too much of a challenge to overcome. Yet, he also knew none of those concerns would be eased overnight. He had to take it one step at a time, and step one was for him to stop lying to himself.

Suddenly, he felt like running, like bolting through the streets at top speed and not slowing down until he reached the entrance of the hotel—he could do it in minutes flat, pedestrian traffic be damned. He could charge up the stairs and through the room and into your arms because he knew you’d let him hold you if he tried. No words would have to be said—it would all fall into place on its own, seamlessly and without effort, and you both could finally stop wondering.

He chuckled at the ridiculousness of his own optimism.

One step at a time.

Tucking his hands back into his pockets, he traced a path back to the hotel.

He needed to see you.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt terrified.

He nearly stepped on your tossed journal when he returned, and you didn’t seem to notice.

You said nothing when he walked through the door, as you were already buried beneath a pile of spare blankets on the hotel floor, your back facing the entrance. A glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table revealed he’d been gone well past the night and into the single-digit hours of the early morning. He could tell you weren’t asleep, but he could also tell it wasn’t from lack of trying.

As he took off his shoes and set your notebook on the counter, he noticed his leather jacket resting on the back of a different chair from where he first left it.

Had you moved it?

Keeping silent, he made his way to his jacket, running an absent had across the shoulders of the leather as if to make sure it was still intact. Nothing about it seemed out of the ordinary, save for a single strand of your hair caught in the inner lining.

He turned to you, your back still turned.

The idea would’ve irritated him if it were anyone else, but the thought of you wearing something so distinctly his own filled him with a flighty feeling he was altogether much too tired to deal with.

“It’s red,” he said softly, letting his jacket go.

You shifted under the blankets, lifting your head up. “Sorry?”

“My favourite colour,” he clarified. “It’s not blue, it’s red.”

Oh.

Your heart sank to your knees, and you curled even further into yourself.

Oh.

The overwhelming weight of the realization collapsed on you, all at once. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You double-checked each other’s work. Of course he’d have Athena play back recordings of your conversations from the investigation, and some of your ridiculous babbling must’ve gotten caught up in the translations. You couldn’t even remember half of what you said, but you knew a good 60% of it was mushy as all hell. Way to be creepy, again.

“God,” you groaned. “I’m so sorry.”

“...what for?”

You winced at the fact he had the audacity to sound confused.

“It’s been two days,” you started, “I told you coming into this mission that I wouldn’t...I thought I was better than this. I thought I could get over myself if it meant helping you. But that lady—she was your age, and when she saw me, she thought...” You sighed, frustrated at him for forcing you to explain, frustrated at yourself for letting it get this bad. “Here I am thinking of you one way, and here you are probably thinking I’m just some stupid kid.”

He could feel your vitriol—an edge he’d never heard from you, before.

You laughed, and there was acid in your tone. “I’m such a hypocrite. Winston was right, I really shouldn’t have followed you here.”

And in spite of your resolve, your voice wavered on the very last word.

He noticed how you stilled when you realized you slipped on your own resolve, how you cleared your throat at once to get rid of it, to hide the fact you were on the verge of tears, but it was telltale.

“Sorry,” you whispered, and it broke his fucking heart.

After a few seconds of terse silence, you felt the blankets shift behind you.

“Mind if I sleep here, tonight?” he asked.

“‘Course not.” Your voice was steady, again. “Bed’s all yours if you want it, though.”

“I want to sleep on the floor.”

“No one wants to sleep on the floor.”

“So you admit it,” he teased.

He got a small laugh from you. Success.

“I think we’re both too tired to argue, right now,” he said, grabbing the rest of the blankets and pillows from the bed and tossing them in a pile on the floor beside you.

Your back still turned, you became hyper-aware of his presence as he made himself comfortable beside you. He tucked his fingers down his collar and drew off your scarf before pulling his sweater over his head, leaving him down to his undershirt, and jeans.

He got under his covers and laid down beside you, gently, his back inches from yours.

You were confused, to say the least. You expected him to be more upset about the day’s events upon his return, but if he wouldn’t grant you the grace of showing you the admonishment you knew you deserved, you’d just pick up the slack and be mad enough at yourself for two people. He had no idea about what you’d just done, after all; you did, and you’d take it to the grave with you, if you could.

You tried to adjust comfortably on the floor. You realized it was nothing but your mutual stubbornness that had you both sleeping on the floor, with an empty bed big enough for three people not two feet away from you.

“You know...” he started, sounding amused, “there’s no reason to beat yourself up over a crime we’re both guilty of.”

“...what do you mean?”

At first, you were met with nothing but silence, and the burdens of possible implications did nothing but grant more and more weight on your scurrying fears with every second that passed by.

He was, again, first to break the quiet. “You should wear your hair down more often. Suits you.”

“Can’t,” you said quickly, a knee-jerk reaction. “Gets in the way on-duty.”

He chuckled, softly. “Guess I’ll have to get to know you off-duty, then.”

Your face flared. Was he flirting with you? After everything that just happened? This wasn’t possible, you must’ve been misreading this situation entirely. Even if you weren’t—hell, what did you even say to that?

You mulled over your next words a hundred times over and they still didn’t feel right.

“You, um.” You cleared your throat. “You...wear a lot of jeans off-duty?”

“...I could.”

Another laugh from you. He was better at this than he remembered.

He’d been thinking of you, too. You were trying to come to terms with that. Did that mean that he, too, had been fighting off the persistence of his own thoughts all day? Had you been so focused on the mission, you completely failed to read the signs right in front of you? He might not have been an open book, but maybe you could’ve read something if you’d just paid closer attention.

Guilty of the same crime, indeed.

Your blush deepened.

You’d wear your hair any way he’d like if it’d make him compliment you like that again.

“...Reader?”

His voice snapped you back from your thoughts. He sounded hesitant, all of a sudden, and the shift in tone made you nervous. “Commander?”

“I don’t think of you as some stupid kid,” he continued. “The opposite, really.”

Head still pressed to your pillow, you half-turned towards him. “Sir?”

“I’m at my best when I’m with you.”

And you forget how to breathe.

You pressed a closed fist against your chest as if the pressure would keep your pulse from thundering through you, as if the contact would keep your heart from bursting. The stray tears that threatened to break through earlier finally spilled from the corners of your eyes, in spite of how hard you struggled to bite them back, but you kept them quiet, and you kept them hidden, for they were yours, and yours alone.

You gave him no response at all, and for the second time that mission, he wanted to turn around and face you. You were close, but he wanted you closer; he wanted you in his arms until you fell asleep, he wanted to rest his chin in your hair and feel you move as you breathed against him. Your backs were separated by mere inches—it would be so easy—but he still couldn't bring himself to close the distance. Not yet.

One step at a time.

“...goodnight, Reader.”

“Goodnight, Commander,” and he could tell you were smiling.

Your voice doesn’t waver, this time.

#soldier 76 #soldier 76 x reader #overwatch oc #overwatch fic #misconduct

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adampaisley · 8 years ago

Text

My Foray into Gonzo Journalism

PART 1 - Drugs and Food

In an effort to expand my writing portfolio and find paid work, I’ve taken stock of what is popular in today’s media and decided that I need to pursue the technique of gonzo journalism.

My research shows there are a few paths I can take. I narrowed it down to two; either seek out really awful, uneducated people and tell you about them or I can write about doing things that are ill advised in a cool ironic way.

My day starts at 10am. I normally wake up at 7-7:30 and this day was no exception. But as a gonzo journalist, it’s a big no-no to start your day that early. In fact it’s more likely it’s when your night should end. This was going to be tough. I stayed in bed for a bit, read some news, posted a couple HBDs on Facebook and had a sensible breakfast before heading out.

I chose this day to start my new journalistic endeavor because it was the first day of the month after my birth month. Which meant I was driving with an expired license. I had received a renewal notice in the mail but chose to ignore it. Already feeling the gonzo rush, I head to meet a known local drug dealer to prepare myself for the evening. “Sup cuz?” he greeted me, using his e-cigarette, fully aware of the lack of research on the health ramifications of the technology. It smelled nice, like a blue raspberry sno-cone. I said as much. “Yeah, it’s blue raspberry”, he replied. This drug dealer is actually my second cousin Dale (I’ve changed his name from Dave to Dale to protect his identity).

“What do you need?” he asked. I left with some magic mushrooms and MDMA, or “Molly” in drug-lord parlance. I wondered if this was based on the great Canadian actress Molly Parker but Dave wasn’t sure and said “probably not”. I argue that she deserves something to be named after her but Dave has already left. With the drugs securely in my coat pocket, I continue my journey.

It’s now lunch time. I head to a dive restaurant that’s of such poor quality, even Guy Fieri wouldn’t feature it on Triple D. The decor was unappealing; The crown moulding was a mess. Real sloppy work. I have a seat at the counter. “Hi, what can I get for ya?” the waitress asks. She’s an older woman, mid 40’s, dyed black hair and heavy on the makeup. She isn’t unattractive and you could tell she was a dime in her day. Her small-town eyebrows are still sculpted the same way her mother taught her at thirteen. Personally, I’m feeling extremely uncomfortable, knowing I’ll have to describe her appearance in a weird, misogynistic way in the article as is customary in gonzo journalism. (Sorry Kathy! You were a wonderful server and I know your appearance has no relevance to the story but I feel as if I had to include this.)

I’m about to order a burger with fries but realize that isn’t ill-advised enough. I look to the back page of the menu. “I’ll have the fish please” I say, knowing full well it is likely already prepared, frozen, and simply warmed for the customer. “Okay”

Lunch was pretty good. I feel okay. The tartar sauce was actually quite good. I ask about it and am told it’s made in house. I mention they should sell it and Kathy offers to put some in a container for me. I gladly accept, pay my bill and head out.

I still have a few hours to kill before I’m scheduled to take the drugs so I head to a Starbucks. I’m doing this ironically as it’s not something a cool guy gonzo journalist would do. I ironically charge my phone and order a “caramelli frappiachi or whatever”, purposefully getting the name incorrect because I wouldn’t unironically drink such a delicious beverage. I sit and play a couple turns on my Yahtzee app before heading toward the hospital.

I decided to take the drugs across the street from the emergency room. I haven’t done drugs before and read about some pretty serious allergic reactions online. My reasoning for taking them across the street and not in front of the building was twofold; less chance of being seen by a narc (drugs slang for “Narcotic Tattletale”) and if I had to cross the street with a severe allergic reaction, it would be great for the story. As a bonus, the bus I wanted to take after was west bound so it made sense to be on that side of the street.

I ingested the magic mushroom and didn’t feel an immediate allergic reaction, so I hopped on my bus and started my “trip”. ;)

Shoot, I forgot to swear in the article. Fuck the establishment! Okay, thanks.

PART 2 - I’m on Drugs, which are Illegal.

It was hard to tell if the drugs were starting to have an effect or if the bus is always this unpleasant. I hadn’t taken transit in many years, as my parents gave me a Honda Civic as a high school graduation present and it has proven to be a reliable companion. I’ve had to do a few minor repairs but am overall very happy with the reliability.

On the bus, a man is eating sunflower seeds and spitting them onto the floor. Another smells greatly of urine, yet still has the mind to catcall a teenage girl. An unkempt teen audibly burps while texting with the keyboard click sound on. It’s hard to imagine this wasn’t a hallucination but a few people I told about it suggested that these behaviors are not uncommon on the bus. I push through it by fondly thinking about the comforts of my sedan.

I finally arrive at my destination, a public park. From what I had gleaned from my research, I was now supposed to experience something considered illegal in some countries with a person of notoriety. Perhaps do peyote with Deadmau-Five or ingest an extremely hot sauce with Dave Coulier.

I had contacted a number of people and the one who was kind enough to join me was a friend of mine who is a regional journalist who is verified on Twitter. He was not very receptive to doing anything illegal but after some convincing, he agreed to eat some foods that aren’t allowed to be sold in the country because of regulatory law.

We kicked things off with a glass of Ovaltine I bought online. You can get it where I’m from as well but it’s a bit different from the British one because it has a colourant that isn’t approved here. We both agreed; it tasted pretty good.

Next up, I had tried to get my hands on some farm raised salmon but it didn’t pan out so I had to get a bit creative for the next one. We each had a Kinder Surprise egg. They’re legal here in Canada but not in the US as the toy inside is a choking hazard. We removed the toys and ate the chocolate without incident. They’re great. I received a puzzle inside, which is disappointing but my friend got a frog that jumped if you flick it, which was pretty cool.

I thanked him for his time and asked if he wanted to hang out and join me tonight. He said he had to head home because he and his partner were going to watch Rango.

I’m flying solo.

PART 3 - A Set Back

Well, something caught up with me. Possibly the magic mushrooms or more likely the Ovaltine. I’m pretty lactose intolerant and spend the next two hours in the washroom with a Gatorade and my iPad.

I watch a few eps of (pre-Logan era) Gilmore Girls to comfort myself.

I worry my article is in peril of ending unceremoniously if I’m unable to make it out that night, so I take an Imodium and have a short nap.I wake up feeling better and I decide that I’m up to the challenge of a night out.

I think I’ll take my car this time. I don’t want to drive under the influence but I figure any effect the mushrooms would have had is gone after my time on the toilet. The bus is just too much right now. Especially with the threat of loose stool.

PART 4 - I Drop My Bean

I pre-purchased tickets to a concert by a local punk band called Truck Frudeau. From what I’d seen online, their music is terrible and their point of view misguided but I decided to attend anyways. My research shows that these articles aren’t about sharing great art but finding something that will result in people clicking on the article to scoff.

I arrive at the venue at 9:00 PM. It said doors at 9 but when I enter there is nobody taking tickets and the band is just setting up. I figure this would be a good time to talk to them for my story. I’m not sure of how the interview will go but if they’re cool, I can act like I’m cool for talking to them or(hopefully) they say something incendiary, and I can be really condescending and sensationalize it.

I ask the lead singer, Josh, what his main problem with the Liberal government is. He says that “Justin Trudeau is just a pawn who answers to rich assholes who want to sell guns to the middle east so people kill each other.” I imagine this is not the PM’s main objective but there is likely a very troubling and continued history of Canadian arms sales. I want to research this further but I know I need to be careful the article is political enough to draw interest while never veering out of the realm of trash entertainment.

I ask to the drummer, Wes, about what he wants to accomplish with the band. He tells me that he doesn’t “pay attention to politics. (He) just likes to smoke weed and hang out when (he’s) not working at the bank”. (Off the record, I ask him what it’s like to smoke weed. I don’t want him getting in any legal trouble and I don’t want to look like I am not cool in the article.)

I thank them for their time and they finish setting up. About fifteen or so people are now gathered in front of the stage. This seems like the right time for me to take the Molly(Parker) but I’m a little gun-shy from my earlier narcotic experience and only take half of the already minimal dose I purchased. I drink a whole bottle of water with it because I heard MDMA dehydrates and I’m already pretty dried out from the loose stool.

The band begins their set. A group of teens start to mosh so I stand near the back. I think I start to feel the effect of the drug because I find myself enjoying the band. I tap my toe and nod my head, really feeling it.

It’s now about three songs in and I’ve hit a wall. I’m so tired and can’t take it any longer. I head to the washroom, the music is stripped of all the deafening volume and I can really hear how poorly they’re playing. I go to the stall and sit on the toilet.

Next thing I know, I’m woken up from a dream about going to the airport to look for my misplaced gloves. There was a punk band playing at the airport in the dream, which makes a lot of sense now that I’m awake. An awful smelling bartender with camo pants tucked into his combat boots tells me the show has concluded and they’re about to lock up. I ask them to call a taxi for me. I get into the taxi and give him my address. The driver asks me what band I saw. I pause for a second, then say “Uhh…Jeff’s Place” because I didn’t want to explain what Truck Frudeau is all about and that’s the best fake band name I could come up with at the moment.

I arrive home and head straight to bed. I sleep soundly until 8am which is very late for me.

Fuck the establishment. Thank you for reading.

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