#and I can viscerally feel the fixation returning to me

[ghostdrinkssoup]

no one understands the gallery scene in s3a actually changed me it’s like tasting ambrosia and it fucking up your tastebuds forever so you can no longer eat normal food like how can I ever look at any romantic scene the same way ever again nothing else can compare I feel ruined like I’ve been left out on the sidewalk to suffer in the rain under the moonlight

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#35: The Buildup (1.04)

gif cred: @perryabbott

This moment. This moment. This moment. Where to even begin? Let's just start by saying - hottest scene ever. 🔥❤️‍🔥🔥 When Richonne get back to that apartment there’s a whole stretch where they don’t do any talking...but yet they still have some very riveting communication 👌🏽...

They seriously tried to send me up into the afterlife with this whole moment, but it’s okay, I forgive them and thank them profusely. 😋

Y'all, I adore the way this pivotal, palpable, and incredible depiction of intimacy plays out. And the mind of Danai to turn both this buildup moment here and the love-making scene into something so deep and layered. Genius. 👏🏽👑

Rick and Michonne returning to this level of intimacy with each other for the first time in almost eight years was already going to make it pertinent to the plot and a purposeful development in the story - but for Danai to be of the mindset that she didn’t just want to stop at pertinent but instead communicate something profound and emotionally complex with Richonne's lovemaking moment. She deserves every flower for the thoughtfulness put into this. 💐

And TOWL in general was Andy and Danai getting to display their talent and chemistry to the max but from this moment on they broke the damn dial with the way they turned the volume all the way up on their talent and chemistry. 🙌🏽 🔉

source: @ririchonne

Genuinely, not even being hyperbolic, what was captured in the following passionate events feels out of this world and so of course when reveling over it I have to be...

This whole buildup moment in the apartment before Richonne heads to the bed is the hottest part for me. 🔥 The amount of tension and desire that they convey is crazy good. Richonne's hunger for each other is just visceral and it's like you can almost tangibly feel the way they're burning up for each other. ❤️‍🔥

So Rick and Michonne make it back to the apartment and we know adrenaline rushes really help set the mood for Richonne so the sexual tension in the air is thick immediately.

They’re both just breathing hard and then the temp controller chimes in to welcome them home again which I love. 😊 And this time they really are about to come home to each other in a sense.

gif cred: @nat111love

Like Michonne came really close to leaving but now that events have led them right back to each other in this apartment I feel like the thermostat is trying to get Richonne's attention like ‘hello, y’all are home to each other.’

Michonne is standing a bit ahead of Rick and looking around...and Rick ain’t looking anywhere but at her. Like homeboy is fixated. I feel like even if a dang meteor could be seen plummeting from that big window Rick wouldn’t peel his eyes off Michonne in this moment. 😋

I think after coming close to losing her several times in the last hour he’s a bit more aware of how much he needs to appreciate that she’s here with him. 

Michonne lifts up her sleeve a little because I think she can fully sense this hungry man behind her and what's on his mind (and her mind too.👌🏽)

gif cred: @nat111love

And the temp controller says, “Temperature control malfunction” and that’s probably because the temperature is already record levels of hot with Richonne's sexual tension permeating the air like this lol. 🥵

Rick slowly approaches her and Michonne slowly turns to him as they get up close and personal. The way Richonne can communicate without words, I feel like a whole lot gets said in their eye contact and kisses during this wordless sequence. 

gif cred: @nat111love

Also, I like how this scene parallels when Rick and Michonne were first in front of each other with the PRB earlier in this episode.

During that PRB moment, Rick was looking at Michonne like 'I know what we want to do but we can’t. ' And then now here when they've returned to the apartment he’s looking at her like 'I know what we want to do and we must.' They're starving and they can’t resist anymore.

Honestly, whenever Rick is within kissing distance from Michonne he looks like her presence consumes his mind and those inner magnets make it near impossible to not just lean in every time.

Also, I always get reflective of Richonne's overall journey and I just love how Rick and Michonne really went from this to this.

A love story for the ages. 🤩

So Rick looks down, mouth all open, and just again transfixed as he slowly reaches out his hand to touch her. One thing I love about this buildup moment is the slowness of everything. 😊 Like every movement takes its time.

And it makes sense that Rick is moving at a slower pace here because he’s trying to see if it’s okay to initiate all this after everything they just went through. But while the movement is slow, his heart looks like it's racing rapidly as he becomes pretty much intoxicated by her.

gif cred: @nat111love

...And Michonne can’t resist, y’all. 🤭 Like she knows she’s technically supposed to still be mad at Rick after the awful things he’s said but it quickly becomes clear that she misses him even more than she’s mad at him. 🥲

gif cred: @nat111love

And she misses all of him, including the parts she has yet to reunite with…but that’s soon about to change.

gif cred: @nat111love

Rick slowly puts his hand on her arm and she doesn’t pull away. And then Rick looks in her eyes like he hasn’t had a good glass of water in 1000 years and Michonne is the only woman that can quench him. Like the yearning in his look was really something.

gif cred: @nat111love

And then, y’all I thought it was laundry day the way our girl Michonne proceeds to fold. 😋 And of course, she folds. That's her baby and the love of her life and she hasn’t been able to be with him like this in years so...

Before Rick leans in for the first kiss, he’s already in the process of winning her over cuz she leans in a little first basically letting him know she does want this. It was giving magnets when she did that. 🧲👌🏽 

And her super subtle lean-in is all Rick needs to finally fully lean in and kiss her and I love Richonne’s slow single kisses. 😊 So far in TOWL they’ve been understandably ravenously making out and so this moment stands out for how much they let each kiss breathe a little. It’s so good.

gif cred: @nat111love

But also y’all, when I first watched this, knowing this is def building up to their first TOWL sex scene, I was sounding a lot like Nat. Cuz I was looking at Michonne like, “Sis...

I just wanted to be sure Michonne was going to be making love with her Rick and not the Sergeant Major who's been saying hurtful things and still hasn't asked anything about RJ.

Plus, I had a feeling Rick still had a little audacity left in his system and wasn’t yet going to agree to go home with her. (And that ended up being correct 🙃)…But look, it’s been a long time and so Michonne was like we’ll address all that later. 😅

gif cred: @kimwexlersponytail

So Rick kisses her once and then leans to the other side as Michonne puts her hand on his face, letting Rick know she doesn't want him to stop. They kiss a second time with a little more lingering on that kiss as things slowly but surely ramp up.

When they pull away Michonne looks at him like she maybe has 1% left in her that remembers she’s still supposed to be mad. The other 99% of her just longs for him.

gif cred: @msanonships

And then that 1% disappears into thin air during this next kiss and it’s my favorite part. 😊

Cuz Rick proves that it may have been some years but he still knows his wife and knows what gets her going because, while they don’t fully show it, you can tell that he definitely seems to have reached down to her derrière and that’ll do it for her, honey. 😋

gif cred: @fishalthor

Cuz when he does that and pulls her in closer to him, he has Michonne inhaling hard and fully leaning into that third hungry kiss. At that moment I was like...annnnd he got her. He got her and she ain’t mad no more. It worked like he knew it would. 😊

It’s also probably his first time even really being able to touch her like that since again those layers of clothing in previous eps were sort of a barrier.

There seems to be a consistent thing set up that her grabbing his hair gets him activated and as her husband, he definitely knows that grabbing her backside gets her activated...and him too lol. I think Michonne’s presence in general just gets Rick activated. Every part of her is a feast to him. 👌🏽

gif cred: @msanonships

And that last kiss just felt like they were about as ready to be intimate as they've ever been. After all that pulling each other closer in the previous kisses of this miniseries, this was the moment of them wanting to be as physically connected as possible and now they finally had the space to be.

Interestingly, they film a lot of this kissing moment where you mostly see Michonne’s response to Rick. I think that’s because she’s the one having to make the decision right now on whether she’ll let him in after everything he's said and done. And um I think her decision is clear.

gif cred: @msanonships

It's great how Rick is the one person who can make Michonne let go and get fully lost in the moment no matter what else is going on. And you know she has that same effect on Rick too. 👌🏽

I love how locked in they both get with that third kiss and how they turn things up a notch with it.

Those three kisses were communication. And, on top of them both communicating 'I need you and want you bad' in each kiss, the way I interpret the wordless conversation is that the first kiss was like Rick expressing, “I’m glad you’re okay and that you’re back” after the whole Michonne walking out and then later getting trapped by that chandelier stuff.

gif cred: @nat111love

Then that second kiss felt like Rick expressing, "I'm sorry" and Michonne receives that unspoken apology even tho when she looks at him there's a part of her that feels like there's still a lot for them to address and resolve.

gif cred: @lousolversons

And then y'all, to me Rick's little reach down with the third kiss was him saying, “Can I make it up to you?” And honey, Michonne's response said she'll definitely let him.

gif cred: @lousolversons

So then they really want to turn it up a notch when Rick proceeds to pick Michonne up. And clearly he’s done this before because Michonne is ready for it, and I love the way they just seamlessly transition into this. 😍

One thing I never questioned is if Rick would feel anxious about loving on Michonne with one hand. I knew that man would be like as long as I’m breathing that’s all I need to find a way.

gif cred: @nat111love

So Rick picks her up with ease and he’s basically just like 'alright you’re coming with me' and Michonne is like yes I am lol. And I also adore how even once he picks her up they immediately go right back to passionately kissing. The way these two fervidly desire each other is always 👩🏽‍🍳💋.

And I, of course, have to reflect on the overall journey once more because I just love that we went from Rick picking Michonne up on Day One of meeting each other as strangers, to now Rick picking Michonne up as husband and wife ready and eager to express their love in a way they haven't been able to in a long time.

gif cred: thewalkingdeadgifs/@msanonships

Seeing Rick and Michonne just get to operate fully in their husband and wife energy here was great to see. 👏🏽 They crave each other deeply and this scene captured that perfectly. ❤️‍🔥

The way their electrifying kisses slowly ramped up, it was clear that now that Rick and Michonne finally had the chance to reconnect in a way that they hadn't been able to with each other, nor allowed themselves to with anyone else, for several years, there was no way they were gonna just stop at these kisses here.

gif cred: @lousolversons

So y’all, this scene alone was already so hot it could break a temperature controller...but then the steamy sensual vibes continue. And as Richonne is finally intimate for the first time in years, the deep, passionate, and emotional moment is, in every way, a roller coaster ride. 🎢 😌👌🏽

[sabertoothwalrus]

OK PREFACING WITH IM SORRY IF I ALREADY SENT THIS EXACT ASK BUT MY WIFI KILLED ITSSLF AS I SENT IT SO IDK IF IT ACTUALLY WENT THROUGH. but in case it didn’t . i know youve gotten this countless times in the past because i blog stalked just in case youve mentioned something similar before but i need to know if you have any specific inspirations when you draw exaggerated expressions specifically like these two images of marcille. ive actually cried laughing over this comic and being able to communicate this type of visceral emotion is such an insane skill and ive followed your art for probably close to a decade through various fandoms so watching you develop this style has been fucking awesome and epic. like i cannot articulate how funny these are to me i just need you to understand i look at this comic to inspire me to draw now. the closest comparison i can draw to the feelings they evoke are like those mspaint reaction images and also mspaint tails i included for reference even though you probably know exactly what im talking about anyways but its actually so much harder to do that intentionally when you study art. also i lied you literally don’t even need to answer this i just had to let you know how obsessed i am over your silly comics and now ive written out a whole ass discussion post about it. im sorry if this is weird at all i think my daily prescribed amphetamines r wearing off and i know this is such a dumb specific thing to fixate on and im so sorry if its not something you want to hear about your art. ive just always seen that as an artist this type of expressive stupid silly style is something that comes after a significant amount of time and practice and study and style development despite being “simple” in theory. its just so cool to have worked with your own style so much that youre able to go “off model” from it and still maintain consistency with the rest of the piece. i said it already and im sorry this is actually rendundant now but the ability to communicate such raw emotion somehow decreases from at its height when someone is a beginner artist learning how to proportion and keep a steady line and what looks “normal” but somehow it all comes full circle because taking all that experience and using it to almost return to where you started but in a fully informed and intentional way so you can make choices to draw characters like this when the situation calls for it is just dhcidogakgoshfhw. i think i need to cut myself off or im going to talk in circles im sorry tumblr user sabertoothwalrus i just am fascinated by your style and progress and the years you’ve dedicated to art can be seen in so many places but this is just one that stands out to me specifically.

MMMMM what a fun question!!!

I'm not gonna lie, I think it's just Letting A Drawing Be Bad. I definitely think the people that struggle with this the most are people who have genuinely very pretty art styles, to the point of being kind of perfectionist about it. and to Draw Funny often means Drawing Fast and Weird. Pretty is kind of the antithesis of funny (unless being pretty is the punchline). do drawings that make yourself laugh. tracing/lining funny sketches almost always makes them less funny.

one of my favorite types of humor is when it skews more deadpan, actually. This is one of the reasons I love Adventure Time. minimal expressions and flat line delivery + absurd context is a really good combo. the key to comedy has more to do with contrast! if your drawings are allllll crazy ren & stimpy all the time, they're not funny anymore cause it's just "normal". if it's all subdued UNTIL it's extreme, and vice versa, then it's funny. The reason this comic is so funny is because of the complete lack of any expression. I feel like the one you sent of Marcille shouting "WHAT" is funnier when you know how much she tries to be dainty and feminine and delicate, how much she values her appearance, and how averse she is to "gross" or "weird" things.

something I find really annoying (and this is with comics/animation in general, not the expressions themselves) is when the joke goes on for too long. Like you'll have the joke, then the punchline, and THEN the characters reacting to the punchline??? Like the author didn't trust that their audience would find the joke funny, so they basically drew in a laugh track. But, this is distinct from a character's reaction being the punchline (like how the examples you gave from my Marcille comic are). MY POINT IS sometimes expressions aren't as funny on their own as you think, and context can affect how you feel about it!

as far as inspirations go!

my own face! even if I don't have a mirror, I like making the expressions myself so I can "feel" where the points of tension on my face are, and it gives me a sense of what to exaggerate.

my brother's art, believe it or not! we've been trying to make each other laugh with our drawings since we were kids, and he's really good at it.

ATLA has some great expressions

OK KO has been a reallyyyy good source for me lately. That show is so tailored to my sense of humor and the expressions and line deliveries feel exactly like the kinds of things I'd come up with. The tone, timing, and art style are all really close to the tv show pitch I'm working on, so when I feel like I've "strayed" too much from it (like after drawing a bunch of dungeon meshi, and my art feels tighter and... idk "manga-ier"?) I like to go and watch a couple episodes of OK KO to loosen back up

A lot of things like OG Spongebob, Calvin & Hobbes, the Simpsons, Chowder, etc etc

memes in general. if it makes you laugh, keep it in mind

and lastly, I wouldn't say I ever try to mimic funny expressions I see. Like if I watch a show for inspo, I'm not pausing it to copy specific drawings, I'm just trying to notice patterns and pay attention to what about it I find funny.

talking about being funny is really bizarre and I dunno if it makes it lose some of the magic. Ultimately it's something you can't think about too much, and just gotta go with your gut.

[missjanjie]

Need some advice from someone not invested in the situation,so don't mind the vent:

My mother is hell-bent on my returning to complete a degree programme that I was in when I was a teenager (17 or so). Here's the thing though. I was so unhappy doing this programme that I couldn't even go to class without getting anxious or wanting to throw up. Grades-wise, I was fine, I suppose(the pass mark for this particular degree was a B, so 60%). But I grew to hate the programme itself because my anxiety was through the roof.

So, my Registrar saw the state I was in and suggested that I take a break and do an unassociated(heh) Associate Degree till I got myself together mentally. As of currently, I'm the top student in that particular Associate Degree and having a great time(and my anxiety's practically non-existent).

Here's the issues though. My mother hates that I've "downgraded" myself by doing an Associate Degree and continues to insist that I was "tricked" into doing it by the Registrar(who was genuinely trying to help). So,to fix my supposed "mistake", I should immediately return to the original Bachelor's Degree I was doing and complete it (despite the visceral trauma it caused me) because "everyone else in your age group has Master's Degrees and PHDs and you have nothing to show" (I'm 22).

But the thing is, why not get a Bachelor's Degree in a different subject area? I'm not opposed to higher education at all,but she's so fixated on the original Bachelor's Degree (in STEM) that I was doing that she can't let it go. She brings it up every chance she gets. I could be drinking a glass of water and she'll find a way to bring it up. Going so far as to say that it's what God wants me to do(I'm sure God wouldn't want me actively having panic attacks while doing what He supposedly wants me to do, but I digress).

So,yeah. What do I do? Where do I even go from here? If I make suggestions about an alternate path,she'll either ignore me, talk over me or segway into talking about my original Bachelor's Degree programme and how I should be graduating right now.

(Sorry for the long rant. Kinda don't have anyone to get my feelings out to IRL.)

unless you live in a weird mensa cult I don’t think people your age have masters/phd’s. people my age don’t have phd’s and only those in specific fields (usually teaching or social work) have masters and im 28.

also i have a little anecdote that while may not provide answers, can offer some perspective. when i was in college i took a feminist studies course and in that class was a 72 year old woman. i initially assumed she was just auditing the class (ie taking it for fun) but she explained to me that she was finishing her degree. i asked her what made her decide then and she told me “sure, i couldve gone back ten years ago or even twenty years ago. but that wasn’t where my journey was taking me.” point being, your journey is yours alone

there isn’t really anything you can do about your mom if you still live with her or are otherwise financially dependent on her except stay the course until you’re able to get out on your own or something like that. im assuming you’re not american based on some spelling, so i don’t really know the university system there so i could be off base

[why-am-i-back-here-again]

Hai... not so secret Dsmp blog. Don't look at me. I got nostalgic and thought about c!Sam and c!Quackity too hard and my fixation returned.

My layout may be c!Quackity but don't be fooled I am mainly here for c!Sam . He's in my brain and won't leave.

Lets speedrun catching up with me:

-Used to be a c!Tommy blog, discourse ruined his character for me, burnout, etc. Don't think about him much anymore but he pops in my head sometimes

-NO APOLOGIST DISCOURSE ALLOWED ON THIS BLOG EVER !!!!!!

I do like analysis posts however !! though I probably won't reblog if they sound too argumentative or discoursey (I do struggle with tone super bad though)

-Only thing I'll say is Dre/blr / c!Drm sympathisers + apologists still make me viscerally uncomfortable, so that's my only boundary. Sorry (Abuse will forever be a sensitive topic for me.)

-I do not watch any of the CCs and haven't since 2021. Their characters are all I care about lol

-c!Dream, c!Sam and c!Quackity are my current faves. I enjoy characters who's downfalls are so fucking horrendous all I can do is stare at them in horror. They're the little freaks that live in my brain rent free that I occasionally need to spray with bug spray

-Las Nevadas & Pandora's Vault are currently the things plaguing my mind. Oh the horrors.

Oh, the main one

-My memory is horrendously bad and I don't remember much, if any of 2020, 2021 and 2022. I *may* have forgotten some plot points, and need to jog my nemory a bit.

-This is likely temporary, it doesn't FEEL like it's gonna be another 2 year long fixation.. maybe a month at Most idk maybe less. I'll be out of here the second anything else catches my interest probably . I've been skipping from interest to interest like every few weeks nowadays.

[shibaraki]

monty i am losing my fucking mind over the idea of yan!AFO

omg vic I'm so glad ur in this boat with me because I don't know how to feel rnsalkjdflksj like I hate to think about living as long as he has, how boring and monotonous things must be. but picture then, after a particularly nasty fight that he'd drawn out just for some entertainment, he finds you under some debris, writhing in pain? poor thing he'd think, the first semblance of genuine sympathy he'd felt in decades. and he sinks his claws into it.

he takes you to the doctor, keeps you there for weeks. he visits often, feeds you when you don't have the strength and talks to you to keep you stimulated. his kindness is greatly welcomed at first, the overwhelming feeling of relief and gratitude you have toward him blankets you from the truths that are so obviously in front of you. but gradually once the medication wears off enough that your consciousness returns and stays for much longer, your thoughts become far more coherent. you register then for the first time that you are not in a normal hospital, and the word dread is too insignificant to explain the bone deep, visceral emotion that puppets your body. animalistic almost, right back to your base instincts, alarm bells ringing every time he's at your bedside. because this guy is an ancient, living, breathing, nightmare.

like... tomura is scary because he would feel the need to prove it, but AFO is scary because he doesn't. can you imagine? he would be so encouraging about your recovery, he wouldn't feel the need to keep you bedridden or locked up (he probably even leaves the doors unlocked) because now that he's fixated on you, there is no possible chance of him losing you. if you tried to run while you were still recovering he would stop you because "you don't want to impede your progress" but I bet once you're stable he would let you escape just to bring you back over and over until you finally realise that it is futile,, SICK! IM SICK

[gotobsessions]

Here are my post-emotional-response to e3 ramblings about Killing Eve: 

Okay, I can now see through the utter heartbreak I felt on Villanelle’s behalf at the end of that last episode, and think a little more clearly. I really felt every moment of that episode alongside Villanelle! How suddenly motionless and speechless she was when Eve undressed in front of her, the way she spoke so honestly about how she felt about Eve, and the tentative, tender way she took Eve’s hand - this was all very close to home for me, so I think my response to this episode was perhaps the most visceral response I’ve had yet, which means it IS good writing! 

As we’ve seen time and again, all Villanelle really wants is for Eve to show her that she wants her and make her feel loved, because she feels that Eve is the only person in the world she can truly relate to. This season, she’s no longer bold and forceful with Eve as she was before. Instead, she keeps showing up at Eve’s doorstep and offering herself up, because she wants Eve to give her validation and reward her for trying to be good. Eve however is in a completely different mental state and not willing to give Villanelle anything. I can so sympathise with Villanelle’s feeling of desperately craving the attention of her object of desire and doing anything she can to get it, and fixating on that desire in a time of uncertainty about her own place in the world. The episode took us on the journey of Villanelle’s emotions masterfully, and really set us up to feel the betrayal of it when Eve turned her in. 

On the other side of this toxic coin, I also find myself able to relate to Eve, when I think back on the dynamics of toxic relationships I have been in in the past, and the things I did to feel like I was on top again after having power and control taken away from me. The way Eve undressed in front of Villanelle as a sexual power move, the way she had to stop to catch her breath when she left the room, the way she ran away to the safety of Yusuf’s place immediately, and even why she turned Villanelle in - it’s all making sense to me now. She is playing a cold, calculating character in her own head right now, trying desperately to bypass her emotions and avoid her obsession with Villanelle so she can focus on the task at hand - dismantling The Twelve to get revenge and make sense of it all. She also wants to feel like she has power over Villanelle. She wants to feel in control, because she has felt so entirely out of control ever since she became obsessed with Villanelle, and everything in her life has unraveled. 

We still don’t know what happened after the bridge, and I don’t know if we ever will, but I think ultimately Eve is trying to make everything that has happened worth it. Bill getting killed, losing her work, Niko getting terribly hurt, losing Niko, her becoming a murderer, Kenny getting killed - her whole life becoming a complete clusterfuck, basically - this is her last ditch attempt to enact revenge and make it all worthwhile, before she inevitably meets her ‘death’, as Konstantin foreshadowed in the first episodes. Whether that will be a physical death or a different kind of death, I don’t know! I want to believe that it’ll be a fake death in order to escape, like in the books. The way they’ve made all the promo stuff funeral based makes me wonder if they’d do that and then actually kill either one of them, because that just feels... too obvious, but who knows. 

In my initial emotional response, Eve’s betrayal felt like an ending to what little trust they had built, but we all know, of course it isn’t. We’ve got five (or seven?) more episodes to go, and we know they will end up back together again, because they absolutely cannot stay away from each other, and we’ve seen footage of them together again in the trailers/teasers. I’m actually excited to see how they interact after this betrayal. Maybe it will snap Villanelle out of her delusions of goodness and she’ll return to her old ways. The general plot of each season has always been Eve chasing Villanelle, but this season it has been the other way around, and it’s been so deliciously frustrating. I know we all wanted a whole season of them together, but they were never going to give us that, it was always going to be a ‘will they, won’t they’ to maintain interest. 

After this last episode, I’m trying to look at the chaotic progression of the key emotional moments between them as a whole: Villanelle killed Bill, Eve stabbed Villanelle, Eve ordered a hit on herself just to see if Villanelle would do it, Eve inserted herself into the Aaron Peel situation in an attempt to save Villanelle’s life, Villanelle chose Eve over Aaron even when he promised her the world, but then betrayed Eve by engineering the situation so that Eve would kill Raymond, then Eve rejected Villanelle’s love upon learning this, and Villanelle shot Eve in response to that rejection. Then, they were in limbo in season 3 with Eve supposedly ‘out’ of it all, but she couldn’t stay away, and they had that intense fight and kiss on the bus, proving their love/obsession was very much still alive in spite of everything - stabbings, shootings, killings, you name it. So if there’s anything this show has proven to us, it’s that no matter what happens between these two, they cannot stay away from each other; their mutual obsession always prevails. So ultimately, this betrayal is just another one to add to the list and will soon be forgotten. 

I have a feeling (or maybe it’s a hope) that the show will end with their undying obsession with each other winning, to the detriment of anything and everything else, including their own lives. Maybe that’s what they’ve been working up to, with Eve so obviously avoiding her feelings and her obsession. I’m still excited for the rest of the season! 

[wardens-stew]

my review of The Mask Falling - an ode to Arcturus and Paige

For me, the soul of this series has always been the relationship between Paige and Arcturus. It’s apt that this book, the exact middle of the series and as @sshannonauthor​ describes it, its heart, spends so much time with this pair. The intensity and uniqueness of their bond really emerges as the shining jewel of this series.

It’s clear that Samantha Shannon was intentional about putting Arcturus and Paige on equal footing for the first time in The Mask Falling. She manages the power dynamic between them with such attention and nuance, reversing their roles often and fluidly escaping gender roles. The protector role comes naturally to Arcturus, given his immortal strength and anxiety about losing Paige (it’s even part of the etymology of their names), but for much of The Mask Falling he is her silent shadow, trailing being her and supporting her quietly. They negotiate their differences with refreshing candor and in good faith, their arguments free from ego. “My fear is not your cage,” Arcturus tells her. “I will never ask you to mold yourself to it.” His affection for her is empowering, supportive, never constrictive or diminishing. Paige herself is markedly independent, doing the bulk of her fighting and plotting on her own. When she does seek support from Arcturus, there is no sense of her own strength being diminished, and as often as he rescues her, she turns around and rescues him just as easily. 

Indeed, while Arcturus is the immortal god, it is Paige’s power that really shines in this book. Her incredible ingenuity and strength is on full display, getting her out of certain-death scenarios at such a gripping pace I had to cover the pages with my hands to avoid glancing ahead. She couples her incredible powers with extraordinary mental fortitude and an acute conscience; each of her escapades has a satisfying emotional resonance that enlivens her broader quest. Whereas many YA heroines possessed of supernatural power oscillate between immobilizing moral anxiety and moral bankruptcy, Paige tempers her impulsiveness with reason (most of the time) and a powerful motive for justice. It’s clear that she has yet to access the full extent of her abilities, and I’m eager to see what roles she’ll play in the fight to take down Scion. 

While previous installments show Arcturus/Warden on various levels of guardedness, The Mask Falling gives us time and space in excess to see his true character. I was struck by his compassion, his hopefulness despite all that he has endured. He is often reassuring and comforting Paige, his optimism clear-eyed and measured. The contrast is especially stark with his persona in The Bone Season, where he appears cold and calculating, morally gray at best. In this book, he is almost unbearably kind, devastatingly sweet and thoughtful. As Paige remarks, “there was nothing terrible before me now.” The almost unimaginable beauty of his character is achieved with such a soft touch; the books are not about Arcturus being the the epitome of goodness - he simply is. 

A central thread of tension of this book follows Paige and Arcturus negotiating their relationship and coming to terms with their mutual attraction. Samantha Shannon manages this tension beautifully, carrying it forward constantly with poignant moments of intimacy interspersed with Paige’s honest internal dialogue. The smallest interactions and gestures between them felt so heightened. There are all the classic scenes - getting drunk and saying too much, jealousy spirals about past relationships, almost-kiss scenes interrupted, near-death confessions - all building up to a beautiful and satisfying climax. 

Samantha Shannon writes intimacy incredibly well. The love scenes feel specific to the characters, managing to be both meaningful and erotic. Romances between an immortal man and a mortal woman in particular tend to translate the man’s primal instincts and extreme physical strength into a voracious sexual appetite that leaves little room for gentleness and consideration. Arcturus really breaks the mold in this respect. He is so reverent, so sincere, so generous with Paige in a way few male characters with female partners approximate. Rather than relying on an imbalance of power in order to convey eroticism, the sexiness of Arcturus and Paige’s dynamic derives from the equality of their relationship.  It’s so difficult to create a heterosexual romance unsullied by patriarchy, and Samantha Shannon gets close to that here. 

I wonder if it is Arcturus’ immortal nature that makes him such a uniquely engaging character. Samantha Shannon really commits to that aspect of him - he’s not just a hot teenager. The best word I can think of to describe him is mature. He is so beyond the petty concerns of YA love interests, so ego-less and self-reliant. One of my favorite ways he diverges from human men - and traditional male love interests - is his lack of fixation on Paige’s physical appearance. This book has several of the classic moments that would typically elicit a remark or a look from the love interest on the heroine’s appearance, often framed as a cute romantic moment. Yet when Paige dresses up, or dyes her hair - even when she asks him outright - he never comments on the way she looks. “A human might have whispered in my ear, told me I was beautiful or perfect, but not him.” I love that. I’ve never found that lustful, almost predatory demeanor in male love interests nearly as sexy as the author would like it to be, and it always rubs me the wrong way when the man telling the woman she’s beautiful is framed as the epitome of romance. It strikes me as a very lazy way to convey attraction, for one thing, and it reeks of benevolent sexism. Arcturus never plays into those supposedly romantic tropes of disparaging other women in favor of the heroine or being selectively kind. His love for Paige is so pure. 

I continue to be impressed by the sheer scale of worldbuilding in this series. Many books attempt to create fictional tyrannical governments, but few succeed in building one as convincing and elaborate as Scion. The Mask Falling peels back even more layers of this complex world, bringing to fruition seeds planted in the very first book. Although the basic plot leans on some familiar tropes, Samantha Shannon always manages to add an additional twist of the screw. The complexity of this series is truly extraordinary, drawing on etymology and mythology, dropping mysteries and complicating loyalties with incredible dexterity. 

SPOILERS!!!!! --> I am still struggling with Arcturus’s possession and Paige’s failure to connect the dots and realize the reality of his situation. I see Samantha Shannon has pointed out on Twitter that Paige’s trauma and illness may have affected her judgment and decision-making. She says, “There's a particular scene where Paige reacts to an event in a way that is so deeply rooted in her PTSD and past experiences.” (I assume this is the scene she’s referring to.) I think that’s fair - Paige has been so inundated with the Rephaite aversion to humans that it’s almost as if she only needed one piece of evidence to confirm her doubts and destroy her trust in Arcturus. And it’s not as if she just takes it at face value, either - she does question him and try to convince him otherwise. But I still can’t help feeling that it’s a stretch. The Mask Falling makes Arcturus’ character so clear that the prospect that he would be loyal to Nashira the whole time is just ludicrous. Not to mention the fact that Paige somehow overlooked the obvious signs that he was being possessed. His eyes were such a dead giveaway - Paige had already seen that same thing happen when she possessed him! And when he moved to strike her and then suddenly stopped and his eyes flared - come on! That’s a classic mind-control trope. Paige is usually so perceptive, and they had built such a strong foundation… it feels unrealistic that she wouldn’t have connected the dots just because she hadn’t thought there could be another dreamwalker. 

If I had to find fault with this book, and it is difficult, I would say that it leans a little too heavily on some YA dystopian fantasy tropes towards the end - the mind-controlled love interest, for example, instantly made me think of Divergent, The Hunger Games, The Mortal Instruments, etc. Likewise, the forced memory loss is a fairly common fantasy trope that tends to be really frustrating to read. I have faith that Samantha Shannon will keep it from sliding into those tropes, and of course there remains so much mystery still to be untangled from those final 100 pages. /END SPOILERS :) 

This was the kind of book that captivated me immediately, left me lying awake at night and had me eating energy bars for dinner so I could keep reading. It was such a visceral, immersive experience, the kind where returning to the physical reality is almost physically disorienting. It’s been two days since I finished it and I’m still clinging to that fictional world, wishing I didn’t have to leave. Books like these are rare for me, and I’m still marveling at the miracle of finding that book that in Arcturus’ words, exists for everyone: “a book that will sing to them.”

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

[stuckonvenus]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 » Ellie & Becca

 Ｊｕｌｙ ３１ｓｔ， １９９８

The saying goes as such: the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb... or whatever. Honestly I have only ever applied this proverb to my relationship with my sister whenever we weren’t in mortal peril. While I have plenty of friends and acquaintances who I’ve shared battlefields with (i.e. the morning after a party), that never made me any closer to them in a real crisis. I would say about seventy-five percent of the time that the blood is thicker than the water, and the remaining twenty-five percent is when the water isn’t necessarily thicker, but more pressurized. That’s the only time in our lives when we’ve ever come together as sisters.

Well, this is the twenty five percent, and never has the feeling of being sucked and trapped against a fissure at the bottom of the Challenger Deep been more realized than now. It doesn’t help that my bladder is about to implode and leak the citrus-flavored toxic waste I’ve consumed in rapid succession over the past half hour into my visceral fat and contaminate all my vital organs. 

I waddle awkwardly through the narrow doorway of Page One and slam my tiny palm onto the countertop. A bookkeeper who I can recognize as my lab partner from sophomore year chemistry pokes his nose out from the novel he’s immersed in. Moby Dick. Jesus, who reads school assigned books after graduation?

“Hey, Drew-Drew,” I greet him, a lopsided grin fitted on my lips as he brushes his hair out of his eyes and offers me a smile in return. He has a lot more charisma than I remember. I think his eyes have gotten bigger and bluer, too. It reminds me of the water’s surface I’m staring up at from the very bottom of the ocean. “Where’s Becky at?”

Drew dog-ears his page — which is kind of disgusting to me, do they not sell bookmarks in this busted ass joint? — and he points toward the graphic novel section. “Over there, we just got Spider-Man #76, she’s stocking up.”

“... Didn’t #76 come out in January? Of last year?” I ask him. He opens his mouth so he can answer but I stop him with a raised hand. “No time. You’re lookin’ good, Drew-Drew, considerably less like a delicious pepperoni pizza. Keep it up with the Oxy Pads.” I say before pushing away from the counter and venturing off to my destination.

Indeed, my older sister is crouched down and rustling with a display, slightly disgruntled by the symmetry of the copies of Spider-Man she’s stocking. I don’t really have any witty remarks as a smooth enough introduction, so I settle with, “Need help?”

She whips around and I can almost hear the crack in her spinal cord from the velocity. “Lily?” she half-whispers. I forget that I haven’t seen her since late May, and also that I swore I’d never see her again.

“In the flesh,” I confirm and do a curtsey, which threatens my full bladder. I really need to piss soon or else I’ll die a terribly death in the shittiest bookstore on the eastern seaboard. “Do you have a sec? It’s 9-1-1.”

Becca’s expression shifts from awe and minor annoyance to something resembling concern as she pushes herself off her knees. “What is it?” she asks me, crossing her arms over her chest as a last resort defense mechanism. 

I don’t hesitate to hold up the plastic Walgreens bag I’ve carted with me for two blocks. She recognizes the items inside and her eyes go all moony and her jaw slacks a bit. I jerk my brows up expectantly and she assumes the position of utter bewilderment.

“Do you have a place I can empty the biohazardous contents of my bladder? It’s about to necrotize,” I hiss at her. She reaches down, digs in her pocket, unearths a bronze key and walks ahead of me at full speed. I have to waddle after her like a newly hatched penguin chick. It would be more humiliating if over half the population of Eden were literate, but alas...

Becca jams the keys into the lock and just about bodychecks the door so we can enter the rectangular bathroom. It’s cramped and the lighting resembles something out of a Hitchcock film, but who the fuck am I to be picky about where I take the most important whizz of my life?

I place the bag on the counter and take out the three empty full-sized cans of Surge I used to fuel my bladder before picking up the grossest thing I have ever held: a pregnancy test. I keep it in my grasp for a few passing beats, nearly crushing the box underneath my iron-tight grip before man-handling it open and tearing out the plastic stick that will determine my fate.

“This is by far the most unholy fortune telling experience ever,” I decide to joke as I witness my sister cower in the corner. You’d think by the looks of it she were the one whose life was about to change forever. “You think if I shake it a genie will come out and grant me three wishes?”

“... Only if it’s negative, as a gift,” Becca chimes in at last. “Otherwise not even God can save you.”

I let out an involuntary snort, because while my reflexes register this as a funny joke, I am actually scared shitless.

I stare at the porcelain toilet bowl. I feel sicker now looking at it than when I’ve genuinely been at risk for vomiting up my lunch. I could still do that, I’ve been puking like a bulimic for weeks now. The thought is almost comforting. Almost. I bite the bullet instead and yank my pants down, my boy pants, which I normally wear as a boy when I’ve got slightly wider hips and more junk to hide and taller legs to protect with denim fabric. Fuck me.

“I just... Hold it and piss, right?” I ask her, as if she’s gone through this before. I know for a fact she hasn’t, or else this wouldn’t be our first time. I’m surprised it’s our first time, actually, thinking that karma would’ve caught up with me a long time ago. 

“Just don’t get any on your hand.” Becca replies. Very helpful, I think, but rather than respond verbally I give a sigh of defeat and do what needs to be done. When my bladder is emptied an eternity later, I pull up my oversized pants and briefly grieve my dick before I place the test on the counter.

I glance over my shoulder at Becca, “It’s seasoned. Just gotta let it marinate.”

“Gross.” she says with a scrunched up nose.

I turn around and slide down the wall, an action she mimics a couple seconds later. I stare ahead, up at the light that’s screwed into a 70s pendant-shaped fixture, and pass the silence by making them flicker. I do this as a distraction from the materializing tension between us. Normally, this doesn’t happen, but then again our peril has only involved either extreme intoxication, pedos on AOL (during high school), or something about her and Gabriel’s arguments, which felt like walking through Reactor 4 in Chernobyl.

She’s the first one to say something.

“Whose is it? ... If it’s a thing,” she wonders, and as I look over at her I notice that her eyebrows are knitted together and her mouth is fixed downward. “... Please don’t tell me Topher’s.”

I chuckle at the idea. “I think if it were a thing and Topher’s, it’d have grown like a xenomorph baby and ripped itself out of my stomach by now,” I tell her. “I’d deserve that kind of karma for getting knocked up by him.”

“Xenomorph?” she says, and I open my mouth to offer an explanation before she finishes, “Alien. Right.”

“... Yeah, exactly,” I nod along. How in the hell did she remember that? We only ever sat through Alien and Aliens once, and I could’ve sworn she was too preoccupied reading a magazine to actually notice what was happening on screen. 

I also notice that she’s wearing my favorite striped turtleneck. Stone cold bitch.

Some things never change, huh?

Shit, I think I might cry.

This is why we’re siblings, I think, so I can hate her for wearing my favorite turtleneck while sitting by her side as we await Satan’s final decision on the state of my cursed uterus.

Tears prickle my vision but I blink them away. 

“Whose is it, then?” she wonders again. I visibly tense. This is probably where our unspoken, once-in-a-blue-moon loyalties end. How do you tell your sister that her ex-boyfriend is the reason you’re sitting in the dingy bathroom of her workplace with a piss-riddled stick inches away?

In the end, I don’t have to say anything at all. We look at each other simultaneously and she reads my expression with ease. Her features soften and I can see a glint of hurt in her eyes, and I expect ripples of betrayal to make themselves known across the rest of her body soon enough. But those ripples never come. The water I thought was loosening from around me doesn’t make a goddamn move. 

I’m still at the bottom of the Deep, but she’s with me now.

Her hand grips mine. Tight. I can feel our pulses match up in our paralleling wrists.

“I think it’s been enough time.” I say eventually. She doesn’t release my hand. Our shared warmth creates a comfortable friction between us. “... Will you hate me after this?”

Becca squeezes my hand. A heart beat jumps out from her touch to mine. “I think I’ve hated you enough for one summer.”

A smile flickers on the corner of my lips and I slowly depart my hand from hers. My palm is slick with sweat but I don’t mind. I stand up and feel my equilibrium struggle to steady itself before I’m ready to approach the counter. The test is still there, so I know this wasn’t an abstract fever dream I’ve had after discovering so much eerily similar history.

I’m not a fucking coward. I’m looking this shit straight on, no matter what. Do you think I’m afraid of a sign? Totally not. I lean over and stare down, my gaze idling at the base before finally fixating on the panel.

+

Holy shitstickers.

“... Becca?” I call out, my voice half gone from unknown forces. She perks up and I see her reflection in the mirror with widened eyes. “Do you have five bucks? I’m gonna need more Surge.”

[fromzerotoeuphoria]

@waywardfacegarden replied to your post:

Couldn’t agree more with this. Honestly, I agree with every single word on here. I feel like most mh shippers think that us rh shippers just ship it because we hate mako or something but i actually love him so much??? and i, in no way, try to undermine mh’s relationship. i always thought it was so cute and soft and tender, since the first ep. i LOVE, absolutely LOVE their friendship. and i think haru DOES care a ton about mako. he does. and they obviously have a special bond, they’ve known each other since so long. they care about each other and their friendship is so sweet?? i love how haru gives mako the fishes in first season and a lot of other moments of them. and i said this in a post when i first watched the first season, but again, like you say, i GET why people ship them. i get it. they’re cute and their relationship is actually pretty good but it just??? i don’t know, what especially got ME to ship rh instead of mh since the very first ep is how clearly DIFFERENT rh’s dynamic was since the very start. how clearly different haru reacts to rin. he becomes ALIVE when he sees him. his eyes, his whole expression just lights up when he sees rin came back. you don’t see haru act like that towards anyone else. SURE, he cares DEEPLY about mako and, like i said, their relationship is special, he holds him dear and it’s clear, but it’s just different with rin. his reactions are always so visceral when it comes to rin, since they were kids. he pretends like he doesn’t care sometimes but it’s so obvious that he does, kid!haru had a crush and no one can tell me otherwise. it’s all over the place. sure, with haru everything is subtle, but the thing that’s so amazing about rh is that you don’t even have to LOOK for it. even when haru is all subtle about his feelings, he always REACTS visceral with rin, and that’s the thing. idk, when i knew mh was more popular than rh it just… baffled me. i was so surprised, because to me, it was always so obvious how their relationship was a LOT more strong friendship-like than rh. and ngl, it’s frustrating for me, too LOL, but i guess we have to live with that.😂😂 everyone has different opinions, and i guess a lot of people are drawn to them bc of the childhood friend trope… tho you also kinda have it on rh but okay😂🤷‍♀️ it just makes me sad how i’ve seen so much hate around from both sides. and i’ve also come across a LOT of mh shippers that keep telling rh shippers “no, you should ship sousuke and rin and mako and haru, that’s how it should be” and it makes me so sad bc ALL ships are valid???? and it just sounds like they’re always trying to invalidate our ship but oh well. [ALSO. SOUSUKE AND RIN’S RELATIONSHIP IS SO PRECIOUS, NOT TALKING ABOUT IT BC I LITERALLY WOULD NEVER SHUT UP, BUT I LOVE THEM. I LOVE THEM. i fell in love with their friendship since the very first second with their special handshake😂😂😂 i just. have a soft spot for all the samesuka relay team tbh, but maybe that’s bc i’m so in love with rin it’s insane😂😂😂] AND ALSO. FINAL POINT OF ALL MY BABBLING HERE (lol, sorry for invading your post, i just were surprised of how i literally agree with every single word on here) BUT YEAH. KID RIN IS BEST KID/BOY, I LITERALLY WOULD DIE FOR HIM. I LOVE HIM SO SO SO SO SO MUCH, IT’S RIDICULOUS. I WANT TO PROTECT HIM. I WANT HIM TO BE HAPPY. idk, man, i just. could talk about rin and kid!rin for days to no end, oof… literally him and rinharu what got me so hooked with free! tbh… like i didn’t expect to be this invested in free! bc i just watched out of boredom, and 20 minutes later after first ep, i was already hooked bc i was already head-over-heels with rin and rinharu LMAO. what did they do to me, honestly… my love just kept growing… like end of first season was SO SO SO satisfying???? it was so emotional, i cried like the 6 times i watched it in a row, and i felt SO incredibly satisfied???? i’ve rarely felt THAT much and that much satisfaction with an ending before. honestly first season of free is masterpiece. BUT ANYWAYS. SORRY FOR TALKING SO MUCH. I’M SHUTTING UP NOW. HAVE A NICE DAY, FELLOW RINHARU FAN.

The way these comments MADE MY DAY <333

Thank you so much for commenting!! That post was me just rambling out my own thoughts about the two ships, and I originally didn’t plan on sharing it publicly, but since I love reading other people’s posts like that, I figured maybe someone might enjoy mine too 😊 And I’m SO HAPPY you did!! 💜

I said a lot in my previous response to you, so for your sake and for anybody reading I’ll refrain from repeating myself (when it comes to Free! and my thoughts/opinions, I could repeat myself 10000x and not even bat an eye ...but I won’t do that to y’all haha). But YES Makoto is a precious big squish, his friendship with Haru is important, and MakoHaru do care so so much about each other. No sense in trying to undermine that.

BUT THE RINHARU RELATIONSHIP 😩💥🔥🤯😭😭. I LOVE that you used the word visceral, because that’s it EXACTLY. Haru has a visceral reaction to Rin—and vice versa, but the fact that HARU reacts this way is powerfully telling of just how much he feels about Rin. From the very first episode, Haru barely reacted to anything—he was a rather apathetic teen who really only longed to be in the water. But then enter in Rin Matsuoka, and not only does Haru viscerally react whenever Rin is mentioned, but he also has multiple flashbacks of RIn before he even knew Rin was back in the country.

Because Haru doesn’t react this way—so raw and, and you said, viscerally—with anyone else, I just cannot see him not having special feelings for anyone else aside from Rin. It just makes sense, as he never showed these kinds of feelings towards anyone else in his life since the time Rin returned to Australia after their falling out-race. For me, If there really was potential for a reciprocated ship-relationship between Haru and any other character aside from Rin (within the context of Season 1), it would’ve either happened already considering Makoto had been there the entire time and no sparks or flames, or Haru would’ve been so focused on a new character that wasn’t Rin who had newly entered his life (which, as we know, he wasn’t). But no, Haru was so fixated on Rin, it completely baffled Rei, the newcomer to the group, as to why Haruka was so obsessed with Rin. I mean, if that alone doesn’t blatantly confirm that Haru has some pretty strong feelings towards Rin, then idk what to tell folks who are in denial. 🤷🏽‍♀️

KID!RIN IS THE REASON I FELL FOR ADULT RIN. Like, I knew that this bright and dazzling shooting star of a kid was still in Rin somewhere, and since that Rin stole my heart within the first 75 seconds of the anime, by default part of me was stolen by adult Rin, too haha (though ngl, it took like 4 episodes for me to start sympathizing with him, but when I did wooooosh!! XD). AND YES THE WAY I DIED DURING EPISODE 12!!! I literally covered my mouth and was silent-screeching into my hand, waving my other hand wildly in the air, had to pause the video to collect myself multiples times and basically fell apart and lost my mind over the entirety of episode 12 😂 I have my “recap” here if you’re interested in getting a closer look at my subsequent meltdown, haha.

Ugh anyways this got WAY too long (plus by the time I’m actually posting this, we’ve been gushing out essays about this in our dms hahaha, I’m sorry it took so long to post this friggin reply! >_<) so I’ll just cut it here.

[chelsfic]

Say You’ll Be My Baby - Steve Murphy x Connie Murphy - Narcos Fanfic

A/N: Title from “Make You Smile” by Elle King (thanks to my Anon of Music for their consistently awesome song recs). That song is pure Steve/Connie to me. This fic is fulfilling my deep desire to just wrap my arms around Steve and Connie. I tried to capture some of Connie’s sassy nature.

Summary: How Connie and Steve get together. That’s it, that’s the story.

Warnings: Fluff!!, Mention of gun violence

---

“...So it wa’n’t fake...”

And just like that he had me. It was that lazy West Virginia drawl rasping over the phone line and caressing the shell of my ear, smooth as Hershey syrup. And the balls it took to actually dial my number after that stunt at the bar. I was intrigued. And I won’t lie--the DEA thing was hot. I felt my lips quirk up in a pleased grin, my stomach fizzing with nervous excitement. I figured we could have some fun together...nothing serious.

The first date was a disaster. 

We agreed to meet for drinks. Nothing serious, just some casual fun and then...who knows? Only we never came close to “who knows?” because he stood me up. The worst part was that in the days leading up to the date I had truly grown excited about it. The more I thought about that tall, lithe frame leaning up against the bar, his blue eyes focused on me like I was his whole universe, the more nervous energy I felt churning in my stomach. Until I spent an hour sitting by myself, sipping beer and getting hit on by every guy in the bar. I was not the girl who sat around waiting for a guy to show up. Except that night I was. I left the bar with a lump in my throat and my face burning with wounded pride.

I trudged back into my apartment, alone and wearing my best date-night dress. The answering machine glared at me as I passed through the living room. No messages. Fucking hillbilly asshole.

When the phone rang in the middle of the night, startling me from a deep sleep, I figured it was work. I poked my head up to read the time on my alarm clock. 3:32 AM. Jesus.

“Connie, honey, I am so sorry--” the accent wasn’t so cute now.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked sleepily, my voice hushed but steely. “First you stand me up and now you wake me up in the middle of the night?”

“God, I feel terrible. There was an emergency situation here. At work. And I...it just slipped my mind. Lemme make it up to you.”

I didn’t answer for a minute. I could understand work emergencies. I’m an ER nurse, I get it. What I didn’t want to consider was a man who could forget about me until 3 o’clock in the morning after standing me up. 

“Goodnight, Steve,” I sighed, hanging up the phone and falling back into my pillows.

So much for first impressions.

I didn’t see him again for a couple weeks. I sure thought about him enough, though. Why couldn’t I get this guy out of my head? I was ready to dismiss him and never set eyes on him again when he came up to me the night we met. But...somehow he’d wormed his way into my consciousness. I found myself remembering the deep timber of his voice. Every time my phone rang I felt butterflies wondering if it might be him. But he didn’t call.

Finally, fed up and a little drunk after a night out with the girls, I called him.

“You know, the polite thing to do would be to send me flowers or a card or something! You know, really grovel!” I slurred into the phone, cradling it between my ear and shoulder as I stood at my kitchen counter scooping Häagen-Dazs into a bowl.

“Is this...Connie?” he asked, confusion obvious in his tone. “You drunk?”

“That’s besides the point,” I huffed. “I shouldn’t be the one calling you. ‘S not how this works, buddy.”

“And how does it work?” he drew out his syllables, letting his voice melt with intrigue.

“Oh, no you don’t! That stupid, sexy voice isn’t gonna to work on me this time!” I warned him, licking the ice cream scoop.

His laughter floated over the phone line as he responded, “You think my voice is sexy?”

“Shut up! You’re on thin ice. You’re supposed to chase me, beg me for my forgiveness. That’s how it works.”

He infused his voice with mock seriousness, “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t realize. I’ll get right on that.”

“Good! You better,” I said, hanging up on him and letting the cordless phone clunk onto the countertop. As I stood there, eating ice cream and momentarily congratulating myself, it occurred to me that it was possible I’d regret all this in the morning.

Lucky me, there wasn’t much time for regrets. I was just finishing up my rounds when the Nurse Supervisor dropped a new patient intake sheet into my hands. 

“Gunshot wound. Very minor. Just needs some stitches,” and then she was off, rushing past me and trusting me to do my job. 

My feet were already leading me down the hallway in the direction of the appropriate exam room when I scanned the paper in my hands and saw the hastily scrawled name at the top. Stephen Murphy.

Gunshot wound. Oh god.

He was up on the exam table when I walked in, long Levi-clad legs dangling over the edge. He sat hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing a handful of gauze to his neck. I cleared my throat as I walked inside, standing momentarily frozen in the doorway as he turned those striking blue eyes on me. I watched his face light up with a smile that even the blood-soaked gauze in his hand couldn’t dim.

“And here I thought I was havin’ a bad day,” he drawled, wincing only slightly as the movement tugged at the wound on his neck. 

“Jesus, Steve!” I breathed, pulling away the gauze and getting my first look at the shallow abrasion along the side of his neck. “This was...a really close call.”

My voice must have betrayed my emotions. I barely knew him, but this sudden, visceral introduction to the reality of his life was somehow pulling me in instead of pushing me away. 

He smirked and made light of it, waggling his eyebrows as he breezed, “I know, just an inch to the left and I woulda lost my sexy voice.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and held up the suture kit I was about to open, “Maybe not a good idea to tease the woman about to stick a needle in your neck?”

He held up his hands in capitulation, his smile blinding me as I readied to close the wound. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me stick out my tongue in concentration as I worked. 

I addressed him without looking up, “So, I guess you’ll do anything to get out of a date with me, huh?”

He huffed a laugh and I put a steadying hand to the side of his jaw to still the motion.

“Be still, honey,” I murmured under my breath, tying off the last suture. Steve went docile at the touch, looking up at me with stars in his eyes as I bandaged the wound. 

“Do we have a date?” he asked, his voice low and unsure. I watched his hands close into nervous fists in his lap.

“I don’t know,” I said, snapping off my latex gloves and dropping them in the trash. “Do we?”

And so our first real date was that afternoon in the hospital cafeteria. Steve insisted on buying my lunch and carrying both our trays despite his fresh injury.

“Eh, it’s nothin’,” he scoffed, but I didn’t miss the wince of pain as he set everything down on the table. 

“Big, strong man, huh?” I teased. 

He arched his elegant, blond eyebrows in response and his lips tugged up into a smile that cut straight through me. He watched me with that intense stare of his while I fidgeted nervously under his scrutiny, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear and looking down at my plate. I’d never felt like this with any other guy. I was always the cool, aloof one. Never shy and lovestruck like I felt at that moment.

“So...is this something I’m gonna have to get used to? Missed dates and trips to the emergency room?” I asked only half joking. I could feel myself falling into something more serious than I’d intended with this man. Something about him just kept drawing me in.

He snorted, not picking up on my somber thoughts, “I promise you, this is my first trip to the ER.”

“What happened?” I rested my head on my hand, watching as he took an enormous bite out of his turkey sandwich and smiling despite myself.

He took a minute to chew, opening up a packet of mustard and drizzling it onto the sandwich as he considered his words, “Streets are more and more dangerous, Connie. I was out with my partner. Followin’ up on a tip. Broad daylight. Son of a bitch pulled out a semi-automatic and almost blew my head off.”

I shook my head in horror, “Did he get away?”

“Nah, my partner managed to grab him,” he answered, then added laughingly, “Musta been a burst of adrenaline when he saw me get shot ‘cause Kevin can’t run for shit.”

We turned to other topics: family, how long we’d each been in Miami, my job as a nurse. My lunch break flew by and before I knew it I was walking him out to the sidewalk. 

“So...I know getting shot and turning up as your patient doesn’t exactly count as wooing you but…,” he broke off with a laugh, ducking his head and looking up at me with those blue eyes I loved already, “You think you’ll let me see you again?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a stern appraisal, letting my eyes flick up and down his long, long body before shrugging and faking a casual tone, “Sure, you can see me again.”

He grinned, stepping closer and brushing his fingers over my crossed forearms.

“Yeah?” he smirked, holding my gaze until I couldn’t help but return his contagious smile.

“Yeah! If you can remember our dates, that is.”

He put a wounded hand over his heart.

“Ouch! Baby, that hurts! I promise you--,” he broke off, bringing his hand up to cup my face and stroking his thumb along my cheek. I sucked in a breath at his touch. “I promise you, baby, I’ll treat you right.”

He spread his fingers, letting them thread through the flyaways escaping my ponytail, leaning down until our foreheads almost touched. 

“Would you get in trouble with your boss if I kissed you now?” he drawled, his eyes already fixated on my lips. 

I let my own eyes wander to his mouth. His pouty, pink lips were a little chapped and I watched as he darted out his tongue to wet them. He leaned in even closer until I could feel his breath mingle with mine. 

“I don’t think I care,” I answered and then I closed the gap between us and caught him in our first kiss. 

He brought up his other hand to cradle my head, moving his lips over mine and flicking out his tongue. I drew myself up on my tip toes, clutching his shoulders and melting against him. I could feel myself surrendering. To the kiss and to this man. Whatever I might have thought when he first swaggered up to me in that bar...I knew now that my life was changing. I felt myself moving inexorably closer to a future that included Steve. 

I smiled against his lips before forcing myself to pull away. 

“You better call me, Steve Murphy,” I called as I walked away, leaving him standing on the sidewalk with a freshly stitched wound, kiss-swollen lips, and the conviction that he had just had his first kiss with the woman he was going to marry.

Boyd Tags:

@nothing-but-a-comedy @ionlyjoinedforboydholbrook @theplumsoldier @meri47 @lackofhonor

[virtuosin]

╳

{{  Pretty long so under the cut it goes!  }}

‘Shieda Kayn,’ A warm, soundless voice would permeate his mind, the name languidly spoken from that unseen tongue. ‘The one who heralds the harbinger of death-’ A brief pause. ‘-you, the Promised One...oh, how he has twisted you. His taint has had such undue effects on your mind...and your soul.’ If he were to glance around the the hotel room, he’d find that Sona was still asleep in bed, silent still save for the gentle rising of her chest to indicate she was deep in slumber. Then, when he glances the opposite way, a ball of golden light awaits him, gravitating in place before his eyes. ‘We are Ora,’ They announce themselves to Kayn with slow omnipotence. ‘We have avoided contact due to the one you have bound yourself to...but-’ A pause, and although there is no physical features to the ball, it seems to shift its attention to the sleeping Templar. ‘-we are nearing the end...and the Child of Ora has reached a startling conclusion. She bears a terrible weight, Promised One,’ That invisible gaze returns to Kayn. ‘We wonder...will you help bear that weight? Will you still, after knowing her plan?’ It shudders in place. ‘We have tasked her to endure such hardships for a purpose far greater than should be given to such a small girl...yet she bears it all the same. You, who she has chosen...you, who our beloved Child of Ora marvels...will you dare to see the future she wields?’ Without waiting, light would burst, severing Kayn’s consciousness from that quaint bedroom, blinding him with the intensity of a thousand suns...then, darkness. It’s quiet, perhaps similar to the way Kayn had drifted beneath the waves on that moon--the night he drowned and felt the chill grasp of death. But he wasn’t dead, nor dying...but in this stasis of endless night, he wasn’t living either. Not stars, no moon...nothingness. Then, gravity returns, offering Kayn’s feet a place to rest. He stands on ancient cobblestone, and from there the world crawls into being, fanning out from where he stood. As the scene unfurls around him, the Ordinal might notice the nearby greenery and masonry. Decrepit, foreboding in nature but mystical as well. Even if he had never been to Navorre personally, he might recognize it from photos, or even video surveillance the Empire has had on the small planet. It was home to the Enclave, headquarters to the Templar Order. And there, gushing light enriched with Ora was that looming obelisk--the Ora Gate. “AAAAAAAAUGH!!” A scream of agony, so raw and visceral and brutal in nature. It wasn’t the labored shrill of someone wounded, it was the guttural yowl from torturous pain, the kind that was slow, and all powerful. What’s more, the voice...is would be all too familiar to Kayn at this point. A voice from someone who was meant to be mute--a girl he’s come to known and become close with for so many months in space. There, floating twenty feet in the air just between Kayn and the Ora Gate was the beloved Templar, Sona Buvelle. The light was so blinding that her figure was merely a silhouette, but this close, Kayn might see how brightly her markings burned--quite literally--into her flesh, searing her body and soul as the raw Ora filters into her form. “SUNFLOWER!!” A new voice, from several feet behind Kayn. A woman, tall, thin, but strangely sturdy despite the overwhelming pressure exuding from the gate. She stood, bracing against the dense atmosphere flowing forth, sterling eyes on her dear daughter. Eyes dart down to Kayn, and while he might not know much about Lestara, he would know how hardened the woman was, and how detached she made herself out to be towards others. Not softness, no kindness, not a shred of mercy-- And she was crying. “Stop her, Ordinal-” Lestara mouths towards him, her voice becoming deafened by the augmented nature of the scene. “STOP THIS MADNESS AND SAVE HER!! IT’S KILLING HER!! SHE’S GOING TO LET IT KILL HER!!” Tears were streaking faster, droplets flying off either edge of her gaunt cheekbones. If he were to look back at Sona, he’d notice a sizeable sphere form around her. It was reminiscent to one of her barriers, however, it shielded herself away from the world, acting as a small space to contain herself and the overwhelming Ora now being absorbed by the girl. Another blast of light erupts, and something shifts. As if a moment happens but is not shown to Kayn--like a skip in a record. When his vision adjusts, he would notice an utter lack of Rhaast--had he even been in the memory to start?--and the Ora Gate was pulsating with a final breath of Ora before it went dormant. Would he have enough focus to notice the ebony shade lingering at the edges of the gate, or were his eyes caught off guard by the limp body of his prisoner, flowing straight for the ground. Whether by direct choice of his own or the Ora, Kayn would find himself racing forward, catching Sona at the cost of hitting the ground hard on his side. But she was safe, in his arms--except...she isn’t safe. Not at all. Her Ora markings roared with energy, as if made of fire itself. What’s more, there were more of them, splintering off and creating new curves around her eyes, her arms, her neck. Robes were singed, the long emerald sleeves burned off to her biceps, revealing her scotched flesh to him. A direct effect from how she was forced to filter the raw Ora into her body, all in order to control that Ora Gate of his. “Sh-Shieda...” Sona wheezes out, the light in her gilded eyes rising and falling in color, going from prismatic to dull. All of her features matched that ebbing effect, signifying what he’d feel in his gut; Lestara was right...she was dying. He might feel that strong, innate connection they share, and it would only confirm the fear. He would feel how ravaged her body was, how close to the brink operating the Ora Gate had brought her, and of how little life remained inside her. And yet, she was smiling. “Ehe...heh...” Soft laughter, barely a wheeze. “I...am sorry...h-had to...let it in...funneled it all...into myself...h-had...to stop Rhaast from taking you...f-from absorbing the Ora and letting them in,” A deep breath causes Sona’s body to shudder hard against his lap and arms, and it’s almost painful to feel how cold this mirthful woman was becoming. It was...tragic...and still, she smiled at him. Feebly, a hand manages to touch his chest, palm flush against his sternum as if she wants nothing more than to touch his very heart. “I...was n-never meant to live anyway...I-I wasn’t born to have...a future...” Tears would form, so fat and full of life. Eyes would drift from her hand back up to his eyes, and those large, shiny gold hues would meet his, bringing back countless memories all at once. “B-But...you gave me a life...a-and now...I can die with meaning...I-I’m so happy...to die like this, Shieda, I-” Another hard wheeze, and now her eyes were falling fast. “-I think...this is the kindest death...I could ever wish for...h-heh...I-I’m so...lucky...aren’t I? T-To die in your arms...I-I can go...happily...if it’s like this...” “Shieda,” A final rasp, eyes so dark and shadowed by death. “...y-you...were my...new home...m-my friend...my b-beloved storm, I...” It fades, and yet her lips keep moving, as if she still attempts to speak but the Ora had run dry--her life had run dry. And then there was no movement at all...her final words...nothing but endearments for the man who had treated her callously, who forced her to this place, who could not stop it even at the very end; In the end, Kayn could not keep his promise and protect her. A heaviness crawls deep into his marrow, making the very air impossible to breathe. A deadened scream echoes in the distance, a reminder of a mother who has lost her child. And then, he’d feel it--a chilling breeze that bellows from behind him...from the Ora Gate. ‘They hunger,’ The Ora would call out to Kayn, speaking to him despite the emotions that may consume him as he gingerly clings to Sona’s limp, lifeless corpse. ‘They will unmake everything,’ The world would turn gray as something oppressive lingers from behind his back, though he wouldn’t find the will to look, even if he wanted to--eyes fixated by force to Sona’s still expression. ‘There will be nothing left to rule...nothing left to live...it will all be erased if you do not heed this warning we give you, Promised One,’ The shadows grow, coalescing around Sona and Kayn. He would watch in horror as the tendrils consume her legs, pulling her out of his grasp and dissolving her into the inky depths, her pale features and dead eyes the final sight he has of his...what was she to him again? Prisoner? Friend? Something far more? ‘She will open the gate, she must open the gate-’ The Ora goes quiet, emphasizing the importance of these next words as Kayn’s vision goes black. ‘-but she need not die...but she has decided on this path. Will you prevent her from enduring this burden alone and suffer a fate undeserving of such a pure being? If she ever meant anything to you, we beseech you, for your volatile will is all that can forge a new divergence from her selected path...stop her, Shieda Kayn, and give the Child of Ora the life you inspired her to long for.’ Jolting upright, sweat trails along his musculature. He was back in their hotel room, Sona still sleeping soundly, Rhaast off in a separate corner, and the Ora...no where to be seen, presumably back inside Sona’s core. As his eyes and body adjust to the transition, he’d find something in his hands. Staring hard through the shadows, it holds a dull glint...wet and dark...like blood. Sona’s blood. When Kayn blinks again, it is gone, though the existential dread remains, instilling a profound fact in his mind. The end was coming...it was coming for them all.

[nikkigrand]

There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m abandoning all of my works. Everything.

This post is going to be long, honest, triggering and deeply personal. So for those who don’t want to read through all of my bullshit, the gist is that I’m not emotionally or mentally capable of writing anymore.

TW ARE IN PLACE.

If you’ve followed me for a while, then you know that my boyfriend was killed in Afghanistan last year. Since then, my life has been a breathless decline into self destruction. I didn’t know—I still don’t know—how to recover from happily waiting for his return to painfully knowing he never will. I swear that some days I feel like he’s still out there and some day he’ll come home and this will all be just a bad dream. I want to wake up to a reality where he steps off that plane and into my arms, where I don’t keep a crumpled old t shirt that smells more of me than him under my pillow, where the shock of hearing certain songs doesn’t make me throw up. A reality where I don’t have to sit in front of his ashes every time I visit his mother and look at his singed necklace around her neck.

I wanted nothing more than to wake up. Just wake the fuck up and feel alive again because for so long I had felt this choking pain and grief and misery and then nothing.

Everything became an escape, something to fill that void in me. I tried all the healthy things. I ate, I worked out, I ran. I talked to people about how I felt and reached out, but nothing helped. I volunteered, i planted trees and flowers, I channeled my grief into kindness. I tried to take all this pain and turn it into something beautiful, and still I felt nothing. I was falling falling falling into this black pit and was reaching for anything to keep me from hitting the bottom.

So I started chasing highs. The standard shit at first. I drank so much alcohol that I’d wake up in bushes with my friends, limbs tangled in ways that left me sore and stinging for days because who the hell passes out in a Rose bush?

At first, drinking was fucking hell, because no matter how much I drank I’d always end up with my head cradled in the palms of my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as I screamed and wailed and asked why why why why when he was so close to coming home and why was life so goddamn mean??? I’d be in bar bathrooms, just curled in the corner and sobbing like a dramatic princess until my friends carried me out. This happened about a dozen times before it just stopped, because I figured I wasn’t drinking enough if I could remember everything.

So I drank more and more and more and then I realized that it wasn’t making me feel better, it wasn’t doing anything for me.

So I started smoking. Just weed, you know. Nothing too crazy at the time. But all that did was make me hyper-fixate on all of my failures and short comings. It made me hate myself so viscerally, so deeply that I wondered if this is who I truly am at my core. A mean bitch who drinks, smokes, parties. A maneater who fucks these poor kind hearted men to fill that hole her dead man left inside her and still finds herself cold and numb after because it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I’m sure you know where this is going. But I hated myself. I’m a beautiful girl, I’m not blind, and yet I found myself to be so fucking ugly. So fucking ugly and grey and all I wanted—all I needed—was something to breathe life into me the way life itself did before.

I just wanted to feel happy and normal. Only for a little while. That need was so encompassing it would grip my insides and I’d cry from how much I wanted it, how much I had convinced myself I needed it. It was all I fucking wanted.

So the bumps came. And then the lines. And then whole baggies to myself. And it felt amazing, it was wonderful. The world was alive, things were different. I had more energy, more life in me than I had in months. Then the other type of lines came and it made me feel like I was floating away. There was no pain, no misery, no death hanging over my shoulder to remind me that the strength of your love can’t make people stay.

But soon, that too wasn’t enough. Like every other thing, I felt there was something better, something that could make me feel more. So here is where I tell you about all the pills I popped, all the different colored presses and how each one pulled me out of that hole I was falling into and deposited me above the ground —much higher than I could have ever dreamed of—and filled my grey world with beautiful gorgeous colors.

Then I can tell you about all the tabs I let dissolve on my tongue, or fully swallowed out of impatience, all of the lines of ketamine I combined with ecstasy and acid in one night. The things I saw, the way I felt—it took me far from this dismal life and was addicting. I was chasing something every weekend until it became every other day, chasing some feeling I still can’t name, and I knew that it was ruining me.

My grief and my drugs were killing me, and I knew it. With every cotton mouth, every clenched jaw, every pounding headache, I fucking knew and didn’t care. I’d look at my friends faces and I knew, I knew they loved me and would be devastated if they knew what I was doing, and I still didn’t care. What was life if it felt this empty?

My grades dropped, i turned down a contracting job I wanted for years, I spent all my money on psychedelics and stimulants, and it had gotten to a point where I’d pop a pill while sitting at home just because I didn’t want to be sober and didn’t want to think about how fucked up my life was becoming.

Then one day I was at a concert, high in the clouds with a joint settled comfortably between my lips and frizzy hair piled messily atop my head, when I saw a girl get carried out the venue by medics. She was probably a few years younger than I am, and i remember looking at her face impassively as they pushed through the crowd with her body thrown over this bear of a man’s shoulder as if in slow motion. She was pale and foaming at the mouth, with her arms dangling limply down his back, and she looked dead—she was dead. I knew in that same way you know that the sky is blue when the sun is up, I just knew.

And in that moment—those few seconds it took me to acknowledge that she had most likely overdosed and died—this intense yearning shot through me, so strong that I felt it in the crooks of my fucking elbows, like I wanted to embrace whatever the fuck it was that I desired to live inside me, and this voice cried out, “I wish that were me.”

And you know what, I didn’t even know I had spoken until the guy next to me shoved me in the shoulder and said, “no you don’t.”

And that terrified me. I remember dropping the joint, fumbling it in my shaking fingers, burning myself on the lit end, before handing it off to that same random guy and running off to get some air.

I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. I know I’m depressed, I know I’ve got issues, but I had never said something so suicidal out loud up until that point. I’ve never vocally wished for death and even as I sat there, as I looked out at the people outside the venue huddled together doing whip it’s and killing brain cells, I still wanted to be that poor dead girl on that man’s shoulders.

That was it for me. I remember calling an Uber home on the spot and taking everything I had and flushing it. Im not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you that it was easy. I had convinced myself that I needed these things to make me happy, and i don’t know if I can ever see life the same way after them. The feelings you get off these things are otherworldly, it’s so damn good, but they come at a price. You dont feel the same way you did before you took them, and you never will. You’ll never be who you were before that high, but you can almost convince yourself that it’s worth it. So it was pretty damn hard to take my neon presses, my rocks. my capsules, my bud and my tabs, and flush them down the toilet.

Almost immediately after I did it, I cried. Mostly because i had flushed hundreds of dollars down the fucking toilet, but also because I had become that girl in those cheesy college movies. You know the one, the one where the party girl gets addicted to drugs and goes on a bender and her whole life is just one big goddamn tragedy that won’t end. I hate those fucking movies and I, for the life of me, could not believe I was that girl.

I had been military, straight laced with a good head on my shoulders and a hard worker. I was smart, respected, the girl everyone wanted to bring home to mom. And now I was a hot mess crying in my bathroom because I had just flushed my addiction down the shitter.

Now I’m just home, trying to gather the pieces of myself in a way that doesn’t cause long term damage when I’ve yet to hit my 27th birthday.

I still go out with my friends. They know nothing about what I’ve done because I’ve always gone out and done things alone. This is the first time I’ve ever spilled my guts.

So where does FanFiction come into play in all this. Well, it’s simple, really, if you’ve gotten to this point and picked out all the mistakes in grammar. My brain is so fucked up that I can barely write a passable 3 page essay. I can’t remember words, much less how to string them together to form something beautiful in the way I used to. Trust me, it kills me and I’ve agonized over it for hours. I once tried to take this amazing idea I had and put it to paper but it would just not flow. Nothing made sense. Where before writing was effortless and focused, now my brain could barely concentrate on forming a sentence that didn’t sound like gibberish.

My attention span is so short that I literally have to isolate myself with no internet and my textbooks to get work done. It’s so bad that I have anxiety and panic attacks about the fact that I feel like a whole dumbass with one brain cell, where before I was proud of my intelligence and could hold decent conversation.

I’m still pretty, as if that fucking matters, but now I’ve got a stutter and can’t hold eye contact because my paranoia makes me think they’re judging me. And let me tell you, I’m so fucking pissed about that because I know it’s just my fried brain thinking these things, and there’s no one to blame but myself.

And I still feel empty and numb. How can I write about love and human emotions when I don’t feel anything? How can I write about looking at someone and loving them when the memory of love faded like my lover’s ashes in the wind? I just can’t.

I know love as it whispers against my skin with each interaction between me, friends, even other men, and yet I look at them and feel absolutely nothing.

So Yeah, I can’t write my stories if I can’t get my brain or my heart to work.

I’m really sorry to all my loyal readers. I really am. I wish I had been stronger. Thank you for all of your support throughout the years.

Don’t do drugs.

[loverspersonas]

liability | ii

pairing: ot7? x reader

genre: spy au, grisha reader, angst, drama, fluff

length: 6k

summary: She’s known as the Wraith, a destructive member of a notorious intelligence organization. When a mission goes wrong, she runs into a rival group, BTS, and is offered a choice that could change her whole life.

↳series masterlist

It was bright.

The ceiling lights were white and blinding, the way they were in hospitals sometimes, glinting off the glass on the opposite wall. You were thankful the walls and floors at least were a darker gray or that would’ve really hurt your eyes. You shifted in the hard chair you were sitting in, only to notice the metal handcuffs pinching into your skin. 

Well, shit. Your captors had been smart to restrict your hand movements, or making an escape would’ve been easier. You didn’t try to pull at them again. They only seemed to get tighter, and it was no use anyway.

The door opened all of a sudden and in walked a tall man with short ash blond hair and tan skin, dressed in a long brown coat. His eyes were framed with clear glasses and he seemed so perfectly ordinary, almost like a young college professor. But nothing about this setting, this investigation room, was ordinary. Nothing ever was in your line of work anyway.

“So,” he spoke after taking the seat across from you. Even his voice was normal and friendly. But you didn’t fall for that anymore. “Rose, is it?”

You gave him a long, hard look and turned your face away. He was unfazed by the action. 

“You joined GOT7’s division of the organization JYP when you were nine years old, after your parents died. You’ve trained with them since, becoming what’s known to our world as the Wraith.”

Good for him, you thought dryly. He could memorize words from a file.

“I’m RM.” Still no response. “Let me guess. Only your friends call you Rose.”

“I don’t have any friends,” you said before you could stop yourself. 

RM seemed a little satisfied that you were talking now, if not even curious by your first verbal response. “No, I don’t think you would. Most people in your line of work don’t have time for such trivial things.”

“My line of work?” you echoed. “You mean, yours too?”

He shook his head. “What we do is different from what you and your organization does. Our mandate is to protect people and information. To help society even though they don’t realize it. We don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

“Neither do I.”

He leaned back a little like he was taken aback. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to. And it’s not entirely your fault. Your superiors kept information from you—“

“Why am I here?” you cut him off. You were annoyed and angry, because it felt like he was attacking you for things that were out of your control. “So you can tell me that what I’m doing is wrong?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” he said slowly, watching your features contort from suspicion to surprise. “It’s been a while since anyone’s given you that, hasn’t it?”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want him to know that he was right. You swallowed hard. “Doesn’t matter.”

“But it should.” He sounded so sincere, like he believed in what he was saying. But then, those were the most dangerous kinds of people. “If you help me, I’ll help you.”

“Help me?” you asked incredulously. “How can you help me?”

“Starting with that collar around you. The one they put on.”

Your hand instinctively went for your neck and the glossy silver choker you were wearing and had been for as long as you could remember. If you thought about it for too long, the memory of the electric shock almost transformed into reality and it was like you were burning again. Realizing that RM was watching you, you quickly dropped your hand in an attempt to show that you didn’t care, but it was too late for that.

“Don’t you see, Rose?” he asked. “They’ve chained you, branded you as their property. But what they didn’t see is that you’re more than just a weapon.”

How can I be more, when that’s all I’ve been my whole life? you thought. There was this visceral longing inside you. A longing that you never dared to feel anymore. Because all it ever brought you was misery.

Your voice was scratchy when you spoke finally. “I don’t know about that. I don’t… I don’t think I know anything at all.”

He looked at you with something like sympathy, though you weren’t sure. You could read pity and hatred from miles away at this point, but not sympathy. Emotions that weren’t cold and indifferent were rare sights back with GOT7. 

“I want to help you.”

“Why?” you demanded. “What’s the catch? Do you expect me to believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

RM didn’t look angry like the way someone back in your organization might’ve reacted. In fact, he was waiting for you to start asking the right questions. “All right. We need intel. And it just so happens, you’re a direct source to GOT7 and JYP.”

“You want me to be your spy.”

“Of sorts. I want you to work with us.”

“Us? You mean BigHit.”

“My team, more specifically. The alpha team. We’re called Bangtan Sonyeondan, but you probably know us as BTS.” You did, but you didn’t want to admit it. While BigHit was a notorious organization, BTS was the most notorious of all. You couldn’t count the number of times your team had talked about them. Not in a good way, of course. More so in a want-to-destroy-them way. “We’re just one unit in the entire organization.”

“And you’re in charge?” you asked. You knew you were being somewhat reckless, because if the stories were true, people like BTS were known for catching and eliminating people like you. But you had to take your chances. Because if the stories were true, there was a chance you weren’t walking out of here alive. “So, tell me, RM. What happens to me if I refuse?”

“To you?”

You rolled your eyes, used to people underestimating you. “I’m not stupid. I don’t just get to walk away from this. Not without consequences.”

He gave you a thoughtful look. “You’re right. You’d be walking away, knowing you had a chance to do something different for a change. You’d be making a choice for yourself, rather than acting on someone else’s. So really, the only consequence you’d be facing here is regret.”

At first, you waited for him to add something else and when he didn’t, you couldn’t help but grin, amused. “Is that how you’re planning to convince me? By appealing to my better nature?”

He wasn’t deterred by your attitude. This whole time, he’d been quite straight faced in a way that made you think he was very good at concealing his true emotions. You were never as good in that area, at least not when you weren’t on a mission, playing the role of someone else. In this room, you didn’t know who to be and you were afraid he could tell. “Perhaps out of the goodness of your heart then.”

That was the first time someone had referred to you like that. You chuckled lowly. “What heart?”

RM tapped his fingers on the table lightly. Maybe you were trying to see how far you had to go to get a real reaction from him, to see his shield break and for everything inside to be painted clearly on his face. “Did you know there’s a tracking chip in the collar you’re wearing?” A roll of your eyes told him that you did know. “And at the casino, do you know why it was activated?”

“It was a malfunction—“

“No,” he cut you off. “It wasn’t.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. If the collar hadn’t malfunctioned, then someone had purposely activated it. Someone from GOT7.

“If you help me, I’ll give you something in return.”

You tried to push down the feeling of betrayal, not wanting RM to know that he’d gotten to you. “What, revenge? I don’t need anything from you.”

“What about your family?” he asked. “How much do you actually know about them? About yourself?”

You froze, your gaze fixating on the glass wall across from you. It was a two way mirror. You wondered if someone else was watching this, listening to your conversation. Could they see your mind turning over and over, searching through the corners of your memory for something about your parents? Because in the faint blue reflection in the glass, there was a girl with long, red hair and ivory skin, and you could see her trying to find those memories.

Somewhere there, there was an outline of a woman, a whimsical voice calling you Rose, the warmth of being tucked into bed at night. But it was too far away, lost in the darkness.

“Do I have your attention now?”

Your gaze shifted to him, your voice and features hardening. “You’re lying.” 

“No,” he said, tilting his head a little as he studied you. “And I think you know that too. I don’t have anything as of right now. But I have people on my team who are experts for this sort of thing. So, Rose. You need to make a choice. How badly do you want to know who your parents are?”

“Hey, there.” 

You jumped in your seat, instinctively reaching for anything you could get your hands on before coming to face whoever had interrupted you.

“Woah,” the chestnut haired boy said as he raised his hands in alarm. “It’s just me. Please put the screwdriver down.”

Eyebrows furrowing from confusion, you followed his gaze to realize what you’d grabbed from the table. In the seconds that followed, you remembered the table, and the room, had been practically empty. It was when you noticed the metal box full of small metal parts and tools did you realize he’d brought them with him. Slowly, you set it back down, still eyeing the boy cautiously. “You’re afraid of a screw driver?”

“I’m afraid of what you could potentially do to me with a screwdriver,” he corrected, shrugging with something close to embarrassment. “I’m not trained like the others.”

Maybe it was his reckless honesty that made you admit, “Neither am I.”

His eyebrows scrunched up before he drew out a laugh. To you, it was the sound of bubbling sunlight. “Right. You’re only the most lethal asset that JYP has ever had.”

“No,” you said quietly, turning away from him. “Not like that.” 

Despite having gotten a change of clothes— black pants, a shirt and some leather boots—the metal choker was still there. You were glad to get out of the dress from the night before though. At least, you assumed it had been the previous night. Your sense of time had really taken a hit.

The boy’s eyes fix on the collar resting around your throat. “Well, maybe I can help with that.”

Only when you heard the sound of tools clinking did you look up, just in time for the boy to take a step closer to you. You jumped back in your seat instantly. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry,” he assured you. “I know what I’m doing.”

“What—”

Before you could stop him, he’d already reached out to inspect the collar. Your first thought was to blast him away. RM had removed the handcuffs, but with the collar, you remembered that you couldn’t do much, not unless you wanted to get electrocuted again. His fingers touching your skin made you want to squirm, but you resisted; it didn’t look like it was his intention to do that to you. In fact, he seemed quite oblivious.

“Hmm,” the boy murmured to himself. “That’s interesting. Haven’t seen technology like this before.”

“So, you can’t get it off?”

He looked up at you, for the first time with confidence instead of the cheery and awkward boy who’d walked into the room. “I didn’t say that. I like a bit of a challenge every now and then.” He grabbed something similar to a screwdriver and a small tablet, but hesitated before bringing the sharp object closer to you. “Can I…?”

You bit your lip as you glanced at it nervously, but then nodded. It took a few minutes of tapping on the screen of his tablet and some turns with the screwdriver and at some point, you thought he’d overestimated his abilities, but then you heard the unmistakable sound of the metal collar unlinking. Your fingers went for your neck and felt the bare skin there left pink and sore after so long of wearing that thing.

Releasing a huge breath, you turned to the boy only to see that he was quite interested in studying the collar now in his hands. “This is some high tech stuff. And dangerous. The amount of current it can send is enough to probably paralyze— oh.” He turned around slowly to look at you again. “That’s why they made you wear it.”

You would’ve noticed the sad way he was looking at you, but you were more focused on the fact that JYP’s literal hold on you was gone. RM was right in that sense. They had chained you and coerced you into doing what they wanted until you no longer needed to be coerced. Everything you’d done this far started out because of them. But did that mean everything that followed was your fault?

“Hey.” You blinked, your eyes focusing on the boy in front of you. He noticed that you’d zoned out, but didn’t comment on it. “So, now that that’s out of the way, let's go.”

“Go where?” you asked, puzzled.

“To eat,” he said like it was obvious. “It’s dinner time.”

He paused near the sliding glass doors, motioning for you to follow him which you did end up doing eventually, deciding that it was better than just sitting there with no information about where you were. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as the two of you walked down the hall. He kept talking about whatever door appeared in your path, not aware of the danger he was in just being in your presence.

He was smart. He had to be. Not anyone could so easily play with GOT7’s technology like it was their school’s science project. He had to know just what you were capable of. So, why wasn’t he running?

“What’s your name?” you asked suddenly, cutting him off.

He wasn’t offended. In fact, his face broke out into a smile. “I’m Hoseok. Bangtan’s official hacker and tech guy. Although, I also like to dabble in cryptology—”

“Bangtan? You work for RM?”

Hoseok frowned slightly. “I work with him. Maybe with GOT7, things were like that, but around here, we’re all a team.”

“You all?” you asked. Your mind flashed back to the casino and the boy with the gray eyes from the elevator. “How many of you are there?”

“We’re a unit of seven,” he answered as they went on walking. He seemed like the kind of person who might not realize that not every detail needed to be said. Things were on a need to know basis, especially when information could literally get you killed. Maybe that was why he wasn’t a field agent. “There’s RM, who’s kind of like our spymaster, so he’s usually in charge. Jin, our medic; Suga, our sharpshooter; then our field agents who each specialize in different areas: V, Jimin, and Jungkook.”

You tried to absorb all the information, but you weren’t required to doing things like that the way Hoseok probably was. You knew RM, but the other names didn’t have faces to them. And the only name you wanted to know was the one who’d helped you back in the casino.

“They were all there, weren’t they? At the casino.”

Hoseok nodded. “Our team was assigned there. To infiltrate—“ He looked away awkwardly. “Ah, I shouldn’t reveal everything right away. At least, not on an empty stomach.”

You stopped in front of a set of large glass doors, glass that was most definitely bulletproof like every door and window you had spotted so far. You wondered if it was built to withstand a power like yours. He typed in some numbers on the holographic keypad—too fast for you to actually memorize any of it.

With another smile, he gestured forward. “After you.”

You glanced inside. You were able to see some hanging chandelier lights over a long wooden table set with a running tablecloth and candles like in a home decor catalogue. Why was there a room like this in this kind of facility?

Taking the long period of silence as hesitation, Hoseok stepped forward first. “There’s no need to be shy.”

Rather than just standing there still, you had little choice but to follow him inside. It was a dining room of some kind, you concluded. And through an archway, a kitchen. On the other side, a living room area set with sofas, rugs, and a flat screen tv. Two people were sitting in front of it, playing a video game. The two boys you’d run into in the casino while searching for the shipments.

“So which one of you just lost at Mario Kart?” Hoseok asked.

“Jimin,” the brunette with the rounder, younger face said. He sat cross legged on a bean bag chair. “For the tenth time in a row.”

The pink haired boy, Jimin, scowled, throwing his controller at the younger one. “I didn’t lose. Jungkook here was cheating.”

“Throwing a red turtle at you is not cheating,” Jungkook argued. “That’s how you win.”

“Of course, you'd say that, you cheating bastard—”

“Anyway,” Hoseok cut them off, finally stepping to the side so that you appeared in their line of sight. “You guys remember Rose. Rose, this is Jimin and Jungkook.”

The two boys practically jumped from their seats, staring at you with wide eyes, but not like you were a bomb about to detonate. There was definitely surprise evident in their features, but not alarm like you were a danger to them. Little did they know, you thought, just how dangerous you could be.

“You were there.” It was you who finally broke the interminable silence, your voice somehow only raising their shock. “I remember seeing you at the casino.”

Jimin cleared his throat, breaking the eye contact he, and Jungkook, had been holding for some reason. “Yeah, that was… that was us.”

“We didn’t know if you were still here,” Jungkook admitted, his eyes falling to the carpet almost shyly. “We thought— well, we thought you’d leave.”

You gave a small shrug. “So did I.”

“All right, which one of you ungrateful assholes ate the salmon I left in the fridge?”

You turned to see a new face enter from the kitchen area. This boy was a few years older than the others, who you guessed were about the same age as yourself. He was tall with broad shoulders and ears turning pinker as his anger rose.

“Why do you always assume it was us?” Jimin demanded. “J-hope is standing right there, you know.”

You must’ve made a confused face, because Hoseok leaned closer to you and whispered, “That’s my codename.”

As you nodded, Jimin looked at him in surprise. “You told her your real name?”

“I haven’t been in the kitchen all day,” the hacker pointed out to the angry boy, ignoring Jimin. “And I’ve been with Rose for the past hour.”

The older boy’s expression morphed as he acknowledged the person in the room who was out of place. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that. These idiots have just been driving me crazy today. Not that that makes today any different from other days. I’m Jin, by the way.”

You didn’t get the chance to reply when Jungkook opened his mouth. “Yeah, you’re always so quick to blame us. What about the others? They’re conveniently not here right now. You know how much Suga likes salmon. Maybe you should ask him about it.”

“Ask me what?” 

The boy who appeared from the hallway was shorter than Jin, but his presence seemed to make up for it by the way Jimin and Jungkook pressed their mouths shut. His gaze swept past them until they landed on you who could only stand there and stare back. You didn’t want to show that you were intimidated by him even though his eyes seemed like they could cut through you like glass. This must be the sharpshooter, you guessed.

“Uh, Rose, this is Suga,” Hoseok said, trying to fill in the sudden discomfort.

Suga didn’t say anything as he continued to study you, his head slightly tilted to the side. You knew that calculating look. He was sizing you up, searching for weaknesses, anything that was potentially threatening. By the way the corners of his mouth tugged upwards, it looked like he wasn’t so impressed. And that made something in you start to boil.

“So what was it you wanted to ask me?” Suga asked, his attention reshifting to the previous conversation. You hoped he found that more interesting than you.

“Someone ate all the salmon,” Jin said accusingly as he folded his arms over his chest. “That was supposed to be dinner.”

Without even hesitating, Suga deadpanned, “Which one of you was it?”

Both Jimin and Jungkook cast him offended looks. “I get that you guys like to blame us since we’re younger,” Jungkook began, “but how come no one’s paying attention to the fact that two people are missing right now?”

“Exactly,” Jimin agreed. “Where are RM and V, huh? Perhaps they’re downstairs enjoying a lovely salmon fillet while we’re all here arguing, completely oblivious of their ingenious plan.” 

“Aw, that’s sweet, Jimin. You think my plan’s ingenious.”

It was unmistakably him. You watched as the gray eyed boy moved inside the room from the doorway. He was grinning faintly, his hair just as long and dark as you remembered. But now you could tell that his features weren’t just soft; his face was angular and chiseled like a sculpture. If you’d already been introduced to everyone else, this must have been V.

“I’m afraid to admit then that I have no idea what you’re talking about,” V told them. He stopped in his tracks as his gaze fell on you, morphing into recognition and something else. He opened his mouth slightly, like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what. You knew that feeling too.

“Then I guess it had to be RM,” Jungkook said, his voice fading into the background. Strangely, it seemed like you and the gray eyed boy were the only ones in the room.

Finally breaking eye contact, V looked away from you, and when you blinked, it was like blinking back into reality. “RM is in a meeting right now.”

“He won’t be joining us for dinner then, I presume,” Jin said with a small sigh.

“What’s the meeting for?” Jimin asked.

The second V hesitated, Suga decided to speak. “What do you think? The entire operation blew up. There has to be a shit ton of reports and things to fix and cover up.”

Jungkook winced. “Was it really that bad?”

Hoseok gave a half shrug. “Well, I mean the target did get away.”

“But we prevented the shipments from getting into the wrong hands, didn’t we?” Jimin said. “And a potential massacre. The whole casino could’ve been blown up.”

“It could’ve.” Suga’s eyes flickered over to you. “At least we managed to get the bomb out of there.”

This time, you didn’t bother to hide your annoyance. “What did you just call me?”

“Suga,” V warned. 

The raven haired boy just shrugged. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. I mean, what’s stopping her from doing the same thing right now that she was going to do last night?”

He was right about that, at least. You were ready to flick your wrist and fling him into the wall just to hear his bones crack. That was just a start. 

“If I’d had any say in it, I wouldn’t have just let you go.”

“Well, you didn’t,” you spoke finally. To your surprise, you were coming off pretty calm, relative to the anger surging under your skin that you were trying to suppress. “So it seems to me that what you think doesn’t matter.” You saw his eyes flash with anger, but you didn’t care. “But if it makes you feel better, you’re right. I could blow this place up faster than you can blink.” That wasn’t completely true, but you didn’t need them to know that.

Jimin and Jungkook’s eyes widened while Hoseok gulped nervously. Jin didn’t seem as outwardly scared, but you could tell by the way he shifted that your statement had put him a little on edge. The only one besides Suga who didn’t react with fear was V. He gave a small sigh, shaking his head to himself.

“Suga, this isn’t necessary,” he said.

But the sharpshooter’s focus was on you, as dangerous as if he was pointing a gun at you. “Are you threatening me?”

“And what if I am?” you said recklessly.

V stepped forward abruptly, his hand on Suga’s shoulder. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Suga looked like he had to force himself to remove the glare he was directing at you. With V, he shared a brief glance, nonverbal words being exchanged between them. Whatever it was, it somehow made Suga relax enough to put aside his anger.

Jin cleared his throat. “Uh, anyway. Besides the salmon, dinner is ready.”

You sat between Hoseok and Jungkook. Hoseok was someone you still didn’t quite trust, but was more comfortable around, and Jungkook seemed harmless despite being professionally trained in combat; he could hardly make eye contact with you without looking down at his hands all flustered. You’d consciously avoided sitting next to Suga, who was some seats away from you, and V, who was across from you. 

The others had helped Jin set up the table. There was roasted potato, vegetables, butter rolls, kimchi fried rice, and a chicken dish. He’d apologized about having to reheat leftover chicken since the salmon was still missing, but you had said there was nothing to apologize for. All of it looked and smelled heavenly to you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a good meal like this, something that wasn’t flavourless soup and dry bread.

You watched as the boys began piling their plates, passing dishes around the table while talking and laughing. Hoseok glanced your way shortly before starting to load your plate with potatoes. “There’s no need for formalities here,” he said, shooting you a friendly smile.

You made an attempt to return the smile, but was aware that it probably seemed a bit strained. “I just haven’t done this sort of thing before.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You gestured around him with a hand. “This. Sitting together, eating… like everything’s normal.”

He chuckled. “Well, nothing about us is normal, really. Nothing about you either. But that’s okay here. Actually, that is kind of our normal.”

You noticed the way his face lit up as he gazed around the table at the people he considered his friends. It was a luxury you’d never gotten. “How long have you been here?”

He pursed his lips, thinking. “Well—“

“He’s been here longer than me,” Jimin answered. Apparently, he’d heard your question, and now the rest of the table turned their way too. “And I came to BigHit when I was around thirteen.”

They were kind of like you, you realized. They’d gotten roped into this sort of life since they were still kids.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Hm?”

“How old are you?” Jimin repeated, chewing on his roll. “You seem pretty young.”

So do you, you wanted to say. “Uh, I’m twenty two.”

“Oh, you’re the same age as Jungkook. He’s kind of the baby of the group.”

Jungkook scowled at him, but his cheeks were pink. “Am not.”

Jimin ignored him. “The rest of us are in our twenties too. Jin is the oldest.”

“I think that much is obvious,” Jin said. “Your maturity level next to mine is like nothing.”

“Jungkook and Jimin’s maturity level next to anyone’s is nothing,” V joked. As the rest of them, besides the two mentioned boys, laughed along with him, you found your gaze drifting towards him. He seemed to fit in so well here in this place with people who wanted him. You could feel a part of yourself ache on the inside, and you wondered if it was because that part longed to be wanted too.

“Rose.”

It was Hoseok’s voice that shook you from your thoughts. “What?”

“You okay?” he asked. “You’re kind of zoning out again.”

“I’m fine.” You were glad he didn’t continue to push it. But from across, you could feel another set of eyes burning into you and looked up to see V staring back at you.

“Great, everyone’s here.”

The table came to a quick silence as they looked to see RM enter the room. The way the atmosphere shifted showed that they all really respected him, despite being around the same age. You noticed he wasn’t wearing his glasses anymore, revealing the weariness on his face. A part of you wondered what exactly had happened in that meeting. He took a seat at the head of the table.

“How was the meeting?” V asked him.

“That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

“Maybe this should wait,” Suga suggested, eyes darting briefly to your figure. “Wouldn’t want sensitive information to get in the enemies’ hands.”

To your surprise, it was Hoseok who came to your defence. “Really, Suga?”

Before the sharpshooter could respond, RM was talking again. “Rose stays. She needs to hear this too.”

You turned to him in mild surprise, which was nothing compared to Suga’s astonishment. A younger, more immature part of you wanted to gloat but decided that now wasn’t the best time.

“What’s going on?” Jimin asked.

“As you know already, GOT7 wasn’t the only team at the casino last night,” RM explained. “There are others after the same thing. The value and demand of ashe is increasing every day, and that puts more pressure on us. We know that EXO ships the drug, but we don’t know who’s making it.”

“What if we follow EXO?” Suga asked. “They could lead us to the ashe.”

“We’ve tried that already,” Hoseok said, shaking his head. “EXO never keeps the drug at SM headquarters, possibly at one of their warehouses. It looks like they get it delivered from another source.” His voice became quieter, almost embarrassed. “Which we haven’t been able to track.”

“So, the problem is that we don’t know who makes it,” Jungkook summarized.

“What would that do?” Jin asked. “How do we know other organizations don’t have the means to make it?”

“Because then its value would go down,” V answered. “And it wouldn’t be such a big deal for everyone to try and get their hands on. And as far as we know, that hasn’t happened.”

“Or maybe that’s what they want us to think,” Jimin mumbled.

Jin studied RM’s expression. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

RM sighed. “While the shipments were being transported to one of BigHit’s warehouses last night, they were intercepted. We presume they made it to where they were intended to go and are now available to the public from the top companies and dealers.” 

The others glanced at each other in surprise and consternation. “What are we up against at this point?” V said like he was thinking out loud, but had also voiced everyone else’s thought.

“That’s what we need to find out,” RM said. “And that’s where Rose comes in.”

Jimin frowned, looking around the room to see the others’ similar expressions. “What do you mean?”

“We couldn’t figure everything out because we didn’t always have the means,” he explained then looked over at you. “But now we do. Rose is a direct connection to GOT7, for starters.”

Suga scoffed. “Exactly. She’ll report back everything we’re saying to them if we just let her go.” You rolled your eyes at this, though no one noticed. “Look, RM, I know you call the shots, but seriously, did you really think this one through?”

You were expecting RM to glare or shout or just react in some form of anger, but he was more composed than you thought. “I know it sounds risky. But we’ve exhausted all possible options. We weren’t getting anywhere further.”

More than angry, the way Suga was looking at the leader was one of betrayal. And it reminded you a little of yourself when RM had revealed to you that a member from GOT7 had compromised you. “What happened to consulting us before making big decisions?”

“This was kind of a big decision,” Jimin agreed reluctantly. “We could’ve talked about it, at least.”

“I know,” RM said. He didn’t sound apologetic, although maybe he was inside. A leader didn’t apologize for their decisions. You’d learned that by now. “But the board has already agreed, and want us to get to work immediately.”

Suga shook his head, and chuckled darkly. “If this ends with all of us dead, don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you.”

When he got up suddenly, the table shook and startled you. No one tried to stop him, but a few did exchange nervous glances. 

“I should go talk to him,” V said quietly. “Try to get him to calm down and see things a little more clearly.” 

RM nodded at him as he left. You didn’t expect any of them to like this idea. You didn’t like it yourself, but you didn’t have much of a choice. You were hoping the rest of the team would understand that and possibly not make it more difficult for you. That was why you were glad that V didn’t seem to be completely against the idea.

Jimin was biting his lip before he met your eyes. “Why did you agree to help us?”

Your lips parted, taken aback and not expecting such as a question. Thankfully, RM filled in for you. “We discovered that someone from GOT7 didn’t have Rose’s best interests in mind. So I made her a deal. She helps us in exchange for her freedom.”

You frowned slightly. Why didn’t he tell them the whole truth? 

RM could sense Jimin’s hesitation. “I know it sounds risky. But Rose isn’t just a normal operative agent. She’s the Wraith, capable of doing so much more than us.”

“That’s exactly what Suga was saying,” Jimin told him. “If she has these abilities—that we don’t even fully understand— if she can do more than us, can we really trust her?”

You didn’t know why, but his words almost stung. You’d heard that before. You’d been marginalized and cast aside because of what you could do that no other human being could. People were scared of what they didn’t understand. You shouldn’t care what they thought, and maybe you didn’t. But you needed at least some of the team to somewhat accept you if you wanted answers.

“You’re smart not to.” Jimin’s eyes widened momentarily in surprise when you started talking. “I wouldn’t trust an outsider either. But I’m not asking you to completely trust me, or even like me. The reality is that someone at GOT7 betrayed me; I can’t go back there, and I don’t want to. So, we have a common interest now. I want to find where ashe is made, and who makes it just as much as you do.”

“Why does GOT7 want it then?” Jin asked.

You shrugged. “The same reason anyone wants it. Money, power. If they had control over the most highly demanded and expensive drug in the country, they’d have so much of both. Every company would look to them. They would get to call the shots.”

“And you? Is that what you wanted?”

You looked away from him after some time, unsure of yourself now. It felt strange that ever since coming to Bangtan, you were being given options from everywhere after so long of just following orders. Truthfully, you didn’t care much for money or power, not the way some of your team in GOT7 did. You’d rather they find ashe and the creators and put the entire thing to rest. Ashe could just become another everyday drug, an ordinary topic and this chaos would come to an end.

“No,” you answered finally. Your voice was firm, but what was underneath was something more vulnerable. Because you’d never been asked before about what you wanted; you’d never gotten to think of yourself. “But it didn’t matter what I wanted.”

You felt a pair of eyes shift towards you, and you could just tell that Hoseok was looking at you with sympathy. Jimin, however, was contemplative. You’d gotten him to think, but he was still wary. That was okay though. That was just a start.

“I believe you.” To your surprise, the quiet voice came from the boy sitting beside you. Jungkook was still seemingly uncomfortable making direct eye contact, but he nodded assuringly before looking to the others. “I think RM is right. We have information and resources we didn’t have before. We have to give it a shot, at least.”

RM met Jungkook’s eyes and nodded at him. In the short exchange, you saw the older boy’s face soften. It was clear that despite being the leader and older than him, RM cared what Jungkook, and the others, thought. It was strange how you could only tell something about him through his interactions with his team.

“I think that’s all for today,” he said. “Hoseok, will you show Rose where she’ll be staying?”

The hacker nodded mutely before standing up and moving towards the door. He didn’t say anything to you, but you assumed you were to follow him. Even minutes later when the two of you were in the elevator, he didn’t say anything, which you thought was a bit uncharacteristic, despite just meeting him some hours ago.

“Sorry,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “I was just thinking.”

“It’s fine,” you said, shrugging. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you or I’m mad at you,” he went on. “I just—I’m worried what this decision is going to mean for the team.”

What you were going to mean, you thought. It was already clear what your presence was doing. Suga hated you, Jimin didn’t trust you. What if being here would only do more harm than good?

“I’m not trying to cause drama,” you began. “I know that I’m not like you guys.”

Hoseok frowned. “What do you mean?"

“One of the good guys. And I won’t try to be something that I’m not. But I made a promise, and I’m going to stick with it."

There was a longer silence after that, but you weren’t bothered anymore. Eventually, Hoseok stopped in front of a door. “So, this is your room. A bunch of us are just down the hall, the rest are on the other side…” His gaze was moving from here to there, like he was trying to figure out what else to say. “I guess if you need something—“

“Yeah. Got it.” You wanted to punch yourself for coming off as too blunt and unemotional, because this was the kind of person who seemed to be the opposite. And he’d probably been the nicest to you out of everyone. But this was how you were trained. And if you were going to be working with any of them, that was how it should be.

He gave you a nod and halfway smile. “Well, good night.”

chapter i // chapter iii (coming soon)