#shes less scared of marguerite than she should be

[underlockv]

Ashley and Mia meeting in college and later getting married leading into Ashley RE7 Protag. This is not actually role swap but more a slightly to the left au (not exactly the same as my text post, keeping Ashley in RE4 and still engineering Ethan as RE8 protag as well as giving him a supporting role in 7 (ask me how!)

[omi-papus]

Light The Lamp

Part: 2

Fandom: Subnautica

Pairing: Robin x Al-An

Ao3 link

Content: Age difference, ADHD x Autism, Ableist slur, Ice Hockey AU, Modern era AU, Human Al-An AU, Drug use, Eventual smut

Summary: Rookie ice hockey player Robin Ayou stuns the league with a controversial but impressive debut, catching the eye of popular YouTuber Alan Silvester. Known for his hockey insights. After an awkward first encounter, he begs her to feature in one of his videos. And she after thinking shes found her new babygirl cant help but agree.

Word count: 8.9k

A/N: Hey guys. I managed to get this out at a decent pace I think, this fic is a lot easier to write than some of my other projects so I can balance it with Uni a lot better. Here we have more of the idiots being themselves.

She completed the interview. Robin stood firm even when faced with questions like, “How do you plan to avoid being a hindrance to your team?” No matter what, she wasn't going to cave and walk out.

Now she's wondering if that would have been the less humiliating option.

The second they finished recording, she stormed out, not saying a single word to either of the men in the room, and went straight to the gym. She doesn't know how long she stayed there, but all she could think about was what a waste of time this had all been. The dinner, the recording, the time she had spent planning her answers and all she could say to make the interview good, the time she wasted on him. Because she thought none of it amounted to anything. That the interview footage was unusable and no one in their right mind would have thought it was good enough to be released. That it would all be deleted, and they would pretend they never met. Oh boy, how wrong she was.

“AND WHEN DID I TELL YOU YOU COULD FUCKING DO THAT?!” Coach Maida yelled at the entrance of the arena, not minding for a second who else was there to hear her. Robin knew exactly what she meant the second she started yelling because she had seen it too. She forgot to unsubscribe from that godforsaken channel and saw the thumbnail that very morning. It had her nearly foaming at the mouth, and boy had she considered running up to that office and chewing him out. But she had training that day and did not want that fucker taking up any more of her time and brainpower than he already did. And lo and behold, her coach had caught wind of everything and was currently in the process of tearing her a new one.

“ARE YOU AN ACTUAL TODDLER?!”

“I wasn't expecting him to just insult me like that!”

“Oh no, he had every right to insult your piss poor playing. What you should have done was NOT throw a tantrum on camera!”

“I had to defend myself! I couldn't just sit there and take it and embarrass the team!”

“YOU EMBARRASSED THE TEAM WHEN YOU BROKE YOUR FACE ON LIVE TELEVISION!”

Robin couldn't respond to that and just gritted her teeth, holding onto her stick with enough strength to possibly break it.

“I should have kicked you out when I could…” the woman grumbled. Robin would have been scared if she hadn't made that exact threat multiple times and never followed through. She looked down at the floor. At that point, Coach Maida had stopped talking as well and just stared at her, waiting for a response. It took a minute for Robin to simmer down, to hold back from screaming and crying about what had happened in that interview and why it wasn’t her fault. She had to think about something else.

Her next words were soft, almost achingly resigned, but her eyes had that one last spark of confrontation as she locked eyes with her coach.

“Sam won’t be mad if you do. You know that, right?”

Marguerite’s expression did not change, but she didn’t answer. A cold breeze came in through the open door of the building, and the sounds of the other players whispering among themselves cut through the tension like glass. A grunt could be heard from the coach before Robin winced as she received a quick hit to the back of the head. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the coach walking away from her and into the rink.

“What are all of you staring at?! Get ready and get on the ice in five minutes! You’re doing triple laps today! You can thank Ayou for that!”

Robin could barely process the sounds of her team heckling her as she felt a certain weight in her chest grow heavier

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was the last to leave the locker room, still in her underwear, going through her phone. She had meant to unsubscribe from the YouTube channel but quickly found herself unable to look away from the comment section of the newest video.

"Like all women. Basically children." "She should not be playing if she’s this sensitive." "She just mad nobody wants to fuck a masculine thing like her." "Bro thinks she’s good."

It went on and on. She was trying her hardest not to look at Twitter. She could only imagine what the rhetoric would be there. It made her blood boil.

The Alterra Giants had requested a rematch. It would be in only a few days. She would fucking show them. Every single one of them how great of a player Robin Ayou was.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The puck slid out of her reach far too quickly for her to attempt to redirect it. Then, pathetically slowly, it moved away from her before she was pushed to the side and had to refocus her energy on regaining her balance. She stopped herself from moving too far away, getting back into hot pursuit as quickly as possible. She could feel her pulse in her ears. Her trajectory had changed to herding the action back to the left of the rink. The opposing winger was cutting across center ice, trying to get a clean entry into the zone, but Robin was determined to force her wide, to keep her from getting any closer to the middle of the rink. With a burst of speed, she closed the gap, angling her body to cut off the winger’s path. The opposing player saw her coming and tried to make a quick move to the outside, but Robin was ready. She threw her weight into the check, sending the winger off balance. The puck popped loose.

The game was tight, the score tied 3-3, and her team was down to their last minutes in the final period. Every pass, every shot, every hit mattered. The Alterra Giants seemed to have fixed themselves overnight, always having at least two players specifically countering her.

She had to feel flattered.

The center was in position near the slot. Robin’s eyes flicked to her. This was it. She sent the puck screaming across the ice, a laser pass threading between two defenders. Her teammate caught it cleanly and wound up for a one-timer. Robin held her breath. The faceoff was in the offensive zone now. Robin skated into position. She locked eyes with their captain, who was lining up for the draw. They had a plan, the captain would tie up the opposing center, and Robin would swoop in to pick up the loose puck. If everything worked perfectly, they’d get another shot and a goal.

The puck dropped. The captain did her job, tying up her opponent’s stick. Robin surged forward, her stick darting out to grab the puck. She had it. She snapped a quick shot at the net, low and hard, hoping for a rebound. The goalie blocked it, but the puck bounced out into the slot. Bodies crashed together as everyone scrambled for the loose puck.

The opposing winger, a speedster with a nose for breakaways, found the puck and chipped it past the defense. Robin’s heart sank as she watched her own defensewoman hesitate for a split second. just enough time for the winger to take off. Robin turned and sprinted, legs pumping furiously as she tried to catch up. But it was too late. The winger was already across the blue line, alone on a breakaway. Robin could only watch as the forward closed in on their goalie, faked a shot, and then lifted the puck top shelf. The red light flashed.

She didn’t truly remember what happened after that. “4-3” was her last coherent thought.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This is hideous, dear, you really ought to change the way you arrange these.” The woman began taking out plates and placing them loosely on the table. Alan stood at the edge of the kitchen, staring firmly at the ground, knowing that if he dared to look up, his brain would shut down. His entire kitchen was in disarray, every plate, cup, fork, and spoon placed out onto the counters and table, many at risk of falling off the edge.

“I’ve taught you how to organize a million times. You are a grown man. You don’t have excuses to be this messy. The cups should go in the top drawer, not the bottom right one, and the pans need to go closer to the stove.” His mother opened one of the bottom drawers and began pulling out the one pot and pan, and with no more space left on the counter, she put them on the floor. “I want this all reorganized by the end of the day, Alan. I am not letting you live like this.” She finally looked back at him as she pointed to the mess around her, and she was fuming when she noticed him looking at the ground.

She let out a deep sigh and massaged her temple. “You’re lucky I’m so patient. I don’t even want to look at your room. I can’t imagine that it’s organized either.”

“It is organized.”

“Don’t talk to me like that! I’ll go see for myself. You stay here and fix this mess.”

She walked past him, and he shuddered. He finally had to look at what she had done, and when he did, he felt his entire head heat up with stress. He held back from putting everything back where it went, knowing that it would not please his mother. He tried to remember what she had told him. The only "right" way to organize, and began rearranging as much as he could according to her rules. He tried to think of his childhood kitchen and how that was organized. Normally, it would be easy to replicate, but the layout of the kitchen was different from his current home, and he wasn’t sure how to make it equivalent in the "right" way that wouldn’t get him another angered lecture and his kitchen torn apart again. Distantly, he could hear the sound of cloth being thrown from down the hall. No doubt his mother had already begun dismantling his closet. He had moved all his hockey paraphernalia to his office for this exact reason.

Because it wasn’t the first time she had done this. Show up unannounced and invite herself in. Sometimes she was only judgmental of his lack of decor and the general subpar aesthetics of his one-bedroom apartment, commenting on his habits, like how long it took him to shower on the days she arrived before he had to head out, and where he placed his coat when she came at the end of the day. But sometimes she did this. Dug through every drawer and crevice in the house, found something she disliked, and then took out everything and told him to put it all back the "right" way.

It wasn’t that Alan was disorganized. He loved keeping his spaces tidy, clean, and in perfect order. He had created multiple systems of how things should be stacked, folded, and stored and hated when anything was out of its assigned spot. Unfortunately, his mother was never a fan of his ways of doing things and insisted that everything should be done based on how her household, when she was a child, used to run.

This had been a battle they had fought for as long as he could remember. It was an immovable object meets unstoppable force scenario, two equally obsessive people steeped in their own ways and unable to accept anything else. Alan would arrange everything to his mother’s liking, wait for her to leave, which might take multiple hours, and then put it all back, until she showed up again. It was a cycle that periodically would steal up to an entire day from him. Sometimes, he’d have to call off work to Ryley because he had to either entertain his mother or reorganize everything again.

Alan used to think he would be free to have his house the way he liked when he had his own, but his mother’s incessant visits never let him know peace. In half an hour, the kitchen was mostly presentable. He could only hope she wouldn’t undo his work twice. He didn’t have to guessshe had already told him she was angry with him, for missing her call all those weeks ago and for making a scene at that restaurant. He knew from experience that her anger would last at least another month at this rate. And he guessed that Robin’s anger would last forever.

He was smart enough to tell that she was furious. The way she conducted herself in the interview was proof enough. And the way she had left, so quickly and violently, was unnerving. Ryley had suggested, nearly begged, that he not post the video. He didn’t know why Ryley was so adamant, as Ryley had always been pretty detached from anything Alan did outside of what directly affected him. Unfortunately, Alan had promised his viewers an interview with Robin Ayou, and he couldn’t back down from that. But it really was a disaster. She refused to answer multiple questions, and the ones she did, she fought him at every step. She was obviously very upset with what he was asking her.

He had told her to notify him if she had a problem. Why didn’t she? He had given her every question. None of this should have happened like this. At least not on camera. She was clearly surprised by the questions, and it was apparent she hadn’t read the list he gave her, and that made him more upset than anything else. That he had planned everything out perfectly and it was all sabotaged because she just felt like it. Like his way of doing things was stupid and didn’t deserve consideration. Just like his mother was doing now.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by a loud thud followed by what sounded like a crack. Quickly, he put down whatever he was holding and scurried over to his room, where he could see three things.

His mother stood in the corner of the room, looking visibly shaken his bed was filled with now unfolded clothes, thrown half-heartedly around, and his headset was on the floor, the shell on the left speaker broken and detached from the headband, the cushion having detached as well.

“Sweetie, I’m so sorry! They just fell out of the closet, I didn’t know they were there! Oh my God, I broke them! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m a terrible mother who breaks my son’s things! I’m so, so sorry, Alan.”

His feelings toward the broken headset were quickly derailed by his need to calm his mom down.

“It’s alright. It was an accident. Go sit down. I can get another one.”

“I didn’t mean to do it, I’m sorry!”

“I know, Mother. Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

This went on for a solid twenty minutes. And it was only after two hours that she finally left, and he was faced with the fact that he had to replace the now broken headset.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robin stood still against the bathroom wall, fighting the burning sting of tears yet again. Every time she thought her anger had subsided, it bubbled up again like magma, and she could do nothing but grit her teeth and hold back from punching a wall.

She had told herself she would not look at social media after their loss, but, like with seemingly everything in her life, she failed. Twitter was swarming with comments about not only her team but her specifically. The connections made between her performance and the interview were plentiful. She remembered the scolding Coach Maida had given her, and even that didn’t feel close to the sheer anger she had felt in her bones when she saw that scoreboard.

She pressed her forehead against the stall wall, fists tight and jaw clenched. She was only a month into her professional career, and all of this was happening. She couldn’t help it. The gut punch of regret, coupled with an all-too-familiar helplessness, made the tears threaten to fall again. She had to mentally recite a mantra to herself, reminding herself why she was doing this, why she chose this path.

You're good at this. You're good at this. You. Are. Good. At. This.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose quickly when she heard a knock at the stall door. She had been in there for a good ten minutes, moping. Hastily stepping out, she made her way to the sinks and splashed water on her face. Looking at herself in the mirror for a moment, she wished she were home right now. The only reason she hadn’t hotboxed her room and smoked herself stupid was that she was completely out of groceries and had nothing to eat for either dinner or tomorrow’s breakfast. She was starting to regret not ordering takeout, but her budget was getting stretched thin, and she knew this was the healthier option. The closest grocery store was attached to the main mall in the area, so that's where she was. Stores would be closing soon, so she had to hurry.

It was because she was speed-walking that she only half-registered a white blur move past her. Her instinct, however, was strong enough to tell her to stop and turn around, knowing that properly identifying it would be important.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alan should have, by all means, waited until at least tomorrow to purchase another headset. Or better yet, he should have ordered it online and waited. He had most of the month's videos already recorded and could have honestly just recorded everything on camera with the whiteboard instead. But he hated waiting, and he also just needed to get this situation out of his head before it made his brain explode with rage. Needless to say, he was furious, because of everything. The broken headset had just been the final push between his mother's visit and the recent interview fiasco. He felt like he would lose it if he didn’t fix the one thing he could control in this situation.

He never liked malls very much, few things interested him, bright lights and loud sounds abounded. It wasn't unbearable, but he certainly wasn't fond of it. He was walking around, searching for an electronics store that looked like it sold more than cheap chargers and phone cases, in hopes of getting a half-decent headset to serve as a placeholder while he waited to get another identical to the one he already had. He knew that wasn't the wisest financial decision, but he simply did not care at this point. He walked along with his head facing the ground, just thinking about how much better it would be once all of this was behind him. That was until a very loud noise pierced his ears, and he turned around to recognize a person stomping toward him.

“YOU!”

She had quickly pinned him to the wall, pointing at his face, her finger dangerously close to his chin.

“You motherfucker!”

He was never great at identifying facial expressions, which only made the vibrant anger in her eyes even more noticeable. It took him a whole five seconds of staring before he processed the eye contact, became uncomfortable, and looked away.

“Oh no, you look at me, you piece of shit!”

Her hand was already on the wall to the left of his head, leaning in way too close for comfort. He only took tentative glances at her, slowly shuffling to the side, away from her. He was thankful she didn't outright grab his face.

“I said look at me, dammit. Can you at least treat me like a person?!”

That confused him, his eyes still on the pillar to the side of them.

“I have never indicated I don't see you as a person,” he mumbled unsurely. He nearly felt her huff exasperatedly on his chin.

“Are…” She seemed almost choked for a short second before frowning at him again. “Am I supposed to believe you're just stupid?”

He finally took a step to the side, getting out of her hold. A nearly imperceptible growl escaped her when he did, but she removed herself from the wall and stared him down.

“Am I just expected to believe that you didn’t know how bad all of that would fucking look?! Is that your excuse?!” She spoke loudly but stopped outright yelling.

“I…” He cut himself off, realizing he needed to further think his words through. “I gave you time to contest the questions if you wanted to,” he struggled to say.

“And how did you expect me to react exactly?! I wouldn't have done the interview at all if you were just going to shit on my entire career for thirty minutes straight!”

His hand twitched. “Your career is barely existent. You’ve got one victory under your belt, one that you lost immediately after.”

She visibly fumed. So the shithead had watched that day's game too. Of course, he had. “So then why care about me at all?! If you just think I'm a piece of shit at my job, then what was the point of interviewing me in front of hundreds of people? Do you just get off on humiliating me?!”

They were starting to get looks. Robin noticed this far before Alan did. For a moment, she was self-conscious. She was making a scene so soon after being called emotional and childish for her on-camera outburst. The thought made her so upset that she nearly didn’t care about how those around her might see her. But that underlying shame was still there, that feeling that she was just being dramatic, that she should just suck it up and move on with her life. That she should just train harder and force him to eat his words. But something about looking at him directly set her off. Seeing him there, looking so lost and vaguely afraid, even through the thick facade of his expressionless face, made the barb sink so much deeper into her chest. Betrayed. She felt betrayed. And she felt stupid for it. Because it wasn’t a secret to her that he had quickly endeared himself to her, that she had found him oddly cute and charming. That she had felt that they were friends. She had known him for so little time. She shouldn’t have gotten this attached that quickly. Or shouldn’t have gotten attached at all.

“I thought the phenomenon of how you played was worth investigating,” he said, still facing the wall. Robin had to force herself to sigh. It did not help.

“What? Is my failure just fun to you?! Am I just entertaining because I'm so fucked up at playing hockey that I need to be studied?”

“I think you're taking it personally.”

“It IS personal, Alan! This isn't just my hobby! This is my life!”

“Well maybe play like it, then.” His fists were clenched hard, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. For a moment, Robin was too stunned to clap back. She fumbled with her words for a good few seconds as they kept getting stuck in her throat. The sheer audacity of the statement actually made her return to reality. Him so openly admitting he thought she was shit felt like it put an end to a small fire that had been burning her lungs. It felt like some type of closure.

“I shouldn’t even care. You're nothing but some nobody on the internet. Your own followers are getting tired of you, and you're more preoccupied with shitting on me than getting your mediocre career back on track.”

“You're trying to offend me, and it is not going to work.” He spat at her, looking now at her feet.

“Ryley was right about you. You're nothing but a neurotic freak with an ego up your ass!”

“Listen, I just want to go purchase something. I have nothing to say to you.”

“No wonder nobody likes you. Nothing is ever enough for you.”

That, Robin noticed, lightly changed the look in his eyes. “Listen.” His shoulders tensed, and to her surprise, he turned to face her, still looking at her feet. He took a step toward her, and they were once again toe to toe with each other.

“You have no experience with what being less than enough is like. If you really weren't enough, that coach of yours would have kicked you out a long time ago. I’ve seen her do worse for less. You’ve waved to your loving family at plenty of your games since university.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He should have shut up then, but an unstable cocktail of built-up frustration and anger was making him unreasonable. “Nothing I do is ever enough. Not for my family, not for my audience, not even for my own employee, and clearly not for you.”

Robin only raised an eyebrow, demanding he elaborate. He happily did. “I gave you every single question written out on paper and would have easily sent you a digital copy if you asked. I gave you a week to make the choice, to communicate with me, and yet you said nothing. It was clear you couldn’t even be bothered to read any of them. I would have changed them. I would have called off the interview if it was really that bad. I had everything set up to avoid disaster, but that was not enough. I tell my viewers that I’m going to interview a professional player, but that's not good enough. I lose nearly half of my income to pay my assistant a livable wage by just doing the job he signed up for, and that is not enough. I show my family over and over that I’m managing my life and have found even a little success in what I do, and that is still not enough. It’s never fucking enough.”

Robin blinked, her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t what he was saying that surprised her, but how he said it. For all his usual detachment, this was the first time she had seen him genuinely vulnerable. She tried to shake that feeling off. He was the one who had treated her like a lab rat for his personal gain. He didn’t get to turn this around on her now, not after everything.

“That’s your excuse? You’re sad, so you did this to me?” She bristled.

“I am not giving you excuses. I am just simply expressing how I feel since you’re so intent on arguing.”

“What you feel?! What about what I felt?! When you still posted that stupid interview when I was clearly not happy with it?!”

“You didn’t tell me not to post it. You didn’t tell me anything. You just left.”

“And you’re going to tell me you didn’t see I was upset about it? It was obvious, you should have known!”

“Your subpar communication skills are not my responsibility.”

“Oh, we’re talking about communication, how funny. I would have LOVED for you to have communicated that you thought I was a stupid piece of shit instead of schmoozing me up at dinner and texting me like we were best friends!”

He was taken aback by that last statement, finally catching himself staring at her again, this time in sheer disbelief. “What do you mean by that?” he said slowly.

“If you were just going to insult my playing, why did you act so polite, take me out, and… and make me trust you?”

She sounded… hurt by the end of the sentence, her burning ire fading into the background ever so slightly. Alan couldn't decipher it, but he was dumbfounded by the very question.

“Because you’re a person. Even if a messy one, you are still a high-level professional player. And just… because I respect you? I never thought that you were stupid, and I just… Why wouldn’t I?

She was exhausted. She only then realized it. Frustration was starting to burn away at the last of her energy reserves along with her sore arms and bruised calves. She let out a huffy, exasperated noise as she held her head in her hands. It dawned on her what she was doing and how stupid and insane it looked to everyone around her. Was she being childish? She didn't know and only half cared. But she knew then that she wanted this to be over.

“Are you even sorry?” She simply sounded tired now, the tone of her voice significantly higher-pitched than before. Alan was able to sense this, and therefore his own defensiveness lowered, but he still had to take a moment to think about it.

“I do not think it is my fault, but I am sorry it turned out like this,” was all he could say. Robin stayed quiet, looking at him in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable, and he finally had enough.

“Goodbye, Miss Ayou.” It took a lot of strength for him to turn around and walk away, but he finally did, leaving Robin to deal with the stares. The supermarket had already closed.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was going hungry tonight. She refused to spend more money on takeout, and Cal had his parents over, so she couldn't raid his fridge tonight. She was almost tempted to ask Sam for food, but the fear that Coach Maida could be the one to answer the phone was enough to dissuade her.

She should have, by all means, gone to sleep already. Her tired body was screaming at her, and her frayed nerves couldn't handle any more, but she just couldn't feel like it. That was very much like her, procrastinating even when it came to sleep. Fuck, she did not want to go to training tomorrow. If only she could call in sick like any other job, well, at least any job where Coach Maida wasn’t in charge. She tried to think of ways to get out of it while boiling some water. She really needed to get a kettle. Busting out the pot every time she wanted to fill her hot water bottle was getting beyond annoying, especially since these days she had to do it daily. Everything hurt. She looked over to her room and heavily considered rolling one out, but it would go to waste if she was just going to fall asleep five minutes later.

In minutes, she was on the couch, a hot water bottle pressed against her shoulder, her phone at ten percent, bright in the darkness. She scrolled past a group chat with her teammates, a message from her mom asking how she was doing, and a few promotional emails from places she'd never shop at. She was in that mood in which she couldn't stay on a single app for more than a couple of seconds, her attention span wouldn’t sit with her for more than that. She leaned her head back against the couch, trying to force herself to relax. Eventually, she decided to scroll through YouTube Shorts since she hadn’t tried that yet. Pretty quickly, that got boring as well, so she began looking through her YouTube feed. Maybe her favorite ichthyologist YouTuber had posted something new today.

Like a bitter metallic taste suddenly making its way into her mouth, a video showed up on the feed that nearly jump-scared her. She sat upright on her couch and stared at the screen. She thought she had unsubscribed from that stupid channel earlier today. Did she really forget to do it then, too? Fuck, she was stupid.

She collapsed back down again. “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” she muttered to herself tiredly. The video still stared her in the face. It made her angry. She felt the urge to report it, but she knew that doing that would actually cross the line into being childish. Currently, she was frozen. Something in her stopped her from scrolling along, unsubscribing, or doing anything about the situation that was bothering her. She placed the phone on her chest. She never did watch any videos from him, maybe if she had, she would have picked up that he was an asshole before she agreed to be part of them. And thinking about it more, she felt like an idiot again. She really did just like the idea of being interviewed like a celebrity, regardless of who did it. She never cared about his channel or whatever greater goal he had in mind. She just wanted to feel good about herself. Was that wrong of her? It felt like it was.

His little speech still bothered her. It wasn’t unimaginable that he had his own bullshit going on. Everyone did. Robin was convinced that everyone thought the world was caving in around them half the time. He wasn’t special. Still, she had to feel bad because it was true, if she had just not lost the paper like a moron, this wouldn’t have happened. He said so himself. And, God, she was never going to live down what Cal told her to do. Just ask for the questions again. She had avoided doing it for such a stupid reason, too. And that's the part that bruised her ego the most.

Because she was attracted to him. That had been apparent from minute one. She had wanted to look cool in front of him. She didn’t want him to know she was an idiot. And what hurt the most was finding out he already did. Seemingly from the start, he knew. And she really was stupid, wasn’t she? Her tooth still stood sharp and broken in her mouth, the image of the scoreboard was still seared into her brain.

Why hadn’t Maida kicked her out yet? If she let a boy get under her skin like a teenager, surely she deserved to be left behind with the college kids like so many of the other girls did. She should have never been drafted. This was a mistake. She was just destined for nothing, like all her school teachers had told her.

She curled up on the couch, burying her face against the cushion. She was spiraling again. She needed a distraction, now. She took out her phone and just mindlessly clicked on the video. Fuck it. Maybe getting angry at Alan again would get her back on track. What the video was even about didn’t matter, as long as it was something other than more loud thoughts of self-hate. Alan was in front of a whiteboard with a projection on it. He wasted no time, beginning to scribble and talk at length. Robin immediately recognized the topic, neutral zone traps, forechecking, and counterattacks. She stared at the screen, watching Alan’s hands move across the whiteboard, the slight tilt of his head as he spoke. She was annoyed that even now, after everything, he could still captivate her attention. Pathetic.

The video droned on about the timing of offensive breakouts and how players should anticipate defensive collapses. But then something in the video caught her ear, a mention of adaptability. Alan was saying something about how great players aren’t just skilled at executing strategies, they’re able to adapt to changing circumstances. The ones who succeed long-term are the ones who can read a situation, make quick decisions, and adjust, even when things go off script. She was good at that, she thought. Robin had always been quick on her feet and would thrust herself at any opportunity that presented itself to strike. Heh, she was so dead set on improvising that she had… broken… her tooth. She instinctively ran her tongue along the jagged edge of it, wincing at the reminder. Improvising was her strength, sure, but sometimes it came with a cost.

Alan’s voice brought her back to the video. He was talking about the importance of balance, knowing when to adapt but also knowing when to stick to the fundamentals. "It’s not just about reacting to the situation," he said, his tone calm but firm. "It’s about controlling how you react.” Robin remembered that incident, how it had happened because she flung herself at a loose puck and accidentally planted the toe picks of her skates on the ground and fell over. She hadn't thought about the consequences, about how her desperate attempts to turn the tide were turning into sloppy mistakes.

Robin gritted her teeth. Control. That word made her stomach churn. It was what Coach Maida had been drilling into her head for months now. Her natural instincts were sharp. She’d fight tooth and nail to force a play, to make something happen, but in doing so, she’d lose sight of the bigger picture and…

Her head was starting to hurt. She got off of YouTube, cutting the video off. She stared at the ceiling for God knows how long. Thankfully, she had the loud sounds of cars honking outside to save her from being submerged in the silence. She hugged the hot water bottle. Well, just like he seemed, Alan was smart. Too smart. Too blunt as well. He hadn’t just made his points by themselves. He had provided examples for every single aspect he was discussing, heavily criticizing a number of players in the process. She let out a deep sigh. Alright, maybe it wasn’t personal. She still found what happened in the interview incredibly rude and insensitive, especially with how little faith people naturally have in female hockey. But she supposed he just didn’t consider that. It was weird, actually, how little he cared about that fact. She looked through his recent videos, and the last seven of them were all about female games, even if she noticed that those had fewer views than the previous male-led ones.

A sudden urge to ask him about it popped into her head. It was just a fleeting notion, but the fact that she had just thought of texting him about why he liked female hockey like that caught her off guard. Like she hadn’t just sworn off ever thinking of him again a few hours prior.

“Uuuuugh, nooooooooo…” she whined lowly. Watching that video had done something for her. She just saw him, so focused and objective, that she finally had to realize that Alan was just some guy. He loved hockey like an obsessive little kid who cared about the game itself so much that people's feelings just slipped his mind. Could she really be that mad at that? He himself had admitted to her that he was autistic, and- no. No, no, no, no. That was NOT an excuse. Never had been, never would be. But what, she just wasn't mad at him anymore? What was she supposed to do with that? She didn't just want to forgive him. But… he wasn’t malicious. He was… blunt, obsessive, maybe even careless, but not cruel. She was almost certain of that now. Maybe she was infantilizing him, but that was better than considering him a shitbag. Robin remembered what he had told her, that although she was messy, she was still a professional. Did he always feel that way about her? How she felt now? So lukewarm and weirdly disturbed by the existence of a grown adult who was so… clumsy. Her with her feet and him with his words.

She briefly considered that her brain might just be looking for excuses to let things go so she could fawn over him again. It was at that moment that she made a choice. If she was going to go anywhere with this relationship, that attraction had to go. He wasn't some irresistible supermodel. Most of what appealed to her was just that he was taller than her, which most men weren't. He was decently polite, but she had gotten a good enough look at his personality to realize that the soft boy sweetheart persona she had built up in her head was far from the truth. She had been into her girlfriends before, and she got over that. Yes, this was the right choice. She could do this.

Now the question was, did she want to continue their relationship? If she even could, he looked pretty pissed at her too. But if they made up, what would become of whatever they had? Well, first of all, any more videos were off the table. But that had been the only reason they even met in the first place. The only reason he approached her, and the only reason she followed along with the weirdo that ran to corner her in the street. She huffed. Well, at least they were even cornering each other in public. The point was, what else did she want from him?

She thought about it while scratching dirt from under her fingernails, and rather easily, she had her answer. She felt bad for him. Not just because she screamed at him in public, but because of everything. Like she said, he wasn't special for having his own emotional baggage, which he had revealed to her seemingly on impulse. But still, even before that, he had such wet dog energy. When they were on good terms, he would text her incessantly, like he had no one else to talk to. She had a suspicion that was the reason he invited her out to dinner instead of just forwarding her the questions via email. And now she knew that he was aware that Ryley, his only work colleague, thought badly of him. Adding that he also briefly mentioned having family issues, something Robin had never been familiar with.

If she wasn't going to be his friend, then no one else would. And something about her hypersocial brain wouldn't let that go. Was she really going to let go of all the humiliation and anger to adopt a thirty yearold man? Fuck, she needed to broaden her hobbies.

She lay down comfortably again and put a pin in that thought. She was being hormonal or something. She had just finished tearing his ear out. She couldn't just call him up and be like, Hey, sorry, let’s be friends. She wasn't a saint.

Looking at her phone with five percent battery left, she decided she had enough of videos and hopped on Twitter. Robin had fought for her life to keep her Twitter hockey-free. She had enough of that shit on the daily. When she had phone time in bed, she would prefer to look at videos of Cuddlefish. Well, until a few days ago, of course. Following Alan had completely thrown off her algorithm, if only because of how much he tweeted. She should have known that she couldn't avoid him here either. There were just old threads of arguing until she got to the top, where she inevitably came across his most recent tweet and…

“Let it be on record that I do not condone the misogynistic and degrading comments made about the athlete Robin Ayou as a result of my video.”

Suddenly, it was quiet even on the street outside. Without thinking, she clicked on the thread and continued reading.

“While I stand by my analysis of her play, it’s important to separate criticism of performance from personal attacks. I respect Robin as a player and as a person, and any comments attacking her have no place in the discussion.”

He hadn’t tagged her in the tweet. Maybe he thought that was him being respectful, but now she wished he had. At least then she could have responded, said her piece, and maybe even defended herself instead of just being some invisible target. She looked at the time it was posted. Ten minutes ago. So after their spat at the mall. Even after all of that…

She buried her face in her hands. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck…” she groaned. She stood up, back pain be damned. She stomped over to her room and plugged in her phone, not waiting for the little sound to ring before going into her contacts and searching for a familiar name. Alphabetically, it was the first. She put the phone to her ear as her breath caught in her throat. What was she doing? Whatever it was, she had to do it now before she lost her nerve or her pride swallowed her alive. The phone was already ringing, so there was no going back now.

The sound permeated for an unbearably long time. A small part of her was hoping he wouldn't pick up. That she could tell herself that she tried and that it was him who rejected her.

The ringing stopped.

“A-”

“I will have you know that it is only legal to claim defamation if the statements made are both false and damaging to your reputation. I have extensive proof of all my claims and proof of your consent to-”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey! No, no, no, no, no! I never- I don't- what?”

“I would urge you not to allow this to go to court.”

“Alan, I am not trying to sue you!”

“Then what do you want?”

The words suddenly got caught in her throat. For what felt like an eternity, she was unable to say anything out of sheer nervousness.

“Miss Ayou, this is considered harassment.” His voice never wavered once.

“No! Wait! Fuck! I just- I’m sorry!”

“What was that?”

“I- I- I” She sighed harshly. “I’m sorry, Alan.”

“Okay.”

Robin blinked. That's it? Okay? She nearly said that out loud. A short silence followed before she realized it really was on her to make this count. “I did take it personally. Too personally. I know now that you're like that with every player, and I shouldn't have accused you of trying to hurt me.”

“Because I wasn't.”

“I know. Listen, I was being irrational back there at the mall. That wasn't deserved. I shouldn't have made a scene like that.”

“Is that it?”

He was really going to milk her dry, wasn’t he? “Alright, I'm also sorry for the interview. It… it was stupid. I should have done something more productive than just digging my heels in like that.”

“Miss Ayou?”

She wished his voice would soften even a little but knew that even if he was in a good mood, it almost never did.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you read the interview questions?”

She dragged her palm across her face, hunched her shoulders, and held back a groan. He noticed. Of course, he noticed. She had no choice but to rip off the band-aid now.

“I… I lost the paper…”

Where had the cars outside gone? She couldn’t deal with this silence!

“Are you serious?”

“Yyyyyep…”

“You’re not messing with me?”

“Why would I make this up?” She sounded like she wanted to jump off a pier because honestly, she did.

“I just…” That was the first time she had ever heard him lose his words like that. It was honestly intimidating.

“Why???” His pitch heightened in disbelief. She swallowed hard, she couldn't decide if this was going better or worse than she had expected.

“I just put it away and then I couldn't find it.”

“Are you one hundred percent certain?”

“Yes? I know it's the dumbest shit you've ever heard, but that's what happened.”

She could hear fiddling on the other line. He must have started to pace.

“And… why… didn't you ask for a copy??”

She briefly couldn't speak again. Her face was burning, and it was making her dizzy. What did she expect to say here? I had a crush on you, so I didn't want to embarrass myself? Well, yeah, that exactly, but for the sake of her sanity, she would omit some things.

“I didn't… want you to know that I lost it. Because… well, like I said, it's stupid, and I didn't want you to think I was an idiot for losing something so simple.”

It was his turn to struggle to speak for a couple of seconds. “I- Robin, what you did is much dumber than just asking for them again.”

“I know!”

Alan, on his side, had in fact been pacing around his room, eventually, he had to stop and sit back on the bed. He ran a hand through his hair and fiddled with his shirt collar for several seconds before thinking of how to continue. Robin was waiting for a response, as she had fallen silent, save for the occasional short squeal of frustration that would come through.

“So this was all a misunderstanding then.” He didn't sound completely sure.

“Ugh, I mean no. It's mostly my fault. I'll take that, but it's because I wouldn't have done the interview if I had known what the questions were.”

Alan sighed. "So you went into the interview blind. And now you’re apologizing after wanting to kill me four hours ago."

"Yes! I get it, okay? I’m an idiot. I didn’t plan for it to spiral like this."

"That’s an understatement," he muttered. There was a pause.

"You didn’t have to make that interview so brutal," Robin said, more quietly now.

"You expected me to go easy on you?" Alan’s voice was incredulous.

She was going to implode. “Well, when you put it like that, I look like a little bitch.”

“What do you plan to do when criticism like this comes to you again?”

Robin buried her face in her free hand. “I’ve gotten worse, just not in front of a bunch of people, man!”

“You're twenty three, you'll recover.” He attempted to comfort her, but it only agitated her more for reasons unknown to him.

“D-don't treat me like a kid!” Her face was flushed, and her ears got hot.

“I never did. I simply meant to say that you have the rest of your career ahead of you.”

She brought her knees to her chest, her voice coming out much softer than either of them had anticipated. “So what? Do I just have ‘potential’ and nothing else? Is that how you see me?”

This time she could hear him breathe through the phone. “I'm not that important, Robin.”

Her eyes widened momentarily, and she mentally kicked herself for caring so much again. She was taking too long to answer, so he did in her stead. “I don't understand. Are you upset because you found the video defamatory or because you think I dislike you?”

Even through her pinkish-brown skin, the dark red of her blush could show through. That was a good question. The obvious answer was both, but if she looked inside herself, she could find which of the two dug at her ego the hardest.

“It's not like we're even friends.”

And she was not about to be honest about that.

“I suppose not.”

They were both quiet for a long time. It didn't feel right to hang up, but neither could come up with something more substantial to say.

She cleared her throat. “Look, I didn’t call you to- ugh, whatever this is. I just wanted to say sorry for blowing up. I… I get that you were just doing your job, and I need to stop making everything personal.”

“Good,” Alan said flatly.

Robin felt her heart sink just a little, even though she’d expected him to say something like that. What had she been hoping for?

“I just... I don’t want to be on bad terms with you. That’s all.”

“Bad terms? Robin, this wasn’t personal. I don’t go around trying to make enemies of people.”

“Well, you got pretty personal back at the mall with that little spiel about your life.” She said with a certain venom in her voice. This was supposed to be an apology, but she refused to pretend like she was the only emotional one in the situation.

He choked for a second, almost dropping his phone in the process. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded more than a little strained. “That was an oversight.”

“And what? Do mistakes only have consequences when I make them?”

He hesitated for several seconds. “And what consequences am I supposed to suffer then?”

It was Robin's turn to stall. During the span of five seconds, she went through all five stages of grief for her pride and finally settled on what she wanted. “I want you to forgive me.”

He blinked a couple of times. That was a much simpler request than he had expected. “I already did.”

“Forgive me like you mean it.”

“How am I supposed to prove that?” He was utterly perplexed, even if he didn't fully convey it.

“Everything has to go back to normal between you and me. Back to the random blocks of text at 3 PM. Back to asking about our day. No more videos or interviews in mind. Just talk, like normal.”

Alan was close to short circuiting. This took a turn that he never could have expected. “But like you said, we are not friends.”

“Well, fuck you, you’re my friend now.”

“What? Do I get a choice in the matter?”

“Nope.”

“You can't do that.”

“Sure can, white boy.”

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

“Talk to you tomorrow, Al. Good night.”

She hung up, leaving him more confused than he had been in his life. What?

[pianomanblaine]

Killing Me Softly

He could have spent an eternity envisioning his own death and it still would not have prepared him for this.

Written for  @timebird84 ‘s Spooky Phantober, day 2. I know it says SPOOKY phantober, but I don’t really do spooky, so this turned into something else, I hope that’s okay. 

AO3 FFN

In the course of his existence, Erik had come close to death many times. He’d been attacked, beaten, poisoned more times than he cared to remember. He had imagined and anticipated his own demise in more than a hundred different ways. On a few occasions, he had even longed for it, relished the idea of someone putting an end to his miserable life, but the human instinct for survival is a strange thing, the body always doing everything in its power to stay alive no matter how hard the brain yearns for it to stop.

Nevertheless, he could have spent an eternity envisioning his own death and it still would not have prepared him for this. He had always thought it would be painful. Whether it was sharp and quick or slow and drawn out, in his mind there was always physical suffering involved. This was something else entirely.

This type of dying was… soft. Every smile she gave him, every touch and every kind word she bestowed upon him made him feel warm. Hearing her sing for him and only him during their lessons lit up his entire being from the inside, made his spirit soar to heights he had never known existed. Her mere presence was like a drug, a powerful painkiller taking away the hurt caused by the knowledge that she would never be his.

Even if Christine could feel even a fraction of the love he felt for her, he could never bring himself to kill her light by dragging her down to his world of darkness, and her realm of colour and brightness would always be out of reach for the monster that he was. So he would bask in her glow as long as possible, and when she finally left, she would take his heart with her, if he ever had a heart to begin with.

He had been slowly dying like this for about a month now, while he watched her live as she never had before. After her successful debut as Elissa in Hannibal, Christine had been given more prominent roles and had managed to shine in every single one of them (not that Erik had expected anything else). Her angel’s voice along with his tutelage made her into the rising star of the Opera Populaire. Soon the whole world would be at her feet. It would not be long now before she would spread her wings and fly, leaving him behind to rot in hell like he deserved. It wouldn’t be painful, he expected. Once she had gone and he had no more reason to live, he would simply cease to be.

But he had some time left before all of that was to happen. Tonight, his angel had given what could arguably be called the best performance of her career thus far as Marguerite in the new production of Faust, and he was waiting behind the mirror of her dressing room to congratulate her in person. Soon she came bustling into the room, a most becoming blush colouring her cheeks, no doubt as a result of the praise bestowed upon her by her adoring audience. As soon as the door had closed behind her, her gaze went straight to the mirror.

‘Erik? Are you there?’ she called out.

‘Of course, my dear,’ he replied, ‘where else would I be?’

Indeed, where else would he be? Every minute he spent in her presence brought him closer to his inevitable demise, but that would not stop him from basking in her light for however long she would allow him to.

The lock on the door clicked shut. ‘Won’t you come in, please? You know I prefer to talk to you face to face,’ Christine said.

‘Yes, I do know that, although for the life of me, I cannot fathom why,’ he murmured to himself as he swung open the mirror and stepped into her dressing room.

‘Brava, my angel, you were magnificent tonight, as I knew you would be.’

She thanked him quietly, looking away from him, her cheeks turning an even brighter shade of red. Would she ever stop being so shy and modest in the face of his compliments, even though he must have given her thousands already? And would he ever stop feeling this fluttering in his chest when he saw that breathtakingly beautiful smile on her face? He hoped the answer was no.

‘We should start preparing you for your next role. I’m sure the new production will be announced soon.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

Although Christine usually threw herself into preparing for a new role with enthusiasm, she seemed rather reluctant to address the topic tonight.

‘Is something the matter, my dear?’

Finally, for the first time that evening, she looked him in the eye, although her reply was still rather hesitant.

‘As a matter of fact, there is something I wish to discuss with you concerning the next production.’

‘Oh? And what would that be?’

‘I… I don’t think… Oh please, don’t be upset with me, Erik!’ she cried out, hiding her face in her hands.

‘Christine, whatever is going on?’ he asked, hastening over to her and gently wrapping an arm around her slender frame. ‘Why do you think I would be upset with you? My dear, your reaction has me quite concerned. Speak, child. Tell me what is wrong.’

She sniffled, slowly moving her hands away, allowing him to see her face, but her eyes remained fixed on the floor as she spoke.

‘I don’t want the leading role in the next production. In fact, I would prefer not to have any part in it at all, but I know that would not be conducive to my career, and you have been working so hard to get me where I am today, for which I am ever so grateful, so I thought I could maybe request a smaller role as a compromise.’

Whatever he had thought she would say, this was certainly not it. For a moment, he was stunned into silence.

‘Erik? Please say you’re not upset with me.’

If she had been anyone else, he would have yelled at her that of course, he was upset, how could she willingly throw away all that they had been tirelessly working towards these past few months? But this was Christine, his angel. He had to be more careful and considerate with her. The last thing he wanted was to scare her away. So he took a deep breath and tried his best to remain calm.

‘You are the star of this Opera, Christine. This is everything you’ve wanted, everything you deserve. I simply do not understand why you would want a smaller role now. Please explain it to me.’

‘It’s not that I don’t enjoy it or want it anymore, Erik, because I do, I promise, but I have been spending so much time in rehearsals and on stage lately that I barely got to see you anymore. I was only hoping that if I took on a less significant role in the next opera, you and I could spend more time together again, like we used to.’

For a moment, Erik thought he had misheard her. Did she mean she actually enjoyed his company? That she even preferred it over being on stage? Maybe he was dreaming. No, hallucinating, that was more likely. The idea of an angel like her willingly spending more time with a demon like him was preposterous. Only he could have dreamt that up.

‘Let me see if I understood you correctly. You want to give up a leading role because you want to spend more time with me? Don’t be ridiculous, my dear. I thought you would have figured out by now that my dreary little place five stories beneath the earth is no place for an angel like you. Your rightful place is up here, on that stage, playing the lead. You will not settle for anything less, Christine, I won’t have it and that is final.’

Clearly, that was not the reaction Christine was hoping for. She drew away from him, taking several paces back, her small, delicate hands balling into fists.

‘And why should you get to decide that? It’s my life, my career, surely I should have a say in this as well.’

‘If you were capable of making choices that would be beneficial to your career, then yes,’ he retorted. ‘In this case, however, I think you should leave the decision making up to me, since you don’t seem to know what is good for you.’

‘How dare you!’ Christine gasped, her face now red with indignation, the look in her eyes suddenly more fierce and passionate than he had ever seen from her. ‘Is that what you want? To make all my decisions for me? Well, I suppose I should not be surprised. After all, that is exactly what you have been doing since we’ve met, is it not?’

Is that what she truly thought of him? That all he wanted was to control her?

‘Christine, listen –‘

‘No, you listen!’ she yelled. ‘These past few months, you have been telling me what to do. Not only how to improve my singing, but what to eat, when to come and when to go, how to behave towards Carlotta and the managers. And I have listened to you, let you guide me in whatever direction you liked like a puppet on a string, because I believed you knew what was best for me where my singing career was concerned. But you do not know what is best for me when it comes to my heart, Erik.’

When Erik didn’t reply – how could he, he didn’t even know where to start, didn’t understand what was happening at all – she slowly walked up to him, taking his right hand in both of hers and bringing it up to her chest, right over her heart.

‘I care for you, Erik. So much.’

He wanted to stop her right there, because that could not possibly be the truth, but she held up a hand to halt his protests. She continued, her voice softer now, looking up at him with pleading eyes, pleading for what he did not know.

‘When I am up on that stage, I’m not singing for the audience. I am singing for you. You are the one who gave me my voice, and so every time I sing, I am laying my soul at your feet. I could not care less who else is listening to me, as long as you are there. And I know you are there every single time, I can always feel your presence even when I cannot see you, but sometimes it feels like it is not enough. I want to be near you. I love to sing for you, but I want to sing with you as well. Please let me.’

If it had been physically possible, Erik’s jaw would have dropped to the floor. She could not possibly mean any of this, could she? She was right, he had controlled and manipulated her, even if he did not think of it as such at the time, and still she was here, standing right in front of him, telling him she cared for him?

When the ability to from words finally returned to him, her name was the first sound that crossed his lips.

‘Christine,’ he whispered, his usually confident and commanding voice now trembling with bewilderment, ‘I do not understand. How? Why?’

‘You silly man,’ Christine said, a soft smile playing on her lips. ‘Such a genius, and yet understanding human emotions has always been beyond your grasp, has it not?’

Suddenly he felt her soft little hand caressing the unmasked side of his face. He gasped, trembling under her touch, and before he could say anything her lips were on his.

If she had been softly killing him before, it now felt like she was breathing life back into him with a single kiss. If he had been slowly descending into the darkness of hell, she was now pulling him back up towards her own blinding light. He let out a soft whimper when she pulled back a little, but then she kissed him again, a little more firmly this time, and he finally managed to wrap his left arm around her waist, his right hand still resting over her heart where she had placed it. His whole body was buzzing with an energy he had not felt in a long time, every nerve screaming at him that he was most definitely alive.

Death would have to wait a little longer after all, it seemed.

[prairiesongserial]

13.5

Cody’s heart was hammering against his ribs with such force that it almost hurt. He was sure that the Good Guys surrounding him could hear it, or could at least see the nervousness on his face, but none of them commented. The Good Guys didn’t do much besides move him along in a torrent of bodies.

They were skirting the edge of the mountain that the Good Guys had come down the side of, and Cody was beginning to become afraid that he would have to climb it. The Good Guys had no harnesses, or anything to help them grip the rock - which might have been fine for them, but Cody had never climbed a mountain before. He hoped he wouldn’t have to learn. The red-headed Good Guy had mentioned the King under the mountain, after all.

He was proven right when they reached the base of the mountain and the red-headed Good Guy shifted a barrier of brush and moss aside to reveal a crack as large as a doorway in the rock. They stepped through it without hesitation, and the rest of the group began to follow. Cody lingered at the back. His pulse was still pounding in his ears, and the black paint on his face was dripping down his cheeks with his sweat. The passageway beyond the crack looked narrow, almost oppressively so, and Cody was sure he would have preferred climbing the mountain to this.

“What’s the matter, Dead-Eye?” one of the Good Guys asked. She was broad and muscular, with dark skin, and dark hair cropped close to her scalp. She had fallen to the back of the group with Cody, and they were now the only people who hadn’t yet entered the mountain. “Never been under a mountain before?”

“Don’t call me that,” Cody said, avoiding her eyes.

Every Dead-Eye felt like a punch to the throat. It winded him, to think that this was what he had inherited - or worse, that this was what he was pretending to have inherited. The Dead-Eyes had all but renounced Ethan, back at Old Problem. Would they accept a leader who had killed him, or were things different now? What would they do, if they learned Cody was running around the East Coast, telling other gangs he was their leader? Marguerite had always been as unforgiving as Ethan, but in subtler ways. She knew how to hold a grudge quietly. And Cody wanted to come home to Oregon someday, to be welcomed back to Levering without a knife (or dozens of them) pointed at his throat.

“Why?” the Good Guy asked, her lips curling into a catlike grin. “That’s who you are, isn’t it?”

“Should I call you Good Guy?” Cody asked, meeting her eyes, his sweaty palms pressed against his jeans.

She laughed outright, leaning against the rock wall. “You can call me Cutter.”

“Then you have to call me by my name,” Cody said. “I know you know it. You’ve got my wanted poster.”

His voice sounded unfamiliarly steely to his own ears, and he wondered if he shouldn’t try to temper it. Ethan had always been genial while talking to other gangs. Charismatic. But Cody didn’t want to be anything like Ethan. Even the idea of it scared him.

“Fine,” Cutter said, exhaling another laugh through her nose. “Can I offer you some advice, Cody Allison?”

Cody frowned, studying her face. She was still grinning, like there was a joke he wasn’t in on. “What advice?”

“The King doesn’t like to be kept waiting, so get your ass into the caves.” Cutter gestured to the passage through the bottom of the mountain. It looked too narrow for her to comfortably travel through it, Cody thought, though presumably Cutter was used to the tight squeeze. “You’re not going to look very impressive if you show up for parley slung over my shoulder.”

“What?”

“It’s simple,” Cutter said, leaning down so she could look him in the eye. “If you don’t walk the path on your own, I’ll put you over my shoulder and carry you to the King myself.”

Her expression said she wasn’t joking. She stepped aside, motioning again to the passage, and Cody took the hint.

The passage wasn’t as narrow as it had looked from the outside - at least, not all the way through. The tunnel hooked sharply to the left, and the walls seemed to open up after the turn, becoming wide enough to accommodate two people walking side by side. Even Cutter no longer had to duck to avoid knocking her head against the cave’s ceiling.

Cody had expected the tunnels under the mountain to be cold, unforgiving places, to be crawling with cave muties or too dark to see his hand in front of his face. But the longer he walked in the tunnel, the more he got used to it. Areas of the passage were steep, sloping downwards to a bottom he couldn’t see, but he watched Cutter stride down them with confidence and tried to follow as closely in her footsteps as he could. His eyes adjusted to the dark. He only stumbled a few times, but managed to keep himself more or less upright every time, refusing to sacrifice his dignity. He was supposed to be on even footing with whoever the King was.

“Are there muties in here?” Cody asked Cutter, more cautious than curious. He was sure the Good Guys wouldn’t let that kind of harm come to a gang leader looking to parley with them, but it paid to be prepared.

“Oh, not usually,” Cutter said, cheerfully. She was scooting her way down a series of rock shelves, not steep, but tiered in such a way that you had to drop a few feet down from one to the next. “We don’t bother them if they don’t bother us, and they know this is the King’s territory. They stay away.” She hit the last shelf and reached up, offering Cody a hand. “You shouldn’t be worried about running into ‘em.”

“I’m not,” Cody said, taking her hand and letting her pull him down. “Just want to know what I’m getting into.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t be prepared for a cave mutie until you saw one. They’re not like the ones in Texas,” Cutter said, and chuckled, wiping her hands on the loose, poncho-like piece of fabric that served as her shirt.

The comment would have passed over Cody, had he not already had the memories of Texas Waters lodged firmly in his mind. He and John had outrun a pack of muties on the bike, on their way into Texas. Maybe driving into a nest like that was common. He gave Cutter an odd look.

“Are you from Texas?”

“Me? I’m from the caves,” Cutter said. She was walking again, striking out ahead of him - but never so far ahead that Cody couldn’t see her. She seemed to have a good sense for that kind of thing. “But you outran a whole pack of muties in Texas, and then another in Mexico. I figure you should know what it’s like.”

Cody gaped, his mouth opening and closing with no sound in particular coming out. He kept walking, determined not to freeze and let Cutter know how badly she had thrown him off-kilter. There was no logical way for her to know what had happened to him in Texas, or in Mexico. Not unless she had been there - or unless the Good Guys were in touch with Marc, somehow. But why would Cody have come up - and in that much detail?

“How do you know that?” he asked. No harm in asking, probably. The worst Cutter could do was give him something vague, or dodge the question.

“Oh, look,” Cutter said, dodging the question. “We’re here.”

Cody almost pressed her for more. But he couldn’t. The tunnel they were in had opened up suddenly into a gigantic, underground room that stole the breath from his throat. The ceiling of the cave arched dramatically upwards, so high that it made Cody dizzy to look up at, and the shape of the walls formed a long hall that, bizarrely, reminded Cody of the opulent dining hall at Texas Waters. But there was no table here. Just a stone floor populated with Good Guys.

Perhaps the most dazzling thing about the hall was that it was bright. So bright, in fact, that Cody’s eyes took a moment to adjust. The walls were covered in both torches and thick, glowing webs that Cody had to study for a long moment before determining they were plants. There were enough of them to light the hall as effectively as if Cody and Cutter had emerged back outside, into the light of the setting sun.

The Good Guys who had gone ahead of Cody and Cutter had separated into small groups, chattering and laughing with one another - though the conversations stopped as one by one, they turned their attention to the entryway. The sudden silence was eerie, especially with the way their voices had carried in the cavernous hall, and Cody felt his palms begin to sweat again.

“Cody Allison,” a voice said, from the opposite end of the hall. “Come here and let me see you.”

Cody’s pulse kicked back into the terrible, pounding rhythm from before. Cutter nudged him with her elbow.

“Remember what I said about keeping the King waiting,” she hissed.

Cody stumbled forward. The Good Guys parted to either side of the hall to let him pass through, his footsteps now the only noise echoing through the cavern. He kept his head down, watching his feet so he wouldn’t stumble again, and only looked up when he reached the stone dais on which the King’s throne sat.

The throne was also made of stone, a rough-hewn thing of no real pomp or circumstance. The King sat on it with her legs spread lazily. She was tall, probably about as tall as Cutter, and wore only a pair of threadbare jeans and heavy work boots. Her hair was a wild mane around her face, with glinting white ornaments woven into it. Cody realized, with some revulsion, that they were bones. A necklace made of rough twine was strung around her neck, the pendant an animal skull that rested against the King’s bare sternum.

“Well, then,” the King said, shifting to rest her elbows on her knees, staring down at Cody with a pair of intense eyes that were every bit as violet as Valerie’s. “Dead-Eye to Mountain King. Let’s parley.”

13.4 || 13.6

[sinsbymanka]

Thank you @tevivinter for the beautiful commission 🥰🥰 I love them so much.

This is a portrait of the lovely Marguerite Cadash-Tethras all grown up, star of the on-hiatus The Herald’s Gambit. The brunette is Petra of Clan Halvor - a warrior caste exile from Orzammar (was Mags involved in that debacle? Possibly. Most likely. It’s a hell of a story I haven’t written yet) known as an undefeated Proving Champion. 

This commission did inspire me to finish this little snipped about them and those pretty dwarf braids. Enjoy!

Mine, Petra thought dizzily. Mine.

Petra would never admit it, but this was her favorite part of sharing a watch with Mags. 

The two of them sat facing the fire, Mags perched herself on a damp log behind Petra with deft fingers tangled in Petra's dark hair. She tried not to lean into Mags's touch, sitting cross legged between her splayed knees. If she moved just an  inch to the right, she could lean against the soft cotton of Mags’s breeches, rest her cheek on her pillowy thigh. Like an exiled casteless with no family or fortune had a right to be there, or really anywhere near someone like Marguerite Cadash-Tethras.

“Pin.” Mags demanded, thrusting her hand over Petra’s shoulder. Petra held up a fistful and she snatched one from between her fingers immediately, used it to secure the last of the intricate braids woven up the side of Petra’s scalp. Then Mags picked up the long leather tie she’d removed when she began and wove together the rest of the loose hair into a much simpler braid, one that she flipped over the opposite shoulder when she finished. Petra reached up to run her fingers over the elegant work, done as neatly as any deep lord’s wife could want. 

“Satisfied?” Mags teased, leaning too far in so her breath puffed gently across the earrings in Petra's ear.

“Will it keep my hair out of my eyes while I’m slaying our enemies?” Petra huffed, impatient and irritated at her own distraction. 

“And you’ll look beautiful at the same time. Who says you have to sacrifice form for function?” Mags’s smooth voice ended in a  laugh. She nudged Petra’s shoulder with her knee. “My turn?” 

No, maybe this was her favorite part. 

Petra stood from the dust, wiping the assorted leaves and debris from her pants as Mags jumped to her own feet, settling where she’d been. The firelight bounced off her curls, turned them to copper instead of gold. Petra spared a wary glance around them, their companions stretched out on bedrolls, the darkness kept at bay by their small fire. Nothing stirred in the shadows. 

They weren’t really alone, but they were the only two awake, which was as close as they could be to being alone. 

For these shining, star studded hours, Petra had the sun all to herself. 

When she settled on the log, Mags leaned into the space between her thighs, warm and so blessedly assured of herself. Her nimble fingers reached up to start pulling her own pins from the braids decorating her golden locks. 

“Stop.” Petra ordered, slowly moving Mags hands away, mouth dry as she smoothed the mostly loose curls tangling from her high ponytail. She tugged the leather tie loose and let them fall into her ungentle hands. 

Petra never had anything to herself, not growing up in a clan just scraping by, not learning to fight with a dozen others, but she was the only one who spun gold beneath her fingers every night. So she cherished these hours, pulled them selfishly closer to her every evening. 

In the daylight, the woman between her knees would be their brilliant and bright Magpie again, but here…

Mags's smile came slower, softer, in the shadows. Her eyes weren’t quite as steely. The fire and starlight softened all the hard edges of her tongue, made her melt into Petra’s touch as she freed the rest of the braids, ran her fingers through them as softly as she could to untangle them. Mags produced her wide toothed comb and tossed it over her shoulder with a sunny, amused grin. 

Petra fought the urge to wind those curls around her fingers, slowly dragging the comb through them instead. Mags almost immediately began to fiddle with the necklace she wore, the bright blaze of sapphires sparkling in the light. 

“Hey, tell me a secret.” She demanded, like secrets were easy to buy and trade. Perhaps, to her, they were. 

“I don’t have any secrets.” Petra lied, not willing to admit that this, perhaps, was her darkest secret. That these moments were a treasure, a deshyr’s daughter between her thighs, the sun spilling between her fingers. She wasn’t supposed to want the daylight, after all. She belonged to the shadows of the stone. Mags belonged to silk and wealth. That was the way of things. “How do you want your hair?” 

“Dealer’s choice.” She said easily, looking over her shoulder and spearing Petra with a chagrined glance. “Everyone has secrets.” 

“What’s yours then?” Petra asked, secretly gleeful that she got to decide. Petra would leave as much of the golden curls loose as she could so she could follow their sway as they hiked across bleeding Thedas.

Mags looked away, back towards the fire, her fingers still on the pendant she wore, her mother’s pendant. Petra would never see her mother again, but at least Petra knew where she was. Knew she was safe. Mags may never find the answer. 

“I’m afraid.” Mags admitted quietly. 

In the dark, she could be. With Petra, perhaps, more than anyone. Unable to help herself, Petra brushed one thumb down the smooth line of skin behind Mags’s ear, a touch she hoped was soothing. 

“Of what?” Petra asked, but she already knew. Mags was frightened of small spaces, being alone too long, going home empty handed, and failing her family. Mags never said any of those things, of course, but Petra knew. Petra watched her, after all, far more than she should. 

“Spiders.” Mags grinned, lighthearted again. Petra saw just the slightest curve of her smile, uncertain and raw. “Your turn. What are you frightened of?” 

Petra said the word before she thought about it. “You.” 

Beneath her, Mags stiffened, and Petra immediately began cursing. Mags tugged free of her gentle grip and turned, spearing her with a bewildered and hurt look. “Me? Why are you afraid of me? Is it because I’m…” 

Different. Because she had magic she could barely use, more likely to implode on them at any moment than to actually be helpful. Petra watched her struggle with the word before discarding it, a flush rising to her face, temper beginning to eclipse pain. 

She never meant to hurt her. Petra would never harm her. If she had her way, she’d become the knight from the stories Mags’s father once weaved, the ones Mags kept hidden in her pack. Tales for a precocious child in a dangerous world, one who needed a bulwark against the storm, a safe place for a Magpie to rest her wings. 

If the choice was between hurting Mags or hurting herself, the choice was obvious. 

“Fuck.” Petra swore, looking away from those beloved eyes and into the darkness. “I’m scared of losing you because you’re reckless, you’re mad. You think you’re invincible and nothing will ever hurt you. I’m less afraid of dying myself than I am of losing you and that’s terrifying.” 

“What?” Not much shocked Mags, but this did. Petra watched her recoil, alarmed by the intensity of emotions. 

Alarmed by the confession, more like. Petra could not have the sun, it did not belong to her. She knew it, but if she was going to ruin everything she was going to do it properly. “Since the first day I saw you, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. I know you. I know the way you walk, the way your hair curls, the way you smile when you lie, and I could still spend the rest of my days learning more about you. If I lost my sodding eyes, my hearing, all my limbs I would still know you. I would know you anywhere, Marguerite.” 

Mags was in her blood, engraved in the stone that lined her heart. She always would be. The same way this memory would haunt her, Mags eyes wide with shock, pulling away to…

Petra stood, nearly tripped over the damn log as she took several steps into the circle of dark surrounding them. She needed to get away from that look, away from the disgust she swore would come next. This was not allowed, this…

“Wait.” Mags whispered plaintively, scrambling up from the ground. “This is where you kiss me, right? You can’t say all of that and not kiss me. It’s not allowed.” 

It was Petra’s turn to be shocked. She stared in stunned disbelief as Mags took one slow step forward, a tentative smile curling her lips. Her hair fell loose in waves down her back, turned to a halo of light by the flames behind her. She extended her hand slowly, like she was afraid of startling a nug. 

“What?” Petra asked, unsure of the turn this had taken. Mags giggled.

“This is the part of the story where you kiss me. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.” She was teasing again, her expression lighter, softer than Petra had ever seen it. She couldn’t tell in the shadows, but she swore a blush was creeping up Mags’s fair skin. 

The sun was throwing herself at her feet. And Petra was too weak to say no. 

She crossed back to Mags, tangling her steady hands into those loose curls, and brought her lips crashing against Mags’s own. Petra swore she could feel the stone inside her softening, melting into a core of lava, blazing and bright as Mags’s lips under hers. 

[frgt-me-not]

Marguerite ~ Sorry

Previous part // Part 85 // Next part

(Words: ~3650)

A/N: This is the first time I’ve ever written smut, so I really hope it doesn’t completely suck... 

Despite me leaving the door unlocked I still hear a knock on the door about twenty minutes after I’ve turned off my phone and sunk under the covers.

My mind is racing all the way to the door, and the closer I get the more I feel like my head is beginning to spin.

It’s been several days since the last time I spoke to Jungkook in person, and it was that night I’d left him here in the apartment.

I hadn’t gone home for the next 24 hours and I hadn’t slept either. I hadn’t been able to relax my tense muscles.

I was both relieved and disappointed not to find him still being here.

There were over a dozen missed calls from Tae, Hobi and even a couple from the other boys, but none from Jungkook and I knew he must’ve seen the one missed call from his dad.

Like the chicken I was I didn’t call any of them back, and after the hourly calls, I turned my phone off completely and put it in the fridge.

Tonight, I took it out after an at least two-hour prep talk about how he wouldn’t murder me for not telling him and also that he wouldn’t hate me for what I said, not to mention the pictures.

It hadn’t even surprised me when he told me it was Nari.

She definitely took the cake when it came to the people, I despise most in this world.

The second I open the door, Jungkook’s arms embrace me in a bear hug, lifting my feet straight off the ground, carrying me into the living room.

When he puts me down, his hand cups my cheek and his eyes bore into mine. Under any other circumstance, I would have been trying to tear my gaze away, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me. As if he’s never seen anything like me before as if he isn’t ever going to see me again. It would be a lie to say it doesn’t scare me as much as it soothes me.

He lets out a breath as if he’s been holding it in. I feel it against my lips, he’s that close.

My body shakes slightly as a shiver courses its way down my spine.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters finally, his voice is like a knife cutting through the thick silence in the air.

I blink, twice, unable to comprehend his words – it feels like ages since I last heard him speak.

With Jungkook less than a few inches away from me, it’s as if the entire world fades into the background. Everything that has happened disappears for a few sweet moments.

I lift my hand cautiously, mirroring his hand on my cheek with one on his. I can feel his hot skin and the thin coat of sweat on his temple. He has run all the way here.  

I don’t know what to do next, I’m hoping he will do something, anything really.

His eyes drop momentarily to my lips, just as I sink my teeth into my bottom lip.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than me.

I open my mouth in an attempt to croak out a sentence which will hopefully make sense. However, before I can even form the first word, his mouth has sealed itself over mine.

I know that the sweet caress of his lips against mine isn’t meant to be sexual in any way, but it doesn’t take long before the longing for him bubbles up in my body.

I gasp into his mouth, but I don’t pull back from him, I wouldn’t dream of it.

His other hand lifts and cups my other cheek, so he can hold my face close to his. My hand on his cheek drifts into his hair, clinging onto the soft strands.

Instinctively I lean forwards until my front is pressed against his.

He makes a sound from deep within his chest as if he’s in pain, before he pulls back, eyes still transfixed on my now bruised lips, “I-I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, eyebrows furrowed.

But I’m not listening.

With a rough tug on his hair, my lips are right back on his, this time I don’t give him time to think about whether what he’s doing is right or wrong.

And he doesn’t think anymore, he just acts.

He stalks forwards, pushing me backward until the back of my thighs hit the desk by the window.

His hands leave my face as they reposition themselves around the back of my thighs, lifting me onto the desktop.

Fingers dig into my skin, but I barely notice the slight pain it causes. He pulls me to the edge of the table, stepping in between my legs, close enough to feel the rough material of my jeans rub against him.

He groans as he pushes his warm tongue into my mouth, flicking it over the roof of my mouth.

His hands slip from my thighs and along to my ass, gripping it firmly, which causes me to move even further out onto the edge.

My covered core is now pressed against the still growing bulge in his pants.

A whimper leaves my lips as he unexpectedly grinds into me, igniting every inch of my body.

For a moment I think about the promise I made to myself shortly after I met Jungkook. I would never – and I had meant it in a‘I would rather die’ kind of way – give into the attraction I felt towards Jungkook.

I should see myself now.

The thought makes me laugh.

“Laughing while in the middle of foreplay is usually not what a guy wants to hear,” Jungkook mutters in a low growl, trailing a path of kisses from my lips along my jaw.

“Is this foreplay?” I reply with a smug grin on my face.

“Tell I what you’re thinking about,” he demands, pressing two fingers against my chin to make me look up at him.

I chew on my bottom lip, “Just that I promised myself I would never ever get close to you,” I admit, blood rushing to my cheeks.

“Do you regret it?” he questions, sounding almost unsure, and I can tell he’s thinking about everything that has happened in the last week or so.

I twist my hand in his shirt, fiddling with the material and avoiding his eyes as I reply, “What’s life without a little excitement?”

At the sound of my words, a wide and genuine smile splits his lips, stretching from ear to ear.

He lifts me from the desk and spins around gracefully, heading for my single bed.

When my back hits the bed, my heart jumps into my throat.

His lips make soft, wet kisses along my throat to the spot right behind my ear, “Tell me if I need to stop, okay? I don’t want you to think I came because of this.”

I can’t think straight enough to answer him, so I just nod, without planning on telling him to stop at all.

My body is overly aware of every single brush of his fingers against my heated skin, and when they reach the hem of my shirt, I hold my breath in anticipation.

He doesn’t have to ask me since my sudden squirming is enough of an encouragement. I try to help him get it over my head.  

For a few seconds, he stares at me, shortly at my half naked body and then at my face, admiring every inch of my skin and the blood coloring my cheeks scarlet.

His index finger trails along my skin, right under my bra as he mutters, “We’ve got to do something about this.”

I want to ask him why he doesn’t just do it then, but the only sound I’m able to make is a longing moan.

The grin on his face makes my cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red and I hide my face behind my hands.

“Don’t hide,” he orders and nudges my hands away, “I want to look at you.”

How am I supposed to keep a straight face if he’s going to say stuff like that?

“Am I allowed to touch you?” He asks.

Admittedly, him asking if he’s allowed to do anything in the bedroom surprises me – I’d thought he was the kind of guy who takes what he wants.

I nod swiftly.

My eyes flutter shut as I feel his fingers ghosting down my stomach. My thighs squeeze together in anticipation as he reaches my lower stomach, but he changes course just as he grazes the material of my jeans.

It’s clear he knows what he’s doing, and he also knows exactly how to make small sounds escape me without me noticing.

Each little whimper and moan from me seem to be sounds of encouragement to him.

He especially seems to like the way my eyebrows are knitting together in frustration.

His tongue darts out and wets his lips before he lowers his head to trail a path of kisses from the base of my neck down between my breasts.

I didn’t expect the sensation to be strong while still wearing a bra, but as he kisses right at the center on top of the material, I have to bite my cheek hard.

“Can I–” he begins, but I’m way ahead of him. I arch my back as much as I can, allowing him access to reach under me to snap open the clasps.

The sound both terrifies and excites me – it’s an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He pushes the material away and once more takes a few seconds to admire me before his mouth encircles my nipple.

There’s no way to hold back my whimpers anymore, and as it becomes apparent to me that each time I do so, he sucks just a little bit harder.

My fingers are pulling on his dark hair roughly and my nails dig into his scalp.

After a short while, my nipple becomes overly sensitive, and he seems to know exactly when that is because at that moment he shifts to my other breast.

His tongue swirls around the nub and sucks.

An urgent desire to feel his skin against mine settles in my mind, prickling along my skin, and I begin pulling his shirt over his head frantically.

When I’ve succeeded he smirks again, “So impatient.”

I ignore him deliberately and pull his lips to mine with a sudden yank.

He doesn’t protest.

Part of me wants to take it slow, but every time his fingers squeeze my hip, I feel like I’m about to come undone right then and there.

I hold my breath as I feel his fingers bend under the top of my jeans and I lift my hips, trying to encourage him just to remove my pants.

The sound of the zipper is earsplitting in the room, and I begin to wiggle out of my jeans.

A jolt of electricity shoots through my body when his hand cups me through my underwear, pressing slightly against the unbearable ache which I’m not in control of.

With circular movements, he begins rubbing against the bundle of nerves and I jerk. I’ve definitely never felt anything like that before.

It doesn’t take more than thirty seconds before his hand is on the move again, brushing up the length of me before they begin to tug the underwear down my legs.

“Don’t shut your eyes,” he orders, and my eyes jump open.

His dark eyes pierce right through me, and he doesn’t even comment on it when my eyes fall shut again on their own accord. I can’t keep them open even if I try, not when he’s doing this to me.

An uncontrollably loud moan forces its way out between my teeth as he kisses me just below my belly button, at the same time as he presses his thumb against my clit a lot more firmly than before.

I know what is coming and I’m not about to do anything to stop it from happening.

I hold my breath in anticipation until I feel a wet kiss against my core.

There is no point in trying to keep quiet, so I sincerely hope that the walls of my apartment are a lot thicker than I know they were.

His hands snake around my thighs holding me in place – which is one hell of a job since I’m a squirming mess and there is no way I can lie still.

He pushes a finger into me and it feels like I’m seconds from exploding.

But he doesn’t let me.

He pulls back just as I feel the knot inside me begins to unravel.

I groan in frustration, rubbing my thighs together as if that’ll ease the aching feeling.

He grins at me and I can tell that he knows I’m all his.

I want to make him feel just as great as he has just made me feel – and I also want to tease him in the same way, but when I reach out to unbuckle his belt, he grabs my hand with a warning look, “I know what you’re planning,” he says warningly with a glint in his eye, which tells me he wouldn’t really mind.

I fall back on the bed, “Really?” I grin devilishly, “Don’t you think you should have a little fun too?”

I wink at him.

“I’m having the time of my life,” he says genuinely and glances from me to the dark shadow on the floor, which I know is his jacket.

“Stay where you are,” he orders and begins to back away, but I stop him, “What’s up?”

I don’t even bother to hide the concern in my voice, but he sends me a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

I sigh as he adds, “I’m just going to make sure we don’t end up having a little kid running around anytime soon.”

“Wait,” I mutter and roll over to the bedside table, feeling his eyes follow my every move, “I have one.”

I throw the small yellow wrapper in front of him and he picks it up with his brows furrowed together.

He examines it for a few seconds before barking out a laugh, “I knew it.”

I knit my brows and he crawls closer to me, “What do you know?” I ask.

He smirks just as his face is level with mine, “That you’re a virgin.”

Okay, maybe I’ve forgotten to tell him directly that I am in fact pretty inexperienced, but I can’t see how a condom makes me seem like a virgin – it should be the exact opposite.

He holds up the small package grinning, “This isn’t even a condom y/n,” he flips it around, so I can read what it says.

It’s a… lemon vitamin?

I feel my cheeks burn even hotter than they’ve done at any point tonight.

He winks at me and pecks my lips, “I’m going to get us a real condom.”

It takes him less than five seconds to retrieve the silver package from his wallet, “Take a good look at it,” he urges, “Because you’re going to be seeing these a lot.”

I want to tell him to shut up, but I don’t because his lips have already pressed down on mine.

His short nails claw into my hips as I feel him grind against me.

“Again,” I croak, unable to form a full sentence.

His lips split into a grin against mine, “Again?”

He doesn’t even wait for an answer before he repeats the torturous movement.

I wrap my legs around his waist.

“Tell me what you want,” he orders, his lips leaving my lips and nibbling on my earlobe.

I want a lot of things right now, but the only thing I’m able to stammer is ‘you’.

The rough feeling of his jeans scrapes against my heels and I move my hands from his shoulders down across his stomach towards his jeans. I feel his stomach tighten under my touch when I pass his belly button.

It takes me an awfully long time to unbuckle his belt, while also trying to enjoy the feeling of his mouth sucking on my neck, definitely leaving a distinct mark.

After a while, he begins to help me.

I can clearly see the outline of him through his grey boxers.

My mouth goes dry and I feel my fingers aching to touch him, and this time he doesn’t stop me.

His eyes fall shut when I reach under the waistband and wrap my hand around him. When I stroke up his length, he drops his head in the crook of my neck, sinking his teeth into my shoulder.

His hips jerk every time I move, and I get the feeling that he’s entirely in my control. That is until he wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls my hand away from him, with a level of self-control I don’t even think I could master.

“Maybe another time, Angel,” he murmurs, “But I have some other things in store for us today.”

I try to swallow.

He reaches out for the silver package and in one swift move he has pulled his boxers off and flung them on top of the clothing pile on the floor.

Watching him put on the condom is almost as erotic as when he was touching me.

He catches my lips again, working them softly until he can slip his tongue inside.

I feel him position himself and my heart jumps in my chest.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he asks, his lips still ghosting over mine.

“Do you really think I’d be lying here naked underneath you if I didn’t?”

He smiles, “Good point.”

A second ticks by and I feel the tip of him right at my opening.

I take a deep breath, biting my lower lip just as I feel him push inside slowly.

For several moments neither of us move, he lets me get used to the feeling. It definitely isn’t quite what I’d imagined.

I can both feel and see Jungkook shaking with restraint as the veins appear through his silky skin. I know he’s waiting for me to do something, and I’m not about to test how far his self-control goes.

I buckle my hips up towards his encouragingly.

Air weasels out between his teeth, “Are you feeling okay?” he questions.

I nod.

He moves back slowly, watching my face carefully for any signs of discomfort.

I try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling and try to focus on Jungkook and what we’re doing instead.

He continues the slow pace, which gradually begins to drive me insane.

Once more I lock my feet behind him and press down, so he has no choice but to push in all the way.

A soft moan sounds from me, and I see the hair stand up on his arms.

This time he doesn’t pull out slowly, instead he jerks, and I swear I can feel it in my fingertips.

I want to tell him to go faster, but I can’t focus on speaking, so instead, I begin to meet his thrusts halfway.

He groans into my ear, “You’re making it very hard to go slow,” he protests.

I shake my head, “Then don’t go slow.”

He doesn’t accept my invitation with words, instead, he grips my hip roughly, slamming into me so the sensation sets off something inside me.

I’ve completely forgotten about the uncomfortableness from before, and I begin to cling onto him, my nails digging into the soft skin across his shoulder blades.

Our heavy breaths mingle as he speeds up the pace and I become nothing but a moaning mess underneath him.

I get lost in the rhythm of his hips and the soft grunts he makes.

My entire body begins to tingle as the knot from early forms in my stomach, tighter than ever, pulsating and twisting around uncontrollably.

Breathless curses fly past my lips, and they seem to encourage him even more.

When I feel his finger begin to circle my clit, I throw my head back, unable to think straight.

He sucks on the sweet spot right underneath my ear and I hear his words being forced out between his clenched teeth, “Say my name, baby.”

His words do the trick and the knot doesn’t slowly unravel. Instead, it snaps, sending vibrations of sensation through my body in heavy waves.

I cry out a muffled version of what I’m sure is supposed to be his name against his neck.  

His rhythm becomes sloppier as my high begins to settle down again, but I absentmindedly continue to meet his hips, savoring every sweet moment, until he stops abruptly.

His mouth is right next to my ear and his shallow breaths blow through my hair.

We stay like that for several moments before he pulls back and out of me, leaving me with an empty feeling I’ve never noticed before.

He rolls onto his back, pulling me with him, until I’m half on top of him, watching his chest rise and fall in deep breaths.

“I could definitely get used to this,” he breathes.

I turn my head and hide my face against his damp neck as I go through the entire thing in my head again. Too bad he’s leaving in less than twelve hours.

“I’ll get you a wet towel,” he announces and slowly gets out of the bed.

He pulls off the condom, tying a knot on the end and throwing it into the bin.

He climbs into the bed and kisses the back of my hand, “There’s no reason to grow shy on me now,” He pulls my naked back to his chest and kisses the back of my head tenderly.  

Previous part // Part 85 // Next part

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[likeacharacterinamusical]

@bicycleonfire asked: Do you think the Predator can ever be rehabilitated?

oy. so. the answer i can come up with: yes and no. basically, it depends.

when i first started writing him six (????) years ago now (nov 2013), the base part of his character was a deep-seated rage at the Universe; he was mad about everything that he had been forced to endure, and what threw him over the edge more than anything else was the loss of the ponds. but, of course, it wasn’t just that-- it was everything. when you have a bad day or two, you can generally shake it off, learn from it, grow from it, and recover; but when it’s a series of bad days over months and years and (in the doctor’s case) centuries, that becomes just the slightest bit harder to shake. 

he started off by torturing jack-- using his immortality to test out different ways of dying, just to see which would hurt his victims most. he shed the title early on and chose ‘the predator’ because, hey, the daleks called him that, and he was in search of prey. 

how does river fit into this? different people i’ve role-played with have had different responses; sometimes, river still loves him, and she’s still a decent person, and she wants to help him; others, she goes dark, too, and that’s where it can be interesting, because then she can either want to commit crimes with him or else want to end his life then and there. he’s possessive and wants her to stay with him, but she’s justified in leaving, especially when he would kill their own children because he did not want to be a father.

and then there’s pandora, who used to go by amy pond (who was created by someone who long ago deactivated their account), and who entered into a relationship with the predator. they were chaos from the start. for a while, he tried to be in relationships with both pandora & river, but river left him permanently (though she still keeps in contact with her mum, and tries to help whenever she can). as a couple, the two P’s are known throughout the universe and wanted under no less than 57 counts by the shadow proclamation. however, something went wrong somewhere. 

pandora got pregnant. 

and their lives of running and committing murders and having fun came to a halt, if only temporarily. neither of them thought it possible, and neither of them were in a state to have children, and yet. there they were. and the predator, at this point, had already had five or six kids with other people; at one point, he & pandora took a break; she spent time at her parent’s and he went to 19th century France and lived with a woman named Marguerite and had a daughter with her (Bess). 

the predator left pandora when he first found out; later on, he might have started to feel remorse for having done that, but in the moment he felt-- i want to say scared, but his leaving her was just cruel. when he came back to her, she was seven months pregnant and so, so tired, and her parents were also tired and afraid-- when he had left her, she raged. against him, against her parents, against the universe. because, above all else, she had felt robbed. 

now, liron, what’s this got to do with rehabilitating the predator?!?!

so. he’s a cruel bastard who kills and fucks as he pleases, and so many people and creatures can’t wait to get their hands on him. his right heart’s been stabbed twice -- first by maggie, then by pandora -- and, occasionally, the pain becomes unbearable, reminding him that he is mortal, that this is his last regeneration and if he’s not careful, that’ll be the end of him. 

it’s his children -- kal and bess and andy and rae and sam and matt and all the others who fill the tardis with laughter and love, family and friendship, who really start to tear away at the blackness around the predator’s hearts. and then there are the grandkids, sweet and innocent, who almost never witness any of his crimes. kali grew up with loud noises and blood-stains and corpses lying on the console room floor, their parents blood-soaked and lying about anything being wrong, and plagued with nightmares about things they didn’t quite understand. their daughter lucy, however, grows up surrounded with love and light, as do bess’ kids and andy’s, and the predator (though he hates to admit it) adores these children. 

if they work with him, convince him that it’s not hopeless, that it’ll just take a bit of work and determination, and that the universe needs a doctor, but of course make him pay for his crimes, then yes, i think he could be rehabilitated. make him care again, scare him by showing the awful truth of what he’s become, then yes, absolutely. if, however, that doesn’t work, he should be sentenced to death, the tardis should go to the kids, and pandora should get the help she needs to recover. 

[tenebris-melodiam]

Enigma: Chapter 7 (Finale)

Pairing : Lucas Baker x Reader/Female Protagonist (18+) Rating & Warnings : None for this chapter                                                            Notes : This story will have multiple head-canons within it. It is also based solely on the Resident Evil 7 timeline, and takes place prior to the events of “Daughters.”                                                                                              Author’s Notes : Will be included for further explanation on some subjects

=7=

“Game over.”

The last thing Lucas remembered seeing was the masked face of the man who had bested him, and the barrel of a gun pointed directly at his head—well, what remained of his head, anyway. The light that followed the split-second sound of the gun firing off was brighter than any he had ever known, and it lasted longer than anything else he had ever experienced.

After what felt like years, the brilliant light that blinded him began to recede. Blobs of green, blue, and brown began appearing like splotches of paint that had been thrown onto a blank canvas. Eventually, the blobs began to take shape, and he realized that he was staring from the ground up—up into the foliage of trees that towered above him. He blinked slowly, unsure of what exactly was going on, but he eventually brought himself up into a sitting position to look around him. The land surrounding him was incredibly familiar, but it wasn’t until he noticed the large mansion behind him that he knew exactly where he was. He was sitting outside the gate that led into the estate. He rose to his feet, the pebbles and dirt under his shoes crunching beneath his shifting weight—how was he back home?

He padded to the front gate, which was oddly missing the chain-lock that typically hung around the two middle bars. He cocked his eyebrow slightly as he put his hand out to touch the metal, but hesitated for a moment; after gathering himself, he wrapped his fingers around the cold metal, and tugged the right side of the gate open. When he did, instead of the typical ear-piercing screech the rusting joints usually gave, the gate opened in near silence as it slid into place. There was still the occasional squeak of metal, but it was a blatant improvement from how it was prior to now. Lucas ran his eyes over the mansion once more, contemplating whether or not he wished to go further—what if nothing had changed? He eventually decided that he would go further, but as he took his first few steps forward, something caught his eye; in his peripheral vision, he saw someone sitting underneath the large oak that was still standing strong upon the left side of the yard.

He turned his attention in that direction, and felt his breath catch within his throat. (Color) hair fluttered about in the gentle breeze, and beautiful (color) eyes stared directly at him—eyes that he hadn’t seen for years. He watched as a tender smile crossed your lips, and he immediately felt drawn in that direction; the closer he got to the tree, the weaker his legs felt. He had seen this countless times before in his dreams, and each time he managed to get to you, you would vanish from his sight. This time though, when he dropped to his knees beside you, you didn’t simply blow away with the breeze. You continued staring at him, that same smile upon your lips.

With a trembling, hesitant hand, Lucas reached out in front of him and placed your cheek within the palm of his hand. You released a soft sigh at the feel of his skin, and pressed your cheek just a tad harder against his hand—he laughed quietly, and you saw the tears that welled up in his eyes as both hands now gently caressed your cheeks.

“I-I… I can touch you this time… “

You nodded your head, but didn’t say anything in response to him. He didn’t care whether or not you spoke; all he cared about was the fact that you were real this time. He could touch you, and he could hold you against him again. For the first time in years, the first time since that horrible night that you were torn away from him, Lucas found himself in tears. The one person that he had cared about more than any other was with him again, by some act of God, and that was all that he had wanted. Finally, he watched as you parted your loving lips, allowing your sweet voice to reach his ears for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you for a long time, Lucas. I didn’t expect you to be here so soon, but that’s okay.”

When Lucas realized what you had said, he felt his chest heave—you had been waiting for him? All these years, and you had been waiting for him right here? That would mean that you knew of what he had become after you had gone, and what he had done even outside of Eveline’s control. A sudden, powerful surge of guilt washed over his entire body, and large droplets rushed down his cheeks and fell upon the grass beneath him. He bowed his head, his hands still holding on to your cheeks as he sat there and sobbed in silence. Finally, he managed to find the words that he wished to speak.

“Ain’t nothin’ I can do to atone for what I did… I know you probably saw what I did after you died, and there ain’t no excuse for it. Those damn thoughts took over me, and I just didn’t care no more… I let my desires run my life, even though I knew damn well what I was doin’ was horrible. I don’t know what I did to see you again, because I shouldn’t even be here… but I-“

He was stopped only by a finger being placed against his lips, and he glanced up with puffy eyes in your direction. The smile upon your lips was gone, and replaced by a look of both sadness and concern. Now it was your turn to tenderly hold his cheeks within your hands, and you tugged his head onto your chest before you decided to speak again.

“I know, Lucas. I know about everythin’ that you did. You hurt a lot of people, and a lot of it wasn’t your fault. But, even after being freed from Eveline… you were lost. Like you said, there isn’t an excuse for what you did, but the fact that it was the very first thing you said when you saw me leads me to believe that you truly are sorry. You could have played it off like nothin’ happened, but you didn’t. You recognized what you did. Someone who wasn’t sorry wouldn’t even think about doin’ somethin’ like that… even if it was in front of someone they love.”

You could feel him shaking upon your chest, and you leaned down to place a soft kiss upon his head. You knew he was scared, but in all honesty, you weren’t thinking any less of him than you had when you were still alive. You had witnessed what he had done, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. What Eveline did to him was something that would traumatize anyone, especially someone like him—he took out his hatred for what she did on those who didn’t deserve it, and those who did. But, as you told him, the fact that he immediately owned up to everything that he had done without any kind of hesitation showed you that he did care about what he had done.

“She’s right, son. After all… you ain’t the only one who did some messed up things.”

Lucas perked up a bit upon hearing the deeper voice, and he turned his head to see his father walking down the stairs that led from the inside of the house. He made his way over to the oak, and then glanced behind him to see that Marguerite wasn’t far behind him.

“Mama? Dad? You guys are here, too?”

“That’s right. We got here a while before you did, son. And before I say anythin’ else, I wanna say how sorry I am. That girl made us do things to each other that we would have never done. Your mama and I… we’ve both done things that were horrible. So you’re not the only one who’s done bad things here.”

Jack dropped down, taking a seat upon the grass beside you and his son. Marguerite stood beside her husband, her hand resting gently upon his head as she sighed softly.

“Exactly. Whatever that little girl did to us was something we had no control over at all. We may not have acted on our own like you did, but that don’t excuse what we did, either. Jack and I should have been able to resist her, especially when it came to our family. But… we couldn’t. And you, Lucas, you suffered the worst out of all of us. Takin’ what your father and I did to you, havin’ Eveline take (Name) from you in such a horrible way… and everythin’ before that, too. We can’t say we’re proud of your actions outside her control, but we can say that we’re proud of you for comin’ forward about it and admittin’ what you did. You’re still our son, and we still love you, just like (Name) does.”

Lucas’s eyes wandered from his mother, to his father, and finally to you. He felt like such a child—being held by you whilst he was bawling his eyes out about what he had done. But hearing reassurance from those around him made him feel much better, and eventually, he managed to calm himself down. For a long while, you all sat around the tree in the front yard in silence, simply listening to the wind rustling the leaves of the trees around the estate. After a while, however, Lucas spoke.

“So then, what is this place?”

“Well, son… your mama and I think this is what was waitin’ for us after we passed on. The more we thought about it, the more clear it became to us—this is our own lil’ patch of Heaven. We had all we needed right here, so that’s where we came after we died. Look at the house, too. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it at all now. I’m sure you noticed the gate don’t squeak any more, either.”

Lucas looked over at the estate, and as his father had said, there was nothing wrong with it at all. No cracks or splinters in the wooden beams that lined the house, the stairs that led up to the front door were no longer bent in from years of being walked on, and the windows were almost as though they were brand new. He hummed softly to himself, then turned his head slightly to be able to look up at you.

“I don’t care where we are, honestly. As long as I’m with you again, that’s all that matters to me.”

You gave a small smile, then leaned down to place a soft kiss upon the top of his head. He was right—as long as you were together again, that’s all that mattered to you. You rose to your feet, your hand gripping Lucas’s own as you tugged him upright alongside you. You didn’t know what the future would bring, if there was any future at all within this place. But if everything was to be like this forever, you most certainly wouldn’t mind it. Now together again with the family who loved you, save Zoe, the four of you began to make your way back into the estate. You had to admit it would be different without Zoe around, but you knew she would be along when the time was right.

Three years ago, everything changed for the worse. Now, you were right back where you left off before that day. And you couldn’t be happier.

=Fin=

Author’s Note (1): This ending was highly debatable—I was tempted not to do it, but then I figured I had tortured poor Lucas enough. I wanted to give him some kind of closure. That being said, I’d appreciate it if no arguments or whatnot erupted from exactly how this ended.

Author’s Note (2): Finding a way to justify Lucas’s actions after taking the serum was incredibly hard—so it ended up ending on a neutral note. It wasn’t condemned, but it wasn’t fully forgiven either.

Author’s Note (3): Jack is in this place after his passing caused by Ethan. If you haven’t played the End of Zoe DLC, stop reading here or risk being spoiled. I know that Jack is around in the DLC, but quite honestly, his conscious self died a long time ago. It was more so his body that survived as long as the DLC, rather than his soul and conscious.

Author's Note (4): Some might be wondering why I chose to have Lucas stay sane throughout most of the story, and the answer it quite simple. Meeting you changed everything. In the words of the "Daughters" DLC: "sometimes even a small, wandering step can change your course altogether." In this case, having you in his life gave Lucas a reason to resist his urges and temptations.

Author’s Note (5): Writing this story has truly been an experience. To all of you who have made it this far, I thank you. You guys have made writing this all the more fun, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love each and every one of you.

[margueritehall]

Chapter Five: Last Night I Heard My Own Heart Beating

I know people change and these things happen, But I remember how it was back then ( If This Was a Movie ; Taylor Swift)

May 19, 2018

Forty-five minutes later, after changing out of his own pajamas, Steve sat in his office with Maggie's employee file and a cup of coffee that Nat had brought him when she’d overheard an employee talking about Cap carrying some girl across the building just after dawn. He scanned down the page for the phone number of an emergency contact; it almost felt like an invasion of her privacy when he read through the facts that he didn't feel like he should know, like the fact that her parents had died in the battle of New York just six years earlier.

He felt a weight on his chest when he saw she'd only been twenty-one when she was left on her own; she'd been younger than he was when he lost his mom. Running a hand over his beard, he leaned forward, resting an elbow on the cool glass surface of the desk as his tired eyes read more, unable to look away from all of the new information.

“See the thing about her dead parents?” He looked up to see Natasha back in his doorway once more, taking a sip from her mug as she watched him.

“How did you know?” He raised an eyebrow at her, leaning back to look less interested than they both knew he was.

“I make it a point to google everyone who lives around here.” She shrugged nonchalantly before a small smile spread across her lips. “She’s a nice girl, seems like you’d like her.”

He was incredulous, shaking his head at her antics. Even when they’d been on the run together, Natasha hadn’t stopped trying to find him a girl.

“Romanoff, she’s unconscious in a hospital room.” He tried to reprimand her, he felt his cheeks turning a light red behind his beard as he quickly moved on. “I’m just trying to find her emergency contact to call them.”

She nodded, carrying on as she gestured for him to look further down the page, “That’s her best friend. She works with Dr. Cho.” He registered that she had definitely looked at Maggie’s file at some point and he'd have to talk to her about boundaries again.

“Helen Cho?” Steve raised an eyebrow at the familiar name.

“Yeah, some kind of prodigy, apparently.” Natasha didn’t move, watching Steve read through the information while he tried to carefully control his microexpressions as to not give any of his thoughts away to the trained spy.

Tracing his finger down the page, he found the name and quickly jotted down the number so he could close the file and stop feeling like he was learning too much about her without her consent.

Like the fact that her name was actually Marguerite Brynn Hall, not Margaret like he’d assumed, or that she had served in the Peace Corps in Ukraine after her parents’ deaths.

Or that she was allergic to penicillin or that she had graduated first in her class with her master’s degree.

“Okay, bye, Nat.” He spoke without looking up and it was like he could hear her roll her eyes at him before she finally departed, leaving him alone to make the call.

He gave a quiet chuckle before dialing the number he’d written down, looking out the window and absentmindedly watching the quiet world outside. 

The phone rang several times before a chipper voice answered on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

He sat up straighter, “Hi. Is this Poppy Stewart?”

“Yes? And who am I speaking to?” Sitting in a lab in Chicago, Poppy looked down at her phone and made a face at what she saw; the call was from an unfamiliar, New York number. With her luck, it would be some debt collector or someone trying to steal her identity. 

“I— uh, Steve Rogers.” He sounded awkward as he tried to introduce himself.

Immediately she was suspicious, standing and turning away from her classroom. “Like ‘Captain America’ Steve Rogers? That Steve Rogers?” Her green eyes were wide with curiosity. Of course, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility; Maggie had told her about her recent move to the Avenger’s facility and she’d mentioned that several of the heroes were also temporarily living there while they tried to figure out their new plan in the wake of the decimation.

“Yeah.” He paused, unsure whether or not to continue. “I wanted to talk to you about Maggie—”

“What?” Poppy felt her stomach drop as she cut him off, the wind swiftly taken from her sails. She gripped the side of a lab table, her happy inflection finally wavering and falling away as she dreaded his response when she asked, “What about Maggie?” Her thoughts began to race. What could have happened to her? They'd spoken the day before. Of course she was hundreds of miles away and couldn’t just drive there in this moment. Had there been an accident? Had she gotten hurt? She couldn’t keep the fear from her voice once she finally inquired, “Did something happen to her?”

“No! No, she’s okay.” He was quick to respond, knowing his initial statement probably wasn't the best way to bring this up to her. “She passed out a little while ago.”

“Passed out?” Poppy raised an eyebrow.

“Fainted.” He confirmed with a quiet sigh, “She hadn’t slept in two days. She’s in the medical center now and she's being looked after. They had to stitch her hand up because she cut it pretty badly but they have her on a sedative for now.”

“Oh.” Poppy exhaled quietly, feeling her heart break as she blinked back her tears with a shake of her head. “Why wasn’t she sleeping?” She thought aloud.

Steve paused, feeling like he should maintain some of her privacy, but this was Maggie’s emergency contact and best friend. “She said she couldn’t stop thinking about ‘them.’” He tapped a pen on the desk absentmindedly, flipping it again and again.

“Of course she couldn’t.” She knew that Maggie would work herself in to an early grave someday. The survivor’s guilt following the death of her parents had nearly killed her so of course this was affecting her on a brand new, much larger, scale. Poppy’s attention was taken as one of her undergrads called her name. She paused and held a finger up to her student, slightly exasperated as she thought, ‘Is data analysis truly that difficult?’

“Could you have her call me when she wakes up? I just need to know that she’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course.” He made a note to himself.

She hated that she couldn't be there, and she knew her request would irritate Maggie, but her words spilled out quickly, “And…could you make sure she isn’t alone when she wakes up? She likes to pretend that she doesn’t get scared but she hates hospitals. Like, she really hates them. She complained about going after a fucking car accident when we were in college so I just know she'll be upset about this. And I know you’re probably busy doing ‘you’ things but maybe you could have someone else—”

“I can be there.” His voice was kind but firm as he cut off the rambling girl. A part of Steve felt strangely protective over Maggie despite not yet knowing her well. 

“Thank you.” Poppy let out a quiet sigh of relief at his promise, some of the tension leaving her shoulders as she exhaled. “I appreciate you calling me.”

“It’s not a problem. I’ll call you if anything changes before she wakes up.” The two said their goodbyes and he sank back in his chair.

Since the decimation, there was no set schedule or things he had to do. Everyone had just been trying to stay afloat in the new world. Standing, he grabbed a book and some paperwork and made his way back to the small, hospital room where she slept silently.

He didn’t know when she’d wake up but he knew that she wouldn’t be alone once she did.

Twelve Hours Later

There was a slow, steady beeping that cut through the mostly silent air. The soft mattress cradled Maggie gently as she blinked awake after hearing several hushed voices from across the room. Of all the beds, hers was the only one that was occupied within the spacious room. The dim light streaming through the shaded windows allowed her to see everything clearly as her eyes adjusted to being open once more.

Beside her, in a chair, was Steve Rogers. His focus was on the book in his lap as he read it silently flipping to a new page and she watched as he silently mouthed the lines to himself unaware of his audience. Several feet away, Pepper, Bruce, and Natasha were all speaking with one another.

Maggie opened her mouth to speak but it was incredibly dry. Spotting a bottle of water on the table beside her, she began to lean over and stretch her arm out to reach for it but her movement didn't go unnoticed.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” There was a small smile on Natasha's face that didn’t quite reach her eyes as her raspy voice broke the atmosphere while Maggie struggled to sit up in the bed, feeling like she was being weighed down by several cinderblocks on her chest.

Looking over at her, Steve quickly sat his book down and leaned over to help her, one of his hands resting on her back gently as he guided her into a sitting position. She rubbed her tired eyes as he uncapped the water bottle she'd been seeking and handed it to her with a small smile that she returned gratefully. Maggie accepted it wordlessly, looking around at the other visitors as she tried to piece together details that didn't quite fit.

“How long was I asleep?” Her voice was hoarse from not being used; she cleared her throat before taking a sip of the water. It was silent as they all exchanged glances; unsure of who should speak first. Her nerves began to prickle quickly when the fog from her mind slowly dissipated and her consciousness returned in full. She blinked, trying to remember events that weren't coming to her, when she heard the beeping of her heart monitor pick up its pace as she slowly became more anxious. Her soft voice was filled with anxiety, “When did I come here?”

Bruce was the first to respond, moving towards her as he pulled the small penlight from his pocket and turned it on. “You don’t remember?”

Looking down, she tried to retrace the steps of her timeline: she’d finished at her office around five in the evening, she’d gone back to her room and showered, then she laid down to sleep. She remembered tossing and turning for hours before going to get a glass of water to take a sleeping pill but then it was like her slate had been wiped clean.

“I…remember getting a glass of water last night.” She sounded uncertain, looking up at him as he used the light to perform a quick examination on her eyes and mental status. Had that been a dream?

While he watched her pupils dilate, his kind voice was low as he responded, “That was really early this morning.”

Maggie’s brows drew together and she shook her head, pulling away as he tried to finish her assessment. “That doesn’t—”

Pepper walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking one of Maggie’s hands in her own. She felt a pit in her stomach and she knew that she wouldn't like what Pepper had to say. The woman's soothing voice couldn't soften the news from her words, “Steve found you in the kitchen after he woke up. It looked like you had collapsed and when we had F.R.I.D.A.Y. look at the security footage, you’d been there for almost two hours before he found you.”

“Two hours?” Her voice cracked and she felt herself deflate. Pieces of the early morning came back to her: glass shattered on the water-covered floor, a bloody handprint on her leg, a cabinet knob digging into her shoulder.   

“You cut your hand pretty good on the glass so they stitched that up for you.” He nodded to the hand that Maggie hadn’t even realized was currently wrapped in a thin layer of white gauze. Blood rushed to her cheeks, making them burn red-hot in embarrassment.

She hated being taken care of and this was her worst nightmare come to fruition. 

She took stock of the multiple pieces of equipment that she had been hooked up to in her unconscious state. An IV had been placed in the back of her hand, a blood pressure cuff was squeezing her arm periodically as it took the vital. There was a pulse-oximeter on her finger and leads from a heart monitor had been placed on her chest to track her cardiac activity. Her comfy pajamas had been replaced with a hospital gown at some point and her feet were now clad in the 'fall-risk' socks that had traction grips on the bottom. Curling her toes, she cringed and looked down at herself; she felt more than humiliated before she realized that no one had actually answered her question. “So, how long was I asleep?”

Steve checked his watch and frowned before looking up at her, “You kind of…fainted—” Maggie groaned and leaned back on the headboard, wishing she could sink into the cushion of the bed and never reemerge from its depths. She met his eyes as he continued, “And then Bruce put you on a sedative so you’d actually get some rest. So, it’s been about twelve hours.”

She shot forward when she realized that she had missed a whole day of work, especially when she knew that it was all hands on deck. She quickly pulled the wire leads from her chest and through the neck of her gown, wincing as the adhesive pulled away from her delicate skin. She removed the small thing that had been pinching her finger for half of the day, but before she was able to pull the needle from her hand, Steve had quickly covered it and gave her a scolding look with the shake of his head.

“Maggie!” Pepper’s voice was firm as she took Maggie’s other hand again, “Stop.”

She could feel her lip quiver as she closed her eyes. She hate that she cried when she was angry or embarrassed; this was no one's fault but her own. Steve quietly let go of her hand and she used it to swipe away some of her tears, “I missed a whole day of work. I was supposed to have a call with—”

“I had it rescheduled.” Of course she had. Pepper was always three steps ahead of everyone else, including her. The older woman’s thumb soothingly ran across the back of Maggie’s hand as she continued, “You needed rest. You’re taking tomorrow off too and you can start back Monday if Bruce clears you to.”

The man in question was speaking with a nurse, checking Maggie’s current numbers against the ones from early this morning.

“I’m bribing him not to.” Natasha chimed in, teasingly, as she sauntered towards the bed. She paused and met Maggie’s eyes with a tight smile on her lips, “I’m glad you’re okay but don’t pull this shit again.” With a small nod, she left the infirmary, most likely heading to a meeting. That was about as warm as the Black Widow got.

Pepper’s phone rang and she sighed quietly, giving Maggie’s hand one last squeeze before standing to take the call to another room.

Steve was still leaning forward as he watched the scene in front of him unfold. Maggie turned to face him, biting her bottom lip as she toyed with a loose string on one of the blankets. Some of the events from the morning had come back to her in short flashes and echoes, “You carried me here.” Her voice was soft as she recounted what she remembered, “I’m sorry about everything.”

“What?” Steve tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow at her. He was taken aback; an apology was the last thing that he expected to hear.

She stifled a yawn and shook her head as she murmured, “I didn’t mean for all of this—”

“Maggie, it’s not your fault.” Interrupting her, his voice was firm. He rested his elbows on his knees as he looked into her eyes, “You didn’t do anything wrong. This stuff happens.” He shook his head at her familiar need to be the strong one, “You can’t be everything all of the time, sometimes you have to let other people take the wheel.”

“But I—”

“—can’t always control everything.” There was a note of finality in his voice when he finished the sentence for her.

Though the two didn’t speak often, it was like he read her like a book. It was almost unnerving how he could know her so well in such a short period of time.

Changing the subject, he sat back a little as she settled back into the bed. “You need to call Poppy later.”

“You told Poppy?!” Maggie groaned, cutting her eyes at him.

“She was your emergency contact!” Steve was almost defensive as the incapacitated woman cut her eyes at him. The glare that was piercing America’s star-spangled-man-with-a-plan was almost lethal but he had to tamp down a smile that threatened to rise at her response. 

“She will never let me live this down.” She grumbled, laying back and settling into the blankets once more, pulling them over her shoulders. “I’ll call her tomorrow and if she calls before then,” she jabbed a finger towards him, “you get to deal with it.”

“Deal.” He chuckled, watching as she got more comfortable in the bed; the exhaustion that plagued her was still not completely gone.

“Captain Rogers?” Maggie’s gentle lilt saying his title got his attention once more.

He shook his head with a half-smile, “You can call me Steve. I think we’re past titles.”         

“Steve,” She agreed, giving a sweet smile in return as her eyes became heavy once more. Her breathing was becoming slow and even as sleep began to take her again, earnest as she continued, “Thank you. For everything.”

“No problem.” He whispered as she closed her eyes and gently gave her cold hand a reassuring squeeze as she drifted back off to a dreamless sleep.

xxxxxxx

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[jesus-otaku]

All right I was gonna post this last night and then I forgot so here it is!

Title: Shut Up and Dance (Part 3)

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Word count: 2841

Part 1 | Part 2 | The sequel

AO3 link can be found on my blog!

Bonus points to anyone who figures out who the new character is meant to be.

“She couldn't possibly like Chat Noir that way. There was no way in a million years that she could like him.”

________________________

“A dance concentration.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucie's advisor set the change of major form down on his desk in favor of folding his hands and dropping his head into them. “Why is it always the good ones?” he mumbled, barely loud enough to be audible. He looked back up at Lucie. “You have a lot of talent, you know, Miss Bonheur.”

“Thank you, sir.” She wiped her palms, which felt clammy from nerves, on the sides of her skirt.

“You could do well as an actress someday if you stuck with the theater and acting concentration.” He sighed. “Of course, that's not to say you wouldn't do well with a dance concentration, but … you'll have much more trouble finding a job with a dance concentration than you would with your theater and acting concentration.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Lucie said, “if I were choosing my major based on my likelihood of finding a job, I probably wouldn't be a performing arts major at all.”

Her advisor looked at her with an inscrutible expression on his face. “I suppose you have a point there,” he agreed finally. He picked up his pen and set it over the signature line. “You're sure about this? You seemed very passionate about acting when you first got here.”

She shrugged. “I still am, but … I've found something I'm even more passionate about. And I'd be mad at myself forever if I didn't at least let myself try.”

“Spoken like a true performer.” He signed the sheet, and held it out to her. “The best of luck to you, Miss Bonheur.”

~

“You're really switching?” Marguerite asked as she and Lucie walked back to the apartment complex. “To dancing?”

“I've been considering it for a while,” Lucie replied cheerfully, “and I really feel like this is the right direction for me. Acting is fun and all, but … I guess I never really realized that dancing could be like that too until I gave it a try.”

Marguerite shot her an appraising sideways glance. “This doesn't have anything to do with that Noir guy you tried to talk to, does it? I mean, you never seemed like the type to change your life around for a man, but you've hardly shut up about him the past couple weeks.”

“Did it sound like I was praising him?” Lucie asked.

“Well, no …” Marguerite admitted.

“Besides, he's a senior,” Lucie went on. “I might see him around the dance hall every now and again, but we'll be in entirely different classes. It's not like we'd see much of each other, and he'll be gone after next semester.”

Marguerite tugged her hair out of the high ponytail she had been wearing for practice, combing her fingers through the blond tresses in a vain attempt to straighten them. “Fair enough. I'm just crazy impressed with you for switching like this. Dancing always looked super fun, but I'd be way too scared about not getting a job to ever try.”

Lucie laughed. “But you're willing to risk it on acting, huh?”

“Just like every other crazy student in the theater department,” Marguerite agreed with a grin.

“I'm pretty sure everyone in the performing arts department is crazy,” Lucie joked. “It's what makes us so good at what we're doing.”

The comment earned her a giggle from Marguerite. “You've got that right.” The conversation fell into a peaceful lull. This was the nice thing about living next door to a classmate, Lucie thought. Walking home together and talking like this, each of them just comfortable enough with the other to freely share what was on their mind. Although she might hesitate to call Marguerite her best friend, she was admittedly closer to her than to most of her other classmates. It was a blessing she hadn't anticipated when first starting college.

They were about three blocks away from the complex when Marguerite broke the silence. “Speaking of dancing and stuff, I was thinking of dropping by that little club on the Seine sometime. You know the one, right? Kwami Dance Club?”

Lucie nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise.

“Since I'm too chicken to switch to a dance major,” Marguerite went on, not noticing Lucie's almost-wipe-out. “I figured it can't hurt to visit a dance club every now and then and dance for fun. I mean, it's better than nothing, right?”

“I guess,” Lucie agreed, doing her best to act nonchalant. “I hear that place is pretty cool.” Fu hadn't said she couldn't tell people outside of the club about her being Ladybug, but it would probably be for the best to keep it quiet—there was no guarantee the information wouldn't get back to someone who did attend. And Marguerite could be a bit of a gossip.

“I heard they give their regulars a secret identity,” Marguerite said, as if to confirm Lucie's thought that she tended to gossip. “How fun is that? I'd love to have a cool code name. It's like being a spy. Except with dancing instead of spying on people.”

“What kind of code name would you go for?” Lucie asked. Fu had given her the name Ladybug, but maybe he let his visitors come up with their own name if they really wanted to. She hadn't asked Chat Noir how he'd gotten his.

Marguerite looked upwards in thought. “Hmm…something flower-themed, maybe? Ooh, or maybe Bumblebee. Bees are cute. Oh, and I could wear my yellow dress to the club! What do you think?”

“You'd look like a walking buttercup,” Lucie said with a laugh. She could picture it now, Marguerite with her pale hair and yellow dress, and a sequined yellow mask to match. She'd be the most noticeable person in all of Kwami Dance Club.

Marguerite gave her a playful shove. “Meanie. I would look fabulous. Hey, you should come with me. Little Miss Dance Concentration. Get some practice in, learn something new. It'll be a great start!” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And we can practice with each other when all the guys are too shy to ask such pretty girls to dance!”

Lucie laughed again. “As if. My classes will teach me plenty.” She felt a little bad deceiving Marguerite, but she'd already technically broken the dance club's rules by hunting down Destin Noir. She didn't want to betray Fu's trust a second time so quickly. At least her semester as a theater and acting concentration had been good for something—she was able to maintain a perfect poker face now, pretending she had never been to Kwami Dance Club in her life.

“You're no fun,” Marguerite griped. “Oh, well. It's your loss. Keep in touch once you transfer to the dance department, will you? I want to be able to tell you about my amazing dance club escapades.”

“It's a deal,” Lucie promised. They were nearing the apartment now. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucie saw a flash of polka dots. She stopped to look, and saw a black-spotted red skirt hanging in the window of a small boutique.

When she noticed that Lucie was no longer following, Marguerite stopped and glanced back. “What are you staring at like that?” She trotted over. “Ooh, that's cute.” She turned her eyes on Lucie. “You gonna buy it?”

“I shouldn't,” Lucie hedged, but she couldn't seem to take her eyes off the skirt. It was an A-line, perfect for swing dancing. And it fit the Ladybug theme well, even better than the checkered skirt she had been using up until now. “I'm trying to save up right now.”

“One little skirt won't break the bank,” Marguerite said. She pushed Lucie towards the boutique. “Go try it on. I have to go do homework, so I can't go in with you, but I bet you'll look great in that. And it's a good dance skirt. You're gonna need a lot of those for classes, right? Go on. I'll see you later.”

She had a point. It was just one skirt. Sure, it would put Lucie back about thirty euros, but that wasn't too bad in the grand scheme of things. And she had been meaning to introduce more variety into the wardrobe she reserved for the dance club.

“See you later,” Lucie said, and stepped into the boutique.

~

Chat Noir waggled his eyebrows and gave her a soft whistle when she came up to him in her new skirt. “Somebody's dolled up tonight,” he remarked. Without waiting for her to ask, he offered his hands for them to dance, and took her straight into sweetheart. “What's the occasion?”

Lucie was spun out and back in for the palm turn. “No occasion,” she replied. Spin back out, spin back in. “I just thought I ought to shake things up a little.” Spin out, spin in. “I've been wearing the same outfit here for a couple months now, after all.” She was spun out a final time to their full arms' length, and Chat knelt to cue her for proposal. She ran in and jumped obediently. “Hence, the new skirt,” she concluded as he dipped her backwards.

He set her down and flashed a smile. “It suits you, little lady. You should wear spots more often.”

“And I think you should wear all black less often.” Chat led her through Titanic, and rather than push him away at the end, she gave his tie a playful yank. “I know you're trying to match your black cat image, but the same outfit every night gets old fast.”

“It is not the same outfit every night,” Chat countered with an amused glint in his eye. He spun her into the cherry bomb.

“Oh, so you just have a closet full of nothing but black clothes?”

“Exactly.” He set her upright again.

“How boring.”

Her comment earned her a laugh. Not a snicker or a chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh. She thought to herself that he ought to laugh more often. It was nice. “My alternative would be pawprint patterned clothes,” he quipped as he led them into the window, “and I think we can both tell how catastrophic that would look.”

Lucie giggled. “Nonsense. You would look dashing.”

“Tell that to my dignity.” He took her out of the window, into cyclone.

“You could add some more colors to your wardrobe at least,” she pointed out when he straightened again at the end of the move. “Some grays, maybe some purples or something…or green, to match your eyes.”

“You should just go shopping for my new wardrobe yourself,” he teased. “It sounds like you have enough ideas to get the job done without me.”

“Only if I get reimbursed.”

Chat spun her from the inside turn into another dip. “I'll pay you back in dances.”

Lucie suddenly felt very hot all over, as if all the dancing had caught up to her at once. His face was so close…! And the amused smirk on his lips was not helping. She swallowed against a throat that had gone oddly dry—from thirst due to exercising or from the proximity of Chat's face, she wasn't sure—and said, against her better judgment, “Deal.”

His smirk morphed into a grin. “Perfect.” He lifted her up. “You doing all right, little lady? You're looking a little red from just one dance.”

Oh, God, was she blushing? She clapped her hands to her cheeks and realized that she was, in fact, blushing. Why? She couldn't possibly like Chat Noir that way. There was no way in a million years that she could like him. He was capricious, deliberately secretive, almost irritatingly flippant, and—and he needed to stop looking at her all concerned like that right this minute.

“I'm fine,” she managed to say in a voice that was at least somewhat normal. “I…um…I'm gonna go get a drink of water really quick. Be right back!” She made a beeline for the refreshments along the wall while trying her best not to look like she was running away. She had almost made it when someone bumped into her.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” The voice was familiar enough that Lucie looked over to see who it was. She immediately wished she hadn't. She would recognize Marguerite's yellow dress anywhere. One glance at the worried blue eyes behind the yellow- and black-striped mask and she knew for sure that her instinctive guess was right. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

Lucie blinked. Did Marguerite not recognize her? Even wearing the skirt they had seen together in the boutique earlier that day? “No…”

“Oh, thank God.” Marguerite let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “I'm new here, so I'm totally paranoid about running into people. I knew it was gonna happen eventually. At least you're not hurt—you're sure you're not hurt?”

Lucie couldn't help smiling at Marguerite's familiar worrywart ways. “I'm sure. Thanks for the concern, though, Miss…?” Might as well keep the ruse up.

“Queen Bee.” Marguerite offered her hand for Lucie to shake. “You can call me Queen Bee. And you are…?”

Lucie accepted the offered hand. “Ladybug. Nice to meet you, Queen Bee.”

“Thanks so much. Oh, hey, you wouldn't happen to know if there's anybody here who could teach me the ropes, do you? So far all the guys I've danced with have been super new and don't know much more than I do.”

“Sure!” She pointed in the direction she had just come from. “There's a guy over that way, all black, calls himself Chat Noir. He can get you started if you want.”

“Awesome, thanks so much!” Marguerite gave Lucie a final handshake in gratitude and then vanished between the pairs on the dance floor. Lucie continued on her way to the refreshments.

She had recommended Chat Noir without thinking, but as she sat there sipping her cup of water, she couldn't help kicking herself a little. What was she doing? Chat was supposed to be her partner for the competition in the summer, and here she was pawning him off on newbies. They needed to practice. There was still a lot for her to learn, and giving him other partners to work with was the exact opposite of helpful.

A break opened up between some of the couples, and Lucie caught sight of Marguerite and Chat Noir across the room for a brief moment. He was obviously teaching her armbreaker; he had just finished the spin and looked to be explaining the dip that followed. Marguerite must have screwed up once already, judging by her face. She was giggling the way she always did in acting class when she messed something up, one hand over her cheeks to cover her embarrassment. Chat looked like he had been laughing too.

An odd, stabbing pain lanced through Lucie's chest at the sight.

~

“There you are,” Chat said with a grin when Lucie finally approached him again. She had waited until he had sent Marguerite off for the night, which meant a solid hour or so of watching the two. “Where have you been, little lady? I was starting to think you'd ditched me.”

She shrugged in a way she hoped looked dismissive. “You were teaching somebody. I thought it'd be rude to interrupt, so I waited.”

“You could've come over.” He took her hands and waited for the upbeat before starting the dance. “I told her I could only teach her until my partner came back from getting a drink.”

Lucie scrunched her nose up at him. “Well, how on earth was I supposed to know that, silly? I'm not psychic.”

“Well, for future reference—” he swung her into the same dip that had sent her running earlier—“if I'm dancing with someone else, you're always free to cut in. We have a competition to prepare for, you and I. You get first dibs on Chat Noir.”

Frantically, she wished for the heat creeping back into her face to go away. She couldn't let this dip get to her every single time. The odds that they would do it during the competition at least once were high, which meant no running away with her face on fire every time he did it. “Even if I cut in in the middle of an aerial?” she managed to joke.

His grin broadened as he lifted her back up, his eyes filled with that mischievous glint she knew so well. “That'll be the one time I make an exception to my no-dropping-girls-during-aerials rule,” he joked back.

“I'll keep that in mind.” She let him take her through keyhole before adding, “The same goes for you, you know. If I'm dancing with someone else, you're always allowed to cut in.”

“Even if I cut in in the middle of an aerial?” he asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly. He spun her into armbreaker.

“Only if you catch me when the other guy drops me,” she replied.

He held her far closer than was necessary for a dip like armbreaker. “You've got yourself a deal, little lady.”

[cystus-the-malignant]

Slightly long post about Resident Evil 7 and Jack Baker

Or more specifically, “How RE7 succeeds in redeeming the villains that should be redeemed”

UNDER THE CUT FOR SPOILER’S SAKE!

So, after having played through RE7 twice now (I needed to see that foot cutscene) I have been thoroughly drained of shit and pants in which to shit into, thanks primarily to the utterly AMAZING Baker family.

See, there is a book called the horror movie survival guide, which explains most of horror movie cliche’s in a, you guessed it, survival guide fashion. On thing most movies adhere to, is the “villain archetype” i.e. Jason is the strong silent type, Freddy is a wisecracker, leatherface and his family are half-retarded hillbillies, etc. However, the Baker’s often end up breaking this mold, and in a very pleasing way.

From the beginning, we knew the family was going to be the spotlight for RE7, with the now famous “Welcome to the family, son” line delivered by Jack himself introducing us to the family itself with a sucker punch to the jaw. What we didn’t know, was how absolutely fucking MENTAL they were going to be, or how diverse their methods were.

Each family member, Jack, Marguerite, and Lucas, all have their own ways of modifying the house, as well as mannerisms, powers, AND methodology. Jack, the figure head of the Bakers, is the first family member you meet, and is easily the most straightforward of the bunch.

Jack Baker fits at least three of the “villain archetype” molds, half-retarded hillbilly (very loosely, mainly defined by his insanity and his accent), the SST (although not adhering to the second S, he fits the bill completely otherwise), AND the wisecracker. Jack is genuinely fun to listen to with his constant taunts and sing song threats. However, his methodology, the way he attacks, contradicts to the wisecracker formula. Jack bursts through walls, throws you like a ragdoll, uses giant weaponry, and shrugs off damage like a fucking tank. He also manages to spice up his brand of Jasonry by having a distinctly hillbilly tone to himself. Jack is easily, at least before he turns into some weird ass mold monster (let’s not talk about that, it was a mistake on their part, if you ask me) the most outwardly intimidating family member. But he’s just the first, and as such, his section of the house is fairly bland, which still suits his blunt methodology.

Marguerite Baker...oh god where do I even begin. The matriarch of the Bakers is easily the most disgusting of the three, her bug powers making my skin crawl with revulsion. Her “crazy hag” shrieking voice grates on the ears in a fitting manner, and her almost junkie-like actions makes you realize how fucking unstable she is.

When you get to her part of the house, you instantly recognize it. Giant hives of vicious wasps pulsate from walls, immense holes are chewed into woodwork, and everything feels very disgusting in her part. It all feels like the worst infestation of every bug on earth all at once. Tackleboxes overflow with maggots, doors suffocated by giant spiders, immense nets of wasps leech off of the landscape, and don’t even get me started on the centipede crawlspace.

However, Marguerite herself is, for me, the weakest in character of the Bakers. She has two tricks, crazy junkie hag, and creepy bug bitch, which do both work, but they leave little for actual meaningful character. When she transforms into that...whatever it was, she loses the former part of her archetype, and becomes like every other bug villain: spliced horrifically into an uncanny valley with bugs, with a queen bee mentality for her “babies” which she, before then, wantonly used like tools, not caring if they perished, and losing any human traits. She quickly loses any interesting features about herself, and when she dies, you only remember the bugs, not Marguerite.

Lucas Baker, in contrast to both parents, is the most “normal” of the Bakers, as well as the least hands on. Outwardly Lucas still can pass as “normal” which, if the wiki is to be believed, is because he’s just crazy, not actually infected. Lucas doesn't bother with brute strength, or overwhelming horror, he simply allows his victims to be their own undoing.

In one of my personal favorite sections of the game, the “happy birthday” Jigsaw-esque trap room, you are tasked with simply lighting a candle and placing it in a birthday cake. However, unlike Jigsaw, the puzzle if not exactly fair, and is set up for you to fail. Lucas’ section is lined with tripwire traps, boxes filled with explosives, and various other mechanisms to kill victims without much threat to Lucas himself. If you happen to enter the trap room without watching the VHS tape first, you will most assuredly die. See, the problem with lighting the candle is that there are shower heads into the cake room that will extinguish the flame. So, what you gotta do, is turn them off. However, every time you think you’re figuring out, you are actually sending yourself closer to death, effectively damning yourself once you pull out the winding key from the barrel. The cake, once the candle is in, explodes, and if you took out the key, lights the oil on fire, and if you think turning the showerheads back on is an option, the wheel breaks off.

But, if you watch the tape and learn from the last victim, you don’t have to be pierced in the dick with a quill pen, nor do you need loser written on your arm, you simply open the door with the loser code, grab the wheel, and win. Lucas, though, is a sore loser and drops another bomb for you before running off to safety. Even though you barely see Lucas, his personality is clear. He is demented, but cowardly, unwilling to directly confront you, allowing you to die by his own machinations.

By now, most of you probably are glad that you’ve killed the Bakers, but in one single scene, Jack Baker redeems his quiet southern family completely.

At the beginning, the derelict house footage tape tells us that the Bakers weren’t crazy at all, just quiet, and kept to themselves. However, the other main antagonist, Eveline, has completely taken control of them, forcing them to do what they’ve done. While Ethan is nearly dead, he somehow meets with Jack Baker, now completely calm and sane. Jack tells Ethan that he doesn’t want to hurt him, or even scare him. In truth, Jack and his family have had no control over their actions for at least 3 years by this point. He tells you that he, his wife, and his son are not murderers, or even mean spirited, and that Evie is all to blame. In this one scene, you learn that the crazed family you’ve been fighting is actually little more than bodies being puppeteered, and that they are not to blame. Jack Baker, in less than five minutes, goes from a crazed brute, to a kind old man unable to stop what his body is doing. Before you wake, he begs you to free him and his family, wanting them all to stop suffering the way they’ve been.

In reality, Capcom could have simply left them as insane hicks, but by doing this, they both add a new level of danger to Eveline, as well as giving great depth to the Bakers. The Bakers deserved to be redeemed, being secondary antagonists to the real antagonist Eveline. Unlike the Bakers, she never gets a redeeming scene, unless the player somehow feels sympathy for the spoiled child-turned-decrepit-hag when she says she only wanted a family, while trying to kill you. By leaving Eveline as the sole antagonist not redeemed, her villain factor rises, making the secondary antagonists you fought a tragic casualty rather than a righteous slaughter because of her doing.With nobody else to direct your anger at, Eveline becomes the catalyst for any hate you had for the Baker family, making her a perfect, if rushed, final antagonist.

[candycrushcopeland]

Resident Evil 7 Review: ‘Resident Evil 7 is the best in the series, despite its perplexing flaws’

What makes a game scary? The ever-stalking, ever-watchful presence every player fears: Death. A reminder of our inept failure, sending players back in time to reattempt a section that now has the upper hand. Death is an all-powerful, unforgiving punishment; one we’re hardcoded to avoid at all costs.

Resident Evil VII: biohazard understands fear. Not only fear, but the need to create a landscape which personifies potential death. The world is presented through a mostly chocolate colour palette – drab and slightly off. A real focus has been put on the lighting of each section. Hallways illuminate just enough to see where everything is while still feeling unnatural. Abandoned oil lamps litter the ground, offering a comfort to an otherwise morbid backdrop. One section in particular has the player venture outside into the darkness. It’s here where you truly start to appreciate how beautifully-ugly Resident Evil VII really is, and how important lighting is to the journey.

 At the centre of Resident Evil VII is a story about a husband, Ethan Winters, in search of his lost wife Mia, who disappeared without a trace years earlier. That is, until Ethan receives a video from Mia forbidding him from coming to find her.

 Ignoring Mia’s warning, Ethan travels to Dulvey, Louisiana, where he finds a dilapidated house.  Upon entering said house, Ethan soon succumbs to the realisation he’s trapped, and at the will of the psychotic Baker Family, each of whom play a specific – albeit warped – family role. Daddy Jack fulfils the duty of patriarchal leader of the group; Mommy Marguerite is an over-nurturing mother, obsessed with all things family; Brother Jack is the kind who pulls legs off insects then burns their bodies with a magnifying glass; and Sister Eveline is the resident creepy little girl, because no horror story is complete without a creepy little girl.

Serving as a backdrop to the story is an exquisite semi-realistic setting in which you won’t be able to tell if photographs are real people or designed on a computer. While the gorgeous setting helps with immersion, there are several components that pull you out of it. Ethan very rarely reacts correctly to what’s happening on-screen. Imagine stubbing your toe on a door. You might shout, you might curse, but if it were Ethan who stubbed his toe, he’d respond like an even less charismatic Mr. Robot. At impactful scenes Ethan sounds dead inside, making the section feel much less than it should. The player feels the horror, but to Ethan this whole charade is a chore. He’d rather be at home watching football.

 It’s hard to gauge whether Ethan’s performance is down to a lack of direction or the voice actor in question. Either way, it’s not good, and will pull you out of the scene.

 There’s also the case of Mia. Her hair acts like a confused octopus flailing for help and her lip syncing is downright dreadful. Her gob gapes wider than humanly possible whenever she speaks, and you’re left worrying if you trip over you could fall right on in there. Death by swallowing. Not the best look when the narrative is fighting ruthlessly to keep you scared.

 And yet, Resident Evil VII gets a lot right when it comes to weaving a worthwhile narrative. One video tape found within the mansion sees Derek Acorah-type ghost hunters head into the house in search of a new fabricated tale to sell to gullible viewers. The characters in the tape are either unlikeable or forgettable, but that’s intended. What’s important during the scene is that it shows the player the horrors held within. Showing, rather than telling, will always generate a stronger emotional response. The player knows they need to go where Acorah and co. went, but now know it’s sure to lead to demise. And thus, fear is born.

 It’s worth mentioning at this point, Resident Evil 7 isn’t a reboot, nor is it a fully-realised AAA PT takeoff. Resident Evil VII is a Resident Evil game from start to finish, for better or worse. When you’re not running in terror, you’ll be solving puzzles. These range from finding keys to doors, finding ways to open new areas, or maneuvering a statue within a projector’s light to create a shadow on a painting. And, of course, there’s the meta minigame of managing your inventory. Should you carry those herbs but abandon another pack of ammunition? How many healing items do you really need? 

The puzzle-centric nature of Resident Evil VII extends into boss fights, which are (with the exception of one) wholly satisfying. Each scuffle has a hidden tactic, a way to get one over on your foe, and in a stroke of design genius, dying actually offers up a hint as to how to beat the boss for those willing to look deep enough.

 The exception? The final boss fight.

 The first two acts are near-faultless and the first six hours justify the cost of admission. But then, act three kicks in, and the game barely holds it together.

 By act three, all the tension, all the fear, has diluted. Even with less of an arsenal the player becomes too confident for any of the roaming horrors to ever be anything more than fodder; a walking annoyance to be avoided. The problem is confounded by the fact act three is a no more than a walkabout. All you do is run from point A to point B then back to point A then back to point B again in search of items. Nothing of value is added to the experience. Plus, in a baffling twist, you’re given a vastly overpowered gun. Are we back in Res 6? Is Resident Evil a game about shooting oddities? Has Capcom learned anything?

 It’s as though Capcom had a really, really strong six-hour game then someone decided it needed to go to eight or 10 hours. The story conclusion in act three is fascinating, but the two-to-four hours extra the final sections add is painfully dull and repetitive. For a game that literally has you jumping at your own shadow, boring isn’t how you want it to end.

 Worse still is the final boss fight, which attempts to be an epic finish but is all teeth and no bite. There’s no skill, no thought, just trigger-pulling. Then comes the ending, which just doesn’t fit with the past eight hours.

 Act one and two are comparable with the first Resident Evil, while act three is closer to Operation Raccoon City. A shame, then, such a mighty behemoth would repeatedly stumble over the same shortcomings time and time again. Especially considering just how frightful and gripping the majority of the game is.

Conclusion

Resident Evil VII is the best in the series, despite its perplexing flaws. The unrelenting fear is second to none. The Baker Family, always stalking and taunting the player, are a fantastic addition. The deliberately obtuse controls are a way of making the game harder to play without feeling cheap. The stunning, grimy backdrops are easy to get lost in. Resident Evil VII is a must for fans of the series and horror fans alike and reignites the series in a meaningful-yet-familiar way. Fear is Resident Evil VII’s calling card, but after a quick shuffle, fear turns to tedium. Sometimes six hours is more than enough.

Score: The best 7/10 you’ll play all year.

Not tested: PlayStation VR functionality.

Note: All screenshots come via GamesPress, so while Res VII does look great on a standard PS4, it doesn’t look anywhere near as crisp as the early promotional material would have you believe.

[3one3]

The Sequel - 841

Full Sail

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

Four sails propelled Lilly XO from Port Pierre Canto out into the Mediterranean around noon on Sunday. There were three big sails and one little one. Christina couldn’t remember the proper names, and didn’t ask her captain. It didn’t really matter to her. All that counted was the pleasing sound of the enormous white sheets first rippling and then catching the wind and going taught. She was pretty sure she once learned a technical term for that too. The boat’s masts were impressive even without the sails, so with them up they really were quite imposing. Those sails cast a great shadow. It was like having high-rise buildings built right on the main deck. The biggest was taller than the boat was long. She and Juan enjoyed her $26 million bequest from her father right at the bow, in the small area in front of the biggest sail, in the beautiful Côte d’Azur sun. Her hull tipped one way and they leaned the other. The metal railings helped add some stability, but Christina felt safe in that otherwise precarious spot while they sped through the water because Juan held onto her waist. His arm was mostly just a passive guest around her middle, in reality. In her head, his arm around her was nearly always the mental equivalent of a life vest.

“I can’t believe we can go so fast and have it be this smooth,” Juan remarked as Lilly XO picked up speed. They’d been standing up there at the pointy nose for a while, and the spray was just getting serious enough to sting a bit.

“If we go any faster and any more sideways, we’re gonna be stuck up here until we get where we’re going,” his more wary friend replied. They could stand upright. It would be difficult to walk back to the cabin if the deck pitched any more dramatically.

“How’s your stomach?” he asked her, smiling over her head. He knew her history of small-boat seasickness.

“It’s okay for now. Don’t let go of me though.”

The player promised not to let her go, but he deliberately abandoned her just as Lilly XO leaned over at a most extreme angle- so seriously that they absolutely had to hold onto the railing to keep from losing their footing. Christina was furious, and terrified. There was no good reason, really, since she was a perfectly capable swimmer and the worst thing that could happen was ending up in the water. It was just one of those irrational fears that really got to her. She was full of panic and anxiety until he realized his game wasn’t amusing and held onto her tightly until their progress slowed and the deck leveled out. That was enough “King of The World spot” for her. The rider scurried back to the safety of the fly bridge, and asked if they were going to be “all sideways” again. Captain Theo promised an uneventful and more upright cruise the rest of the way to the spot he picked for them to enjoy their afternoon and evening, off Pointe du Batéguier on the north side of Île Sainte-Marguerite. They made it there without her having to throw up. One of the dogs got sick downstairs though, probably before the promise was made. They joined their mom in relieved happiness when the anchors were tossed into the greenish blue water and the other two men in the crew methodically secured the downed sails. She sat with them for a few minutes to make sure they were both okay and that they knew they weren’t alone on the scary carnival ride, and then they accompanied her and her friend to the swim deck.

“Okay, you guys stay here. Don’t jump in. I won’t go far, so don’t-“ Hey! Christina felt allover cold when she unexpectedly hit the water. Juan shoved her in the shoulder and sent her flying. Spencer jumped in after her, so before she could complain she had to rescue the tricolor terrier and put him back on the deck. Both dogs were okay swimmers. They got in the pool at home. Their legs got tired quickly though, and it was much easier for them to tread water in the pool. One of the guys was supposed to be finding their floating kiddie pool as well as some snorkeling gear for the humans.

“That wasn’t very nice,” the grand prix winner turned professional vacationer admonished once her footballer companion slid gently off the deck into the water. “Why are you determined to scare me to death today?” And why do you look so amazing without a shirt all of a sudden, she added. And why didn’t you take it off sooner? We’ve had days of lying in the sun and he’s had a shirt on almost the whole time, or at least all the time he was standing up. Even when we’re having sex, shirt on. When did he get so...lean?

“You make it easy,” Juan shot back. They both held onto the deck. Only one of them had wet hair and salt water in her mouth. “Water feels good.”

“It doesn’t taste very good.”

“I wish I brought my sunglasses down.”

“I’m glad I didn’t or they’d belong to some fish right now.”

“I think they probably float.”

“Do you want yours? The Fonz can get them for you.” Christina nodded at the young Italian, Alfonso, who was coming down the stairs with their swim accessories. He understood English perfectly well and never said anything but “yes” and “very good”. He was the newest member of the current crew, apparently.

“No.”

“Can you give me a boost?”

“You’re getting out already?”

“Just to get them in their pool.”

Juan lifted the rider by her waist and got her about halfway to getting her butt on the wet, wooden deck. She had to do the rest herself, and accidentally kicked him in the face in the process. That evoked hysterical laughter, and comments about karma and payback. The partially-submerge-able kiddie pool was readied for Spencer and Lucky and she set them inside with two tennis balls once it was securely tied to the ladder into the water, which Christina used to get back into the water more gracefully than her first entrance. The Chelsea man with the surprisingly lean and chiseled torso was already swimming around with his snorkel.

Life is good. I’m going to take this moment and reflect on that, because he and the other one constantly accuse me of skipping over the good in the now to worry about the unknown in the future, and I don’t want them to be right, Christina decided. Dirk was brilliant last night but not in an above average way, which is great because it means his baseline is back where it belongs- significantly higher than everybody else’s. It felt good to go out and experience that with him. We’re in a beautiful part of the world. Juanin has been so fun, and so easy, and yeah we’ve had a lot of completely pointless conversations but we’ve had a lot of interesting ones too- that I don’t get to have with other people. I can tell how much he loves being here with me. I can tell how much he loves being with me when I’m showing.

Also, I think I’m ready to be grateful to Dad for this boat. He was totally stupid to do what he did, but it’s possible he had some wisdom here. It’s possible he knew it would one day be the place I can go to get my head on straight, and to get to a place where I feel good. I think that’s what his boat always was for him. Maybe that’s why things were never good with him and Mom once it was gone. I don’t know. And I don’t feel bad that I can finally have a “life is good” moment when Schü and Lukas aren’t here. I probably should. It’s probably a bad sign that I have to be away from my husband and son to get to that. But I feel like I’ll still think life is good when they’re here too. They aren’t suffering somewhere else because I’m here with Juanin. We’re all doing something good for us, and enjoying it. I think he’s good for me and I enjoy him. How can that be bad for my marriage? Isn’t anything that makes me this happy- this relaxed, and settled, and not worried about what’s coming- a good thing for me and the people who love me?

I mean, I mentioned the Olympics selection last night without even having a hint of a panic attack. That’s real progress. I hope boyfriend is waking up today thinking about how good life is too- that he had a fun trip with his friends and he’s looking forward to the last day there and coming to see me and the Munchkin. I hope the Munchkin is covered in Uncle Rafa’s spaghetti sauce right now and not even thinking about whether his parents still exist since he hasn’t seen them in days. I hope that one over there with the farmer tan and the nice dolphin kick is thinking life is great today as well, and isn’t too down about our little part of the summer drawing to a close. I’m pretty sure the horses are all enjoying life, and Tom probably had a great week at home, and Isa I know is thrilled to be back with us. That’s pretty much everyone I care about. I can’t worry about anything else. That’s my circle.

“You know it’s not actually swimming if you’re just sitting on the ladder,” the current center of her circle pointed out while she was off in reflection but very much on the stairs, with her elbows at least.

“I don’t need to literally swim to enjoy being in the water.” Christina rolled her eyes and let go of the ladder to swim lazily to where Juan was treading water, a few meters away. She swam around him so that she could hold onto his back and neck as if to get a piggyback ride. “All my ouchy spots stop hurting when they’re underwater.”

“Good. Five days with you and I see now that you have more chronic pains than I’ve ever had. You should have a real break some time,” the Spaniard recommended, increasing his energy output to compensate for the extra weight on his back. “A whole month or something, just giving your body a chance to rest.”

“Yeeeeah I think we know I can’t do that, for a multitude of reasons.” And let’s not even get into them. “I have this week off from riding at least, and there isn’t enough gym equipment onboard to do that much. Hey, speaking of gym equipment, when did you get so skinny?”

“A while ago,” he laughed as he slowly headed for the swim deck.

“Did you change something? Are you eating differently, or working out more?”

“A little of both things. I had to change with the way we played this year. I feel better than I ever have though, so I’m happy I had to do something different,” he explained. His passenger made her mouth into a suction cup on his cheek for no particular reason other than it was close by. “You should do the same. You’re so heavy.”

“I am not. I just did a fucking bikini shoot.”

“They can Photoshop.”

“Pfft. I am very hot right now. I know because when I get tan it makes all my muscles more noticeable, and because I’ve gained three pounds since I moved to Germany. I was getting kinda skinny, as you know.” Christina let go of his neck and tugged the puppy pool closer to the ladder so that she could sit on one of the steps and reach over the side to play with Spencer and Lucky, who were trying to climb out. Juan used one of the shiny metal railings to hoist himself up onto the deck. He still had the snorkel and goggles on his head and the sight of him made her laugh inside. It also made her swoon. “You should leave your shirt off when it’s time to lay in the sun soon.”

“You should take your bathing suit off when it’s time to lay in the sun.”

“I will if youuuuu do,” the rider smiled. “I think these guys are down for sunbathing in the nude too. What do you think, Spence?” The more colorful of the terriers got help in his bid for freedom. Christina lifted him out of the little floating pool, which was really meant for Lukas, and gave him a smooch on the head. He licked at her chin. “I’ll take that as a yes. Who wants to get started on the whole laying in the sun thing? Yeah me too.” She nodded emphatically at the curious pup, who knew he was being asked a question but not what it was or how to answer it, and then put him down on the deck behind her so she could get his brother out too. The Spaniard wasn’t ready to leave the water yet.

She left him there and took her little friends up to the main deck for towels, then to the tiny bathroom in the tiny hall between the outside sitting area and the inside one, to get in the shower with her to rinse off the Mediterranean. Lucky in particular loved being invited into a shower. He hated baths, but showers were great. Sometimes when they stayed in hotel rooms he waited outside the shower for Christina, perhaps hoping to be let in. André told her it wasn’t that he liked the rainfall feeling but that he didn’t want to be away from her in places like hotels- away from home. Spencer liked showers slightly less. What he loved was the towel-dry treatment after any exercise in wetness. His mom rigorously rubbed all over his coat and gently on his legs and feet, and his eyes closed in sleepy relaxation even as he stood on her thigh outside. They were both unhappy with her when she told them to wait there while she went downstairs to get a tote with her sunscreen, two books, her phone, and Juan’s reading glasses, to bring to the lounge chairs just set out for her with more towels, some cold water to drink, and a bowl of tropical fruit kabobs to snack on. The Toy Fox Terriers got the last of their pig ear chews to enjoy in the sun. Espen was bringing fresh supplies on Monday.

Getting settled for sunning was much more complicated for Christina than for Spencer and Lucky. She needed to reapply her SPF, and apply it for the first time to the bits that were previously covered by her various bathing suits since she was sunning without. She needed the perfect fold job to make a towel into the ideal pillow. She needed to debate the use of sunglasses and try reading with and without them multiple times before committing to a strategy. She needed to forget and then remember to put sunscreen on the soles of her feet. And then about 90 seconds after getting comfortable with her crime novel about a Swedish detective and the unsolved rape and murder of a 9-year-old girl, the rider on her first real day of holiday fell asleep. That was probably a sign that she really needed the rest, and that might have been why Juan let her sleep, though he did fit himself onto her lounger instead of taking up the one the dogs abandoned in favor of the couch in the shade. They were the ones who woke her. A large sea bird landed on the railing near the flag at the back of the boat. They had to rush back to bark at it.

“Shhhhhhhhh,” Christina yawned. The art of yawn-complaining was well represented in her portfolio.

“You should probably turn over so you don’t end up uneven,” the player suggested to her as she felt around in front of her for the book he’d already relocated.

“Are you wearing a shirt? I don’t want to open my eyes.” She switched to feeling around for him instead, and did roll over when she found him. She put her arm on his chest and rubbed by his collarbones. He feels so hot, she thought idly. Like temperature-wise. He’s baking. I hope he put the whole bottle of SPF30 on. “How long was I asleep?”

“Twelve hours.”

“Don’t even joke about that. If I slept for 12 hours then that means you’re leaving soon, and I’m not ready.” The very naked girl opened her eyes one at a time not to make sure it was still sunny out and not the middle of the night, but because she wanted to see the face she was already close to missing. Don’t get sad yet, she urged herself, almost pityingly. You were doing so good about being here instead of worrying about there. He’s so...sweet looking. Sigh. Squinty blues peered back at her on the nearly flat chaise. It was the comfort behind them, and in the rest of his red-tinged face, that read as sweet. It was vulnerability. Christina wondered, just a little, if he was still shy without a shirt around her. He was a shirt on guy, all the time. André was to some degree too, but he preferred to keep his clothes on because he was always cold, and had no insecurity about stripping off in the sun, or in bed. Juan appeared to her without a shield of sorts, not just without a shirt. It was endearing, and revealing. It was a unique kind of intimacy between them, she assumed, that allowed him to let her fully “in”, in all the different ways that manifest. Even at the beach in Spain, he kept a towel on his shoulders when he was without a shirt and not actively submerged in water.

“Do you want to go out tonight?” The Spaniard didn’t move, but she could feel his scrutiny intensify, like he was looking at her for an answer to more than the question asked.

“What are you thinking about right now?” she questioned, curious, and wanting to be real.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her without inflection. He wasn’t going to be as real.

“Thank you.” She was going to give him a pass.

“Dinner and drinks out tonight? Or dinner and drinks at the table behind us?”

“I dunno. Which would you rather do? I don’t mind either way.” Christina shrugged and slid her hand lower down to draw a path around his chest. “We haven’t even had lunch yet.”

“I would like to go out, maybe some place special,” Juan winked without a smile. Why so serious, his ex asked in her head. Is it just because he’s squinting from the sun? He’s so...intense. I’m just gonna ask. It’s Juanin.

“What’s up, babe?” She wriggled even closer and propped herself up on her elbow so that she could see better, and so that he wouldn’t have to keep his head turned all the way to the right just to see her at all. “Something is different.”

“Nothing is up.” He shook his head and pushed his lower lip in, as if to imply she was asking a baseless question. His simultaneous scratching at his cheek and then messing with his hair made her skeptical, and her instincts said she shouldn’t believe him anyway. There was something amiss.

“Are you sure? You look...preoccupied.”

“I’m sure, cariña.” The player offered a smile, and stopped his nervous or distracted habits in favor of covering her hand on his chest with his, and giving it a gentle squeeze/pat combo deal.

“Okay, but just know that I totally don’t believe you,” she warned.

“That’s your problem, not mine! What are we having for lunch, since you mentioned it.”

“Tacos and margaritas. Let’s get drunk.” Christina leaned over to peck his shoulder, and offered a big grin of her own. She wasn’t going to accept that something wasn’t going on in his head that he was keeping from her, but she was willing to accept responsibility for stopping whatever it was. It had to be an “icky” thing, because it was making him much too intense for an early Sunday afternoon on a lounge chair. Also, she wanted to hang out with “lazy-drunk Juanin” and his particular sense of humor and sharpness of wit. He was one of her favorite friends. They could be relaxed and slothlike together while also cracking nonstop jokes and sharing sloppy, pointless kisses. Sometimes being lazy-drunk could lead to exclusive admissions of conscience too. It could lead to learning new or interesting information about one another’s thoughts. Margaritas could loosen lips that way. The drawn out intake could ensure that they never got tipsy enough for Drunk Drama. “Are you hungry? Should I tell Georgina we want to eat soon?”

“Yes. Eat soon; drink now?”

“Okay.” The rider got on hands and knees to administer a cheek kiss, and then put a towel on to go find the chief stewardess. It dawned on her on the way inside that while she wanted to cover up before talking to members of her crew, there were no boats anchored close enough for anyone aboard to see her walk around naked, or to see her do anything else for that matter. She remembered that that was almost the whole point of leaving Cannes for the day, and for Juan staying the extra night. She wanted the freedom to behave with him however she wanted without fear of being “caught”. Therefore, after letting Georgina know they were starting to think about lunch and very much craving margaritas, she dropped her towel on the deck near her lounger and installed herself directly on top of the midfielder occupying it.

“Hi,” he greeted her, his expression that of someone trying to figure out exactly what she was up to. She straddled his waist and leaned on her hands on either side of his head, giving him a face full of breasts.

“Hi. I’m here for the carefree naked caressing.”

“I’m going to get a funny tan. I’ll have an outline of a girl on my stomach.” His confusion was very temporary. One of his hands formed to her waist and the other landed gently on her white butt.

“I’m not that narrow,” Christina laughed. “I’m more like an umbrella just blocking out all the sun. Hey. Question. Are there any things that your parents tried to get you to use when you were a kid that you were like “pfft, never, I’m good” but now you use all the time?”

“Like what?”

“I refused to wear winter hats until I was like 20, and I never used umbrellas, and I hated sunglasses. Now I love hats and sunglasses and I’m pretty cool with umbrellas.”

“No. I-“ Whatever Juan was going to say was interrupted by Georgina, loudly announcing the margaritas. Well that’s embarrassing, her employer sniggered inside, meaning for her and not herself. The Englishwoman looked incredibly uncomfortable having to deliver the two tequila cocktails to the little table next to the naked woman squatting on her not-husband. She sat up straight while she waited for the short glasses to be moved from the tray to the table, and Juan released her butt to squeeze her thighs instead. If I were sitting on Schü, he would pick this moment to sit up and suck on a boob, just to make it MORE awkward, and because he’s an exhibitionist.

“Thanks.”

“Enjoy. The drinks.”

Georgina practically ran back inside. Christina reached for a margarita and her sailing companion spanked her hard enough to spill it all over her hand.

“Now I’m going to be all sticky,” she complained, allowing her hand to drip on his stomach.

“Gimme.” Juan gestured for her hand and she thought he might wipe it with the end of the towel under the back of his head. He actually just licked all the tequila, Cointreau, and lime juice from her fingers, no extra salt necessary. “That tastes good, cariña,” he nodded. “You should try spilling the whole thing on yourself and licking it off. Particularly in this area.” He made a circular gesture in front of her chest and then reached for his own beverage. The lime wheel stuck on the rim was his first focus. He pulled it apart and sucked on it for a second, and then dropped it into the glass before taking a sip from the non-salted section.

“Yeah. No. You make a good coaster though.” The expat took a tentative, testing sip of her drink and then set it back down on the Londoner.

“You’re a sexy umbrella.”

“I don’t think I’m blocking much sun right now.”

“You’re blocking it from my eyes and that’s good enough.” Juan reached to squeeze and release her left breast, and poked her belly button. Whatever was on his mind before was definitely gone, she decided. His happy holiday glow was back on his features where it belonged.

“Where do you want to go tonight?” She took another sip and returned the drink to his defined stomach again, but Juan slid the sweating glass, still in her hand, down his abs and to where she was sitting on him. He pushed the icy cold object against her pubic bone and then smirked at her when she shuddered in surprise.

“Give it a second; it’ll feel nice,” he assured calmly.

“How would you know? You don’t have a vagina to put ice on. I refuse to believe you ever enjoy ice anywhere near your gentleman’s area.”

“Does it not feel nice?”

“Kinda,” she conceded. What she felt after the initial shock of the cold was a sort of awareness there, between her legs. There was a serious contrast going on. She was sitting on a very hot body, baking in direct sunlight, and the most sensitive part of her exterior was wet and very cold and had something hard pushed against it. Juan had some more of his margarita and then held his own glass on top of his stomach in front of her. “So where do you want to go? What did you have in mind?” his friend prodded. She thought going out for dinner might have had something to do with whatever was definitely troubling him moments earlier. Her fingers wiped some of the condensation down his glass and spread it around aimlessly where the hair was growing back on his chest. It was very difficult for her to let go of the compulsion to know and understand his thoughts, despite her best effort to ignore it and focus on the “good”.

“Some place where flip-flops aren’t allowed.” The player’s eyes grew wide and comical, and “eepsy”.

“You don’t even wear flip-flops.”

“Sí, but you do, everywhere.”

“My feet are nudists.”

“You have stilettos that cover less of your feet than your flip-flops.”

“Which part of “you should take a month off because of your chronic leg pain” did you not really mean before?”

“All of it.”

“Can I lay on you or is it too hot?” Christina lifted her drink to her lips and some of the condensation immediately dripped down her arm. It wasn’t unbearably hot. There was a lovely breeze. Sitting on skin and against skin was just helping the ice in her margarita melt faster. Her coaster told her she could lay on him if she got up first and lifted up the back of the lounger a little so that he wasn’t so flat. Her desired location was actually mostly next to him, but she leaned over his shoulder and rested her cheek on him, and folded one of her legs over his thigh. The Spaniard put an arm around her and used it to absently rub and squeeze her butt. His flat stomach remained the coaster for their emptying drinks. Juan had been trying to teach her, for days, how to just do nothing. She was really quite terrible about being idle. He told her she didn’t have to read a book or magazine, or play cards, or browse social media on her phone, or have a strategic planning session in her head about what to do later, or what to do next week, or next month. His hope was for her to be able to do nothing without even talking, but that was asking a lot. His best results came when he chatted with her about inconsequential or nonsense things, like what kind of fish she’d like to be and what he would take with him on a sailing trip around the world. The player managed to keep his theoretical girlfriend in theoretical “do nothing” mode long enough to drink another round of margaritas, go for another cooling dip in the sea, and sit down for lunch. Then it all went to hell because André called to share the fact that he got a text from Thomas Tuchel. It was a goodbye text. The club was going to confirm the termination of his tenure as BVB manager in the morning.