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destiniesfic · 4 years ago

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132 Hours, Chapter 5:

If I die out here alone, for nothing, I will feel so incredibly stupid.

Note: There is a content warning this chapter for a brief mention of past attempted sexual assault. The mention comes near the end of the chapter.

Read chapter 5 on AO3, or read below:

Despite the damp cool of the basement, I am warm when I finally blink my eyes open to the dim morning light. Cardan has curled up at my back.

Alpha blood tends to run hot, they say. It plays into the general myth that we are opposites in every way: alphas hot, omegas cold; alphas strong, omegas weak; alphas dominant, omegas submissive, and so on. Scientifically the hot-cold theory has a little backing, though we’re talking an average temperature difference of 0.2 to 0.5 degrees max. But with Cardan so close to me, practically radiating heat, I am almost inclined to believe it.

We’re not touching too much. He has sort of nestled his face into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and if I hadn’t slept in my sweatshirt I could probably feel his eyelashes tickle my skin. His hand found the curve of my waist in the night. But that’s it. The rest of him is a few inches away, like even in sleep he finds it difficult to overcome his revulsion to me.

It’s almost comfortable, if I forget who I am and who he is. Not even what I am and what he is, because Madoc’s position means that if any handsome, eligible alpha bachelors deigned to outright marry an omega, as he had once married our mother, Taryn and I would be the best of the bunch—best-connected, best-educated, best-groomed. No, it’s that he is Cardan and I am Jude, and I have hated him ever since my body put itself at war with my brain, and he has hated me too, just because I was afforded some small amount of privilege without being born into it.

And still, I stay there for a minute, soaking up his warmth. Because I didn’t think I’d have this anytime soon. I didn’t think I’d get to wake up next to a boy cuddling me, not after what happened with Valerian and definitely not after what happened with Locke. And even though these are the worst circumstances, and this is the worst boy, there’s something perversely nice about it.

Or maybe I just like things that are bad for me.

I was thinking of seeing if girls were better when I got to college, but they don’t really explain how alpha-omega girl sex works in school and I am not about to ask Vivi. And now I don’t know if I’ll even make it to college, so maybe it’s not so bad if I steal a moment of peace.

But then the stink of mildew cuts through Cardan’s rich sweet-musky-boy scent and I am forcibly reminded of where we are and why, especially now of all times, I can’t afford to be soft. So I jam my elbow back into his side, and if I do it with maybe a little less force than I normally would, well, it’s not like he knows that.

Cardan awakens with a start. “Ow!” he says, rolling over onto his back and pressing a hand to his side. “What the hell!”

“You’re fine.” I sit up, take down my now grody ponytail, run my fingers through it and begin to put it up again, watching him out of the corner of my eye. “Today’s the day.”

Cardan scowls at me, rubbing his side.

“Do or die day,” I clarify, looping my elastic around another time. “In case you forgot.”

“I remember,” he huffs. “That mattress is terrible.”

“Well, maybe tonight you’ll get to sleep in your own bed. Or maybe we’ll be dead. Or we’ll be locked in this room again and you can sleep on the floor.”

“Such tempting options. However will I choose?”

I roll my shoulders, trying to work the kinks out of my muscles. “My guess is we’re going to be held up with the police for questioning for a long time. You might not have to. Maybe the choice will be made for you.”

“As always, Duarte, I do so admire your rosy outlook.” Cardan finger-combs his hair and sits up all the way, blinking at me. “I’m still worried about the third guy.”

I don’t tell him that I’d been thinking the same thing. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I say quietly. “We have two other bridges to cross first.”

Only a minute or so after I say it, there’s that knock on the door. I glance at Cardan, who needs to play the role of alpha today, and wait for him to speak, even though it sucks to defer to him. He takes his time about it, too, stretching his long legs, running his fingers through his hair once more, like he has all the time in the world, like the person on the other end of the door should be so lucky as to strangle him.

Just as I’m about to strangle him, he calls, “Yes?”

The door opens. The scarred man and his gun are there, along with, absurdly, a little paper Starbucks bag in his other hand. An upgrade. He looks at me and Cardan—we’re now both sitting on the mattress, even though we are a few feet apart—but if he has any comments he keeps them to himself. He shakes the bag like he’s trying to call in a wayward dog. “Breakfast.”

“Thanks,” I say, because it is my place to be deferential.

“No coffee?” Cardan asks.

I whip my head around to glare at him. The man grunts, “Didn’t know how you took it.” Disconcertingly, I can’t tell if he has a sense of humor or if he’s serious.

Airily, Cardan says, “Fine. Put it down wherever.”

The scarred man raises both his eyebrows, but he half-sets, half-drops the bag on the floor and backtracks through the door, closing it and leaving us alone. Cardan goes over to retrieve it and peers inside. “Okay, looks like sausage, egg, and cheddar and… turkey bacon?”

I hold out my hand. “Give me the turkey bacon.”

“Oh, thank god,” Cardan says, and this time he doesn’t take a bite out of it before he hands it to me.

“Not a fan of turkey bacon?”

He scowls. “It’s all healthy. Plus, it’s not like turkeys actually have a belly to cut bacon from. You have to grind it up and make it yourself.”

I snort, but am happy for his judgment if it means my breakfast escapes unscathed. It doesn’t surprise me that Cardan couldn’t care less about eating healthily. From what I know, he has a mostly liquid diet, and the liquid is mainly alcohol. Not that it matters much. He probably won’t be able to keep getting away with it after a few more years, but right now his body takes pretty much everything he consumes and uses it to build him more muscle.

I think of how hard I have to strength train for a fraction of what Cardan gains just by existing, and how some of the training shows, especially in my arms and back, but the rest is buried under a cozy layer of body fat, and I kind of want to strangle him again. Just one of the many downsides of being an omega.

Since I don’t have any fun facts about turkey bacon to contribute, we eat breakfast without speaking. We had agreed that it was important to get our strength up for whatever lies ahead, but I find it hard to chew and swallow, even though the sandwich is lukewarm. I end up offering the last half to Cardan, who takes it despite his complaints.

Then, once enough time has passed, he gives me a look, and I nod and stand, shaking my legs out. Instead of staying in my usual corner, I stand next to the door, tense, waiting. With one last glance at me, Cardan strides over and knocks.

We have a system with our captors now. They know that the knocking means we want out for one reason or another. They either call through the door to find out why or just open it right away. This time, the door simply opens. Cardan stays where he is and does not move to the back of the room.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s that time again.”

It’s the woman’s voice I hear, and I am privately thankful. “Okay, back up.”

“But I was hoping I could go first.”

“Back up.”

Cardan takes one step back. It’s now that she realizes that I’m not in my corner. Just a little further, I think. And she gives me the half-step I need.

“What’d you do with your friend?” she asks.

To answer that question, I grab her by her shirt and drag her into the cell.

Surprise is a legitimate advantage, but a fleeting one. Since she’s armed and I’m not, I need to move fast. I don’t have to think much about it. I jam my knee into her stomach; all of the air leaves her lungs in a startled gasp, and her grip loosens on the gun. I pry it from her hand with one of mine and use the other, still fisted into her shirt, to pull her further into the room—and let go.

It only takes a few seconds. I dart out. Cardan has already gone ahead, as I told him to, and I pull the door to behind me, quickly twisting the lock on the knob. That was phase one.

“Um, Jude,” says Cardan.

I turn, raising my stolen pistol in front of me before I do anything else, finger resting dangerously near the trigger. The scarred man stands on the other side of the table, his gun also raised. But instead of aiming it at Cardan, as we thought he would, he is pointing that barrel at me.

“This is a surprise,” he says.

Behind me, the doorknob rattles as the woman realizes I’ve locked her in.

“Let her out,” the man tells us, voice steady and slow.

“Or what?” I ask. Somehow, my voice doesn’t shake. “We’re both armed. Let us go and I won’t shoot you.”

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” he asks.

“What do you think?”

He cocks his head to look me over, evaluate my posture, my steady grip. “Huh,” he says, and then he moves to point his gun at Cardan instead. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cardan’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I’ll only ask nicely one more time.”

I snort. “Sure. Do me the favor.”

The scarred man raises an eyebrow. Cardan whispers, “Jude?” like he isn’t sure whether or not I am playing a game. I am not sure either. I am intoxicated by the adrenaline pulsing through me.

“We’re not friends,” I clarify. “Shoot him if you want.”

Cardan gives me a panicked look.

“Of course, if you’ve promised to give him back alive, that’s going to cause some trouble.” My palm is sweaty. I shift my grip on the gun. The knob rattles again at my back, and I hear a soft curse, a hand slamming on the door. “It’s your call.”

The man’s lip curls into a kind of terrible smile. “All right, girl,” he says. “You go free. He stays. Leave the gun on the top step.”

I blink. “Really?”

“Final offer.”

I should go right away. Instead, I glance at Cardan, who has gone pale. But he looks at me again, and then, defying all my understanding of him, he whispers, “Go, Jude.”

So I do. Slowly, my entire body quivering with tension, I walk backwards up the stairs, keeping my pistol trained on the scarred man until the last possible moment. I try the knob at the top, and find it unlocked. It seems too easy, but with one last, stomach-churning glimpse of Cardan’s white face, I flee. But I don’t do everything. I do not give up the gun.

The house I step into has obviously long been abandoned—it was probably never even finished. Some of the walls have gaping holes in the plaster, the support beams visible; some were never plastered at all. There is no furniture to speak of. I don’t linger to take it in. I start running, through a hallway, in the direction of what might be the front door. When I find it, I tumble out into bright morning sunlight, and I keep going.

Immediately I know I am well and truly in the middle of nowhere. All around me is a field of overgrown grass. If there is a road, I cannot see or hear it. Still, I have to assume there was once a driveway that led somewhere, so I take off as fast as I can toward a distant line of trees. I do not wonder about Cardan. I do not wonder about anything.

For a minute it is just me, my feet flattening the dew-damp grass, my lungs straining with every breath. I am alone in a way that I haven’t been in days. Then there is a crack from behind me, and then I feel something rush past my face, just missing me. Startled, I drop the stolen pistol, which lands harmlessly in the grass and thankfully does not fire. I don’t stop running for it. Stopping is the last thing I should do, not when I am so close.

Still, my stomach drops. Without slowing too much, I glance over my shoulder back at the house. The second floor is half-intact, and I can kind of see through the wall—there might be a dark shape perched there. A man. The third man.

He’s a sniper.

I swear under my breath, and my panicked heart skips a beat. They chose this place on purpose. There’s no cover out here, giving them a clear view of whoever might be coming or going. Giving them time to move us in case the cavalry arrived. My only choices are to keep running until I am out of range, or stop, and go back. And I am not doing that.

If I die out here alone, for nothing, I will feel so incredibly stupid.

There’s another crack, now unmistakably the sound of a rifle being fired, and this time I feel when it hits—really more of a graze, but it still skims through my flesh about midway up my calf, leaving a tear in its wake. The strange thing is that, at first, being shot doesn’t hurt at all. It doesn’t feel like much of anything. It shouldn’t be enough to make me miss my step. I falter anyway, and when I bring my foot down I land on it wrong and roll my ankle. I drop with a cry into the grass, tears stinging the corner of my eyes.

But even then I keep going, crawling on my hands and knees through the long summer grass, blinking back my tears because I refuse to let myself cry. I don’t look at my ankle or my wound. It is only when I hear the grass crunching underfoot behind me, and a shadow falls over me, that I finally, finally stop moving forward.

I don’t stop fighting, though. The man—Cardan had described him as tall, and he was right—picks me up with some effort and, without a word, throws me over his shoulder like a sack of garbage. After adjusting me a little so my weight is more evenly distributed, he turns to carry me back to the house. All the time I am squirming, trying to kick, pounding at his back with my fists, screaming with the faint hope that someone might hear me. It isn’t enough to get the sniper to loosen his grip on my waist, but I do feel him wince in pain a couple of times, giving me some small, bitter satisfaction.

All I think is, I shouldn’t have dropped the gun.

Despair begins to set in as we reenter the unfinished house, as the sniper shoulders his way through the door to the basement and carries me down the stairs. Cardan is seated in a chair, rumpled but seemingly unharmed, his hands behind his back. Apparently, someone has bothered to tie him up or handcuff him this time. He sits forward when he sees me carried in. “Jude?”

“Are you sure he’s the alpha?” the sniper asks his companions. “He seems to have gone easy on you.” He deposits me into another chair, and the woman is there immediately to cuff my hands, threading the handcuff chain through the chair back so I am well and truly stuck. I see that some of my blood has soaked into the sniper’s black shirt and think, Good. My leg is starting to hurt now, in throbs, like a bad burn.

“You shot her?” Cardan asks, straining against his bonds.

“I’m fine,” I say, avoiding his gaze. I cannot believe he would do something as stupid as give himself up so I could go free. I look at my wounded calf, streaked red. There is an angry-looking tear there, but it could have been much worse. He didn’t hit bone. “It’s a graze.”

“Because he’s good at his job,” says the scarred man.

The sniper shakes his head and disappears into the room beyond the bathroom. He returns with a first aid kit and begins to stoop down next to me so he can clean my calf, but I raise my foot, threatening to kick him again.

“That’s enough,” the scarred man says. “Believe it or not, we don’t want to hurt you kids.”

“Not,” I mutter under my breath.

“Hurting you wasn’t part of the remit unless you misbehaved,” says the sniper. “Is that more believable?”

I scowl and hold out my leg so that he can clean the wound. Cardan’s eyes narrow. “We can’t just trust you,” he says, as a stinging antiseptic pad is applied to the torn skin and I flinch. “We don’t even know who you are. Give us something. Names. Something to call you.”

The scarred man and the woman look at each other. The woman says, “You can call me the Bomb. This is the Roach. That—” She points to the sniper. “Is the Ghost. You can figure out why for yourself.”

“You call yourself the Roach?” Cardan asks. “Wow. I mean, love yourself a little.”

To my surprise, the man grins. “Not my choice, but we don’t get to choose. How’s her leg?”

“The twisted ankle is going to give her the most trouble,” the Ghost replies. He presses a clean cotton pad to the wound and binds it in gauze. Then he starts on wrapping my ankle. He’s efficient; he’s done this before. “Although I’m guessing we don’t want her mobile anyway.”

“I wouldn’t mind if she taught me a couple of moves,” the Bomb says, rubbing her stomach. I wonder if I bruised her. “What was that, karate?”

“Krav maga,” I admit, glaring at the Ghost as he props my foot up on the nearest empty chair. Ignoring me, he stands and leaves to wash his hands. “I’ve been training since I was nine.”

The Roach lets out a low whistle. “Someone didn’t want you getting jumped.”

I turn my glare on him. “For all the good it did me.”

For reasons I don’t understand, the Roach grins and holds up his hands. “This? This is just a paperwork dispute. Once everything’s signed and sealed, we’ll turn you loose.”

“Lot of hassle for some paperwork,” Cardan remarks. “You could have just let Jude go if it isn’t that big of a deal.”

“I’m starting to see it,” the Bomb says to the Ghost. “Although, yeah, I could have sworn the girl was the alpha too for a second there.”

And if that isn’t absurd enough, Cardan leans toward me across the table and asks, “Did they teach you how to slip handcuffs in krav maga school?”

“Do you want to dislocate your thumbs?” the Ghost asks abruptly, reemerging from the bathroom.

I give Cardan a shrug and a nod—that is how to do it—and he shudders.

“Look, we know just about everything there is to know about this guy,” says the Roach, pulling out the last empty chair and sitting across from me. “But now I’m curious about you.”

I blink. “There’s not much to say.”

“He has quite a file on him,” says the Bomb, jerking her head to indicate Cardan, who pulls an innocent face. “But you were nowhere in it. We thought you were a bystander, a fling, or maybe his new girlfriend—”

“His what?” I squawk.

“But you’re way more interesting than that,” the Roach concludes. “Cardan told us this whole little escape plan was yours.”

The Ghost, for his part, leans against the wall, folds his arms over his chest, and says nothing. I decide I would like him best except for the part where he shot me.

“Why don’t you just let Cardan tell my life story, then?” I snap, angry at everything and everyone.

“Gladly,” Cardan says, looking a little too gleeful. “Jude Duarte was born with a chip on her shoulder. She’s glaring about ninety percent of the time and never lets her guard down, ever. As far as I know, she’s only gotten drunk once. She and her sister were the first omegas to graduate from our school, and Jude staged a coup by being named valedictorian, too, as if being first at just one thing wasn’t good enough. Our last semester, she gave a kid a black eye and got him expelled.”

“Why?” The Bomb asks. “What did he do?”

Cardan lapses into an embarrassed silence that I don’t really understand. Valerian had been his friend, once. Maybe still is. I say casually, “He tried to do what alphas always do,” like I don’t still feel the awful weight on top of me, the cheekbone cracking under my knuckles. “So I did what I had to.”

“They expel kids for that now?” asks the Roach. “Huh. Good on them.”

“Jude’s dad made a persuasive case,” Cardan says.

They exchange bemused glances. The Ghost asks, “Who’s her dad?”

Cardan and I look at each other across the table. They really don’t know.

“My adoptive father,” I clarify, because it matters. “He’s a lawyer. Uh, his last name’s Madoc?”

“Oh,” says the Roach. “Shit.”

#jurdan #judecardan #jude x cardan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tfota #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #the folk of the air #jurdan fanfic #mine: fic #fic: 132 hours

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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

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

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

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

Chapter 22: Resignation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you should sit down?”

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

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

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

Okay. Now what?

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

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

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like now.”

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

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

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

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s –”

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

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

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

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

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

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

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

“You really miss him, huh?”

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

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

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

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But –”

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

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

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

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

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

“Try not to die.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It seems you need a reminder.”

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

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

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

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

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

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

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

“I’m not an idiot –”

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

“Why?”

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

“Why?” Martin repeats.

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

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

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

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

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

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

Jon did.

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

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

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

…would he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

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

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pauses, considering the question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And now?”

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

“Quieter,” she says.

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

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

“Don’t worry about it.”

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

“Yes.”

“When?”

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

“And did she?”

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

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

“And then what?”

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

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And was I… still me?”

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

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Neither do I.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

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

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

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

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There: something real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you manage the ladder?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your time.”

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

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

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

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

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

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

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

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

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

“I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cautiously, Martin nods.

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

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

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

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

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

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

“What about?”

“Anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

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

“There are stranger things.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

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

“Only if you want to.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

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

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End Notes:

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

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

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

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

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

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

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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shinjaeha · 4 years ago

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itsay ep 3 (thoughts + spoilers)

itsay ep 3 fucking obliterated me so here i am with some more thoughts on this episode (drama) in general. this is just me being an incoherent mess bc my mind is basically just one long !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! after having watched this (once raw and again subbed). this isn’t an analysis, it’s literally me just gushing over the ep as i watch it bc boy oh BOY.

WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT EVERYTHING HITTING DIFFERENT AFTER THE BOAT SCENE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! if i thought the tension in the boat knocked the breath out of me, this whole ep was that x10000.

they really started us off with a bang having continued straight off from last ep with teh smelling oh-aew’s hair, huh?? teh rubbing his face with the coconut paralleled with oh-aew smelling his coconut scented shampoo?? excuse me as i cry into my hands.

teh wasn’t willing to wake up early for tarn when she wanted to draw early in the morning, but when he sees that oh-aew wants to wake up early to study, HE’S the one that makes sure that oh-aew wakes up (and he stays up to keep oh-aew company, even if it’s just over the phone). then again when they’re at the resort...love that tarn realises that too. boy ain’t subtle. also, how is it even possible that they can have that much tension just speaking over the phone?? they’re not even in the same room and the tension between the two of them is so thick i can barely breathe.

the “let me know when you’re home”!!!!!!!!!!!!! BOYFRIEND BEHAVIOUR. as soon as oh-aew asked teh why he always asked tarn that, i KNEW they were gonna put that in there for him and oh-aew and i’m glad i wasn’t disappointed :))) the look on oh-aew’s face when he saw the text!!!!!!!!!!! the way he stopped in his tracks!!!!!!!!!

i already had a feeling that oh-aew was going to be the first one to properly realise and accept his feelings for teh based on the teasers (makes sense since he already knows he likes boys...he’s more sure of his sexuality, which would of course make it easier for him to accept based on that). seeing the way he used the ‘if you get close to him and he doesn’t move away it means he likes you’ theory that teh initially told him to try on bas with teh too was really cute. and the jealousy over tarn. i LOVED that we got to see a more petty side to him when he announced he was going to room with bas partly bc of how lowkey jealous/mad he was about teh and tarn talking over the phone. it left teh so unsettled and confused (the piano music was PERFECT in that scene), and is 510% something teh would have done too (based on the previous two eps). they really are a perfect match huh. but poor bas being caught in the middle of the two of them ;;;

i liked that a lot of this ep was from oh-aew’s perspective. i feel like we got mostly teh’s pov in the first two eps, so it was really nice to see things from oh-aew’s pov too. gave us all more insight into his personality and he’s honestly SO MUCH more flirty than i thought he was going to be omg. the potato chip scene where he just crawled over to teh and ate that potato chip all the while staring straight at teh, then lying on his lap?????????? teh was (understandably) flustered after that AND SO WAS I. i was not expecting that whatsoever. i was also really impressed with how honest oh-aew was about his feelings. i love that he’s stayed true to their previous heart to heart in the boat scene last ep where he basically told teh that he wanted transparency between the two of them. he’s sticking to that, and i admire him so much for being able to be that vulnerable and true to himself. i thought there might have been more confusion with bas, but it looks like as soon as he realised his feelings might have faded/that he was feeling things for teh now, he just went with it. i know in my last text post i said that oh-aew is usually the more cautious/pragmatic of the two, but i feel like when it comes to his feelings, he seems to be really in tune with who and what he wants (more so than teh). this of course makes sense bc he’s likely had more time to come to terms with his sexuality...which is what teh’s figuring out for himself now. on top of that, oh-aew’s feelings for teh are a lot stronger than the ones he has for bas. and since he’s also more certain that teh likes him back, he’s so much bolder in how he approaches teh. and teh, to his credit, returns that honesty too when oh-aew basically pushes him into acknowledging that there’s ~something between them (hammock scene). i was kind of expecting him to push away from that/deny it, but he didn’t. he’s obviously just a lot more confused with his feelings and still needs some time to understand them and process them fully. on a related note, hammock scene was so loaded and SO well acted by the both of them. the fact that they can move from playful in one scene too achingly intense in another always throws me for a loop.

another thing i really love about the two of them is how they push one another to be better. it’s that rivalry that makes their bond even stronger, but it’s also something that worries me for future eps ngl...

but i honestly feel SO BAD for bas...clearly, he likes oh-aew, and although oh-aew was initially confused with the two of them, he’s definitely more convinced when it comes to his feelings for teh. but when bas essentially asked oh-aew out, and oh-aew said let’s invite the rest of they guys?? he looked so sad and my heart kind of broke a little. it’s like watching the poor second lead in a kdrama. and tarn too :( i really hope that when teh accepts his feelings for oh-aew, he doesn’t keep her hanging on the way that most BLs tend to do. she deserves so much better than that. my heart really hurts for the both of them, but at the same time teh and oh-aew are just magnets being pulled together at this point. they can’t stay away from each other.

the scene where teh rubs the smell of oh-aew’s coconut scented pen (from what he’s written) all over his face bc he’s at his limit and can’t stand all those pent up feelings anymore, only to race out to their special meeting place on the beach????? the moment he sees that oh-aew’s there too and he chases after him entranced (and the smile on oh-aew’s face)????? the way the instrumental ost just swells the moment they see each other????? the way they tease and dance around another yet again????? PURE ART. A CINEMATIC MASTERPIECE. THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DRAMA I HAVE EVER SEEN. this whole sequence has to be my fave scene in this ep. god, that part where the camera closes in on them and they’re face to face before oh-aew steps away again had my heart trying to flutter its way out of my CHEST. THEY HAVEN’T EVEN KISSED IN THE SERIES YET AND THEY CAN REDUCE ME TO THIS. honestly, their power is something else. the fact that they can stir so many emotions in all of us just by the way they glance at one another, by the way they dart around one another barely touching...there are dramas/movies with multiple kiss/love scenes that can’t even create that tension and longing. it’s the kind of chemistry that burns you inside out. it’s so palpable.

the thigh massage scene had me CAPTIVATED (like all their scenes tbh) and then teh’s mum came to wake me (and the both of them) up haha. but for real, there’s just something so tentative about what’s happening. these feelings are new to them, and they’re easing their way into it. always toeing the line, but not overstepping it yet. it’s primal. they keep letting those feelings build up more and more and more. and you can always feel the way it’s leading to something else. and of course it leads into the next scene where teh’s tutoring oh-aew again but the atmosphere is so incredibly heavy, so tight, that they can’t contain it anymore (i mean, the fact that they contained it for so long when they’re teenage boys with feelings for one another is already astounding enough to me). teh tries so hard, but then the back scratch happens and...THIS ICONIC SCENE...i thought they were going to kiss then (before oh-aew turned around), but then we got something else entirely and the intimacy of it all. just wow. literally not a single kiss and it was one of the most sensual scenes i have ever seen in a BL. it’s just the way they get so caught up in one another. THE YEARNING OF IT ALL. this whole ep was just pure anticipation, and i have never ever wanted two characters to kiss more than i do these two. it’s the build up that gets me (idk if this can be considered slow build since there’s only been like three eps but it sure as hell feels like it!!!!!!!!!). then teh pulls away and it’s like a smack in the gut...but at the same time, i get it. he’s not ready yet. there’s so much for him to take in and he’s not there yet (not the way oh-aew is), and just like oh-aew, it keeps us all hanging on, so close but not quite there yet.

so much of this felt like this cat and mouse game between the both of them where one of them would advance, then retract...it makes the tension between the two of them even MORE overwhelming bc you keep anticipating something, and you get fleeting moments of it, but then it’s over by the time you blink. they keep toying with one another, but not crossing the line YET bc they know that that’ll change everything the moment they do. it’s such a testament to the writing AND the acting bc it’s the chemistry that bkpp have with one another that creates all of that push and pull dynamic, that yearning and desire. having to wait a whole week again is just devastating...i think next ep seems like it might be the climax?? i’m pretty sure it’ll be the ep where teh accepts his feelings (or at least won’t be able to hold himself back physically anymore), where all the build up finally properly erupts, but at the same time, i just know that the angst is going to start piling up and idk how to feel other than terrified bc i’m way too invested now tbh.

anyway, this drama is absolutely magnificent, and all i want to do is rave about how damn good it is. so high quality. it feels so fresh, like they’re reinvented the tried and true coming of age tale in a way, and we’re all just along for the ride. it transcends the typical thai BL story (and i now understand why they were hesitant to label this as BL when it really feels like it encompasses so much more than the usual BL tropes and story). one of my fave dramas of the year by far (BL or otherwise). it’s just a class apart from any drama i’ve watched before and ticks every single box for me. stunning in every way. down to every detail and every feeling and emotion. it’s so raw and real and i can’t praise what nadao and the team have done with this enough (and we still have 2 more eps to go!!). there’s just so much meaning in every little thing, and in all those little things you can see the time and care it’s taken them to make this.

#wait have i talked about the ost and how they use music and silence in this bc it's brilliant!! perfection!!#i told sunset about you #itsay #bkpp #text #oh and not to mention the chinese lyrics being translated to thai STUNNING #nothing else can compare to how this series makes me feel i could write essays upon essays of my thoughts and it wouldn't be enough #it's the headiness of the two of them that has taken my apart in every way #this has felt like the longest week ever and this next week is going to feel even LONGER until the day i get a new ep once again #i think i prob have more things i want to say but i can't think of anything else off the top of my head i just needed to rant somewhere #normally i would just leave my thoughts and feelings in the tags but this is just too much the way the both of them overwhelm us all #you KNOW i'm gonna rewatch this again bc i can't help myself i really can't #i have a couple feelings on how the end could go and it absolutely worries everything inside of me bc there's A LOT of foreshadowing #going around and it's just got me feeling :///#climax next week (i'm pretty sure it'll be next week) is gonna feel like a volcanic explosion after all this waiting #i can't wait till we get the other teaser and i know what's happening in the next ep preview one too #we're getting the infamous neck kiss in ep 4 and it's gonna scrape out my insides just you fucking watch #i will sob until there is nothing left of me #didn't billkin describe the neck kiss as just the sauce???????? fuck i'm not ready I'M NOT READY #the way this is the only thing i want to talk about for days months years decades #the feel of it def reminds me of cmbyn and yeah i totally see it #it's the authenticity of it somehow

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captainmazzic · 4 years ago

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Happy Halloween.

So it’s about time I gave a real fucking update instead of just dicking around being cagey about shit. I’ve mentioned a new project repeatedly. So let’s sit down and actually talk about it, friends. Pull up a chair, grab yourself some hot cocoa and strap in. Welcome to Sarc’s emotional roller coaster.

Bear with me. This is hard to talk about for so many reasons, but mostly because I’ve been belittled and ridiculed so many times in my life for liking “cringy” things or wanting to do things that other people think are stupid or childish. I hear the voice of my father telling me to “make something of my life” and “don’t squander your talents”, I hear the voice of my mother telling me I have “so much potential” and “one day I hope you get some ambition”, I hear the voice of my ex telling me to “stop wasting time with stupid shit” and “nobody is interested in failures”. I hear old teachers telling me honor roll students should go to college and study high-demand majors and anything else would be lazy and detrimental and won’t contribute anything worthwhile to society.

It’s the same shit that prevented me for a long time from posting art online. From posting writing online. From making ocs and showing them to other people. And now it’s preventing me from starting this project, and I’m so, so tired of it.

My biggest fear right now is that once I start talking about this project I’ll lose this tiny little community of people vaguely interested in my stuff that have somehow stuck around. External validation and sharing the things I love are my primary motivations with everything I do online, and while screaming into the void is all well and good, I need feedback and interaction and community. I need it so, so badly. I wouldn’t post jack shit – ever – if I didn’t need that, to be honest.

So anyway.

When the pandemic kicked into high gear earlier this year I got laid off for a few months. It gave me a lot of time to think about who I am and where I wanted to be in life, what mattered to me, what dreams I still had and which ones had fallen by the wayside.

Some of them are huge – once upon a time I was very religious. I went through seminary, got my minister’s certification, and was slated to be an associate pastor in a mega-church and rake in a six-figure income within 3 years. But I lost my faith and couldn’t stand the idea of being disingenuous.

And there was also a time when I received a full-ride scholarship to a very prestigious university that would have spanned a 12-year program and resulted in me having several doctorates and masters degrees by the end of it, in the fields of geology, palaeontology, and cladistics. But the scholarship program that was supposed to sponsor me went bankrupt the very semester I was supposed to capitalize on it. I was still accepted into the school, but the $1.2 million price tag would have all been out of my own pocket. So obviously that didn’t happen.

Those were the “acceptable” dreams. Those were the ones that parents and teachers and the general outside world approved of and thought were worthy goals. But neither of them panned out, and all I have left are the cringy ones. Like homesteading and sustainable living (can’t start without land, can’t have land without money). Like making comic books and doing art commissions for a living (it has to be steady to support myself, and I’m far too slow an artist for things to be steady). And like… playing video games.

Ha.

What’s funny is I can already envision the eyerolls and hear the snorts of laughter. What kind of dream is that? Only a handful of famous youtubers and twitch celebrities play video games for a living, and breaking into a field like that is pretty much impossible unless you already have friends in famous places.

Yeah, but… it would be so much fun. Right?

It WOULD be fun. I don’t have to become a super popular celebrity for it to be fun, right?

I don’t have to make it my day job and rake in piles of cash for it to be fun, right?

… I don’t have to actually be successful for it to be fun… right?

… Right?

… I love video games.

I’ve loved them ever since I tried and failed so many times to win The Empire Strikes Back on Atari 2600. I’ve loved them ever since I played Mortal Kombat with my cousin in his basement with the sound down super low because it was ultra-violent and I would have been in so much trouble if mom caught me playing it. I’ve loved them ever since I tried and failed to finish Strife and Hexen and Heretic without the computer crashing and rebooting to DOS. I’ve loved them ever since I had to cheat-code my way through Jedi Knight: Dark Forces II just to get past the first boss fight but then no-clipped through the wall and died anyway. I still love that game.

But I stopped playing video games for a very long time. I was intimidated out of them by an ex and a somewhat toxic friend group who were Real Gamers™. I was brought to LAN parties but not allowed to play, because I slowed down the team and didn’t know the controls. I was banned from commenting on other people’s moves or cheering people on because it was distracting and I could cost them a win. I was even kicked out of their online D&D campaigns because I couldn’t be serious enough or roleplay well enough for their standards. Even if I was playing a game on my own, I couldn’t play with anyone else in the house because I’d be ridiculed for dying a lot, or for going the wrong way, or for picking the wrong game because only certain games are “good” and most of the ones I wanted to play were “stupid” or “trash” or a “waste of time”.

That kind of thing sits with me for a very, very long time. I didn’t really play games at all for over a decade. Even after I ended up on the opposite side of the country, with a new circle of friends, I couldn’t bring myself to play much of anything.

And then I had an extended visit with a friend of mine, and he introduced me to an early version of a ridiculous little game called Minecraft. My friend was an avid gamer but also a very kind one. In the ten years before this, I had told myself that I just preferred to watch other people play games instead of playing them myself (a lie. I mean, I absolutely adore watching other people play, but I also want to play too lol), my friend saw through that and very gently encouraged me to take a stab at playing Minecraft myself. He moved his laptop over to me, and I played a whole ten minutes with him watching before my nerves failed me and I promptly died. But miraculously it wasn’t a big deal to him. It was just a game. I might have cried in relief, I don’t remember.

After my visit I shelved playing video games for like another year, despite buying a whole mess of them because other friends online loved certain titles and wanted to talk about them with me. (I never played them, just bought them. I couldn’t even handle the thought of playing by myself in my own house). But for some reason I mentioned to my brother-in-law my old visit to my Minecraft-loving friend, and he just… up and bought the game for me. My brother-in-law is also an avid gamer with a lovely and patient disposition, and he suggested I just play in creative mode and build things to start. So I did that (behind a locked door in the RV that I lived in by myself, with the lights off and the sound down low) and Minecraft was my sole video game for another several years.

Then a couple years ago another friend of mine (hi Char) introduced me to Star Wars: The Old Republic, and I fell in love. It sparked a renewed interest in video games that I thought I would never really have the opportunity to satisfy, because games were still intimidating.

Let me clarify: I… SUCK. At video games. I’m terrible at them. Learning controls is a nightmare and a tunicate evolving its own brain would learn faster than me. If I’m aiming, I can’t hit the broad side of a barn. I have the direction sense of a whirligig beetle on the back of a drunk pigeon. I die fast and I die often. I can count the number of games I’ve actually finished on one hand. Even less if we don’t count the ones I had to use cheat codes to get through. But none of that diminishes my love of experiencing them, and over this whole pandemic and quarantine thing I’ve had a lot of time to unpack and mull over my thoughts and feelings and passions about them.

… I moved my RV to a new spot literally the day before the lockdown in my state first initiated. Before this I was in a spot that had no internet other than what reception I could get on my phone, with severely limited bandwidth and patchy, unreliable service. The new spot has a steady wi-fi connection, and while upload speed is utter shit, downloading and streaming video are just this side of manageable. So I spent the first three months of the quarantine lockdown doing pretty much nothing other than watching Jacksepticeye, CrankGameplays, and Markiplier play video games on YouTube. (I honestly had no idea before this that people even did let’s plays. My internet access/speed has been shit for so long I’m totally out of the loop).

It… for fear of sounding utterly stupid yet again, it inspired me.

Like. These people really love what they’re doing. They just. Play video games and have fun with it, and I mean yeah they make money hand-over-fist doing it but the main thing is they HAVE FUN doing it. They have fun! Playing video games! In front of people! It’s wild. And the thing that REALLY got me was… they have feedback on it too. They have a COMMUNITY. They have people they can talk to about it. They have people that they can play games WITH, even, who don’t yell at them or tell them they suck every five minutes or tell them they can’t play with them because they’re worthless as teammates. They can fuck up in a game and their friends are laughing along with them on Discord instead of screaming at them to get it right or get out. They can play games by themselves in their house and then upload videos on the internet and then they can talk to other people about it! They have fun! It’s awesome! They have fun!!

I just. It meant so much to me. It meant so much to me to see these videos of these three, and then another dozen or so that I’ve followed since, play all these games and have such a good time and also be such a positive and kind and encouraging source of energy.

I know all of this is not exactly about video games specifically. It’s about coming to terms with how I’ve been treated as a person and as a friend, about how other people respect someone’s interests and passions, about how it’s okay to share your interests with other people and it’s okay to like things that other people might not care about or think are important.

And I’m so, so tired of not doing the things I love because I’m afraid of what other people will think.

So I, uh. I invested all of the stimulus money I had into a new rig and equipment like a camera, lighting, acoustic panels, all that shit. I dug out all the games I bought but never played, I made accounts on all the big gaming services like Steam and Itch.io and GoG, and I made a YouTube channel. And I’m going to be making my own let’s plays. And it will suck, and it will be cringy and awkward and badly done, and it won’t make me money or be a valid career option or be anything but another very expensive hobby, but it will be mine, and it will be something I can share with people and (hopefully) have fun with, and it will (hopefully) be an avenue for some of this positive social interaction I’m craving.

I know YouTube can be toxic and super negative and full of trolls and cancel culture fanatics and people just waiting to find something to tear you down for, but like. Come on, y’all. I’m posting this on tumblr dot com. Toxic is everywhere anyway. I just want to try, you know?

I just want to love video games again.

Someone famous that I look up to so, so much told me – without knowing that I was even listening, without even knowing that I even exist – that if I enjoy doing something, to just go for it. To just jump in and do it, and if it works then it works, and if it doesn’t, what have I actually lost?

And I’m lucky enough to have four whole offline friends that I’ve mentioned this idea to, and each of them has said encouraging things like I’d have a good voice and face and style for making let’s plays. I honestly don’t know how true that part is, but on my good days I believe them. And they also said that I should go for it, to just try.

So that’s… that’s what I’m doing, I guess. I just want to try.

I know it’s not Star Wars fanart. I know it’s not Star Wars fanfiction. I know it’s not Star Wars meta or essays or ranting about the Sith and the Jedi and the Force. I know it’s not what y’all want from me. And that’s utterly terrifying. I’m bracing myself to be alone on the internet again, because I know that when I dive headfirst into this thing, it’ll eat away into the time that I normally might be spending doing writing or art, and it’s going to be something no one else wants to see and no one signed up for. And that’s partly why it’s taken me so very, very long to get started.

The other part is more physical. Of course as soon as I decide that I’m going to put my face on a camera is when my entire face goes to shit. I’m currently waiting on a potential diagnosis for mouth cancer, while already dealing with a severe jaw infection that’s causing my teeth and gums to rot inside my mouth. They already took part of my jaw, I’m missing teeth, others are turning black, if I open my mouth even just a little it is so obvious and I look like a very, very literal zombie. I have never been more grateful that masks are socially acceptable. I have a series of twelve appointments scheduled to treat this shit now that I have dental and health insurance (goodbye paycheque), and I might qualify for reconstruction surgery too. But that doesn’t really help how I look right now.

So I just can’t bring myself to start this project just yet. I’ve been sitting on it for months now with all the other pieces in place, but I just. Can’t. Start. It’s driving me crazy, because I want to start so badly. I feel like I’m wasting time. I feel like I’ve already wasted so much time, because I haven’t even done anything else in the meantime. I haven’t done hardly any art or fanfic, nothing. My anxiety is spiking so high right now because I have all these expectations of myself, but I can’t do anything about it. I’ve been told that I could just start without a camera or wear a mask on screen, and I’ve actually done some recording doing exactly that, but I just… can’t seem to make anything I want to finalize.

It’s also frustrating because I have no way of uploading anything at home. I’ll have to go over to my partner’s house which is nearly an hour’s drive away in order to get internet good enough to upload videos, which means that upload schedules are going to be shiiiiiit and that’s also frustrating.

But. But. BUT. I want to do this.

I want to do this so badly. I want to share let’s plays and experience a love of video games with other people. I want to actually play games with other people too. I also just acquired a piano keyboard, and I want to play again on the regular because I miss it so much. I used to play piano for hours every single day, it’s so relaxing and fun, maybe I can post that too. Maybe I can post let’s draws or something, where I ask y’all what to draw and then make a video of me drawing it while bullshitting to the camera I don’t know it sounds like fun. Maybe I can post videos of my cooking because the shit I make seems to be everyone’s favourite thing on instagram, and maybe I can take my camera with me when I go to the ocean or hike up into the middle of nowhere in the mountains and film how beautiful everything is up there. Or maybe I can do none of that and just focus on one thing, I honestly have no idea what I’m doing or how to do it, but I just… I want to try. I just want to try.

I don’t know where any of this is going anymore. I’m sorry I haven’t responded to messages, or opened up commissions. I’m sorry that this isn’t what y’all wanted. I’m still going to continue drawing and writing, I’m still going to be around, I’m not going anywhere, but I have no idea how prolific I’m going to be and I have no idea even when I’ll start uploading videos, to be honest. But I just. I’m just gonna try. It might still take me a while but I’m gonna try. Wish me luck. I love y’all.

#long post #psa #sarc speaks #sarc speaks a LOT #3k words worth of a LOT #I'm so sorry #OTL

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loubuggins · 5 years ago

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Girlfriend

A/N: This story was inspired by an idea given to me by @zuppizup. Thank you, friend! As always, please read and review!

Summary: The misunderstanding that he was sure would have come around at some point in their relationship and here it was. The inevitable cultural clash. “Rayla, do you know what girlfriend means?”

The first time she heard the word, it had caught her off guard. She and Callum were sitting on the steps leading to the Dragon Queen’s chamber, going about their usual verbal sparring.

“There's no way me ears are that big.” She scolded him as she glared at the open pages of his journal. She looked pointedly at his latest creation, a sketch of her petting Zym in the very spot they were currently sitting in. He had been adding details to the drawing while they cuddled together, enjoying the rare moment of quiet.

“I didn’t make them big.” He defended himself. “Only pointed, because they are.”

The elf shook her head in disapproval. “Ya made them almost as long as me head!”

For added emphasis, she waved a hand beside her face, gesturing to her actual ears. The boy looked up from his drawing and studied her for a second. His green eyes darkened as he concentrated on the body part in question. His stare was a little unnerving to the girl, but he seemed to either ignore or simply not notice the way she began to squirm and awkwardly try to catch his gaze. After what felt like hours, the young artist looked back to his page. His eyes then flickered back and forth between his sketch and his muse. She could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he took her critique seriously and compared his work with the real thing.

His lips finally parted as he appeared to be preparing a retort, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by the sudden interruption of one of their friends.

“Hey, Callum!” The familiar voice of Soren, a Crown Guard, called out to them from across the foyer. In his large arms, he held baskets filled with bread and fruits. “Quit flirting with your girlfriend and come help me feed the troops!”

The younger boy blushed and sighed as he closed his book. “Duty calls.” He mumbled to her, a hint of an apology behind his words. He handed her the leather-bound pages and placed a quick kiss on her cheek before standing up to meet Soren outside. She returned his gesture with a small smile and watched him go.

It had only been a few days since the final battle against Viren and his mutated army. Many of those who had fought in the battle were still camping at the base of the Storm Spire. The Spire itself could only house so many people, not to mention how difficult it would be for Callum and Ibis to perform the special breathing spell on all those people. So they found it best to let the armies rest on the ground before they returned to their proper homes. Thanks to Callum’s new ability to sprout wings where his arms should be, it had made traveling from the top of the Spire down to the ground and back up again much quicker than taking the endless stairs. However, his skill also meant he had to be gone at different times throughout the day, which made alone time all the more difficult.

But their lack of bonding time was not what gripped her thoughts as she sat alone on the top step. Instead, there was a word that the older blonde had used that replayed in her mind on a loop.

Girlfriend?

The word made no sense. Sure it may be easier to say than “the girl who is your friend” or “your friend that happens to be a girl.” But it still sounded wrong. Besides, she was not just Callum’s friend. She had it on a pretty solid record that her relationship with the human mage was well beyond that of just being friends. Perhaps Soren was just unaware of the change in their status? It seemed hard to believe, even for someone as slow to the mark as Soren. They weren’t hiding their relationship and Callum always seemed so eager to tell people that they were now “a thing” as he referred to it.

“But why else would he call me Callum’s girlfriend?”

The question nagged at her as she left her spot and went to return her love’s sketchbook to his room for safekeeping.

~#~#~

She had honestly forgotten about the word after that. At some point in her thinking, she had finally decided that it was no more than just Soren’s playful teasing of the teenage prince and left it at that. She had meant to ask Callum about it later, but when he finally returned, the question had slipped her mind.

It was not until two days later that she remembered and this time, the strange word was used by Callum himself. It was deliberate too. The humans were preparing to leave the Spire and begin their journey back to the human kingdoms. It was her first time back on the ground since she first climbed the steep steps of the mountain with Callum, Ezran, and Zym. Callum had wanted to come to say his goodbyes and had invited her along. She did not know many humans, but she was familiar with a few by this point. She especially wanted to spend every second she still could with Callum’s brother, who had become like a little brother to her as well. So she had agreed to join him, even if leaving Zym was making her anxious.

When they had first arrived at the temporary camp, they helped with the packing. Though Ezran was a King now and Callum was still a Prince, they all still felt the need to lend a helping hand in the cleanup. As the three were working on wrapping up a tent, they were interrupted by a group of somewhat familiar-looking humans. Corvus she remembers, the burly brown man kept his confident stance beside a woman leading them toward the three kids. She could not name the woman, but her white robes and pointed look made her seem like someone of significance. On the woman’s other side was Callum’s Aunt Amaya, who Rayla probably knew best among the group. She respected the general and she was glad that the feeling seemed mutual now.

Ezran was the first to look up and acknowledge them. He greeted them with a polite smile and nod, stopping what he had been doing to meet up with them. Rayla stared at them for a moment, then shrugged and went back to helping Callum fold the fabric of the tent. She figured it was just “Kingly Business” that did not concern her. That was until the woman in white called out Callum’s name. They had just put away the remainder of the tent, so the prince moved to join the other humans. On instinct, Rayla moved to follow him, then quickly stopped herself. This was probably a human thing. Part of his royal duties. It was strange to think of him like royalty. Sure she would frequently mock his royal title, but to her, he was just Callum. An up and coming mage who loved to joke around, doodle in his book, and talk about his feelings. He was her best friend and the only person she has ever fallen in love with. He was a prince, yes, but she saw him as so much more.

She was surprised when he stopped just a few steps ahead of her and turned to give her an expectant smile. He even held out his hand to her, waiting for her to come along. She was not sure if she was actually welcomed to participate in whatever conversation the humans were having, but Callum made it clear that he would not be joining them without her. With a grin on her face, she ran up beside him and eagerly took his hand into hers.

They approached the group of adults together, stopping to stand at Ezran’s side. Rayla studied their faces to try and gauge their reactions to seeing her. Corvus looked perplexed as he stared at her and Callum’s intertwined hands, but he did not seem to disapprove. Amaya gave the young couple a knowing look instead, along with a small smile. The only person Rayla has yet to meet was the blonde woman who had called them over here, but if she was surprised to see an elf and a human holding hands, she did not show it.

“Prince Callum,” the older woman greeted respectfully, adding a short bow that made Rayla feel slightly awkward. “I am saddened to hear you will not be returning to Katolis with us.”

The boy gave her a polite nod in return. “I wish I could come back and help Ezran, but we’ve talked about it and we agree I am more needed here.”

The woman nodded in understanding. “Yes, with your new elf companion.” Her eyes fell on the elf in question. “Well, I hope you know she is welcome to return with you. Do not feel that you must stay behind to be with her.”

Rayla’s hand tightened around Callum’s and her friendly demeanor began to crack. Heat rose in the boy’s cheeks and he quickly exchanged a look with his elven counterpart.

“Oh erm uh, thank you Opeli, I’m glad to hear that. But the main reason we are staying is to take care of Zym. Rayla and I will be putting together a new Dragon Guard. I’m also going to try learning some more magic while I’m here too.”

Opeli regarded the couple thoughtfully, their discomfort clearly unknown to the advisor. “Of course. Might I add, Prince Callum, that your friend and I have not been formally introduced.”

“Oh, right!” The boy looked apologetic as he gestured his free hand over to the girl at his side. “Rayla, this is Opeli. She’s a royal advisor to the King and a member of Ezran’s council.” He then waved his hand over to the blonde. “Opeli, this is Rayla, my...girlfriend.”

He said the word slowly as if he were tasting the word on his lips and enjoying hearing the sound of it. His chest swelled and his posture straightened as he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. The silly mage was practically beaming and for what Rayla did not understand. For she was incredibly pissed.

~#~#~

“Girlfriend, eh? Is that really all you see me as?”

She had been giving him the cold shoulder since their conversation with Ezran’s royal council and Callum had been trying to fix whatever he had said or done wrong to upset her so much ever since. But the poor prince was struggling to get it out of her all day. At least until they reached her empty room in the Storm Spire, where she finally felt comfortable enough to voice her frustrations. Though Callum still wore a look of utter confusion as she glared at him with her arms crossed over her chest, awaiting his response.

But all he could sputter out was a befuddled “What?”

Rayla let out an indignant sigh. “I know us being together is weird to people.” She began as she started pacing the room. “ I know not everyone is going to approve. It will be plenty hard for me to tell Ethari and the rest of Silvergrove about us, but I wasn’t going to lie to them, Callum. I was going to tell them the truth about us, even if I'd be the first elf in history to be ghosted twice!” She came to a halt just inches in front of him and held up two fingers for added emphasis.

“Wait, Rayla, what are you talking about?” He blinked at her as his mind raced to keep up.

“I’m talking about how I love you enough that I’m not afraid of others knowing about it. And up until now, I thought that you weren’t either, but clearly, I was wrong.” She bit back as she folded her arms again. This time her angry stare came with a few tears pulling in the corners of her eyes, threatening to roll down her flushed cheeks.

Callum hated seeing her like this. He did not understand what was causing her so much anguish, but he could not stand being a part of it. He felt his own anger begin to bubble up in his chest, but it was more so at himself than at her.

“Rayla, what do you mean? Of course, I’m not afraid of that! I was the one who asked you if we should tell the Dragon Queen just a week ago! And I told Ez, and my Aunt Amaya, and Ibis, and...and...Rayla I’ve told everyone about us!” He flailed his hands in the air as he looked on to her with exasperation.

His dramatic flair did nothing to dampen her hardened glare. “Yes, but only as your girlfriend.” She stressed out the friend part of the word with the venom of a Soulfang.

Callum blinked at her, his baffled look not leaving his face. “Yes, my girlfriend. What else would I call you? Is there some Moonshadow elf word for girlfriend I should know about?”

The elf gave him an indignant scuff. “We simply call it ‘a friend.’” She bit back in retort.

The mage just stared at her and his voice dropped low. “But Rayla, you’re so much more to me than just a friend.”

Rayla’s hard stare faltered silently at the shift of his tone. She shuffled her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. With her eyes downcast, she spoke up again, softly this time, “If I am, then why do ya keep callin’ me your friend?”

Callum straightened and his mouth fell a gap. He stood there silently searching for the right words in response to her admission. Friend. How could she possibly think that she was just a friend to him? Of course, they were friends, best friends in fact! But they were also something so much more.

“Girlfriend, Rayla. You’re my girl...wait.” And then it dawned on him. The real reason this argument had come about. The misunderstanding that he was sure would have come around at some point in their relationship and here it was. The inevitable cultural clash. “Rayla, do you know what girlfriend means?”

“Of course I know what it means. I’m not daft!” She objected before quickly adding, “It means a girl who is your friend.”

Callum’s face instantly morphed with understanding, a relieved grin spreading across his lips. “No, it means the exact opposite.”

It was Rayla’s turn to look dumbfounded. “What?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but stopped short. He thought about it for a moment, trying to decide the best way for him to explain. “Girlfriend is what someone calls the girl they love.” He started, looking back up at her with an affectionate glint in his eyes. “The girl they have a ‘thing’ with.” He pointed between the both of them. “Don’t elves have a word like that?”

The elf stood astonished for a moment, simply staring wide-eyed at the human boy. Then his words finally soaked in. Her cheeks felt hot as a crimson blush crept it’s way up her neck. She quickly averted her gaze and rubbed the length of her forearms.

“Well, now I feel stupid.” She admitted in a small voice.

Callum’s grin fell as he caught on to her embarrassment. Closing the space between them, he gently ran his hands over her wrists and pulled her crossed arms apart. He slid his fingers over the back of her palms and intertwined their fingers together.

“I’ve never heard someone be referred to as a girlfriend before, but I know Ethari used to call Runaan ‘my heart’ and my parents used to call each other ‘my love.’” Rayla explained, visibly relaxing under his touch. The boy simply smiled reassuringly as he listened to her. “Calling someone yours is the most endearing you get. At least to a Moonshadow Elf.”

“I’m sorry, Rayla.”

Her head snapped up at that. “Sorry? For what?”

“I should have asked you if it was okay, to call you my girlfriend that is. I was just so excited by the idea of actually having a girlfriend and one as beautiful and amazing as you are! And everyone else was calling you my girlfriend so I guess I just started using it too.”

She nodded in understanding. “I should have asked about it earlier. But I had honestly forgotten about it until today. I don’t mind being your girlfriend, Callum.”

The boy perked up at that.

“Now that I know what it means.” She quickly added.

His smile returned and he gave her hands a loving squeeze. “Well, maybe I should call you something from your culture, my heart.” He flashed her a toothy grin.

She shuddered and shook her head. “Bleh no, that’s way too sappy.”

Her disgusted expression earned her a laugh from her prince. “Well, now I’ve got to call you that.” He teased as he pulled her closer and gave her a flirtatious waggle of his eyebrows.

She scoffed at him, yanking her hands back and taking a step back. She tried to shoot him the deadliest glare she could muster in that moment, which was only slightly scary. “Don’t.”

Her command only made him laugh even harder. The sound of his laughter filled the room and made her heart feel lighter.

“Okay, fine, but I will find something that you’ll like.” He declared with an unusual amount of confidence.

“Good luck with that.” She deadpanned as she turned to walked away, but she was stopped by the rise in his voice.

“Wait!” He called out and she paused to look back at him over her shoulder.

“What are you going to call me?” He asked as he caught up to her.

“I call you lots of things.” She offered before smirking at him. “But maybe I’ll try boyfriend.”

He blushed. “Ha, more like manfriend.” He joked while lifting his arm to show off his lean muscles that he had been building since the start of their journey.

His girlfriend rolled her eyes and nudged his side, but laughter still escaped her lips.

“Stupid Prince.”

#the dragon prince #rayllum #tdp rayla #tdp callum #tdp #rayla #callum #tdp rayllum #fanfics #my fanfics #one-shot #humor

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megbox · 4 years ago

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2020 Year in Review

Previous Posts: (2019) (2018) (2017) (2016) (2015) (2014) (2013) (2012) (2011)

2020 is a weird year because as the world goes through something collectively extremely traumatic and that is radically changing the structure of our lives, our workplaces, the way we connect socially, our mental health… our response to disease…. SO MUCH ABOUT THE WORLD…. And yet the day-to-day of living in a pandemic is so… mundane. I am privileged enough to have that opinion. I have stayed securely employed and it is privilege for my main reaction to something as intense as this pandemic to be boredom. But really, 2020 was a year of absences. It was a year spent largely alone, in my own company. It was a year that forced me to rest. It was a year that made me feel so terribly lonely but also forced me to get acquainted with myself and enjoy my own company in a new way. And it was a year of running.

I would also like to thank Connor for making this post happen by reminding me to do it and not to break tradition.

January & February

I am combining these months because they were not altogether all that memorable. My resolutions, as I noted on Twitter on January 2, were to 1) Keep running and 2) Learn how to make fresh pasta dough. I can safely say – mission accomplished on both fronts.

On January 14, I had the privilege of presenting a suicide intervention lecture to students at the medical school where my brother goes. By that time, I’d done a million of these presentations so nerves aren’t really a factor (imagine that! Me, no longer remotely afraid of public speaking…), but this one meant a little extra to me. My brother is so highly accomplished, and I am so proud of him, and I enjoyed having an opportunity to show him what I do and make him proud of me. I wore my favourite dress and did my hair all nice and he described it later as “exceptional.” It was a really, really good feeling. The first weekend of February, Ali and I had planned to go to Jasper. We wanted to go for a hike or two, and get super stoned and go to the planetarium. A huge blizzard hit Alberta just before we were supposed to leave, so we ended up having a staycation here in Calgary. We rented a hotel room, went swimming, drank wine, went to Japanese Village, had drinks in the lounge and then later to a punk rock band roulette night at the Palomino and finally crawled into our giant hotel bed and fell asleep to Remember the Titans… of all movies. It was the kind of night where you simultaneously feel 18 and 35 years old.

March

March was when the pandemic really started to become real. I don’t know exactly why, but I did not take the threat of coronavirus very seriously until the last minute. My coworkers would whisper about it in the hallways and I just rolled my eyes. But then, people started deciding they would work from home, the number of us in the office dwindled. The vibe was bad. Nobody could really focus. They held meetings at 8am and 4pm every day just for COVID-19 updates and we all waited with bated breath for them to finally tell us to go home and not come back. I really feel like I didn’t acknowledge the true implications of this virus until we got the official work from home order, and I had to tell my boss, my laptop at home is too old to run this software, I need a work tablet. My first official work from home day was March 23, 2020. I don’t remember much about that time except that the general sense of panic and anxiety made my job a lot busier, and it is hard to do a job like mine from home because it is hard to counsel or reassure clients through anxieties that are hitting you just as hard. I coped with wine, a lot of running, and listening to Ben Gibbard’s afternoon live streams where he would play acoustic versions of Death Cab songs and other covers. He played New Slang by the Shins one night and I burst into tears. I also coped with teaching myself how to make fresh pasta dough, and enjoying what was, at that point in the pandemic, the novelty and fun of Zoom.

April

In the absence of being able to have a party for my birthday, I decided to be obnoxious and do a “challenge” on my Instagram story. I asked my friends to record a distance run and/or walked and send it to me as a birthday present. My actual birthday ended up being a cold and windy and pretty miserable day. I ran 12km myself, came back home and watched both Magic Mike and Magic Mike XXL, and then went to my parents’ to celebrate both Scott and I’s birthdays with our family. My friends dropped off presents to my door and drove past my house and honked and I felt very loved and appreciated. I drank a lot of Prosecco with my brother and we listened to Kacey Musgraves.

It was also in April that I become “acquainted” with my neighborhood running nemesis. I put acquainted in apostrophes because I have never actually spoken to him. On one fateful run in April, I happened to catch up to him on my regular route. This was at the height of the COVID fear and so, while I would usually just pass someone on the sidewalk, I went out into the street. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and SPED UP. WHICH IS SUCH BAD RUNNER ETIQUETTE LIKE DUDE I’M IN THE ROAD LET ME PASS YOU. And then we ended up in this like, all-out 100m-finals-at-the-motherfucking-Olympics sprint challenge when all I was trying to do was go for a leisurely training run. And then I finally passed him, turned a corner and had to like collapse on to my hands and knees to catch my breath. Since then, I see this man running all the time. Sometimes while I am also running, sometimes from my car when I am driving through my neighborhood. He’s like… 16. And we are very competitive with one another. I hope to one day actually say hello to him. I both hate that guy and have to thank him for the motivation.

I ran my first half marathon on April 13, 2020. I was very hungover because I had stayed up quite late with someone on Zoom the night before on a virtual “first date” that had gone much better than anticipated. I don’t know why but I woke up the next morning in such a good mood that I decided I would go for a long, slow run. I got to 18km and figured, what’s 3.1 more? And so, I did it. The first thing I did upon finishing was call my mom. The second thing I did was contemplate calling an Uber to drive me the 2km left to my house. The other notable thing in April is that Maddy moved back from Australia, begrudgingly and a LOT earlier than planned, because of COVID.

May

May was kind of a blur. It was the first month of the Great Virtual Race Across Tennessee, which I signed up for while coming off of the high of actually running a half marathon all by myself. The GVRAT was fucking awesome. It was created by Lazarus Lake, of Barkley Marathons fame. The ask is to run 1022.68km between May 1 and August 31, an average of about 8.3km per day. Well, you could run, walk, or hike. This is the actual distance it would take you to cover the state of Tennessee. Myself and about 20,000 other weirdos from around the world signed up for this challenge. I figured I would never get a chance to run in a Lazarus Lake race for real, and being home all the time opened up a lot more opportunity for training. It was one of the very best things I did for myself in 2020. So May involved a lot of running, because I was fresh and naïve and fully intended to be ahead of the curve. I was running about 10-12 per day, sometimes more, and not taking any rest days.

In between these runs, I spent a lot of time going on long, ambling quarantine walks with Maddy. We would either go for a long walk or she would come over and we would get absolutely hammered in my backyard playing beer pong just to pass the time. We would send snapchats to our exes and make TikToks like 18 year olds. I know we never really said it out loud but having eachother during this time made these months bearable. We were lamenting the loss of a summer, and Maddy’s time in Australia, and all of the expectations we had for ourselves. We were watching our friends in relationships move in together or get closer due to the quarantine. We needed companionship, and stupid things to laugh about, and love, and distraction. And I can genuinely say I would not have gotten through this quarantine period if it weren’t for the nights I spent shooting Pink Whitney and dancing to Party in the USA in my living room with her.

May 13th was my one year anniversary of working at the university. It felt good to have accomplished so many things in that time, and have moved up already in my job, and to have a full-time, permanent contract.

And May 16th was when I ran my second half-marathon as part of a virtual challenge put on by a friend of a friend. My parents came and sat in lawn chairs in the park while I did loops. They cheered me on and filled my water bottle for me when I ran out. They’re my number one supporters and I love having a family that does that kind of shit for me in the face of something arbitrary like a virtual half marathon challenge. I knocked 7 minutes (!) off my original time. Amazing what not being hungover can do for your fitness levels.

June

I don’t remember many important things about June, other than Maddy moving to Banff. It was depressing but I was also happy for her and happy to have an excuse to go out there and visit. I went the very first weekend after she moved. Halfway through June I seriously contemplated quitting the GVRAT. My shins were bruised, I was dreading every single run, and I could not fathom doing it for 2.5 more months. I was dragging behind in the standings and losing my motivation.

I spent a lot of time with friends reading in parks. Sometimes, often, with wine. I met a stranger in Canmore Park and ended up kissing him. He was lovely.

Ali and I had one really good day in June where we went to the Farmer’s Market and then came back to her place and watched Ru Paul’s drag race for like eight straight hours. It was one of those days where we hadn’t seen each other in so long and you just feel totally high off of friendship and absolutely everything is funny and you just can’t stop laughing. I vividly remember it as one of the best days of the year.

July

Again, July kind of passed in a blur. I did a lot of hiking, and a lot of running… keeping up with the GVRAT. I hiked Picklejar Lakes, Castle Mountain, Little Beehive Lookout.

I went to Banff for a weekend to hang out with Maddy. We had a predictably wild weekend with her roommates and friends. We had dinner at Chili’s (hell yeah) and then went to High Rollers for beers and bowling. The “thing to do” at that point for all of these Banff people was to meet at the “rec grounds” aka public firepits and drink. The police would generally leave you alone so long as you weren’t being rowdy. I sat next to an Australian named Josh at a picnic table and later took him back to my hotel room and he gave me the world’s most unbelievable obvious hickey. Maddy and I sweat out the tequila shots the next day with a long ass hike, and then had a nap before her brother came and took us climbing at the Sunshine slabs – an activity I was not very good at but I wanted to be good at. It was the kind of weekend where you feel like, okay, I definitely indulged my wild side. And you drive home just like totally exhausted but smiling. I sent Maddy’s brother a voice note on my way into town thanking him for taking us climbing and saying it was nice to see him.

August

Okay – August was actually really eventful. Like most of the year’s events happened in August, honestly. A lot of running and hiking. I did Ha Ling Peak for the first time, and we did a 30km hike to Aylmer Pass one day that was a fricken GRIND. I spent the long weekend in Saskatchewan. We went to a cidery, and I ran laps around my Dodo’s acreage, and then we got to visit Wakaw Lake and reunite with our old next-door neighbours. We took the boat out and went tubing and lit fireworks and had an amazing dinner and honestly it was like reliving my childhood in the best, best, best way. I fell asleep on the car ride home.

I went camping with Ali in Sylvan Lake. We got ice cream and cooked fish tacos over the campfire. She told me that Cody had a date planned for the day they took possession of their house, that she wondered if he might ask her to marry him but didn’t want to get her hopes up in case it didn’t happen and ruin what otherwise was supposed to be a celebratory day. Spoiler – he did ask her to marry him  I was running when she called me. I was listening to Epsilon by Kygo, and now when I hear that song I always think of them. I stopped my watch and just openly bawled on the street out of happiness for them.

Steven successfully defended his master’s thesis. We went camping in Waterton to celebrate with Matt, Kennedy, Regan, Scott, and Rie. They brought cake. We did a sunrise hike. I slept in the back of my Ford Escape.

On August 27, Ollie passed away. It was both expected and unexpected. He had been having some issues with seizures. The vet didn’t think it was anything to be too concerned about, he was old and it wasn’t uncommon for them to happen. It happened suddenly. I had a terrible sleep that night, and woke up in a cold sweat somewhere between 3 and 4 am. In the morning, my mom called me and told me the news. He had a giant seizure in the night and was crying and yelping. They woke up and took him to the emergency vet, they made the executive call to put him down to prevent any further suffering. He died right around the time I woke up in the middle of the night. I like to think that was his way of saying goodbye, maybe. I cried all day. Well, let’s be honest, I cried all week. I burst into tears at the mere thought of him. He was such a good and lovely dog. He was so loved by us. He had a good life. It is always sad when we lose pets so early. They bring so much joy to our lives, and still when I go to my parents’ place the first thing I want to do is call for him or pet him. I hope he is running around in whatever the pet afterlife is. I miss him.

And on August 31, I ran my last kilometre of the GVRAT. I finished with 733.78 run, 83.18 hiked, and 205.09 walked.

September

September was a nice break from running. I got to start coming to campus one day a week, on Thursdays, which was good for my mental health and work productivity. I got to spend September long in Vernon with Maeghan and Madison at Michael’s family’s cabin. They took us boating and made us meals and didn’t judge us for drinking margaritas with Michael’s sister literally all day. It was the best. It was the epitome of every summer weekend you dream about. I was so happy I got to go.

I met a boy in September. It’s always September, isn’t it? It feels weird to write about him. Like, that makes him significant. But. He is significant. And I met him in September. And it was unexpected. Last minute. And essentially not a day has gone by since that day in September that I have not thought about him.

I also joined a Calgary Sport and Social Club team with my friends for softball and it started in September. We played two games and then I tore my hamstring running from second to third base. I tore… my hamstring…. Running like 30 metres…. After a summer of literally running 10+ km every day. I… it was the worst day ever. Softball itself was amazing and so fun even though I really do suck at the sport but highly recommend Rec League C-level beer league softball with all of your best friends. There’s just no way that isn’t fun.

October

A lot of pouting about my hamstring, I went to two physio sessions and then decided to just start running again. I’m bad. I’m a bad example. Don’t do what I do… but also…. It worked.

I went to Victoria to visit Sydney over the Thanksgiving weekend. We went to a Thanskgiving potluck party at my old coworker’s place. It was a nice experience to be the new people at a party, to have a room full of new people to meet and who ask you questions about your life. We got really drunk and they tried setting Sydney up with one of their roommate’s brothers, and gave us lipstick to try, and poured us tequila shots. We had such an amazing meal. It was honestly so fun. We laughed in the cab the whole way back about how we were going to need to debrief that evening HARD the next morning. We watched a lot of All Gas No Brakes, and went for dinner and brunch and I limped up Mount Doug with my hamstring. It was a very very chill weekend, like we spent a lot of time just lounging at Sydney’s apartment and doing nothing. Because that is the kind of friends we are. It was so relaxing and lovely. I was sad to leave.

Karla, my roommate, left for New York at the end of October. Her aunt was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, and she and her mom made the executive move to go there to basically be with her for the end of her life. She wasn’t going to be back until December. I was happy, because it’s nice to have a place to myself, but also sad because Karla is lovely and I knew it was going to be a stressful situation for her.

November / December

I am combining these two months because they have also been largely uneventful. In fact… I don’t know if I could really tell you anything significant that happened. We’ve been in a lockdown. I’ve spent my time playing piano, watching Netflix, listening to podcasts, basically doing all of the things I usually do when I’m bored. Lots of Among Us. Lots of outdoor things… skating… more running. We’ve been in a lockdown since early December. Time has dragged on since then. I spent Christmas with my parents. Scott and Rie stayed isolated, because Scott is in and out of the hospital for school. My mom and I watched shitty Christmas Hallmark movies and made fun of the guys who star in them. We drank a LOT on Christmas Eve and both spent Christmas with a wicked hangover. My dad and I ate edibles and I was launched into the stratosphere. I spent New Year’s Eve with Boy from September. We played beer pong, and card games, and he tried to use a coat hangover to pick the lock on the mysterious room that my landlord keeps locked. We spent most of the night kissing, honestly. I was happy to spend the last moments of the year with him.

2021:

Honestly... at this point... who really knows?

#year in review #text #personal #2020

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wscldier · 4 years ago

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okay okay i’ve watched the episode again and i have thoughts. they’re under the cut below since i can’t post original stuff without like a million personals finding my blog

note these are not in order, so pls watch the episode fully before you read

sebastian goddamn stan deserves a goddamn oscar nomination already. i felt more emotion dripping from that scene in wakanda than i’ve ever felt in my goddamn life. his sadness, his fury, his confusion, his rage and his pain. the way he’s convinced that he’s gonna hurt ayo or do something terrible and then the immediate relief he felt afterwards? the confusion at it though, he’s free but now what? he’s free to do what? seb, you are one of the most talented underrated actors right now and honestly watching that scene was incredible. the man’s ability to portray so many emotions and really make you feel with single looks is just... it’s something else. holy moses.

also thank you for showing us how skilled bucky is, like speaking Xhosa? yes. he would have learnt that during his time in wakanda and he must have picked it up FAST

z*mo is a bitch and i hate him. no seriously. guy is a n*zi in the comics, just because he did a couple of dad moves doesn’t redeem him for what he’s done

sam standing up for bucky against z*mo is just excellent. z*mo saying all super soldiers have to be eliminated and sam asking “what about bucky?” because sam knows bucky didn’t have a choice in the matter.

sam is also talking to sharon. keeping her in the loop.

as for the power broker... i honestly don’t think we’ll get a reveal on who he is. i personally believe it’s another computer that z*la downloaded himself onto ( it would explain how the powerbroker is so well connected and can text karli ) or it’s general ross ----- who back in the incredible hulk pushed for the super soldier serum to be made. i think it’s much more likely to be z*la but i’m curious to see where it goes. again, i think the power broker is going to be a slow reveal. we might not even get an idea of who he is until the armor wars movie.

karli using sarah as bargaining against sam was cold and cruel

again, highlighting that bucky is massively talented and skilled, that he actually holds back a lot when he’s fighting and he can actually run and jump and move at incredible speeds. very good. i also think it’s interesting to point out that bucky didn’t get the “true” version of the serum. so people saying he’s nerfed against other super soldiers can shut up. these guys got pure unfiltered serum. bucky got a botched version.

sam using his counselling to try and talk karli down? heck he was getting somewhere as well and fucking w*lker turns up

i knew... i knew w*lker was going to do something stupid like take the serum. i knew that it was gonna send him into a blind rage i knew it was going to make things bad.

killing battlestar? that was... i mean i was expecting something like that to be the catalyst behind w*lkers rage. but i’m still a little disappointed that even in a racially charged piece of media, the black character gets killed. maybe that was the intention, maybe it was there to highlight, it’s not for me to say, but it made me feel uncomfortable.

the dora milaje can get it. and will ayo accept my hand in marriage please and thank you.

bucky shouting “looking good john” whilst w*lker is fighting ayo is one of the funniest things i’ve ever seen in my life then him asking ayo to talk about this?

okay over the last like 10 days all i’ve seen is like people laughing that bucky can remove his arm. i am glad finally that it proved something that only wakandans with knowledge about this technology can remove it. bucky can’t slip it on and off like a fucking glove. every tiktok i saw talking about it made me groan internally

also, bucky’s anger is so justified. like z*mo is using leverage against him, and he’s pissed as hell because the wakandans have done nothing but help and save him and he promised them he’d give them z*mo and he can’t do that till z*mo gives him the information. bucky’s anger is rightfully justified and z*mo is pushing him over the edge. it’s heartbreaking to watch.

the ending was... it was... oh god. it was extremely gory and i’m surprised that the house of mouse allowed the writers to push the show that dark. whether you like it or not, that shield is sold to thousands of kids across the world, it’s on toys, lunchboxes, folders, pencil cases. to soak the symbol like that with the blood of... okay he maybe wasn’t necessarily innocent, but he wasn’t exactly guilty either is... extremely hard-hitting. like extremely hard hitting.

i noted that after w*lker took the serum i heard traces of orchestra playing the same low mechanical tune that they use to introduce the winter soldier theme. now, this might be a coincidence given that h*nry j*ckman is the music producer, but also because h*nry j*ckman is the music producer i’m inclined to think it’s not. w*lker for better or for worse is a tool used by the US government. he is the antithesis of what bucky was to hydra. the perfect soldier. the perfect weapon. whereas steve broke away from that the second he got the serum, it seems w*lker is falling down the path that bucky was put on.

i genuinely think that bucky is going to have to fight w*lker because no one else is strong enough.

sharon is around but not in the episode nearly enough. i wanted more. i’m glad though she’s being the coolest spy ever. i’m hoping we get more interactions with her sam and bucky next episode.

the shot at the end where everyone is crowding around w*lker? bucky and sam looking on? that was... haunting.

#|| OOC #the bird and the robot spoilers #f.atws spoilers

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rottenwoodandwiltedsunflowers · 4 years ago

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It felt like transcendence - Kae

I’m supposed to be finishing up work and instead it’s 12:25 am and somehow 2020 keeps getting worse and worse and I can’t focus on anything productive and I’m just sitting here alone while my family sleeps. And I’m thinking about immersive theatre.

For someone who is fairly gregarious on the internet--I’ve written about my sex life and liveblogged my pregnancy for publication, after all--I’m a surprisingly guarded person IRL. I don’t see crying as a sign of weakness in others, but I can’t convince myself of the same. I only really trust one or two people in my life at a time. That’s all I have capacity for. I’m an adoptee. I’m a Capricorn. It’s who I am.

I miss the hotel right now and immersive theatre in general. What’s hard to explain to most people is that it’s not just about the art and the live performance. Maybe it’s about the community, though I ironically see my far-flung fan friends more often now than I did before the pandemic shut down theater. We’re all desperate for immersive work and have been seeing virtual shows together and apart, having Zoom chats and group chats and debriefs about them, sharing reviews and solving clues collectively.

I do miss people and IRL connection, but that’s not the ache I feel most ardently. I accessed something within myself in immersive shows that I can’t replicate anywhere else. Is transcendence too strong of a word? It felt spiritual, but I also don’t know if I know what spirituality means. Immersive was (is?) a solo experience for me, whether I went with someone else or not. I felt alive and present in my body at immersive shows. I’m always thrilled to have a 1-1 or to see a new scene added at Sleep No More. But it’s the much smaller moments and experiences that swoooooosh returned me to my flesh. And I miss that feeling, of being transported. The illusion of being alone in my head, that allowed me to focus on just what was in front of me, just what I wanted and who I was in the moment. Since becoming a parent, I both started seeing more and more immersive shows beyond SNM and had less frequent trips to NYC to see shows at all. The last time I saw SNM was October of 2019, the Halloween trip. I haven’t been back to NYC since. I don’t remember who was on or what I saw or where I wandered. It wasn’t a deeply transformative trip to the McKittrick. I took it for granted and if I could go back today, I would try to take it all in--the scents, the textures, the million tiny details. Corners of the building are already blurring in my memories.

But I do remember some very specific things, teeny moments embedded in my long term memory from 7 years (6 in earnest) of immersive adventuring.

Some scattered memories from the last few years that I can still smell, hear, taste, and remember, from SNM and others:

Being alone in the lofted bedroom alcove at the very top of the brownstone building in which Inside the Wild Heart by Group.BR was performed and standing slightly too close to the wall, when I realized the flowers on the walls were talking. Barely audible audio of Clarice Lispector reading her work, like a whisper, was being played through the flowers pinned to the wall, so quiet and in such a small, lonely corner of the building. Who would hear them? Who would ever happen upon them or stand just close enough to that particular wall? But they called to me and I pressed my ear closer to the wall to hear their whispers.

Outright choke-sobbing during the last scenes of Remembrance by Linked Dance, a time during which I really wished I was alone and was also slightly embarrassed that I’d paid extra for the additional scenes that commenced while I was still gurgling and wiping my tears on my sleeve. My grandmother, who I was very close to, died after living a long time with Alzheimer’s. That show was so lovely and I held it together the entire time and then it all burst out at once and it’s truly the most emotional I’ve ever been in public that wasn’t, like, an actual funeral.

Reading through all the manila folders in the reverend’s outside room at SNM, when that was a thing, and puzzling over the characters in the files. Who was the midwife? The nanny? What about the others? Trying to commit it all to memory. Failing. Crawling through the tunnel and being shocked by the soft texture and brilliant white of the chapel (towel room).

The first time I felt the flutter of movement during my pregnancy with Remi, a slight ticklish wiggling inside me, so slight I barely registered it. Had I been moving about my normal life, I might not have noticed. I was, at that moment, deeply moved and completely still, witnessing the Father do a dance of regrets across a sandy roof in The Grand Paradise by Third Rail Projects. I don’t know if a fetus can register its gestational carrier’s emotions, but I have always felt that Remi was reacting to my heightened emotional state.

A night during which I was the only person with the porter during the boy witch lip sync. A scene I’d seen many times, but after looping this particular porter, I felt deeply empathetic towards him. He never took his eyes off of the boy witch and I never took my eyes off of him and he started to cry and I felt tears coming in the tightness of my throat. As though he could feel the synchronicity between us, without turning his fixed gaze from the boy witch, he reached his outstretched hand towards me across the desk. I’d seen the porter loop many times, so I was surprised, but I knew that it was meant for me and I didn’t hesitate to take it. We held hands, urgently, and those tears started to fall one-by-one down my face and then, when the boy witch was done, the porter shook the spell and looked me directly in the eyes, squeezing my hand before moving back to his unfortunate loop.

Watching an actor climb around a huge bookshelf, finding little pots of white paint behind the books and painting her face with her fingertips, while blue light cast unnatural shadows over the room--a scene you probably saw if you saw Submersive Productions’ first large-scale work in Baltimore, The Mesmeric Revelations of Edgar Allen Poe. What I remember is just watching her, as other audience members came and went, for a very long time, for the entire wordless scene, including when she dismounted from the shelves and folded her arms at odd angles into the top of a wooden piano.

The scene in Then She Fell by Third Rail Projects when Alice sees you through the mirror, the audience member becoming the mirror image of Alice. The actor spoke no words. We made eye contact through the implied mirror and she reached for the clementine on her side and I reached the one on mine and then we peeled it together, wordlessly, the skin giving easily under our fingers, and slipped one slice into our mouth and it was sweet.

And, of course, the very first SNM show and the very first time I saw the banquet scene. I have no idea what loop it was--maybe second? I didn’t comprehend anything about the show that night other than that I was intrigued. The banquet scene, which I so often skipped intentionally in my later shows, so often stayed out in the bar at the end of the night if I was having a good time, was the highlight of that very first show. It felt like the whole room slowed and warped. It stopped my breath. I was zoomed in. I could feel my pulse. The whole ballroom pulsed as the lights and mood shifted. For a moment, I was unstuck in time.

If you’re missing immersive theater right now, please do come to The Lost Halloween. It’s a moment for all of us to get found. A bit. And if you’re able, please give to the fundraiser. Every single dollar is an investment in another person's survival and a meaningful thank you for the ways immersive experiences have challenged us, affirmed us, and brought us joy and healing.

#sleep no more #sleep no more nyc #Sleepnomore #sleepnomorenyc #sleep no more shanghai #immersive #immersive theatre #immersive theater #ImmersiveTheatre #immersivenyc #linked dance #third rail projects #submersive productions #mckittrick

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turqrambles · 4 years ago

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Digimon World - Midgame - Some Assorted Thoughts

At the time of writing this post, I’m sitting at around 31 Prosperity for the first Digimon World game for the PS1, which I could consider pretty mid-game for this type of game, so I just want to write down what I think about this little adventure.

For the record, I am talking about the original Playstation version of the game. The one with the T-rating (which feels way too high for this game since there’s no swear words and the battle damage is fantasy-level at best - is it because of all the poop in this game?) and the one with the CGI Metalgreymon on the cover for the NTSC versions of the game.

I’m playing this game on a physical copy that somehow survived like five moves on my PS3, just for reference.

(Yes that’s that actual price I paid for it. That was a big price for little kid me.)

The Past Trials of My Schoolchild Self

First thing’s first - as a kid, I actually did not like this game very much!

For starters, I didn’t get very far in the game. My Digimon would keep pooping all over the place for one since I don’t think I fully understood the timing of this mechanic. I stopped playing the game when my Airdramon was one poop away from turning into a Sukamon and I found myself unable to stop it because I saved right before my Airdramon would make the final poop, thus trapping me in an unwinnable game loop. If I turned the game back on, I could only watch as my beautiful flying feathered snake transformed into a poop with eyeballs as I was powerless to stop it.

My Digimon had to suffer for my mistakes.

But besides that, I just found the game far too cryptic to figure out just what was going on, and my Digimon would never turn into anything cool. My Airdramon really was the coolest thing my Digimon ever evolved into, so the yellow turd Digimon really was like salt on a wound.

But, to add insult to injury, one time I hatched a baby Botamon and talked to the old man, only to have this giant dinosaur run up to me and blast the literal infant into smithereens.

Greymon is a dick.

What I remember from kid me’s file of this game - I finished the Drill Tunnel, I got to the dinosaur world one time, and I’m pretty sure I entered Myotismon’s mansion one time because out of sheer luck, my Agumon digivolved into a Bakemon one time.

I know what I didn’t do - I never recruited any of the shopkeeper Digimon so I was doing an itemless run as a kid. A big mistake, considering how important items are in this game!

A Brutal Beginning

Playing this game in 2020 when I’m an adult and have a better concept in how these types of games work is making this playthrough a lot easier for me, but don’t be fooled. This game is still pretty difficult.

I’m going to be real. One of the main turn offs for this game for a lot of players, especially little kids in the year 2000 with dial-up internet and no strategy guide like myself, is that this is one of those games where the beginning starts out slow. Real slow.

Sure, most great RPGs give you a real sense of power and accomplishment once you figure out the mechanics and get stronger as you progress through the game, but in this game, you have less options at the start because, as it turns out, the shopkeepers, the superior meat farmers, the air taxi service, and all those fun little options typically available to you in other RPGs have all turned feral as a result of A Bad Thing That Happened on File Island and it’s up to you and your plucky partner Digimon to explore the wilds and beat them up one by one until they gain a little humanity (...digitanity) and expand the town.

While it is really cool to see the town expand through the course of the game - buildings are built and lights are gradually installed - but man, the fact that you go for a long time without having a shop if you don’t know what to do kinda sucks. A lot. I kept thinking to myself about how Pokemon is a lot more generous with the item drops and, while the shop inventories at Viridian City and Pewter City aren’t great, they’re there from the beginning.

Note: To get this guy, you have to chase a rumor from a Baby Digimon that there’s a fish that shows up after a certain time on a certain map. Then you have to progress through the jungle enough that you find the one Betamon that isn’t an enemy. There. Now the shop’s open. What, are you saying that’s super convoluted? Why yes it is. Welcome to Digimon World.

Not only that, but this game’s biggest flaw comes from one tiny feature it omits from the game - Digimon World doesn’t have a world map.

See this artwork? This is the most you’re ever going to get.

You know how a lot of RPGs - your Pokemon, your Final Fantasy, etc etc - have a world map that’s easy to access from the start menu? Yeah, this game doesn’t have that. It instead prints a rather rudimentary map in both the instruction manual and on the design of the actual disc. You know what that means? You’re SOL if you ever bought this game used.

I didn’t of course, but physically cracking open my disc case just to be like “ah okay I need to go north” was more annoying than anything. Maybe if the instruction manual came with an actual physical map you can unfold would’ve been better?

The Starter Dilemma

Like most monster collecting games, you have a choice of starters at the beginning of the game. Depending on how you answer the questions at the beginning of the game (all two of them, with only one of them truly mattering), you can start with either an Agumon or a Gabumon. Cool, right?

Well, it starts the fall apart the moment you fight the first boss in the game - a wild Agumon with weaker stats than your partner. And that’s when you realize that one of the starters starts out with a major battle disadvantage at the very start.

Agumon’s starting move is a little ranged attack that it can shoot at enemies. It can hit the enemy from pretty far away so he can evade a lot of close up attacks.

Gabumon’s starting move is an ineffective little flailing of his arms that requires him to get up super close to the other Digimon in order to hit them.

Did I mention this attack is weaker than Agumon’s starting move? This type of starter set-up is utterly baffling to me. Why would you intentionally hobble one of the choices?

So if you were a kid hoping to go on a grand adventure with your happy little dog lizard (instead of doing what a lot of people recommend, which is train your dog lizard for several in-game days until he evolves into something better) expect to see a lot of battles where the enemy Digimon just casually moves out of the way as your dog lizard yells “PWAH”.

Luckily this problem ceases to exist once you start digivolving and learning new techniques, but it’s still a major bummer to start the game on.

On top of that, unlike Pokemon, your Digimon can die. It can only faint three times in battle before he crumbles into a pile of bits and data in a rather brutal cutscene involving the flesh being ripped off your partner’s wire frame while the old man Digimon just kinda glumly stands off to the side and is like “lol he ded”.

So uh, have fun with that, children who accidentally run into a boss Digimon while trying to figure out where the hell anything is.

Sometimes Being Cryptic Is Good

That being said, in an age where I can just peek at my phone if I’m stuck, this game is kinda refreshing in a “playing your first Pokemon game” kind of way.

With no in-game maps and only vague hints of what to do next purely by talking to the villagers, you’re just kinda...left to your own digivices (see what I did there) as you explore this vast, uncharted world and slowly figure out what you’re supposed to do next and, since the world is arranged in a circle around the town, you can go in multiple directions and progress in any way you want.

There’s no set progression, with the story advancing based on how many Digimon you befriend rather than what places you’ve beaten. There’s no pressing incentive to go beyond the Native Forest if you don’t feel ready for that yet. Sure, the town won’t expand if you don’t, but you can still go at things at your own pace until you get a better feel for the environment. You’re just left to experiment as you gradually figure out how to make your Digimon evolve into cooler things.

And honestly, it’s kinda fun playing a game where I don’t know the exact numbers off the top of my head in terms of how to get a certain Digimon so a lot of times I’m genuinely surprised at the evolutions I get.

You just, you know, need a lot of patience. Especially when this game’s English translation is...not great. (which is common with a lot of PS1 games)

The land changed after the land changes happened.

Current Consensus

You need a bit of patience to play this game, but it’s definitely rewarding if you stick by it. I’m certainly having fun playing this game, but I will say out loud that I’m also playing this game while watching a couple let’s plays and having GameFAQs open.

I will say that, as an adult, I actually find myself appreciate this game more than when I did as a child. It has its flaws, but after a pretty intense learning curve, it becomes pretty rewarding. You know, when it’s not requiring me to fish The Lake Guardian at 9 am with a piece of meat attached to my fishing rod in order to improve my gym.

I give it a “It’s Fun When It’s Not Being Bullshit” out of 10.

Quick Bullet Points

This game has some bangers in the soundtrack so at least it’s pleasant to listen to.

I do like that you can evade the enemy Digimon on screen so you can reasonably enter some places with a lower leveled Digimon than what that area requires. This is just not advisable since most of the Digimon are befriended with a boss fight. That being said, item management is a big thing in this game so enemy dodging is still a useful trait.

You can buy portapotties to keep your Digimon from shitting on the ground but since your Digimon has only one use animation, it uses it by eating it.

Cherrymon has a radically different design in this game than any other piece of Digimon media and it’s kinda funny how creepy he looks in this game.

The Monochromon Shop minigame earned the reputation that it has - it truly does suck ass and leave you at the mercy of RNG.

It’s been proven by hacking the game that the Bonus Try in the Gym exercises is rigged so never use it.

I like how this game creates recolors to make sure you can tell the difference between the recruitable Digimon and the Digimon that are just meant to be fought against....only for the series to then make these recolors recruitable, defeating their original purpose. I guess I should be glad they’re all considered proper Digimon now.

Poop is an element. You can have creatures of the Poop type.

No seriously Monochromon’s Shop minigame has given me a hatred for Veggiemon and I don’t think I can ever recover.

#Turq Plays a Game #Turq Reviews #Digimon World

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laurelsofhighever · 5 years ago

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The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 55 - Closer (NSFW)

Chapter Rating: Explicit Warnings: brief mention of pregnancy/childbirth Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Demisexuality, Cousland Feels, Emotional Sex, First Time, Enthusiastic Consent

Read it on AO3 Start from Chapter 1

They staggered over the threshold. The door, fumbled open, swung wide on its hinges with a whine they ignored completely. Alistair’s hands cradled her face, his focus entirely on her mouth and every open, languid kiss he pressed against her lips, while she, unable to find purchase elsewhere, curled her fingers into the front of his gambeson, desperate to keep him in place as fire blazed along every nerve in her body. The entire world was him. She coaxed him backwards, stepping just to the side so they landed against the doorframe in a reverse of their position in the stable, pressed together with their earlier caution burned away.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed as her gambeson was shucked to the floor. His palms traced the shape of her ribs, over her hips.

Her answer emerged in a moan. “Not yet.”

She felt him swallow. He broke away to reach for the door handle, and she moved her attention to his neck instead, kissing along the parts she could reach with so many layers in the way. When he sighed, she took it as encouragement and added the scrape of her teeth, the push of her tongue, finally giving room to what she had only imagined for months, delighting in the very real shudder that ran to the ends of his fingers when she hit just the right spot. The arch of his neck was her work – what she had done – and her pride in it pooled the desire in her belly just as surely as the way his fingers tightened against her skin.

“Rosslyn…”

“Mmmm?”

He stiffened. “Oh.”

Concerned, she pulled away, and followed his gaze over her shoulder to the bed. Cuno lay among the covers, bleary eyes blinking at them each in turn, distinctly unimpressed.

“I didn’t know we’d have an audience,” Alistair muttered, sheepish, with his arms still around her.

“Definitely not.” She frowned, and disentangled herself. “Cuno. Out.”

The dog’s ears went back, but he didn’t move. He whined.

“You heard me,” she insisted, holding open the door. “Out. Just for now.”

Slowly, Cuno rose onto his haunches and hopped from the bed. As he padded past his mistress, he paused as if hoping she would change her mind, but when the only response to his pleading look was a gentle nod in the direction of the corridor, he hung his head and stalked away, toes clicking forlornly on the wooden floor.

“I don’t think he likes me anymore,” Alistair said as she closed the door. “He has a nasty glare.”

“He’ll get over it. I’ll make it up to him.” She turned the key in the lock to keep the servants out. “Technically he was never allowed to sleep in the bed anyway – the kennelmaster always said it makes them too much into pets. But he had such big eyes as a puppy and he was very persuasive.”

“I’ll bet.” He grinned, suddenly, and reached out for a lock of hair that had fallen over her face. “Am I very persuasive?”

She smirked. “Now, or in general?”

“The dogs who raised me would be shocked if they thought not even a few of their lessons had rubbed off on me,” he teased. “They were very diligent teachers. May I?” he had caught hold of the tie securing her braid, and was running the end of it between his fingers. “I like seeing it down,” he explained, noticing her confusion. “It’s… It’s really pretty.”

“You like it?” Blushing, she turned around to give him better access, searching for something more articulate to say. “It’s… not practical for battle. Having it down, that is.”

“We’re not on a battlefield right now.”

“That’s true…”

The instant she felt his hands working the tie loose from the end of the braid, her eyes drifted shut. He worked in silence, careful not to pull as he carded through each strand, focussed on unwinding her mass of hair inch by inch from its confinement. She had never imagined such a mundane action could hold so much intimacy, with the heat of his body radiating against her back and the occasional soft tug on her scalp when he encountered a knot. It felt like another kind of kiss, warmth and trust and flutters that tightened in her chest and made breathing a secondary concern.

“There is something,” he said, pausing between her shoulder blades, and her stomach jolted. “What if I… If we… Maker’s breath, this should be easier to say.” He sighed. “Rosslyn, what if we do this, and there’s a child?”

Her breath caught, the pleasant tingle from a moment before killed stone dead like new shoots in a frost. On her desk lay her strongbox, and in the corner, the parting gift from Lady Raina that she had blushed to take but had taken all the same. After all, what was this subject but another example of a failing in the expectations placed on her? She still remembered Oriana’s screams, the days of hushed voices, hiding in the stables until it was over and vowing that it would never be her on that bed, limp and pale among so many bloodstained sheets.

“Not every man would think of that,” she replied, to stall, to gauge his opinion.

“I don’t want another me. I mean –”

She felt him wince and half-turned. “I know what you meant.”

Hands wrapped her waist, steadying, seeking to comfort, and she found herself glad her back was to him. “That’s not to say – I mean, once the war is done, and… depending on where we find ourselves, uh, a child of ours wouldn’t be –”

“There won’t be a child,” she interrupted, and forced the tension from her shoulders. “There’s a tea I’d take in the morning, and should that fail, there are… other methods. Women have been protecting themselves from this for a very long time.”

“A tea?” he asked. “And you’d have to take it every time? That seems unfair, considering any… consequences would be my fault.”

She couldn’t help it; his indignation tipped her worry into a nervous tumble of laughter, even as his care brought a swell of warmth to her heart. She twined her fingers with his.

“If we decide we enjoy it, there are more permanent solutions that would mean I wouldn’t need it.”

A huff. “Well… good. Otherwise you might start associating me with awful, bitter tea, and you won’t want me around anymore.”

“Do you think that would happen?” she teased.

“One of the knights in Redcliffe ate a pork bad chop once, and ever since, even the smell of cooking meat has left him gagging, so you never know.” He took his hand back to finish combing out her hair. “Poor bloke has a terrible time on feast days.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it’ll work the other way, and the tea will taste sweeter because it makes me think of you.”

“You say the nicest things.” The last loop of her braid came unbound against her neck, leaving it to fall in a curtain down her back as his hands smoothed it out and he dropped his lips against the tip of her shoulder. “There,” he murmured. “All done.”

Before he could pull away, she turned and caught him in a kiss, slower than before but warming liked banked embers, intimate but eager and melting into a sigh as the flare in her belly sank lower. Alistair’s teeth closed on her bottom lip with a growl that raked the last of her nerves. The bed was behind them.

“I suppose this is the part where we take off our clothes,” she breathed between kisses.

His laugh rumbled against her mouth. “I’d suggest something a little bit different.”

“Mmm?”

“We take each other’s clothes off.”

She tugged on his gambeson. “One of us has a slight head start in that.”

“I was going to let you go first,” he protested, with a gentle poke to her ribs. “It’s like you have no faith in me.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“And…” His grin faded. “If it gets too much…”

She leaned up and kissed him. “That goes for both of us.” Her lopsided smirk appeared. “Now stop moving so I can deal with these ties.”

He rolled his eyes with a melodramatic sigh meant to ease the tension, but kept perfectly still as he watched her pick apart the haphazard knots on his gambeson. Figuring them out created a point for her focus and eased the trembling in her fingertips, but nothing could stop the distraction as his hands reached up to wander his already-favourite paths across her body.

“It’s not your turn yet,” she warned as the hem of her shirt lifted high enough to admit his touch. Three ties left to go.

His lips brushed against her forehead. “You’ll notice, dear lady, that I’m not taking it off.”

The last tie of the gambeson came loose. Muscles flexed under her touch as she pushed the garment from his shoulders, met with only a little resistance and a grumble as he realised he would have to stop touching her to get it off completely.

“What’s that smirk for?”

She tilted a lazy look at him, ignoring the soft whuff of cloth hitting the floor. “If we were in proper court attire, there’d be far more layers for you to complain about.”

“Well thank the Maker and the Lady we’re not at court. If we were, you’d be in one of those long dresses and I wouldn’t get to stare at your legs quite so much.”

“My legs?”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “The rest of you gets my appreciation too – ah…” The words trailed off into a gasp as her nails scraped under the collar of his shirt, before skittering away down his sides to where the fabric tucked into his breeches. He stepped closer to give her more reach, pressing in with a sloppy, fumbling kiss that broke only when the shirt reached his chin and he had to take it from her or get stuck. His skin gave off heat like a furnace, bronzed, dotted with freckles she had wanted to map for longer than she would ever admit. A pattern of hair swirled over his chest and led down in a narrow trail until it disappeared, silky where she brushed it with her thumb.

“Do you remember your exhibition match in Lothering?” she asked. “Against the recruit with the greatsword?”

The shirt hit the floor and his arms settled at her waist again. “I knew you were looking.”

She set her teeth against the join of his shoulder, trailed along his collarbone. “Don’t be so smug.”

“Can I – ah – can’t I be a little bit smug?”

“It’s your turn.”

She was enjoying herself too much to be hurried, however eager she was to feel his skin properly against hers. His neck presented too many interesting contours, the tang of sweat and the taste of salt on her tongue, and when her palm tracked along his side, the solid planes of his warrior’s form jumped as if she held lightning in her fingers. But then he reached the middle of her back, the calluses as unexpected as the rush of cold air to her skin, and in the instant of shock it took for her mind to right itself, her shirt had joined his at their feet and his mouth was back on hers. Not just his hands but the entire strength of his arms went around her as she pulled him closer, wound her fingers into his hair, shivered at the way their contact rubbed just right at the centre between her legs.

He paused and pulled away, breathing heavily. One broad hand cradled the back of her neck, curling under her ear, and she covered it with her own, offered a squeeze for reassurance.

“You’re blushing.”

“You’re beautiful,” he countered, and pressed his forehead against hers. “Come to bed with me.”

Grinning, Rosslyn stepped out of the embrace, drawing him after her. For a moment, his feet wouldn’t move, and worry seized her like the plunge of cold water, until she understood his stillness, the heat in his wide eyes, and the way those eyes flicked over her newly bared skin. He had never seen it before, not properly, not as she had seen him. Her chin lifted. He tried to speak, but his voice stumbled somewhere and disappeared, leaving him in the middle of the floor with nothing but instinct to drag him forward. He came tentatively to where she waited less than a forearm’s length from the edge of the unmade bed, still chewing over the words he could not say as he watched his hands find her skin, how her sides yielded to the press of his fingers. His eyes squeezed shut and hid against her temple.

“Alistair?”

Tension bled from him in a laugh. “I’m alright, I’m – I’m a lucky man.” There was a tug on the rear knot of her breastband, warm fingers slipped between the fabric and her spine. “Are we counting this as another layer or is it still my turn?”

Her answer stalled; the only layer he had left was his breeches, and then…

“Which would you prefer?”

She didn’t expect his growl. “How do I get it off?”

With trembling hands, she swept her hair out of the way, over her shoulder to give him a clear view of what he was doing, and held to him as she waited. For the first time, she became aware of how closely her chest pressed against his, the friction of every breath. The band was designed to comfortably stay in place beneath her armour no matter what she did, with both a knot and a pin for extra security, but though years of wearing it had left her familiar with the feel of it, guiding Alistair’s hands to the right places proved difficult.

“Don’t lose it,” she cautioned as he unhooked the pin. “I have another one but I don’t know where it is.”

“Bedside table?”

She nodded, and bit her lip as the linen finally came loose. She expected it to be ripped away, but instead Alistair came close, mouth hot on hers as he unwound the band and chased the straps from her shoulders, coaxing first one arm then the other free before casting it aside to land on the pile with the rest of their clothes. Her calves knocked against the side of the bed, her whole body cradled now as she hooked one leg over is hip, overbalanced them both, and tumbled to the mattress.

His arms broke their fall. Hers raked up his back, prompting another purr and a shift of his hips that had her arching up for closer contact, breathless from kissing him, from his warmth, his weight, the path of his hand as it rasped along the curve of her ribs and up, closing over her breast with sharpness enough to make her gasp.

“You like that,” he accused, sliding his attention to her neck.

She giggled. “So – so keep doing it.”

“You’re so demanding.”

Without breaking contact, he shifted above her, wrapping one arm under her back to hoist them both further up the bed, so that his legs no longer hung awkwardly off the side. The frame protested as her head hit the pillow, but she didn’t care, too focussed instead on keeping him exactly where she wanted. Her hands fisted in his hair as stubble scratched the line of her collarbone, and she did not miss the fact that in the move, he had settled between her legs, though he still bore most of his weight on his arm and knees in an attempt to be polite as he explored. Muscles bunched under the silk of his skin, hard as iron beneath her hands and smooth as turned pebbles on the shore. It was the strength that had held her up when they first met at Wythenshawe, fought with her in the training ring, kept her guarded from her own nightmares in the wake of Marjolane’s attack.

“Rosslyn?”

Her skin was so much paler than his, like marble and chert laid next to each other. She stroked a thumb across his chin. And then another memory flashed in her mind, and her fingers curled at the nape of his neck.

“Here,” she said, mouth dry, guiding him down to where his free hand still cupped her breast. From the smirk that spread across his face, he realised what she wanted, but he let her lead unresisting, darkened eyes fixed on hers, even when the very tip of his tongue peeked from his mouth and lapped at her flesh. Tension coiled in her belly with the effort of keeping still. He licked again, a broad swipe against her nipple so close his breath sent gooseflesh skittering over her arm, and when she shuddered he let go pretence and in the instant before her eyes squeezed shut, grinned like a demon and closed his mouth over her entirely.

He enjoyed it. He was good at it. He hummed around the swirl of his tongue, bit down, sucked, caressed her with his hand, all things she would have shied from if not for it being him, and when the glut of sensation set her legs shaking and her hips lifting from the sheets in a desperate need for friction, he was there, hard and heavy, rocking down in a slow, half-conscious drive that made the mattress creak. His back flexed where she held him, where she guided him over her fully, the smell of salt and pinesmoke in her nose.

“Uh… love?”

Her eyes blinked open, a wordless complaint on her lips for the fact that he had stopped.

“I’m stuck.”

For a moment, she could only stare at him, confusion matched by awe at the sight of him above her, hair mussed from her attentions, flushed down to his chest with a swollen mouth and pinpricks of sweat just beginning to glitter on his forehead. His weight was propped on one elbow again, his opposite hand splayed on her thigh – which was clamped around his waist like a vice.

Her face flamed. “I… I didn’t realise.”

Bracing her hands against his shoulders, she dropped her gaze, telling herself it was concentration and not embarrassment as she forced her muscles to relax. As soon as he could wriggle free, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss against her cheek, shifting so he could tangle his hand in her hair again.

“I don’t mind,” he murmured in her ear. “In fact, I don’t mind so much it’s giving me all sorts of ideas.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhm.” He settled against her with another slow rock of his hips. “You’re so strong, and brave, and I love you so much.”

She swallowed. Her fingers tightened on his ribs so that she felt the deep heave of his breath. His hand still gripped her thigh, hot through the fabric of her breeches as it traced a slow, firm line from her knee, pushing it aside to give himself room. But the fabric was still in the way, the movement as it was not enough, she needed him closer.

“Alistair…” Every inch of him fogged her mind with distraction, and the words were lost. Somehow, she navigated her fingers to the ties on his breeches, managed to keep her head through the hitch in his breath. “Please.”

“You’re sure?”

She turned her lips into his neck, the closest part of him she could find. “It’s my turn.”

Without clothes in the way, he surely felt the galloping beat of her pulse as he pushed himself onto his knees to give her hands room to untie him, caging her with his arms, with his fingers in her hair, with the kisses she tore from his lips. In her fumbling, she accidentally brushed against the hardness trapped beneath the laces, once, but enough to drag a groan from deep within his throat, to make him push forward into her touch with only the barest semblance of control.

Like an overeager puppy wanting attention, came the unbidden thought, so she had to bite her lips together to stifle a laugh.

“Please say you’re nearly done,” he rasped as he kissed her collarbone again. “This is…”

“I think…” Something niggled at her thoughts, then coalesced like a stone dropped into a pool. “We didn’t take our boots off.”

“What?”

She cursed. “Our boots. We’re still wearing them.” It seemed like such an obvious problem with a little bit of thought applied.

As if it might be some kind of trick, Alistair twisted to look over his shoulder, and collapsed with a sigh when she wiggled a still-shod foot at him to prove her words, grumbling into her neck in a way that took the heat of the moment and made it ridiculous.

“Next time,” he huffed, “the boots are coming off first.”

“Agreed.”

A brief kiss, and he pulled away, retreating to the edge of the bed so he could pull up first one leg then the other to unbuckle his boots, however much his hurry made his hands trip over the straps. If she weren’t so happy to watch him, the way his freckles moved under the smooth planes of his back and the way his profile scrunched in concentration, she might have cautioned him with one of Nan’s old idioms about haste and speed, but instead she rolled onto her side and tucked her arms under her head to better admire him. When he glanced over his shoulder, one brow quirked, she smiled at him and tried not to notice how cold she was in his absence.

“See anything you like?” he asked, with a lazy grin betrayed by the bloom of colour from her scrutiny, a slight tremor in his voice that she almost missed.

“I haven’t seen everything yet.” Her smirk froze – it must be the proximity making her so bold, disconnecting her brain from her mouth like a spooked horse slipping its rope. To cover, she cleared her throat. “But there’s already a lot to like, and… while you’re up…?” She leaned a leg across to nudge him with the toe of her own boot.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he teased, taking the hint. “Where did you learn to wheedle?”

“It wasn’t just me teaching Cuno tricks,” she answered. “Do you think he’s alright?”

He picked up her other foot and set his fingers to the laces. “He probably went to turn those big brown eyes of his on Cailan – but you know, some men might get offended if the minds of their lady loves wandered so far off topic during the steamy bits. Not me, though,” he added loftily. “I know you can’t resist me.”

“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

“Adorable!” He glared at her in affront. “I’ll have you know, my love, that the last thing an imposing warrior like myself wants to be called is ‘adorable’, though… maybe it’s not so bad, when it comes from someone as beautiful as you.” He threw her sock over his shoulder, expression suddenly rakish. “And look at that, your foot is at my mercy.”

“Don’t you dare!” she warned, as his hand snaked back towards her toes.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?”

Eyes narrowed, she levered herself up onto her hands until her nose was bare inches away from his. “Don’t play innocent. Tickling isn’t allowed.” Her stomach clenched under the brief, scalding look he passed over her.

“The lady is ticklish, is she?” He grinned, pressing one small kiss to her ankle before moving to find her mouth. “I won’t tell a soul.”

She was already pulling him down again. “You’d better not.”

“Isn’t it still your turn?”

Without breaking the kiss, they eased backwards, back to the centre of the bed, where the pillows dipped beneath her head and the cover rumpled so uncomfortably Alistair grew annoyed with it and cast it aside. Rosslyn took her time exploring him again, from the silk of his hair and down the lines of his neck, trailing her fingers across the expanse of his back, his chest, the surprised hiss when her thumb accidentally scraped over his nipple. She liked it when he covered her, when his chest hair tickled and his heart beat so close to her own, and he let his hands rove along her sides as if trying to commit her shape to memory. Most of her work on his breeches was already done, the laces loose, but she couldn’t resist another slow glide of her hand across his front before she pulled the two wings apart and pushed the garment, smalls and all, as far as she could reach down his legs. His hand left her – to hold himself, she realised; she felt his slipping self-control frown against her cheek – and with the words she needed having fled, she used her touch instead to bring him back, to hold him as his hips jerked against her still-clothed sex.

“Hey…” she tried, as he poised above her. With anxious fingers she guided his mouth to hers, and he devoured her like one starving.

“Please tell me you want this,” he begged. “Please tell me you don’t want to wait anymore.”

Molten heat pooled between her legs, left her mouth dry. “Don’t stop.”

“No.” his teeth grazed her ear. “I need to hear it. I need to know you’re not just –”

“I want you,” she growled, mind fraying. She grabbed his face so he would look at her. “I want you – I love you – I want everything.”

The touch against her cheek was reverent, the confession gentle. “I dreamed about this so many times. I thought of you…”

“This isn’t a dream. Which means,” she added with a sly smile, “that the rest of my clothes aren’t going to come off through the power of imagination.”

An instant passed, and then he burst out laughing. “Maker’s breath, I love you. Is that a hint?”

“Do you not want me naked?”

“Minx,” he accused, stealing a brief kiss before falling away to her side to wriggle the rest of the way out of his breeches. “You don’t fool me with those wide, innocent eyes – and for the record, I want you very naked.”

She shivered. Her full view was obscured by his arm, and by the curve of her waist as he turned back to her on his side, with only a brief, smiling glance at her body before he was kissing her again, sweet and deep and slow, with a hand on her jaw as if he were worried she would turn away if he let her go. Impatient, she hummed and caught his fingers and pushed them down, just enough until he took the hint and moved of his own accord, rising up onto his elbow for a better angle that brought him so, so close he curved around her, with every shift in muscle, every inhaled breath taken as her own. The knot on her breeches unpicked easily, loosened with brief attention, small motions that made her hips twitch in jealousy. He reared back, breaking the slant of their mouths, but before any kind of reprimand could pass her lips, his palm eased firm beneath the fabric, with only her smalls barring the touch, and every line of her body snapped tight.

“I could watch you like this,” he muttered against her ear as he did it again. Her nails dug into his bicep. “But then I’d never get to see the rest of you.”

With a growl, she dragged him back to her, pushed his hand away, hooked her own thumb under the hem so she could shimmy free. “Stop talking.”

He chuckled against her neck, and obliged. In a moment she had the last of her clothes kicked away, already forgotten as she stretched out next to him, careful to make room, bold and vulnerable and very aware of the slick feeling between her legs, the sharp-salt odour already mingling not unpleasantly with his. As she rolled on her side, she took a moment to look, to follow the path of her hand down his chest and beyond where she dared to set it at his waist, to steady her breathing. She had never really thought of anyone as beautiful before, not all over, but Alistair was strong, well-made, solid from battle but soft at the edges in all the ways that blew the last of her doubt away like cobwebs. His erection, now she saw it, was an ungainly thing, hard and curving slightly from a sparse mess of pubic hair, the tip dewed and blushing like a rosebud, but it was part of him as much as his freckles or his scars, or the absurd jokes he always made to cover his uncertainty.

When she looked up, she found his eyes lingering on her like a wolf’s. His breath ghosted against her cheek, sweet with the wine from dinner, but she found she couldn’t breathe at all. She could see the skip of his pulse in the corner of his jaw, felt her own like a rockslide in her chest, until somehow the spell over them broke and their shared uncertainty let go with a puff of silent laughter that narrowed the little space left between them.

“Here,” he murmured, taking her hand with a brushed kiss across her knuckles, gaze keen on her face until the moment her fingers, still wrapped in his, folded around him and followed his guidance in a long, slow stroke that made his eyes squeeze shut and brought a guttural sound to his lips.

“You like that,” she teased, unable to hide the thrill in her voice. It was an odd sensation, holding such iron-hard flesh, but as she worked him, the frown deepened, colour rose higher in his cheeks with breath hissed between his teeth, and his hand left hers to brush her hair out of her face as he slanted a kiss against her mouth. She almost didn’t notice when that same hand dragged her leg over his waist, not until it trailed the back of her thigh and around to the dark froth of hair guarding her sex, and paused.

He cleared his throat. “Can I –?”

She grinned, sucked his bottom lip between her teeth. “Yes.”

Her hips rocked forward to meet the first slow pass of his hand. It was bigger than hers, heavier, cautious in its explorations like the steady advance and retreat of an incoming tide, but every stroke gained confidence, built pressure, until finally he worked low enough to drag a finger in a slow, deliberate glide along her folds –

“There,” she gasped. “Right – right there.”

“Like this?”

He made circles, teasing the nub of flesh with the pads of his fingers, but not quite right, too fast, and she got distracted trying to find a way to put the feeling into words beyond a frustrated shake of her head. And then he slowed, went back to stroking, and her nails bit into his arm as another small cry fell from her lips, swallowed by the sudden eager cover of his mouth. She had forgotten she could kiss him too. The realisation sparked only idly in her mind, but she found the taste of him addictive, the hum on his lips as she pulled him down, the rasp of hair against the sensitive bud of her nipple as she rutted to the insistent pace of his hand.

And still he wasn’t close enough. A finger slipped beyond her entrance, pressed deeper when she rocked her hips, when he curled the digit and added another to leave her shaking entirely at his mercy. His head dropped against her neck, her name a stagger on his tongue, and without truly registering the movement, the mattress dipped as she pushed him onto his back. Straddled him.

They no longer needed words. His eyes were dark, his fingers still wet with her slick where they dug into her waist. She kissed him, proud of his flushed skin, his disordered hair, his groan as the tilt of her hips ground the sweetest angle against him. He reached between them. She anticipated the question.

“Yes.”

The first time they tried, she moved too soon and his cock slipped and flopped back against his stomach. A breath of laughter. An awkward shuffle. And this time – this time she sank onto him, slowly, braced against the taut muscles of his stomach, not with the pain she had been warned about but a friction, a sense of fullness that drove the breath from her lungs. Her hair escaped over her shoulder. She blinked her eyes open to find Alistair gazing up at her with quiet awe, brushing the fallen lock behind her ear even as every inch of his body strained with the effort of keeping still. His other hand splayed across her waist to steady her, or maybe just to anchor himself, and when some instinct made her shift her weight, his nails dug into her skin and air hissed between his teeth.

It taught her how to move, how fast. Every rock of her hips sent a dance of light along her nerves like the rolling strike of a flintlock, the pleasure of it mixing with the pleasure of feeling Alistair’s response, the way the frown came back to his face, how his feet planted against the sheets and his head arched back to expose the long column of his throat. The sight drew her forward – the new angle gave her more room, a longer stroke as she sealed her mouth against his pulse, felt his hands on her breasts, her back, and heard her own breath grow ragged out of time with the groan of the bed beneath them.

“Yes, love – yes – yes, I’m here –”

Guttural praise poured into her ear as their pace increased. He touched her everywhere. She planted kisses against his neck as her hair cast around them like a curtain, as he held her and her fists clenched in the pillows by his head and his hips snapped up and his tawny eyes followed every tiny change in her expression. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but the building heat at her core wouldn’t let her. It made her toes curl. It made her forget everything but him, the hissed pleas and repetitions of her name that fell from his lips, it drove her mind towards a single vibrant point just out of reach –

The tension unspooled in a jagged inrush of air. Her eyes squeezed shut. In an instant, Alistair flipped them and brought his mouth crashing down to hers, the growl in his throat encouraging the flare of lightning through her fingers as he drove out her pleasure, until at last he groaned and stilled and brought his forehead down to hers. They shared a kiss, and breaths half-laugh and half-sob as she held him. His arms shook. As they gave out, her mouth skipped along every inch of skin she could reach, limbs twitching with aftershocks, her will to move bled away and replaced with absolute contentment. A smile pressed against her neck as his arms wrapped around her, as if nothing would satisfy him but sinking all the way into her flesh. Talking had no place here. Nor did tears, though she felt a stubborn prick at the back of her throat as the weight of what they had shared settled properly. She would not cry. Instead, she pulled him closer, brushed a lingering kiss against his shoulder, wound her fingers into his hair.

For a long time, neither of them moved, or spoke. Rosslyn’s mouth was dry, her breath finally calming, seeping with the same heaviness that had taken hold of the rest of her. Their heartbeats matched, steadying echoes of each other, and when he eventually lifted away, it was only far enough to fall on his side, to curl around her again with one arm lazy over her stomach and his nose buried against the tip of her shoulder. Chill air crept into the spaces he left behind, but the easy heat in her blood kept her too comfortable to rouse yet and find the bedcovers.

Alistair was watching her. His mouth curved faintly upwards at the corner, too soft to be a smirk, his fingers a whisper over her forehead as he smoothed away the rogue strands of hair caught up in their exertions. He shifted closer, nudging her cheek with barely-there kisses.

“You liked that.”

She chuckled. “So did you.” She rolled onto her side, still stubborn against the cold but willing to nestle close and leach warmth from him if it meant not having to move further.

“Mmmmh.” He stroked her back, legs tangling with hers, and sighed. “It’s funny – according to the Chantry, I should have been struck by lightning by now.”

A lazy smirk lifted her mouth. “You know I don’t pay any attention to what the Chantry says.”

“What about the Alamarri, then?” he asked. “No lightning, and then the end of civilisation as we know it?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Oi!” Indignant, he reached down and grabbed her arse, grinning when it made her jerk against him. ”Cheeky.”

“Did you just –”

“And if I did?”

She read the tease in his grin, the light in his tawny eyes, and gave him the most disdainful expression she could muster. “Then you could sink no lower, my love.”

“Careful,” he warned, “or I might take that as a challenge.”

“But would you take the risk?”

He stroked her chin, chased it with a quick press of his lips. “Probably not. I love you too much. But, uh…” Suddenly sheepish, he cleared his throat. “Maybe we should… move? We’ve made a bit of a mess.”

She glanced down, to where his hand still lay against her hip. “Ah.”

He squeezed her hand. “Wait here.”

While he padded across to the ewer standing with a bowl and a cloth on her dresser, she reached over to retrieve the covers, pushed half onto the floor during their lovemaking. Even thinking the word made her bite her lip, the smile beneath spreading with a glow of warmth through her chest. Their clothes lay scattered across her floor, and a pleasant kind of ache was starting between her legs, an awareness of muscles never before used that – were she not so sleepy – she would not mind using again. When her gaze passed to him, however, her satisfaction melted into shock, and heat snaked across the back of her neck as he caught sight of her expression and frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

She winced. “Go and look in the mirror.”

Bemused, he rinsed off the cloth and did as she asked, completely at ease in his nakedness, with her eyes on him, perhaps even preening a little as he moved to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

“I still don’t see…”

“No – turn around.”

“Oh – wow.” He coughed. “Um.”

A set of long, red marks stood out parallel on the skin across his shoulders and down his back. She didn’t remember making them, couldn’t remember any point at which she could have made them, and yet there they were.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well, stripes are all the fashion this season, didn’t you know? I think they make me look taller.”

“It isn’t funny,” she snapped, an unpleasant squirm in her chest. “You look like you’ve been flogged.”

“But I haven’t,” he pointed out. His mouth widened into a suggestive little grin as he came back towards the bed. When her frown didn’t ease, he sprawled next to her on the bed and caught her chin in his fingers. “No one else will see, if that’s what you’re worried about. Well, maybe Marten, but I can make excuses to him easily enough, and it’s not like I didn’t spend years bathing myself before the fancy title came along.”

“Don’t they hurt?”

Shaking his head, he pressed a kiss to her temple and cleared his throat again as he turned his attention to the stickiness covering her thighs. “Not at all. But if you insist, I’m sure I could think of a few ways for you to make it up to me.”

“You’re being smug again,” she huffed.

That earned a laugh. “How could I not be?” he teased. “You were making such delightful noises.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. “Just what I’d expect someone raised by dogs to say.”

He gasped, pulling away from her in affront, but before she could decide whether the reaction was genuine, he darted back in and left a long, wet lick up the side of her face.

“Yeuch!”

“Such cruelty from such a beautiful woman!” he lamented, letting her away to swipe at her face.

“That’s – eugh!”

He huffed. “That’s the least you deserve. If you hear sobbing later, that’s me crying myself to sleep.”

She offered a wry glance over her shoulder and found him sitting primly, waiting for a response. “How am I attracted to you?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” he answered in a cheerful voice, leaning forward to brush a kiss against her shoulder. “But I’m very glad you are.” He paused and gave his best puppy look. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Very much, my love.” She sighed. “Speaking of dogs…”

“I’ll go.”

He retreated and scooped his discarded shirt from the floor before rinsing the cloth again and crossing to the door. Something in the casual way he moved about her room, taking up space, even poking his head around the door and whistling for her dog, left a peculiar kind of lightness in her chest. Yes, they would have to take Highever first, and yes, the war would not be over even then, but for the first time her heart did not shy away from the idea of him there, in her future, in her home, wrapped up by the fire in the library or sharing a walk on the grey sand below the cliffs. As he listened for the telltale scrabble of claws along the hallway, her insides squirmed to realise she had never wanted anything so much.

“I can’t see him,” Alistair said, breaking into her thoughts. “Do you want me to go and look?”

She shook herself. “He must have found somewhere else to sleep.”

“Poor you, then – only me to cuddle for warmth.” His grin was infectious, all confidence as he shut the door.

“Oh, however will I cope?” she deadpanned. “Come back to bed.”

He stilled. Only for a moment, until his chest heaved and a huffed laugh flitted from his lips, but the blush that spread down his neck didn’t subside, and his eyes never left hers as he took the invitation and wriggled under the covers next to her. She called the command for the glowstone and the light went out, leaving them cocooned in the darkness, jostling slightly until they found a comfortable position, with one strong arm around her and his heartbeat under her ear. In that state, sleep came for her quickly.

“Rosslyn?”

“Mm?” He was holding himself too carefully under her hand.

“In all seriousness… I wasn’t too bad, was I?”

She sighed, relieved. “I ended well enough, and you… I never thought I’d find anyone I wanted to do that with, or that it would feel like that.” To distract herself from the awkwardness of the conversation, even in the dark, she found his hand and threaded their fingers together. “What about me? Was I…?”

“Perfect,” he said, without a beat. “You’re perfect.”

“No point in practicing, then?” she teased, smirking as she pushed herself up to see his outline.

A hand snaked around her waist. “Oh no, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, woman. There will be lots of practice. I mean, if…”

“I might like that.”

“‘Might’?” he grumbled. “So charming. Go to sleep.”

Still smiling, she settled closer against him, pillowed on his shoulder, awareness slowly drifting as his thumb stroked a mindless rhythm over her hip, exactly where she wanted to be, and between one breath and the next she slipped into oblivion.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair x cousland #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #cousland #lemon #the falcon and the rose

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