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apocalypticavolition · 9 months

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Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 21: Listen to the Wind

Once again, I feel obliged to warn you lot about the fact that this reread is going to be filled with spoilers for the whole book series, some of which will be completely irrelevant to the chapter at hand if previous entries are any indication. If you're the sort of person who doesn't like this, run away!

This chapter's got Moiraine's staff for the chapter icon, which reflects the fact that she's going to be giving Nynaeve a lot of info this chapter, including about her gimmick with the coins that the boys have already tossed away.

Sunrise creeping across the River Arinelle found its way into the hollow not far from the riverbank where Nynaeve sat with her back against the trunk of a young oak, breathing the deep breath of sleep. Her horse slept, too, head down and legs spraddled in the manner of horses.

It's basically our last new POV of this book, barring a really brief Moiraine bit at the very end. I saw someone else note that we get Perrin and Nynaeve's POVs in this book to supplement Rand's because they're basically having the same arc as him of being forced to leave home while Egwene jumped at the chance to have an adventure (and actually has a good time in her section) and Mat's being corrupted by the dagger. This checks out, though I don't think any of the books to come have the same kind of thematic consistency with their POVs. Even New Spring has the brief Siuan POV.

“They know the smell of who they want,” she told her horse, standing in the hollow, “and it is not me. The Aes Sedai is right, it seems, the Shepherd of the Night swallow her up.”

Don't worry Nynaeve, you'll see her in Shayol Ghul soon enough.

Gotta say though, the fact that the Trollocs didn't even try to eat Nynaeve is borderline out-of-character in my book. Sure, she's not the target, but she's an ally of the target. And anyway, they're hungry bastards and why would Ba'alzy say "leave literally all of the others alone"? I just don't get it.

At intervals she found tracks, plenty of them, but usually her best efforts could not say whether those who made them had been searching or chasing or pursued. Some had been made by boots that could have belonged to humans or Trollocs either one. Others were hoofprints, like goats or oxen; those were Trollocs for sure. But never a clear sign that she could definitely say came from any of those she sought.

Speaking of things I don't get, I refuse to believe that Nynaeve can't Sherlock Holmes her way into identifying everyone's current locations based on a single footprint. I'm much too much of a Nynaeve stan for anything else.

“There was no clear sign of the boys, or any of the others. The tracks are too muddled to tell anything.” In her concealment, Nynaeve smiled; the Warder’s failure was a slight vindication of her own.

Okay I guess I'll allow it, but only because she's still Lan's equal at least.

“Don’t try to evade it. You know what I am saying. If those thousand were here to be sent into the Two Rivers, why were they not? There is only one answer. They were sent only after we crossed the Taren, when it was known that one Myrddraal and a hundred Trollocs were no longer enough. How? How were they sent? If a thousand Trollocs can be brought so far south from the Blight, so quickly, unseen—not to mention being taken off the same way—can ten thousand be sent into the heart of Saldaea, or Arafel, or Shienar? The Borderlands could be overrun in a year.”

I'm so proud of Lan for being one of the few characters in the series for telling an Aes Sedai that he won't accept blatant dodging of topics in conversations. I get why more characters don't try it - they respect Aes Sedai too much or are afraid of having the Power wielded against them - but it's still refreshing.

Lan's worries about these things are rather hilarious in hindsight, because in a year or two the city of Maradon will be completely overrun by hundreds of thousands of Trollocs and the Ways don't seem to be the least bit involved.

The Ways are closed, and there has not been an Aes Sedai powerful enough to Travel since the Time of Madness. Unless one of the Forsaken is loose—the Light send it is not so, yet or ever—there is still no one who can. In any case, I do not think all the Forsaken together could move a thousand Trollocs.

So Moiraine is just wrong across the board here. The Ways aren't closed, plenty of Aes Sedai are powerful enough to Travel, the Forsaken are loose, the Forsaken together could easily move numbers of Trollocs well beyond a thousand, but they wouldn't use Traveling to do it because that kills the Trolloc.

Lan had spun to face the tree as soon as Moiraine’s eyes moved; his sword was in his hand before she finished speaking Nynaeve’s name. Now he sheathed it again with more force than was strictly necessary.

*waggles eyebrows*

How do you think I knew you were behind that tree? If I had not been distracted, I would have known the moment you came close.

I warned you about getting distracted, Moiraine. You're lucky Lan's still alive!

That said, it's interesting that the senses aren't perfect. Moiraine didn't ping on Nynaeve immediately in Emond's Field for example, and she wasn't distracted then.

She licked lips gone abruptly dry. They were both looking at her, the Warder’s face as unreadable as a stone, the Aes Sedai’s sympathetic yet intent.

Has Moiraine had "the talk" with many sparkers over the past twenty years? Is she just sympathetic because she's technically a Wilder herself? How much of her talk of Nynaeve's denial is something she went through in between sparking and telling Laman's Aes Sedai about her gift? Why did we get a prequel novel that told me nothing about Moiraine's court days, which are fucking fascinating by virtue of involving Cairhienin scheming and being almost completely unknown to us?

You felt nothing special at the time, but a week or ten days later you had your first reaction to touching the True Source.

Moiraine, people in your era measure weeks in sets of ten days so your statement is very redundant! (This particular detail Jordan doesn't seem to come up with until very late, Crossroads of Twilight was the first glossary I saw use it after a cursory and haphazard skimming), so frankly it's not even early book weirdness, it's anticipating late book weirdness.

Also note that Rand did seven days for his first onscreen channeling, so Jordan probably figured it was his first use of the Power and thus his feeling the Fade in chapter one was something he didn't need the power for.

You used the Power to Heal either Perrin or Egwene at some time. An affinity develops. You can sense the presence of someone you have Healed.

This though, this is early book weirdness and will never come up again. I wonder why Jordan included it and what circumstances he thought it might be useful for later. Frankly, I'm glad to see it gone.

Aes Sedai search for girls who can touch the True Source unguided just as assiduously as we search for men who can do so.

Maybe on average this is true (in that the generic Aes Sedai puts 0 effort into either), but frankly the Red Ajah puts way more effort into the male hunt than anyone puts into the gal hunt. I guess speaking of early book weirdness, you really get the impression in this book that the White Tower is supposed to be actually kind of competent? Borderlanders respect Aes Sedai, which would make more sense if the Green Ajah did anything. Wisdoms are back country professions, which would make more sense if the Yellow Ajah had a presence in more urban areas. Moiraine's broad education feels like Tower training, which would reflect well on the Brown. And so on and so forth.

Mistress Barran’s first apprentice had died the way the Aes Sedai said when Nynaeve was still playing with dolls, and there had been a young woman in Deven Ride only a few years ago. She had been a Wisdom’s apprentice, too, one who could listen to the wind.

This is good foreshadowing for the later revelations that the Two Rivers is a hotspot for channeling. And since Moiraine said three in four die, and we've got four gals with these two examples, we can see that Egwene is statistically dead meat if she doesn't get to the Tower soon.

She doesn’t want me along. She’s trying to put my back up so I’ll go back home and leave them alone with her. “Oh, yes, I will be going with you. You cannot keep me from it.” “No one will try to keep you from it,” Lan said as he rejoined them. He emptied the tea kettle over the fire and stirred the ashes with a stick. “A part of the Pattern?” he said to Moiraine.

Nynaeve is hilariously weak to Moiraine's reverse psychology. She'd shout "Duck season!" and shoot herself in the face if Moiraine wanted her to. Meanwhile, Lan's just going, "Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes" but trying to play it cool. "Please say she can come," is what "A part of the Pattern?" means.

“He is only a few miles from us. But I cannot afford to take the time. He should make his way down to Whitebridge safely now that the Trollocs have gone. The two who went downriver may need me more. They have lost their coins, and Myrddraal are either pursuing them or else trying to intercept us all at Whitebridge.”

"A few miles" being too much of a detour at this point is just weird to me. I think the Pattern's keeping her tunnel visiony so that she doesn't interfere with anyone's needed development, but still. There's no reason to think that the brief detour for the isolated boy isn't worth it with the stakes being what they are. This is where being calculated breaks down: once you start using bad assumptions and equations to choose your actions, you're going to start spiraling out of control quickly.

Light, a Wisdom is supposed to look after all of her people. Why do I have to choose like this?

Because you're not supposed to be a Wisdom anymore, Nynaeve. Like Rand, she's heavily in denial.

It would have been a small boost to her spirits if there had been even a trace of gloating on his face instead of that insufferable stony calm. His eyes widened when he saw her face, and she turned her back on him to wipe tears from her cheeks. How dare he mock my crying!

Nynaeve can be just as unreliable a narrator as Mat because of her assumptions about everyone. Lan's incredibly stoic, so his being shocked at coming back to Nynaeve in tears under these circumstances suggests that either she's a huge mess right now or he really cares about her emotional well-being already. Or both.

The Aes Sedai was so confident in her power and her plans, she thought, but if they did not find Egwene and the boys, all of them, alive and unharmed, not all of her power would protect her. Not all her Power. I can use it, woman! You told me so yourself. I can use it against you!

I know why it didn't happen, but I am a little disappointed that Nynaeve never got to throw down with Moiraine like she wanted. It would have been epic. Ah well, there's always fanfic.

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #nynaeve al'meara #moiraine damodred #lan mandragoran

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sassygaykuja · 8 months

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i did not like 'the wise man's fear' rant below

The Wise Man's Fear is a book that teeters dangerously close to being brilliant, which makes it far worse than just being a bad book. It's very good in parts. What those parts are might vary from person to person, but in my experience, I'd consider a solid 60% of the book infuriating.

The first 400 pages of the book is just a rehash of the second half of Name of the Wind. Like it's all just the same shit. It feels like cut content from book 1. Bits are enjoyable, but for the most part it's agonizingly boring. I was begging for something to just HAPPEN.

I almost threw the book when it skipped over two consecutive interesting story beats but god damn if it didn't spend 5 pages retelling a bit from the first book and two arcs fucking around with ambrose for some reason

The middle section of the book starting from the murder attempt mystery to killing the bandits was great. A bit flawed in parts, but overall a fun experience with a fun cast of characters. I particularly like the interludes where the group tells stories. Something that I really liked about the first book was the intercut myths about the chandrian, and this was a nice return to form. It's great up until Felurian shows up.

I don't know about yall, but I really didn't come here to spend 100 pages reading about a teenager fucking a fairy. The book has thus far done a decent job at balancing kvothe as a living legend and a person with strengths and weaknesses. There are a lot of things that he is just not good at, and much of the time when he quickly becomes good at something, it's based in experience he already has. He might be a ridiculous savant, but it's not so unreasonable that it's immersion breaking. Kvothe intentionally plays up his own reputation and his arrogance bites him in the ass multiple times. Part of what's interesting about the bandit hunting arc is that it serves as a measuring stick to show how powerful and arcane he is to an average person, because by the metrics of the setting he's been stuck at for hundreds of pages, he's just a particularly exceptional student and he's regularly contrasted with people who are better than him in various areas, whereas the mercenaries have no frame of reference for what he's able to do with the magic system. All of this to say, I'm here to fight the allegations of Kvothe being a ridiculous mary-sue, up until Felurian shows up.

In the span of a small arc, Kvothe goes from having zero experience with women to being a womanizing sex god, and that's really the point where I decided I couldn't give the book any higher than 3 stars. Most of the skills he had in his arsenal are things that took him years to develop, even if he had an easier start than most. Also, I was very uncomfortable during that entire section because I could not shake that he is sixteen years old being preyed on. And then, when he studies with the Adem for the next good chunk of the book, he has sex with his teacher, who is also an older woman. It's viscerally uncomfortable reading about a teenager being sexually taken advantage of by much older woman and his older self with hindsight treating it like it was a good thing. I'm no prude, and I acknowledge that stories containing uncomfortable material can and should exist, but this is simply not the time or place. Kingkiller Chronicles is a high fantasy tragedy/fairytale about the power of storytelling and grief. It is not a sjm book or some deep commentary about sex. I'd be fine with it if it didn't take up an absurd amount of pagecount.

Circling back, the thing that really irks me is that by the end of the Felurian arc, Kvothe has gone from a character who's gone through steady growth to become a decently powerful dramatic teenager who intentionally bolsters his own reputations because he's afraid of being hurt, to a character who the world orients itself around by nature because he's just so powerful and mysterious. His awkwardness around women was one of his more grounding traits that I was admittedly fond of, and losing it over a few in-universe days also annoyed me for that reason.

The long section spent training with the Adem is so close to being brilliant it's infuriating. So much of the worldbuilding around their culture is fascinating and fun to read about. Tempi is easily one of the best side characters. It all goes downhill when it comes to the fact that it's a matriarchy. That in and of itself is not bad, but there were too many groan-inducing sections that made it all to obvious this was a story written by a man. As mentioned previously, it was decent up until he had sex with vashet, at which point it became gross.

The rest of the book is... fine. It's okay. Not much happens, but he finally has money and reunited with everyone back at the university. It skims through the next few months and ends in a happy place. That in itself is fine.

One of the most irritating things about it is that it feels like nothing happened. He's barely closer to finding the Chandrian or Amyr, and those bits were few and far between. I really have no idea how the story is supposed to resolve itself in one book if this is the pace we're working with. I won't know, because I'm not going to bother.

Keen eyed readers might have also noticed I have thus far completely omitted any commentary about the romantic subplot that also eats at a significant portion of the subplot, and that's because it doesn't matter. I really wanted to like Denna. I really did. But after the brief plot in book 1 where Kvothe and Denna take out a draccus together, denna doesn't get to do anything. If you read one scene with her in it you've read them all in the sequel. She exists to be fawned over, a damsel he wants to save but can't, and the only interesting scene with her in it is a conversation kvothe is not part of. I think she absolutely has the capacity to be a great character, but though so much of the story centers around kvothe being scared of trapping her, he doesn't realize that she already is.

I won't delve into the sexism too much longer but I do just want to put it out there that if the story was unchanged but Kvothe was a girl, everyone would hate her and the story would be despised.

anyway the only kvothe centric romantic liaison i stan is in a dnd campaign im in where he's an npc and has a thousand year tragic codependent i-can-fix-him relationship with my chaotic evil cleric that started as a bit but now it's integral to the plot

the point being, one of my main criticisms of the first book was an absolute refusal to let Denna actually do anything, and the sequel shares the problem tenfold.

anyway, if you absolutely must read the sequel, read from around page 350 to when they kill the bandits. If you really want a taste for the rest, read the last third of name of the wind a few times, then crack open some sjm and imagine that the male character in a given scene is sixteen.

kingkiller chronicles has some absolutely brilliant prose and a lot of fun characters and storylines, but it's bogged down by all the long-winded nonsense thats inbetween the good bits. Just read the first one, in fact, just read the first one up until he gets accepted into the university and imagine for yourself what comes after.

the fairy sex isnt real and it cant hurt me

#ginn speaks #not tagging the subject matter because im not rude #if it still shows up in the tag im sorry #i cant really talk about it without using its name #i did not like this book and it was over a thousand pages of me hoping id change my mind #and i have so many thoughts about it that if i dont express i will die

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sylenth-l · 3 years

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I must say I don't know much about Andal, but I've become interested thanks to you ;~; Do you have any specific lore recs to read about him?

Hmmm, I think his section on Ishtar Collective covers almost everything and there's not that much lore about him anyway. But since I've noticed it misses a couple of things, I thought I'll make my own list too.

SO, here's every valuable mention of Andal I can remember (in some sort of an order, but not really):

The Man They Call Cayde - the greatest piece of candal fanfiction by Cayde himself, bless. If you can read only one thing from this list, READ THIS. Almost half of this book is about Andal, honestly, and the way Cayde writes about him is so... ugh. Just read it, if you haven't already 🥺

Micah's letter to Tallulah, warning her about Andal. I wonder what he did to give her such a strong impression of a troublemaker that she advised Hunter Vanguard herself to go and pick him up 😂

Andal telling a fascinating story about how he barfed into the ocean met Tallulah. I find it absolutely endearing how literally everyone tell us what a cool & competent Hunter he was when speaking about him, and then we have this gem written by the man himself, where he embarrasses himself by dying from Tallulah's friendly slap

Tallu remembers talking to him by the fire - very touching one and that line about his cloak.........

Actually the whole Vanguard Dare set has quotes about him: casque, grips (this quote lives in my head rent free… "He was ours first", omg…), vest and boots. Not that much about Andal in the last one, but it mentions him and I think Suzume's personality really shows here, lol. Oh by the way, WHY DIDN'T YOU BOTHER TO GIVE HER A NAME BACK THEN BUNGIE HUH??? Also I think it's a crime this set is now a cosmetic ornament only, so there's no way to see those quotes in the game anymore (unless you have an old set stored in your vault)

Fall of Osiris comic, featuring Andal's famous "I trust him with my life" line about Cayde (in hindsight he probably shouldn't have tbh)

Consensus meeting about firing Osiris - Andal's casual comment about "two birds, one man" and nobody even batting an eye on that makes me think he didn't give grandpas a minute's rest with all sorts of bird jokes, no wonder they both abandoned their Vanguard positions adfgjskjd

Teben being not happy about "Brask's Exo replacement". This one is actually kinda interesting, since it implies Andal leaned more on Drifter & Co side about Darkness, thinking of it more as of a tool that can be used for good, while Cayde was dead against it and cut off all ties with dredgens undoubtedly once he became the Vanguard

Eris' letter to Mara covering the whole Taniks' Nightmare situation

She also speaks about it in the respective Nightmare Hunt

"I knew Andal Brask. Did I ever tell you? The Vanguard's Hunter before Cayde. He taught me much, but my time in the darkness of the Hellmouth taught me so much more." - Eris again, you can get this one randomly by sticking around her on the Moon

"Did you ever meet Andal? He taught me a lot about being a Hunter. He kept telling people that Cayde was Rasputin though." - Ana speaking about him (random line you could get by hanging out around her on Mars)

Warmind comic - he barely shows up there a shame since I like how this one is drawn, but check out his flawless fashion sense (wait, is that BARE ARMS, whoa, hold on sir, that's way too revealing, have some shame!!)

Cayde speaking about him and the famous "you're Rasputin" joke (this is also the origin of this quote from D2's reclaiming the Light quest)

Cayde mentions him again in his message for Taniks

Presumably the last note Andal sent to Cayde and it's fucking heartbreaking knowing what happened next. And to think Cayde kept this little note all these years, g o d...

Aaand I think that's it?.. Feel free to add anything I may have missed!

EDIT: Added one more quote from Eris

#ask #anonymous #destiny #andal brask #always happy when people say they started to like him <3

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oh-hush-its-perfect · 3 years

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Alex Fierro's Introduction Full Breakdown

Okokok so. This is going to go full English-professor mode, where I'm drawing conclusions that are gonna seem a little far-fetched. That's what's fun about media analysis! I can say something is a symbol, and even if I don't have enough faith in RR's competency to know if he meant for it to be a symbol, it's still true! That being said, a lot of these choices I'm sure are intentional, either at a literal or subliminal level. Page numbers are going to be used not to assert a kind of authority or whatever— this is a Tumblr post, not an essay— but to help readers find the pages I'm referencing in case they'd like to do some digging of their own. Also, this is going to be really long. Really sorry to anyone with ADHD; I might make an audiofile of this so you can get the information without having to read the whole thing. With all that, let's get into it!

To kick off, let's talk about Alex being in the form of a cheetah when she first meets Magnus. Of course, there's the obvious impact of him seeing her but only so breifly, as well as introducing the conflict between her and the rest of Hall 19. But that could have easily been accomplished by almost any animal. The choice of a cheetah being implicated implies two qualities of Alex that will be recurrent throughout the two books she's in: 1. She has a tendency to run away, as we'll later learn when she describes how she became homeless, and 2. To Magnus, she's elusive. She can't be caught or held down. The event that shows this so transparently is how Alex refuses to define their relationship at the end of the series, despite it clearly surpassing the normal bounds of friendship.

But the cheetah isn't the animal Alex is in the form of when Magnus first gets a good look at her; she's a weasel. Weasel's bring up all kinds of connotations: ferocity, slickness, a lack of charm. When we want to describe someone as an untrustworthy person, we call them a weasel. RR had Alex take this form to play up her comrades' feeling of distrust towards her. She could be a double-crosser. But paradoxically, the up-front and vicious mannerisms of a weasel also have a transperency. She does not try appealing to her Hallmate's sense of goodwill because she doesn't have anything to gain from it. So even though there is the implication that she might be an antagonist, there's also evidence from her actions and mannerisms that she isn't. The weasel's long and skinny frame also allow for a smooth transition into Alex's actual body, which is convenient.

As Alex transforms into her usual human form, Magnus describes her as "a regular human teen, long and lanky, with a swirl of dyed green hair, black at the roots, like a plug of weeds pulled out of a lawn" (pg. 50). That simile at the end is of particular interest. Let's compare it to another time Magnus describes Alex's hair, in Ship of the Dead: "Her hair had started to grow out, the black roots making her look even more imposing, like a lion with a healthy mane" (pg. 136). By contrasting these two different examples, we can see the development of Magnus and Alex's relationship. The first time he sees her, he thinks of her hair as something nasty— note the word choice "weeds." Later on, though, he becomes more affectionate towards her, more complentary. The immedient negative reaction is less his actual impression, though, and more the reaction he expected to have based on everyone else's reaction to Alex.

Her clothes are equally as interesting; as Magnus describes it, Alex wears "battered rose high-tops, skinny lime green corduroy pants, a pink-and-green argyle sweater-vest over a white tee, and another pink cashmere sweather wrapped around the waist like a kilt" (pg. 50). Aside from the obvious fact that this outfit is a) bizzare, b) fire, and c) Alex's signature colors, which add a layer of style to what can otherwise be a somewhat boring series fashion-wise (excuse me, Blitz), the outfit reveals a crucial facet of Alex's backstory in a kind of subtle way. These are expensive clothes, like the Stella McCartney dress in Alex's room. Note the mention of fabrics (corduroy, cashmere) and patterns (argyle). These indicate wealth and status. Even the high-tops; shoes like that don't come cheap. But I'd like to return to the very first word of the section: "battered." Alex's wardrobe show-cases a proximity to wealth, but also shows that that proximity has been strained and lengthened, maybe for an extended period of time. Alex dresses like a rich person, but she isn't one. Least, not anymore.

The last word of that outfit-introduction is also of interest: "kilt." At the current moment, Magnus thinks that Alex is male. No one has indicated otherwise to him. Everyone has been referring to Alex with he/him pronouns. Samirah called Alex her "brother" (pg. 29). His first thought in seeing what he at first perceives as a guy with a jacket wrapped around the waist is That looks like a kilt. This thought tells us about Magnus: despite being open and accepting, he still has some lingering notions of gender conformity from his years in wider American society.

Magnus also indicates that the outfit "reminded me of a jester's motley, or the coloration of a venomous animal warning the whole world" (pg. 50). This is rather self-explanatory, but it's still worth noting that Magnus sees the outfit as something bizzare, strange, and even perhaps comical. This places Alex at odds with the other people Magnus has met. It also reveals that Magnus has zero fashion sense. But we already knew that.

After finishing up staring at the ensemble, Magnus finally gets around to actually looking Alex in the face. First Magnus says that he "forgot how to breathe" (pg. 50), which, yeah, relatable. This is justifed by saying that Alex has the same face as Loki, but the very same sentence that asserts that that's the case also suggests an alternative reason: Alex has "the same unearthly beauty" as her father. Here we can see the beginnings of Magnus's attraction to Alex, though at this point, he still has a lot of internalized homophobia. Though there's certainly some truth in that Magnus was unnerved by Alex's resemblance to Loki, the idea that Magnus pointed out that Alex was pretty without elaborating on that thought until about a chapter later— after he was informed that Alex was presently a girl— can tell us a lot about how Magnus perceives sex and beauty.

Of course, Alex's eyes are given special attention. She has cool eyes; what can I say? But I'd like to focus in on how Magnus here depicts Alex's heterochromia as "completely unnerving" (pg. 50). Again, let's contrast this with how he describes them after getting to know Alex a little better in Ship of the Dead. In Chapter 3, Magnus describes "[Alex's] dark brown eye and his amber eye like mismatched moons cresting the horizon" (pg. 25). Once again, this shows the development of their relationship— but this time, it's in a much more personal way. Eyes are the windows to the soul; they are culturally important and biologically important in inter-personal connections. In you look into someone's eyes, you're giving them your full attention, and you're implying a kind of closeness. The way that Magnus describes Alex's eyes in the second passage is downright intimate. At this point, he is in love with Alex, and it is clear when contrasting the two descriptions.

As my last point, I'd like to discuss Alex's first words on page: "'Point that rifle somewhere else, or I will wrap it around your neck like a bow tie'" (pg. 51). First of all, Alex saying this with a "perfect white smile" (pg. 51) on his face implies that she is used to being threatened. She is not afraid of being shot; she counters the promise of an attack with a promise of her own. This pleads the question: why is Alex accustomed to violence? What events of her past or qualities of her life have brought her to this point? The threat itself reveals Alex's trauma from being genderfluid in a society with rigid gender norms, as well as her antagonistic relationship with her father. Magnus makes a comment that Alex "might actually know how to tie a bow tie, which was kind scary arcane knowledge" (pg. 51). Like Alex's wardrobe, the idea that she may have experience in high-class fashion also implies her former status as a rich kid.

I could go on. I could break apart Alex saying "'Pleased to meet you all, I guess'" (pg. 51). There is a wealth of information in this short page span that tells us things about Alex Fierro in the present moment, quietly demonstrates things about her past, and characterizes the narrator Magnus Chase. This passage is also effective in hindsight in marking the progress of Magnus and Alex's relationship.

But I'd like to take a step back and look at not the pieces, but the whole picture. Alex Fierro gets a full page of pure description— her outfit, her face— and about a chapter of introduction. This comes after several chapters of build-up. Alex Fierro is an important character you need to keep your eyes on. Alex Fierro is emotionally significant to the main character, Magnus Chase. Alex Fierro is one of the most developed and well-rounded characters that Rick Riordan has ever written— heck, she's one of the best characters in middle-grade books period. The extended emphasis on her and her alone tells us exactly what role she's going to play in this story: she's the star.

#she IS the moment #I'm sure I missed a few things too #alex fierro #mcga #magnus chase #magnus chase and the gods of asgard #fierrochase #magnus chase/alex fierro #mcatgoa

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seventhrounder · 3 years

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I went thru my folder with old hockey magazines I had saved from around 2011 to 2015 and came across this one and thought it could be a fun to make a post about now in hindsight.

This is Jääkiekko magazine from May 2012, they always have a section of "99 questions with ..." and in this issue they interviewed Teräväinen.

I’ve translated the questions I found interesting under the cut! It ended up being about half of the interview. (*) are my additions.

On the cover "seuraava superjokeri" means the next super joker, he played for Helsingin Jokerit so it's a word play from that. Under, on the blue print it says: "The 17-year-old forward will become a first round draft pick in the summer. The natural goal scorer can dominate in SM-Liiga as soon as next season."

In the 2nd photo the headline and lead paragraph goes:

"A post with dents* - A year ago Teuvo Teräväinen was known only within a small number of hockey insiders. Few passers-by recognize him now either but after a flashy rookie season the Jokerit sensation is on the radar of every NHL team and is a strong contender to become a first round draft pick. Next season with Jokerit the talented second line center will be one of the main talking points in the SM-Liiga."

(*references the net Teräväinen had in his backyard and into which he practiced his shooting)

3. You've been described as a magician, top scorer, wunderkind and a prodigy. What do you think of these descriptions?

TT: Heh, those are some descriptions yeah. What can I really say? Don't really wanna comment on them much.

4. How nervous are you about the Draft?

TT: I try not to be nervous as best as I can. In a way I don't have anything to be nervous about since I don't care which team picks me or at what number I go.

6. Which is stressing you more, English interviews or physical tests?

TT: Maybe both. Bench press (laughs) and English interviews can be tough.

12. How far along have you planned your career with, for example, your parents or your agent?

TT: Haven't really planned things with others but I've thought about them myself. I try to go step by step and not jump too far ahead.

14. How does it feel to be so young with all the star players in Jokerit?

TT: How to say it? I haven't felt like I was young but a part of the team instead. The team's been very good with me and they haven't been looking down at me like: "oh he's young". It's been fun to play in an experienced team.

15. Is there a generational gap between players?

TT: You can see the age difference, older players look older but we're all childish, at least with our topics.

17. What does a 17-year-old do in the sauna nights of the team?

TT: I actually haven't been in any yet. I've always been at national team's camps or something.

19. Did you get the number you wanted?

TT: I did, yeah. I could've taken #18 but Semir (Ben-Amor) has it. But i'm happy with #86, it's good.

23. What are your strengths as a player?

TT: Offensive play and with that playing with the puck, passing, IQ, power play and skill, just the usual skill - skill with hands.

24. And weaknesses?

TT: They are to do with defensive play, strength and physicality. Battles and such but I think I took a step forward last season. That's a good thing.

25. Have you ever been "pressed into a mold" or has your playing style gotten to develop naturally?

TT: As a kid the play was mostly offensive/attacking, I didn't have to think about playing defence. Up until 15 years old, I got to attack pretty freely. Playing defence became more important when I started to play in A-juniors a couple seasons ago.

26. On a scale from 1 to 10 how determined are you?

TT: Maybe 8, feels like an 8.

32. What kind of role are you planning to take with Jokerit next season?

TT: I think a pretty big one. I try to be a top player and not just take others' example but give others example myself too. So that someone in the team can take something out of the way I do things on the ice and off the ice.

35. If you could pick anyone, who would be your car driver?

TT: Nico Manelius for sure. He's been my driver this season. I've had others too, like Riku Hahl but he's not nearly at the same level. Nico’s clearly the best.

36. What are the most important qualifications to be a good driver?

TT: The car is obviously important. Hahl's car is totally awful, he takes a lot of heat for it from the guys too. I wouldn't dare driving with him. Manelius is a steady performer, never lets you down.

38. What sports did you play as a 10-year-old?

TT: Hockey and floorball, probably football (soccer) during the summers at the time too.

42. When did you decide to focus only on hockey?

TT: So when I stopped playing other sports? Three years ago, before that floorball was kind of a side thing, I played a couple of games in the regular season and playoffs.

45. Do you follow floorball or other sports? Go to games?

TT: I don't go to games but I like to watch floorball on TV, it's an interesting sport. Sometimes I watch football too but I don't follow it much. Feels like they never score there.

47. Have you ever played with a wooden stick?

TT: As a kid I did play with a wooden stick.

49. You won the hockey players' golf tournament last summer even though there were more experienced players too. Are you good with all stick games?

TT: Well, I've been pretty good in all of them. I've played golf for a long time and still play it.

50. How is your swing?

TT: Pretty bold, kind of a hockey swing. I don't really care where the ball goes - as long as it goes far.

52. What do you think of off-ice training?

TT: Let's just say it's more stupid than being on the ice but you still gotta do it to be better on the ice.

56. Which word describes your professional relationship (with his coach, Tomek Valtonen), tranquil or colorful?

TT: Colorful of course. At times we're joking around, other times it's more serious but the relationship is really good.

57. Coaching you has been described in many words: good, bad, worse. What are they?

TT: Heh, well... I won't tell them here. He (Tomek) keeps the discipline during practices but sometimes when things haven't gone to a plan I've had to jump on an exercise bike in the middle of a practice.

58. What have been the reasons?

TT: I'll quote Tomek: "when I haven't been present".

59. Have you ever tried to turn the resistance of the bike to zero?

TT: (Laughs) Of course I have and sometimes I've even succeeded.

60. Describe your diet in three words?

TT: Greasy, healthy and good!

64. Your first name is not common for people your age. How did your parents come up with it?

TT: I actually don't even know. Maybe they didn't want a usual Ville*....

(*very common name for men of all ages in Finland)

66. Which of these is the most important: skill, unexpectedness or courage?

TT: Skill!

68. Your longest video game stint?

TT: Six hours, at least. I've played a lot of War of Duty lately.

72. The dumbest thing that has made you upset in hockey?

TT: Probably if I didn't get an assist on a goal even though I should have. Or even worse is if I score and they mark it down for someone else.

79. Have you had any concussions?

TT: I haven't had any, I've managed to always dodge them.*

(*ouch, tho it's good the recent one is his only as far as i remember)

84. In 2011 Team Finland finished in the 5th place at the U-18 tournament. Why only as 5th?

TT: Because we lost to Team Russia in the quarter final, just as well we could have won that game too.

89. You didn't get to be on the ice to accept the SM-Liiga bronze medal (because of the U-18's). When and where did you get it?

TT: I actually still haven't received it, I don't know where it is.

93. What is the population of Helsinki?

TT: There's like 5 million people in Finland so maybe around 500k in Helsinki? (to be exact 596k) Did i really get it right...?

94. Who's the mayor of Helsinki?

TT: I don't know, I barely know the president.

95. Do you think the municipalities in the capital city area should merge?

TT: Luckily I don't have to decide but they probably shouldn't.

96. What do you check first in the news paper?

TT: The sports section.

97. Your favorite tv show?

TT: Putous* was pretty good, I liked a lot of the characters. The grandma was pretty good.

(*Finnish live improvisation comedy/sketch show (there are still new seasons, the latest just finished). Every actor comes up with a humor character with a catchy phrase and one of them wins. "The grandma" is Marja Tyrni and I just got such flashbacks from typing this sentence.)

98. Last book you read?

TT: I don't read many books. The last book was a study book, a Finnish book. I wrote an essay on Tiki (Esa) Tikkanen's biography. An eventful book, great career and a lot of chirps.

99. Who should we ask the 99 questions next?

TT: Riku Hahl could have good stories, he's also seen a lot of the world.

#teuvo teräväinen #teuvo teravainen #carolina hurricanes #canes #hockey #nhl #mp #i knew i had this mag but i thought it was from 2014 and post draft #i really didn't rmbr i've been following turbo for this many years???#good on 16yo me for spending 8 euros on this tho that was excellent thinking

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thanksjro · 3 years

Text

More Than Meets the Eye #30 - The Cybertronian Judicial System is a Friggin’ Joke

Have I mentioned that I’m not a huge fan of court case stories? I think they’re pretty boring, on average, so the last couple of issues have been slightly dragging for me.

Anyway, back to Megatron’s trial.   Our issue opens up with a full back shot of Ultra Magnus.

Artists take note, he really is built like a capital T.

As Magnus reads out Megatron’s statement retracting his “guilty” plea, we get some decent points as to why. See, telling a guy that you’ll stab him in the brain, so his trial can be over as quickly as possible, maybe isn’t such a hot idea. Megatron wasn’t a huge fan of that, or of how those memories they would’ve yanked outta him would have been used to fuel the Autobot propaganda machine. Why, you may ask?

Well, I don’t know if you knew this or not, but Megatron… doesn’t particularly care for the Autobots, nor the rhetoric they uphold.

I know, I was surprised too!

There’s also the fact that Optimus Prime is the judge on this whole thing. You know. Optimus Prime. Off and on leader of the Autobots, whenever it suits him. The guy who fucked off into space for a year after the war. The guy who threw a hissy fit when someone pointed out that he was compromised the last time they did something like this with Megatron. This guy:

Yeah, there might be a slight conflict of interests here. Remind me again why this had to be a military trial?

Anyway, enough of that, it’s time for a fight scene.

A swarm of Decepticons storm the arena, going after Megatron so they can help him escape. Magnus, though acting as Megatron’s defense, cannot abide by this disorder in the court.

Wild to think there’s a tiny little Pringles man with anxiety in there, isn’t it?

Optimus joins the fray, because there really are, just, so many guys to deal with here. A dude goes to collect Megatron, stating that they brought teleport packs for this little shindig. Megatron isn’t super jazzed about that though, not bothering to grab on before the dude gets shot to death. There’s a brief recess, I guess so the janitorial staff can deal with the mess of corpses littering the courtroom.

Meanwhile, in the present day, Rung’s building a model spaceship in Swerve’s, which is a very brave thing to be doing, seeing how sticky and gross bars can be. Brainstorm’s brought a flask to the bar, and proceeds to pour the contents into a funnel sticking out of his arm.

Our bartender for the evening- I’m assuming it’s evening, but I doubt the concept of time has any real weight in space- is Bluestreak. Bluestreak was stationed on Earth for a while, which is some Phase One stuff, and took a liking to human media while he was there. He’s the guy who handles movie night these days, seeing as Rewind’s too busy being dead to do it, and I doubt Chromedome has the emotional bandwidth to take over for his late spouse.

Bluestreak’s favorite movie is Zulu, a film glorifying the colonialism of the English over the native populace of an African kingdom. Make of that what you will.

Whirl wants to watch À Bout de Soufflé, or Breathless, as it was translated for the English-speaking world, which is a French New Wave film about a criminal who shoots a cop, hides from the police in a journalist’s home, who he seduces and likely impregnates. She eventually finds out what he did, reports him to the police, but then has a change of heart and lets him know what she’s done. He runs, but is shot, and dies in the street. The film is notable for its final scene, in which the following dialogue happens, between the dying criminal Michael, his lover Patricia, and an officer.

Of course, any poignancy would almost certainly be lost on the average comic book reader, and is also somewhat nullified by Whirl praising the film with internet lingo.

Then again, I suppose Whirl would be the type to dismantle any deeper reading of his interest in such a film, lest he be subjected to the horrifying ordeal of being known.

Over with Skids and Riptide, it’s revealed that Megatron’s been teaching classes on the Lost Light, specifically on the Knights of Cybertron. Riptide’s getting an education, because he’s been feeling pretty lost since the war ended- we’ll get to the potential whys of that later on. Swerve isn’t a fan of this community college thing that’s going on, stating that Megatron’s using it as a distraction, so he can devise plots most foul.

Back in the past, Autobot high command is having a talk about what Megatron’s demanding, and man is it a doozy— turns out, since the trial’s happening on Luna 2, the trial proceedings are subject to the laws of the moon. One of these moon laws is the right to request being judged by the Knights of Cybertron. Now, this is a problem, seeing as the Knights of Cybertron have been AWOL for the last several million years, but the law is the law, and you can’t just go ignoring it when someone’s pointed it out.

Bro, your SIC just suggested y’all pull the trial so you could slap it on Cybertron, thus negating any need to pay attention to the Knight law. That’s such a gross miscarrying of justice, it’s genuinely baffling. You’ve got bigger issues going on than flouting. My god, Optimus, you were a cop—

Oh wait, that’s right. Carry on, then.

Back on the Lost Light, First Aid’s checking to make sure that the coffin Rodimus they revealed last issue is true and proper dead. Now, this may seem like a given, but you’ve got to remember that Brainstorm was mostly dead for over a year and a half, and nobody fucking noticed, so it’s probably for the best that they’re checking.

First Aid’s been pretty withdrawn since Ambulon died, so this autopsy is really good for him, since it got him out of his room. Pretty fucked up that it would take a dead body to get him out and about. Has Rung checked in on his poor son of a gun, or has he been spending the last six months getting his professional rocks off psychoanalyzing a genocidal warlord?

Our coffin Rodimus died from having parts of his brain removed, and potentially died screaming.

Yes, that is a Furmanism, thank you peanut gallery, moving on—

Ratchet hands the phone over to Ultra Magnus, saying that a call has to be made, and it can’t be by him, because the callee is mighty upset with Ratchet at the moment.

Oh, I guess he’s fine after all. This must be where the sci-fi bullshit really starts kicking in for the series.

Because seeing your own dead body is likely very traumatic and awful, Rodimus is taking a while to string together his thoughts on the matter. Megatron doesn’t particularly care, because he’s not terribly sympathetic to this sort of thing, and the two get into a spat, where it’s revealed that they’re co-captaining the Lost Light.

Because things weren’t chaotic enough on this fucking ship. Need to mix in some peacocking between the McDonalds twunk and the man who killed half of Beijing.

Back in the past, Optimus Prime visited Megatron in prison to have a little chat. It’s not about that little rescue attempt, though the fact that those Decepticons may have been released from the Lost Light’s brig is certainly interesting. No, Optimus is here to sit way too close to his mortal nemesis on the floor of his room and talk about how Megatron is a sneaky bastard.

You remember the Hellraiser puzzle box from a couple issues back? Yeah, that was a communicube, one that was passed to Optimus to suggest that the trial be held on the moon, so the arena there would be able to hold all the people wronged by Megatron. This seems pretty damn convenient in hindsight, but Megatron swears that the legal loophole wasn’t his only intent when he sent the cube.

Because it’s all about you, isn’t it, Megatron? It’s all about how you’re perceived by future generations. Fuck the guys who had to actually deal with what your personal choices caused to happen.

Megatron wants to make amends with all those who were wronged by him. This doesn’t include being acquitted of his crimes, which, y’know, good- at least he’s being slightly realistic about how this is going to turn out for him.

What he wants to do is find Cyberutopia, so the Cybertronians have a replacement planet, since Cybertron kind of sucks now.

Oh, sorry, did I say realistic? I take it back.

In the present, Rodimus is still bummed out about being dead. Still, the day doesn’t stop just because it’s a bad one, and he calls in the experts.

CHROMEDOME YOU PROMISED TO STOP THIS SHIT

Yeah, no, Chromedome’s fallen off the wagon again, and does his thing on the coffin Rodimus. As he does, Megatron suddenly gets squeamish, Brainstorm pulls out his early early-warning device to lean on the fourth wall, and it’s revealed that the coffin that coffin Rodimus was in was built in the fashion of the Spectralist faith.

All Chromedome can suss out of coffin Rodimus’ memories is the really big important stuff, which includes the speech at Rivet’s Field inviting folks to come join the Knight Quest. Aww, that’s sweet.

With the analysis of the innermost energon complete, the results are in— the coffin Rodimus is a Rodimus. A real one, from the near future. Bummer.

I suppose denial is one of the seven stages of grief, isn’t it?

As everyone argues over whether or not Rodimus is going to die, Nightbeat brings up a good point— there aren’t any numbers carved into the coffin Rodimus’ hand. Rodimus is about to reveal some Ratchet-original wisdom, when things start getting really weird; whole sections of the Lost Light are disappearing.

Over at Swerve’s, Tailgate is regaling his peers with the story of his derring-do against Chief Justice Tyrest. Everyone is very impressed, and this includes our good buddy Getaway.

Jeez, think you’ve got enough antagonist shadows on this guy? It’s almost as if the art’s trying to tell us something about him.

Getaway lays it on real thick, saying that Tailgate could totally be the next Prime, with how courageous and awesome he is, all while completely ignoring Tailgate’s personal space and having a weirdly tiny hand. This seems to seriously bother Cyclonus, who is watching this shit go down from the doorway. Our purple space jet leaves once the drinks start being poured and conversation starts happening. God knows he hates talking about his insecurities.

Then the Pipes is Friggin’ Dead alarm goes off. But Pipes has been dead for a while now, so that must mean something else awful is happening.

Back during the trial, I guess because Optimus has a soft spot for Megatron, he allows him to join the Lost Light’s Knight Quest… even as he says that he could keep the guy locked up until Rodimus and pals find the Knights. However, there are rules to this, and one of the rules is that Megatron must publicly denounce the Decepticon cause.

It is a slow and painful experience for everyone involved, as he reads the statement he was given. It’s an immediate call to action- or rather, inaction.

Geez, think they could’ve made it any more obvious that this was being ghostwritten? I can’t wait to see how long it takes for “Megatron was blackmailed into saying this by the Autobots” to be a plotpoint.

Outside the prison, Ratchet and Rodimus are taking in the brand new Rod Pod, which is genuinely ridiculous in how large it is. Rodimus admits to having taken Atomizer’s list, though he knows that trying to use it to keep those who voted him off would be a pretty shitty thing to do.

Also, no one’s told him about Megatron coming along on the trip. As captain.

Or you could, I dunno, lock him up from the start. Or, if you want to give him a chance to prove himself, slap him into a bottom-rung role, like bilge cleaner, or sewage mucker, or whatever the equivalent would be on a spaceship full of giant gay robots. We don’t have to give the guy any power to hold him to scrutiny— any minimum wage worker will tell you that scrutiny comes far harsher for those who actually carry out orders than those who give them.

But what do I know? I’ve never fought in a several million year war, and I don’t plan to.

Getting back to the list, it seems as if Ratchet and Rodimus are on the same wavelength, in that both agree it’s only going to cause trouble and hurt feelings to keep the thing around. Rodimus destroys it with his usual flare, only to be blindsided by the fact that it was fake this entire time. How does Ratchet know this?

Because his name wasn’t on it.

...Man, that’s gotta sting. No wonder Rodimus was upset enough to not take his calls.

In the present, everyone’s in a panic, as they all bolt for the shuttle bay and start pouring into shuttles. The Lost Light is disintegrating around them, which is sort of a problem. Despite this nightmare scenario happening, Rodimus and Megatron still find the time to be assholes to each other. That’s dedication right there.

As the two bicker, multiple shuttles zip away from the rapidly disappearing ship, including the Rod Pod.

Man, now it really is the Lost Light.

#transformers #jro #MTMTE #world shut your mouth #issue 30 #Hannzreads #text post #long post #overthinking about robots #incoming analysis #comic script writing

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everybodyscupoftea · 4 years

Text

pursuit of happiness

college rafe x reader

three times rafe is denied and one time he isn’t

this is literally just 3k words of smut

pls let me go back to writing fluff after this, i beg

(warnings: cursing, smut)

Moving in with Rafe, Topper, and Kelce was the best decision you ever made. You’d met Topper freshman year and the two of you continued to hang out after the class you had together ended. He had to endure all your complaints about your roommate and how expensive living alone the next year was going to be because you had no intention of signing another lease with her again.

Then, suddenly, he provided you with an out. The two of you were sitting in the library, sipping on coffee, taking a study break, when he interrupted your latest tirade with, “My buddies and I have an extra bedroom.”

“What?”

“One’s name is Rafe, his dad owns the house so we get to live there rent free. All we have to do is pay utilities. We’ve been looking for a fourth roommate to fill that bedroom, so if you have no issues living with three dudes, the room is yours.”

Which of course you had no fucking qualms about it, so you responded, “God yes, when can I move my stuff?”

He laughed and told you he’d talk to Rafe and Kelce about it and get back to you. Of course, you were slightly worried about living with two guys you’d never met before, but it was an opportunity you felt that you couldn’t pass up. Pushing the worries to the back of your mind, you moved in and that was that.

Kelce was very chill; his room was across from yours and the two of you shared a bathroom. He was your designated drinking buddy, both of you being huge fans of Claws, and there was an entire shelf in the fridge set aside for the two of your’s stock. Kelce also heard all your school breakdowns and swore to keep them to himself. Sometimes he’d even leave a drink outside your door and knock to let you know.

Rafe was very flirty from the jump, and you were adamant you wouldn’t make things messy in the house by hooking up with him. Then, after several months of friendship, he started showing interest in you that went past sex, and well, he was cute. You decided to give him a shot.

It was great. The two of you managed to keep things chill in the house, not letting fights get too out of hand. Plus the separate bedrooms for a degree of separation if necessary. Topper and Kelce’s one thing was that they never wanted to hear two of their closest friends have sex. That was maybe easier said than done because Rafe really liked sex.

Because of that, one finals season, your most intense one yet, led you into a predicament. To be fair, you didn’t really realize what was going on until he finally snapped.

One

Your stats class had been kicking your ass all semester. It was boring and complicated and your test grades had been dropping every test, the last being a 67. After doing the math with your professor, he told you it was still possible to get an A if you managed to get an 88 on the comprehensive final because it would replace your lowest test grade.

You had been ecstatic, but of course, that also meant you had to reteach yourself an entire semester of stats in two weeks for the final. The kitchen was your favorite stats homework place, there wasn’t the distraction of being in your room, you could play your music out loud unlike in the library or a coffee shop, and it was close to the snacks.

The guys mostly stayed out of your way, preoccupied with their own classes and spring training for football, so you got the run of the house. One afternoon, he got home from practice to see you sitting at the bar in the kitchen, chewing aimlessly at a highlighter while reading about z-scores.

Lately, both of you had been pretty busy, and the two of you hadn’t had sex in at least a week. Rafe really missed you, and watching you biting at the highlighter had him feeling some sort of way. He pushed his sweaty hair out of his face as you took it out of your mouth to highlight some important formulas.

Replacing the highlighter with your bottom lip, you started working on it instead. He gulped and quickly fixed a glass of water to drink while waiting for you to speak to him. You could feel him watching you, but there were two practice problems at the end of the section you wanted to try before taking a quick study break to greet him.

Pulling your notebook across the counter to start working them out, you let go of your lip and subconsciously poked your tongue out a little. Rafe knew it was your focus face, and normally it didn’t do anything to him, but he knew exactly what that mouth was capable of and he missed it.

With a sigh, you pushed the notebook away after checking the answers and set a ten-minute break timer on your phone. Finally smiling at Rafe, you held your arms out for him to come give you a hug. He squeezed you tight and pressed a kiss to your forehead, “How’s the studying going, babe?”

“It’s going. I’m about halfway through the semester material, so just gotta keep moving along. It is getting easier to understand and I’m getting the practice problems right more often than not, so that’s good I guess.”

Rafe brushed some hair out of your face, “Told you that you could do it.”

You smiled, “Yeah, should’ve just put some effort in the first time around. Hindsight.”

Without realizing, you’d started biting at your lip again, and before he could stop it, Rafe brought his hand up and tugged it until you let it go. Just as you were about to ask what that was about, his lips crashed onto yours.

Letting out a surprised noise, it took you a few seconds to process what was happening and start kissing back. His big hands gripped your hips and lifted you up onto the counter for a better angle as he deepened the kiss, tongue slipping into your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered as his hand traced your kneecap a few times, and you put both of your hands in his still damp hair, pulling him even closer. Rafe groaned as you wrapped your legs around his waist and crossed your ankles, keeping him close.

His mouth trailed down your neck, halfheartedly sucking as his hand stroked up and down your leg, getting closer to your core with each one. Your head fell back as he finally traced you over your underwear, and before he could apply any real pressure, your alarm went off, startling both of you.

Ripping away from his lips with a gasp, you placed a hand over your heart in attempt to steady it and dropped your legs from around his waist. Rafe put both of his hands on the counter next to you and dropped his head with a groan, “Please tell me we can keep going.”

You squeezed his shoulder sympathetically, “Afraid not, Cameron. Now go shower, you reek, and maybe after, we can order some dinner and watch TV if I can manage to get through the rest of this chapter.”

He gave a little mock salute with another dramatic sigh before disappearing into his and Topper’s shared bathroom.

Two:

One afternoon, you were sitting on the couch doing some reading for your ethics class when you decided, fuck it, the weather was so nice, it’d be a good tanning day. Rafe was out in the backyard doing a workout, so you’d have company, and you could still do the reading.

You quickly went and changed into your bikini and grabbed a towel and some sunscreen. Rafe looked up from his pushups to see you standing there and smiled at you, “What’s up, baby?”

“Gonna come tan while I read for this final and keep you company.”

He finished up and stood, “I’ll be sure to show off extra.”

You laughed, “I’ll barely be paying attention. Reading, remember?”

Rafe winked, “You say that now.”

With an eyeroll, you sat down and held out the sunscreen, “Get my back.”

He sauntered over as you opened your book back up and picked up where you’d left off. Rafe squatted down, moving your hair out of the way, and started slowly rubbing sunscreen all over your back and shoulders. You groaned at the mini massage and before he could walk away asked, “Babe, can you untie the strings in the back, I don’t want a weird tan line.”

Rafe paused, hesitating, before slowly pulling the strings until the fell to your sides. He cleared his throat, “That it?”

“Yeah, babe, thank you,” you responded, blowing him a kiss, before refocusing on your textbook.

Unbeknownst to you, Rafe was utterly distracted by you laying there. Your skin practically glowed in the sun and every time he dropped down to the ground during burpees, he got a gratuitous view of side boob. You shifted, your top twisting to where he felt he was dangerously close to seeing nipple and he gulped.

After about 10 minutes, you finished the chapter and decided to roll over for a little break. You tried to get everything back in place and flipped over, pulling the top strings over your head to stop that tan line and shielded your eyes to look at Rafe.

He was already staring at you, or your boobs, at least. You quickly double checked to make sure you weren’t giving all your neighbors’ backyards a show, and then looked at Rafe again when you were sure you weren’t.

“You gonna do some more squats or are you just going to stare at me.”

Rafe shook his head and strode over to you, squatting down next to you, “Can’t focus on proper form when you’re laying over here practically topless.”

You pouted, “Too bad, I was enjoying the show.”

He laughed and bent down over you to give you a kiss, surprised when you linked an arm around his neck to extend it longer than the peck he had planned. Switching from a squat to his knees, Rafe put more pressure into the kiss, and you tugged until he moved over you more, one leg going between yours.

You arched up so his thigh was pressed against you and started slowly grinding. Rafe growled and started slowly rubbing off on your leg. Pulling away from his lips with a gasp, you threw your head back and he picked one hand up to push your bikini top off. One of your hands slid into his hair, tugging in time with his hips.

Just as you were getting close, the back door slammed and you heard Kelce’s exasperated, “Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me?”

With a squeal, you grabbed the bikini top and covered your chest while Rafe dropped his head with a loud groan, “Dude, why?”

Kelce gave the two of you an incredulous look, “Maybe because you’re in public. The fence isn’t solid and we have kids living two houses down. Chill the fuck out, you horny bastards.”

Rafe sighed and pulled back, helping you adjust your top back, before asking, “Bedroom?” with a hopeful look on his face.

You shut your eyes, really wanting to, before shaking your head with a sigh of your own, “Can’t. I need to get through these few chapters.”

“Well I need you,” he responded with a pout.

You laughed and patted his shoulder, “Take a cold shower, buddy, maybe next time.”

Three:

It was Wednesday night which meant that it was Rafe’s night to sleep in your room. He’d been giving you some space to read over your study guides, but he was tired and wanted to spend extra time in your presence, so he went to your room fairly early and laid down in bed next to you.

What he wasn’t prepared for was for you to be propped up against the headboard wearing nothing but one of his football t-shirts, that had his name and number on the back, and a pair of panties. Your legs were sprawled way open, giving him a View when he walked in.

Rafe cursed lowly and shut the door, a little harder than necessary, causing you to look up at him in confusion. You asked, “Ready for bed already?”

He shrugged, “Wanted to spend some time with you, you’ve been so busy lately.”

You sighed, “I know, but tomorrow is my last final, so we can hang out after.”

“Hang out,” Rafe mimicked with air quotes before laying down next to you. He pressed his head into your thigh and you took the hint, starting to stroke his hair.

You went back to your reading, trying to focus because it was getting late and you wanted some good sleep before your last 8 a.m. final. After a few minutes of absentmindedly playing with his hair, you felt one of his hands pushing the hem of the shirt up your leg.

Looking over at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at your face, but at your leg as your panties came into view. Rafe reached out to touch the edge of them and you cleared your throat, swatting his hand away, “Cameron, let me finish this.”

Rafe grumbled, “No, you let me finish,” under his breath and you held in a laugh at his dramatic pout.

Going back to your reading, you ignored his pointed sighs and shifting around. When you reached the end of the study guide, you set it to the side and looked at the clock, seeing it was past 10. Rafe sat up eagerly and gently grabbed your arm, but you turned the lamp off and slid under the covers, “I have to sleep, Rafe. Early final tomorrow.”

He actually outright whined, “You’re wearing my shirt, and it’s hot, and I’m horny. Please, for the love of god, let me get off.”

“Tomorrow,” you promised, linking pinkies with him in the dark.

“Fine,” he grumbled, settling in next to you with one last huff.

+ One:

Rafe was gone to workouts when you got back from your test and you knew he wouldn’t be back for at least another 30 minutes, so you pulled your shorts off to wait for him, yet again wearing one of his football shirts.

You weren’t waiting for long after texting Rafe to come straight to your room when he got home. He burst through the door, still sweating a little and you wrinkled your nose, “Why do you never fucking shower in the locker room?” He opened his mouth to answer and you sighed, “You know what, never mind. Just come over here.”

Barely taking the time to close the door, Rafe came over, putting both of his hands on the bed and leaning down to kiss you. Dropping to his knees, Rafe started kissing down your neck and wasted no time in pushing the shirt up and tugging your panties to the side.

He stroked through your folds a few times before bending down and licking where his fingers just were. Nudging your clit with his nose, Rafe teased your entrance with his tongue and you grabbed onto his hair with a gasp.

Rafe dipped his tongue in briefly before going back to teasing you, throwing your legs over his shoulder when you tried to clamp your thighs around his head. He took his time, inserting one finger while holding you still with his other hand.

You leaned back, resting your weight on one hand behind you, the other still clinging to his hair. When he got to three fingers, he nudged your clit one more time with his nose before pulling away completely, and you cried out, trying to pull him back with your legs still around his shoulders.

“Patience, baby,” he told you, stripping completely and getting a condom. He sat on the bed and motioned for you to climb onto his lap. With shaky legs, you crawled over to where he was sitting up, against the headboard, and sank down onto him.

He exhaled shakily, hands going up to your shoulders to trace the letters of his name, and you took it as encouragement to lift up a little before sinking back down. With a groan, he leaned forward and started nipping at your neck, carelessly sucking a mark onto your collarbone.

One of his hands gripped your hip as you leaned forward so your chests were brushing and you sped up a little. Rafe groaned, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple and he pushed you back a little, stripping the shirt off fully before pulling you back to press your bare chest to his.

You were getting close, movements sloppier, and Rafe took initiative, trying to help you by thrusting his hips up in time with you. Dropping a hand, you started rubbing your clit, and Rafe snapped his hips one last time before coming, groaning loudly into the empty room.

With one last whine, you came, seconds after him, slumping forward into his chest while you tried to catch your breath. He rubbed your back gently as the two of you recovered and you smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his collarbone, “There, was that what you wanted?”

Rafe laughed, “Yes, thank you, sweetheart.”

Climbing off his lap, you motioned toward the door, “Good, now you can go shower because for real, you reek. Please use the showers in the locker room, I’m sure some of my tuition money funds those facilities.”

He stood up and held a hand out to you, “Share a shower?”

You stared at his hand for a few seconds, pretending to debate, and he huffed before reaching down to lift you off the bed. With a squeal, you told him, “Put me down, you can’t just manhandle me.”

Rafe laughed and carried you to the bathroom, “Come on, baby, you know you love showering with me.”

“Only because it’s good for the environment.”

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron smut #rafe outer banks #outer banks fic #outer banks smut #obx #college rafe

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letterstomilen · 3 years

Text

i discuss the classification of igneous petrology as you fall asleep during my lecture (PART 2) (ASMR)

Childe/Zhongli, Alternate Universe When Childe's younger sister tells him about the volunteer at the library, he does not make the connection between that and his new favorite ASMR YouTuber, Rex Lapis.

Childe’s unfortunate love life starts at the age of eight. He, of course, did not call it “love” when he’s eight. When he was eight, he plucked a couple of weeds and sunflowers from his neighbor’s garden before he went to the park and handed them over to a classmate he doesn’t remember the name of now.

Handed over is an understatement here, seeing that she fell over from him shoving the flowers towards her chest before declaring, “Please marry me!”

In hindsight, storming over with the delicacy of an elephant with two left feet was not the best idea. But as somebody who recently discovered that watermelons could not grow out of your stomach no matter what, he was not the brightest. (Lumine now would argue that this is still the case. Unfortunately.)

She, as all eight-year kids would when faced with a loud boy that shoved you to the ground, started bawling. It didn’t help that Childe wasn’t aware of the fact that some worm wriggled in with the weeds and sunflowers he uprooted, with said worm now wiggling on the glittery, cursive ‘i’ in ‘Magical’ on her t-shirt.

This promptly resulted in her mom heading over and a long talk over dinner that night on why you should not ask girls to just marry you at your age.

“So I can ask boys then, right?”

Pleased with the loophole he discovered at age eight, Childe toothily smiled at his mom, who sighed and shook your head.

“You can’t ask anybody to marry you when you’re eight. And please don’t throw flowers at them too.”

The stolen flowers resulted in him being on his neighbor’s blacklist for the next couple of years; this in itself was fine, seeing that Childe was always a bit of a troublemaker and it was bound to happen at some point. However, the crying girl left a big impression on him even as he got older.

It did help that the older he got, the more silver-tongued he became, but this resulted in short-term relationships and a famous incident that once got dubbed ‘Tartaglia’s Shakespearean Slipup.’ (It involved a drunk retelling of Macbeth, several dumb questions, and a shirt that could never get the stain washed off of it.)

So in short, Childe’s love life is, to put it bluntly, a travesty. It has been downhill ever since he was eight years old, and nearly two decades later, he’s sure that he finally hit rock bottom.

“Tonia,” he begins, wondering how his little sister could be so cute yet so cruel at the same time, “what did you not tell Zhongli?”

“Hmm… Oh, I didn’t tell him about your obsession with his channel!” And cue the self-satisfied smile before she took another sip of his coffee.

Oh lord, she learned it from him.

“Anything else?” he presses, wondering what kind of image he has of him now — definitely not a good one. No amount of smooth talking or knowledge about petrology could save him from his past mistakes. He’s sure that Zhongli would not take kindly to the plethora of times that his insobriety has made him infamous among certain groups of people.

And he’ll admit just to himself, he was wholly unprepared for this. He couldn’t even be lulled to sleep by his voice last night — which is unfortunate because the series where he discussed the inspiration behind Tao Yuanming’s work just came out and if there’s one thing Childe likes, it’s poetry — because he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that he knew who he was.

Except not as Childe. As Tartaglia, his younger sister clarified, ever so proud of herself that she taught somebody how to say his birth name correctly, never mind that it stumped even the most persistent of professors.

“Not really! He said he likes listening to me brag about my older brother! ‘Cause he’s an only child and everything. Actually… he mentioned that you’d like to hear your stories sometime. Sweet, right?”

“My stories,” Childe echoes slowly. “The ones I told you when you were a kid? The fairytale rip-offs?”

“Yup.”

“Including the one where the kids locked the evil queen up and used her Magic Mirror to cheat on their tests?”

Admittedly, he was a bit lazy with that one. But Tonia was just eight and Childe was half-awake, trying to remember the difference between Hudibrastic and hija. So, like any good literature major with a bone to pick with their academic advisor, he decided that he’d very subtly rehash Snow White and make it all about cheating. (On tests of course.)

“Yuup. They got in trouble, right?”

They didn’t, but his mom would have his head if he said otherwise, so he smiles at her, ruffles her hair, and says with the attitude of a picture-perfect older brother, “Of course. The evil queen immediately sent them to the dungeon. So don’t cheat, okay?”

She nods, rewarding her compliance with another sip of his coffee. The library is fairly close to their apartment, as all things in Liyue are. A tightly packed city by the sea where you were sure to know everything about your neighbor and their neighbor. Which meant that the tenants next door still remembered when Childe first moved in and spent a week high on ambien, only to invest his time in writing a paper about how Snowpiercer was the sequel to Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. (When they spoke for the first time, they asked politely if he could please turn down the volume, because it was difficult to sleep when your neighbor watched the two movies consecutively with the volume all the way up at three in the morning, don’t you think?)

(The paper ended up being legible to only the most dedicated of readers anyways.)

Deciding that they’re an appropriate distance from the entrance of the library now, Tonia stops walking and drags her brother towards the benches. “Now, before I take you to meet Zhongli, I just want to ask you one thing.”

He looks at her expectantly, wondering if she’s going to ask if he remembers what Lumine said. Don’t embarrass yourself, don’t act shady, and before you do something—think ITWTWW? (A.K.A Is This What Tsaritsa Would Want? A joke that arose after a particularly hellish class last year after the professor’s attention towards Childe was a source of debate—did she hate him? Did she think of him as her son? Did he—a suggestion brought forth by Aether—remind her of annoying neighbors that’d spend all night partying? To this day, he still doesn’t know.)

“What is it?”

“Did you bring your library card?”

“Huh?”

It turns out, Childe learns five minutes later with relief that his long-forgotten library card was collecting dust in his wallet, that Zhongli has a limit on books he can check out because he’s always forgetting them. And his overdue fees are quite an impressive sum—both for a library volunteer and anybody that’s frequented a library for the past decade.

But to the library’s great relief, he’s only checking out books nobody has ever checked out in the past so by default they belong to him now. (No harm no foul—unless you’re the occasional poor individual that has to research an incredibly specific and niche topic only to find out that the book is not in the library at the moment.)

Tonia sounds immensely proud of herself as she informs him of this while they wait for him to finish help somebody find a book. Help is an understatement, Childe realizes, as he watches Zhongli talk, smiling as he ensnares the visitor in an answer to a question where “yes” or “no” would have sufficed.

It’s ridiculously cute. Really. Tonia seems used to this sight as she drags Childe closer to the two. Zhongli must’ve realized that he slipped into a tangent because he apologizes and points to the nonfiction section before opening his book once more.

“Oh… I forgot.” Tonia purses her lips the same way Lumine does as she sighs, lowering the hand that she was enthusiastically waving moments earlier.

“Hm?”

“He won’t notice us. Ah, Zhongli,” she says melodramatically while they watch him flip through pages in a book, her tone every bit the longing princess in books they poured over when she was younger. “Why can’t you see us? Isn’t my wonderful big brother enough to catch your attention?”

He’s very flattered. Really. He knows that compliment was partially influenced by letting her have a lion’s share of his drink and Lumine’s sarcasm, but he takes it in stride, squeezing her cheeks. Tonia rolls her eyes in response, and heads over to Zhongli, chatting him up quicker than Childe can respond.

“And this is my older brother,” she introduces, gesturing her hand towards Childe, who smiles brightly, hoping he looks every bit the composed person he doesn’t feel like right now.

Zhongli is just as charming in person and it doesn’t help that just the realization he’s standing right here makes Childe’s pulse race, contributing to his increasingly forced smile that he reserves for uncomfortable situations. Oblivious to that, Zhongli smiles at him—one that is ingrained in his memory from days of watching it on loop —and says, “You must be Tartaglia, right? Tonia told me a lot about you.”

Oh fuck.

His first thought: of course she told him about him. He knew beforehand, the dread of being characterized through his sister’s dramatizations of Childe’s mistakes. It’s partially why he could only get up this morning through two cups of coffee and dunking his head in the freezer for several minutes.

But also his name—

Childe’s torn between asking why the hell his sister told him his real name or excusing himself to go read a dictionary to cool his nerves. Even though he’s well aware most of his family calls him Tartaglia still—mainly his parents when he’s in trouble (which, to be fair, is most of the time)—most people in Liyue call him Childe for two reasons.

One, Tartaglia is a mouthful and two, after many questions about how his name was pronounced only to get it butchered on several occasions, he’s stopped. (Scaramouche, Tsaritsa, and Signora are the only ones who call him that at this point, really; but he’s convinced Scaramouche does it just to vex him.)

“Yes,” he chokes out. “That’s me. Tartaglia.”

Childe decides that if Zhongli would just say his name and nothing else, he would die happy. Which is a mortifying thought but maybe a little bit of an upgrade from falling asleep to listening him talk about rocks. Isn’t it?

“You can call him Childe,” Tonia offers. “My brother doesn’t like it when people call him Tartgalia.”

His mouth forms an ‘o’ out of realization and sheepishly says, “My deepest apologies, Childe.”

“N-no—” Childe starts, his sister’s expression burning into the back of his head. “It sounds really nice when you say it. Call me Tartaglia—anything you’d like, really.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Tonia smiles mischievously, implying that she never forgot all along as she raises a finger to her chin in mock thought. “You watch his ASMR channel, don’t you?”

“You do?”

They both turn to Childe, who’s sure this is turning into an interrogation; their burning gazes, the expectant silence, and a question he’s reluctant to answer.

“Yeah. I’m a huge fan,” he confesses brightly. “My favorite series of yours is the petrology one. It felt really nostalgic.”

He never thought he’d remember high school clearly ever again, but the videos made his classes a little less lazy. And the heat of the sun on the back of his neck as he slept in class would follow, lulled to sleep by a lecture he couldn’t quite remember. But he recalled his friends’ amusement clearly when they asked how he managed to sleep nearly every class, only to get a cheeky smile as an answer.

“Is that so? May I interest you in some books then? There’s quite the collection here, although I’m not sure which would interest you the most then. Any preferences?”

Ohhh, his expectant look was so cute. But Tonia looks bored at the prospect, so he clears his throat instead.

“Actually, I came here to check out Legend of the Lone Sword so I could follow along with your newest video,” he finally says. “Could you show me where it is?”

“Hmm… We do have two copies but unfortunately both have been checked out. One has just been checked out by Xingqiu and the other… ah, it’s still at my house. We’re having difficulties with the video unfortunately because Venti said… now what did he say?” Zhongli asks himself, humming as he takes out his phone and reads out loud.

“’Find somebody that’s willing to record the video and help you set up b-c’… er, before Christ?”

“Because,” Childe clarifies.

“Thank you. ‘Because I can’t do it without laughing’,” he finishes before sighing. “Also several crying emojis followed by a wine emoji and a suggestion for me to find Diluc…? There are also several other texts that I would not be able to read out loud but that’s the gist of it. As soon as I manage to find somebody, I’ll be able to return the book so you can check it out. My apologies.”

Diluc? All Childe remembers about him is what Lumine once said about him.

‘I was convinced him and Kaeya hated each other until I found out they were siblings.” A pause. Then: ‘I’m still fairly sure they hate each other. They’re at each other’s throats a lot. Diluc more so.’

He had not considered him to be a rival in love. Granted — that’s limited information from several years ago but it’s not as if Childe knows that many people outside of his own department. But still.

Eager to save any chance of a love life, Childe says, “Why don’t I help you record?”

“That’s a great idea! Then my brother can read the book while he stays over. Right?” Tonia presses on, smiling far too brightly for his taste as Zhongli muses, considering the possibility.

“Are you sure that wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

Childe nearly stumbles at the sight of his relief. Really, his smile isn’t good for his heart—neither is the look he gives him, as if he hung over the moon that very moment. “None at all.”

“What a relief… I’ll tell Venti immediately that I can record the ‘ASMR: Boyfriend Reads to You’ video.”

—What?

Zhongli looks up from his phone after he texts his friend and tilts his head slightly in confusion, his earring brushing against his shoulder.

He looks adorably concerned and maybe a little bit aware that he’s responsible for Childe’s reaction. “Is there something wrong?”

“N-no. Nothing. That’s great. Good. I’m excited to be your boyfriend.”

Tonia lets out a little giggle and he’s sure that there’s somebody at the library silently praying for his downfall as he hurriedly corrects himself. “For the video, of course. Should I give you my number so we can set a date?”

Not deterred by Childe’s flustered expression, Zhongli nods as he hands him his phone. Maybe this is what he expected—that’d most likely be the case if most of his prior knowledge about Childe came from Tonia, who delights in both embarrassing and complimenting her brother like there’s no tomorrow. “Of course. Please give me your number.”

So with the shame of a college student that never managed to shake off his competitive streak from high school, Childe types his number in and promises himself that this won’t happen again.

(His younger sister lords it over him anyways on the way home, a skip in her step as she recalls it.)

Childe 2:34 i got his #

Twin 1 2:35 for the video recording*

Twin 1 2:35 u also embarrassed yourself. tonia told me all about it lol

Ugh. Of course she did. Childe peeks his head into his sister’s room, hearing her recount the library incident with a few more exaggerations poking fun at what he did than he’d like. Aether must be having the time of his life, which should make them equal considering that Childe made him think that Scaramouche was the best TA ever and would be even nicer if you made him an apple pie. (He hated apples.)

Well. They’re even now, aren’t they?

Childe 2:38 ya but he didn’t notice so its ok. BTW neither of u told me he was that airheaded

Twin 1 2:38 itd be funnier that way

Childe 2:39 oh yeah it was really cute

Twin 1 2:41 didn’t need to know that. anyways u do know how to work a camera right?

Childe 2:41 yea…? who do you think takes all of tonia’s pictures

Twin 1 2:42 no i mean like actual professional cameras used to record

Hm… That was a bit of an oversight on his part, wasn’t it? He texts a quick ‘yeah’ because it couldn’t be that bad and he’ll watch several videos on how to work a camera later, won’t he? There should be three buttons max. Easy.

Not to mention he took an elective on film and he’s watched Zhongli’s videos more times than he can count at this point. So really, there’s not much to worry about. The only problem is that he needs to build up immunity.

If he looks like a “blushing maiden”—Tonia’s words, not his—every time Zhongli looks at him, wouldn’t that be trouble? It’s bad enough that he embarrassed himself in front of his twelve-year-old sister but to look like a fool in front of the same guy his sleeping schedule depends on would be debilitating in more ways than one.

Deciding that he won’t let himself lose this time around, he sends a quick text to Zhongli saying ‘Saturday at 4:00 PM, right? See you there :)’ to psyche himself up before deciding a plan of action. There must be something that’ll impress him—no, completely sweep him off his feet.

More aware than ever that he’s fitting the image of a lovestruck idiot his sister painted him as, Childe watches his phone as it pings with a single ‘OK’ and ‘I am looking forward to working with you’ trying to convince himself that his erratic heart rate and the heat rushing to his face is just a side effect of working with somebody that he greatly admires. (It is, by all accounts, infatuation — but he’ll try to ignore that for now.)

#Genshin Impact #Childe/Zhongli #Childe & Tonia #Childe & Lumine #asmr fic p2 #asmr fic

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ombreblossom · 3 years

Text

speaking words unspoken

This is my gift for @bluejayblueskies for the 2021 @tma-valentines-exchange! I hope you like it!

AO3 link is located in the source :)

Summary: They're a week and some change into their stay at Daisy's safe house, and Martin is still having some trouble with the Lonely. Jon picks up on this and tries to make things better. And he does! In his way, but not before some miscommunication and exhaustion waylay his efforts (about 6.5K words)

The grocery store is awfully busy for a small town nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Residents of the village wander among a haphazard collection of shelves ranging from middling height to impossibly tall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason for where items are placed from aisle to aisle, forcing Martin to have to search around in order to find anything, increasing the number of people he inadvertently bumps into.

If Martin gave it any more than a cursory thought, he'd come to the conclusion that it's not entirely unexpected, the nearest Tesco many tens of kilometers away and only a smattering of towns in between.

Martin isn’t really in a position to have that cursory thought, though, as freshly escaped from the Lonely as he was. Nervous energy thrums along his skin, speeding his movements and making him quick to avert his eyes in the infrequent event someone meets them. Most people still easily pass their gaze over him, as if he were merely a wisp of tepid air lazily making its way across the store room—a left-over effect of his association with the One Alone. Martin doesn't mind so much the lack of attention paid to him, but he can't help but feel an uncomfortable pressure against his skin when other people are near.

He can't even be near Jon sometimes, not without the pressure overwhelming him, and doesn’t that just smart.

Martin resolved to brave the thick, after-work crowd for this, though, “this” being gathering the supplies needed for a relaxing night in Daisy’s safehouse following a rushed and terrified flight from London and everything that had happened with Peter and Eli-Jonah, Not!Sasha, and the hunters. They weren’t on holiday, Martin had to keep reminding himself. They weren’t on holiday, but he was probably the happiest he’s been in years, and he wants to celebrate that. With Jon.

With Jon. What a concept. He was elsewhere in the store, continuing an extended effort of picking up things they'd conceivably need for the long term. Just in case. Martin’s trying to not examine his shaky optimism too closely, but he is in love, and it's impossible to not consider his current position beside Jon as anything but a miracle.

Ah, there’s finally some room in the sweets aisle. Flanked on either side by various baking paraphernalia, Martin enters the aisle and heads straight for a small section of colorfully-wrapped bar chocolate. Not that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London likes sweet chocolate—goodness, no. Or sweets at all for that matter. At least not things he classified as “obnoxiously sweet,” an ambiguous term if Martin had ever heard one. Over time, Martin has come to understand it to mean barely sweet, like an echo of sweetness that had once been present and is no longer. He's never said as much, but Jon likes his sweets like he likes his tea: oversteeped to the point of bitterness with the barest hint of sugar and the slightest bit of added color from milk.

And Jon does this unbearably adorable thing where he breaks the bar up into smaller pieces, not even according to the pre-set perforations, mind you, and nibbles on the thing for hours at a time, either to savor the flavor (which Martin cannot possibly fathom) or because Jon is a lying liar who lies about liking bitterness to that degree, and this is the one thing he has managed to successfully lie to anybody about.

It’s probably the former, but Martin would be delighted to find out it’s the latter.

So, he gladly picks up a couple of ninety-percent dark chocolate bars for Jon and turns them over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the plain, if colorful, wrapping paper surrounding them. Martin does his best to dodge around other shoppers who've entered the aisle, picking up some granulated sugar, flour, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon for banana bread (his personal favorite). It stirs feelings in his chest that Jon had bought bananas several days ago with the (if not explicit, then quite obvious in hindsight) intent to let them over-ripen. Martin starts to head toward the cashier with the rest of his items when he feels a cool hand slip into his, interlacing their fingers together.

“Hey,” Jon begins, a soft warmth in his voice, “Did you get everything we needed?” Jon rubs his thumb in light, rhythmic circles onto his own, and it takes everything Martin has in him to not instinctively pull his hand out of Jon’s gentle hold. It feels nice—Jon feels nice—but it's very nearly too much right now. He hates this, hates constantly putting Jon in a position where he has to somehow intuit Martin’s feelings because not even Martin himself quite understands what exactly sets off the chain reaction of fear and pressure and too many people and the roaring—

There’s suddenly nothing but air around his hand, and Martin misses Jon’s solid presence acutely as much as he found it altogether too much. He doesn’t want to look over at Jon to see his placating smile, the one Martin imagined Jon wore as he all but dragged the both of them through King’s Cross station to barely make it on time for the soonest train to Inverness. That same smile that Martin watched Jon affect as he took on the bulk of the dusting and washing that needed to be done upon arrival at Daisy’s safe house. The same smile that Martin woke up to every morning, knowing that Jon had very likely spent several hours just sitting in their bed waiting for Martin to wake up to make sure he didn’t do so alone.

Martin looks anyway and isn’t surprised to see the smile in question.

If Martin had to describe it, he’d say it conveyed a sense of loss, of mourning, of wanting to protect what remained of a previous whole. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of the pieces of Martin that have been irreparably warped by the Lonely and an acknowledgement that Martin had already lost much to mundane loneliness long before Peter took advantage of his grief and recruited him in waylaying the Extinction.

He never wants to see that smile again, and so he looks away.

“Is there anything else we still need to get, Martin?” Jon rephrases and, after a long beat, continues, “Why don’t I finish up here and we can meet up in a few moments at the bookshop?” The bookshop that Martin knows that Jon knows is likely deserted at this time in the late afternoon, not too long before the elderly shopkeep, Fiona, closes her doors in anticipation of beginning her own nightly rituals. “I’m almost finished with the books we brought from London, and last time we were there—”

“Jon—” Martin sighs while Jon continues.

“—you mentioned Discworld, and it occurred to me that I have somehow managed to avoid reading any Pratchett, despite reading what I can only imagine was nearly every book left at all the second-hand bookshops in and around Bournemouth. Did you know—”

Jon keeps going with tidbits of what he knows of Terry Pratchett, which is an awful lot considering he just admitted to having not read anything by the man. Martin missed this, listening to Jon talk about anything and everything. He dare not interrupt him, even with everyone walking around them. He also refuses to throw Jon’s gift of distraction back at his face.

Color rises in Jon’s cheeks and his brows furrow when he presumably realizes he’s been talking for a while. “My point is I don’t mind finishing up here. Really, I don’t.” Jon’s trying to help. He’s trying to help, damn it, he repeats to himself. Lord knows that all Jon has ever done is try to help, in his way. Martin’s the one who can’t go five seconds without his fear around other people flaring out of control. Jon shouldn’t have to go it alone to preserve his comfort.

Martin takes some deep, steadying breaths. Jon waits patiently for him, his free hand fidgeting unobtrusively.

“No, I'm good," he asserts, threading his words with as much certainty he can manage, and decides then and there that it is so. "I have everything we need for dinner tonight here and a couple extra things, too." He waggles his eyebrows a little at this. "I assume that you're over here because you've finished getting the essentials."

Every time Jon laughs is an exercise in appreciating opposing extremes. His eyes close as if he can’t bear to look at the object of his amusement any longer, and the corners of those eyes crinkle in the prettiest way, taking the breath right out of Martin’s body when it happens. And he holds his hand in front of his mouth like his laughter is something to be smothered, never to see the light of day, the reasons for which Martin can't be certain, but he suspects he wouldn't like them. "Indeed. And a few extra indulgences," Jon teases, winking. Winking! Does Jon wink? Clearly he does, but this is new information, a treasure trove hidden among stormy seas. “I picked up some sausage; sausage always adds an extra depth of flavor to this sort of thing.”

Laughing lightly, Martin says, "Let's get going, then. We have an extremely full evening of relaxation ahead of us."

"Since when do you find cooking relaxing, Mr. Microwave Meals?"

"Since it's a safe activity that we can do together now that we're away from the Institute of Terror, Mr. Will Subsist on Granola Bars and Spite For Days at a Time If Left to His Own Devices."

Jon looks thoughtful suddenly. "Safe. Now there’s a concept," Jon says with no small amount of incredulity.

Martin pauses. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jon?” Martin goes cold at the thought that Jon might have seen something and not told him.

“What? Oh, no. It’s just…” He trails off, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. “This, being here—with you—is probably the safest I’ve felt in a long time. It-it almost doesn’t feel real. Like any little thing I do or neglect to do could potentially burst this bubble of happiness I’ve all of the sudden found myself in.”

It’s moments like these that Martin might actually be willing to believe that Jon is in his early 40s, the age he’d be now if the ridiculous lie he told about his age when they all started in the archives had been true. The pressing weights of repeated trauma, responsibility, and regret age his features considerably, and it hurts to look at. Martin wants so badly to smooth away the lines that seem to have taken up permanent residence between Jon’s brows however he can.

Martin ventures that he’s calm enough now to at least comfort Jon, if not enough to accept any for himself. He grabs the same hand that grasped his own minutes before and just. Holds it. Jon goes taught, like a newly-strung bow, words of reassurance waiting on Jon’s lips, that no, it’s okay, Martin, you don’t have to do this.

Well, too bad. Martin wants to do this, the Lonely’s lingering influence on him be damned. Martin draws Jon’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. Jon gasps quietly, eyes wide. His grey-streaked dark hair is slipping out of its loose braid, whether from Jon playing with it in idle moments or from the wind that is altogether too often present in the Highlands, Martin couldn’t say, but the image endears him to Martin all the same.

“Well, take it from someone who’s spent a lot of the last year feeling not-quite-real: this is real, Jon. We’re here and safe, at least for now,” Martin assures him, grinning. “Let’s go pay for this stuff, yeah? And let’s go home.” Jon, momentarily speechless, simply nods his assent.

They’re able to leave the store with their purchases eventually and decide to make their way to Fiona’s bookshop anyway, picking up a few volumes while they’re there: a collection of Robin Robertson’s poetry for Martin and a geographical history of the Scottish Highlands and Terry Pratchett’s Guards, Guards for Jon to chew through. And neither of them would dare leave without giving Maggie, the resident feline guardian, some well-earned scritches. “It takes an awful lot of energy to mind an entire bookshop, after all,” Jon says every time they visit, all the while accumulating what could only amount to an unhealthy amount of cat hair—so much so that Martin’s started to find it laying about in the safe house. Jon doesn’t seem to mind it and says it reminds him of living with The Admiral.

It’s a decent walk back to the safe house. They started late enough in the day that the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, so they end up leaving after giving Maggie far fewer scritches than any of them would have preferred. Jon rebuffs Martin’s offer to carry all of their purchases, stubbornly hanging onto their books and his share of the groceries. This is becoming a familiar game to them, one that tends to escalate to silly, frantic grabbing for the others’ bags and eventually devolves into giggles and light shoulder bumping. Today, Martin manages to relieve Jon of his groceries, opening up one of Jon’s hands for holding, which Martin promptly attempts to take.

Jon turns his head to him and gives him a look that practically asks in his stead, “Are you sure this is okay?” The likewise unsaid “I don’t want to hurt you” bounces back and forth between them, and Martin answers by interlacing their hands and giving Jon’s a squeeze in hopes that it will quell the worry that’s carved into the lines of Jon’s face.

It does, and the contented sigh Jon makes is one of the loveliest sounds he’s heard. They continue their trek home, the route long and winding.

Not too much later, though, Martin notices something...off about Jon. He notices in increments almost minute winces when Jon steps on the leg Prentiss' worms ravaged, more frequent bumps into him that had nothing to do with showing affection but allowing Martin to take some of his weight for a moment, and some far-away looks.

Martin doesn’t quite have the shape of it until they’re talking about something or other, something simple, easy, meaningless in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, and Jon stumbles. He tries to laugh it off, but there's something not quite right about Jon's laughter this time. The way he bounces his shoulders in suppressed mirth is subdued—sluggish, even. An increasingly concerning picture paints itself in Martin’s mind.

A long, hard look at Jon forces him to confront the deep, dark circles under his eyes set against skin uncomfortably grey, nearly all traces of flush gone from his face, a stark contrast to earlier in the day.

How had he missed this? Maybe he’s been more absent than he thought. He’ll have to keep a close eye on Jon throughout the evening, maybe shepard him to bed if he seems to get any worse.

Only a sliver of the sun remains visible above the horizon when they arrive at the safe house, casting a soft orange glow over the vast grassy spread of the Highlands. Martin pays the sight little mind, though, all of his focus intent on the man in front of him currently unlocking their front door, and he can’t not notice how long it takes for Jon to insert the key into the locking mechanism.

As they’re putting away their groceries, visions of Jon doing the very same thing by himself play in his mind’s eye. He’s only able to summon disconnected images of the first several days of their....could he call it an elopement? Their not-so-great escape from the Archives? He recalls Jon preparing meals for them, bundling up to leave the safe house for groceries, washing their clothes in a small, foot-powered washing machine and later hanging them up on a clothesline outside to dry. Martin also recalls Jon bringing him overly-steeped tea and an old crocheted blanket when all he could do was sit on Daisy’s ancient green corduroy sofa and stare into the void in front of him, the sounds of lapping waves Coming ever closer.

All the while wearing that damnable smile. Shame pools within Martin, shame that Jon had had to take up so much responsibility recently and that Martin can’t say how well Jon’s been sleeping or taking care of his own needs in the meantime. If today is anything to go on, Martin supposes the answer to both of those questions is likely “no.”

“Martin, could you turn on the lights? We’re losing daylight fast.” Jon has a balancing hand on the countertop and is putting their dry and canned food items. Martin does as he’s asked, bathing the entire kitchen and living area in warm light. Martin walks back toward the kitchen area and is greeted with a “thank you” and a kiss. He could get used to this, used to feeling loved and appreciated.

“Is something bothering you, Martin?”

He looks at Jon, concern writ large on his still ashen face and eyes boring into him. Concern has no place being there right now. If anyone has any right to be concerned at the moment, it’s Martin.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet since we got home, and after what happened at the store, it’s not surprising that you might still be feeling...off.”

Projection, much? Martin wants to say but has the wherewithal to hold it back. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Jon. I’m all right.”

Jon eyes him up and down, and after seemingly not finding what he’s looking for, nods once and smiles (again with the smile...) once more. “All right. You’ll tell me if something’s bothering you, though, won’t you?”

“Yeah, Jon, of course I will.” And he intends to mean it.

“Good,” Jon says and walks over to where Daisy keeps her cooking vessels, grabs her Dutch oven, and places it on the stovetop.

“Why don’t I be your line chef today, Jon, and you work the stovetop? You’re much better at the actual cooking part than I am.”

“Mmm. There’s a lot of prep work that goes into this and not a whole lot of actual cooking, so let me help you,” he says, shakily opening a couple drawers in search of a suitable chef’s knife.

“You sure? You’re looking a little peaky over there,” he replies without meaning to and curses his loose tongue.

Jon pauses midway through grabbing one of Daisy’s old wooden cutting boards and blinks slowly. “Oh…. Yes, I’m sure. What do you mean, looking ‘peaky’?”

“It’s just,” Martin starts, collecting the fennel seed, basil, rosemary, and the rest of the spices they needed for their meat sauce and a bowl to mix them in. Too late to not approach the subject now. “You’re exhausted, Jon. You spent most of our walk home either tripping over air or leaning on me for support.” He had wanted to be subtle, but subtlety is no longer on the cards.

Considering this for a moment, Jon’s eyebrows scrunch up in a way that Martin finds so endearing and opens a nearby cupboard to take out a couple onions and a bulb of garlic. “Sure, I’m a little tired,” he concedes, “but we have all evening to relax. I’d like nothing more than to cook with you, Martin.”

He should’ve known Jon was a sap. The signs were all there. “Well, how could I say ‘no’ to that?” He says and means it, though worry continues to percolate in the back of his mind.

“You can’t, and you know it.” Jon teases.

They go about preparing their meat sauce, Martin double- and triple-checking each measurement before pouring the appropriate amount of each spice into the mixing bowl and Jon dicing onions.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Chop onions without tearing up and cursing your hubris that ‘this time will be different’?”

Chuckling softly, Jon apparently thinks better of sliding his hand down his face before answering, pivoting to the most level deadpan Martin thinks he’s ever heard from him, “It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I spent years perfecting my abilities. Training with the best of the best to strengthen my tears ducts to such a degree that they are, quite literally, incapable of passing tears from my lacrimal glands to my eyes.”

Martin raises a dark eyebrow, amusement in his voice as he replies, “You should probably see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he draws out. “The real answer, of course, is my grandmother devoted a lot of her time to making sure I could at least cook according to a recipe along with providing some general rules of thumb. I chopped many an onion in search of culinary adequacy. Never progressed much past following recipes, though. Ask me to create something from scratch, and you’ll witness a horror the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“Just out of curiosity, which fear do you think takes credit for culinary disasters?”

“Probably depends on the nature of the disaster, honestly, but…. Hmm. Maybe Corruption? Or Flesh, maybe? Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not while we’re preparing to eat ourselves.”

While Martin is rummaging through the fridge in search of where Jon put the ground beef and sausage, he hears a hiss coming from Jon's direction.

Martin whips his head over to where Jon's been dicing onions and his heart clenches at the sight of deep red blossoming over the wooden cutting board.

"Jon! What happened? You're bleeding," He says, stating the obvious, feeling like his throat is closing up behind his words. "Where are you bleeding from?" Martin crosses the room in record time, places a hand in Jon's shoulder and surveys the area in front of him.

Blood leaks sluggishly from a cut on Jon's middle finger. A splatter of crimson on the knife Jon has been using clues Martin in to what happened. "Jon, just stay right there, okay? I'll go grab the first-aid kit. I’m sure there’s some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant in there. I’ll be right back!”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin’s already gone, heading for the cabinet under the bathroom sink, head abuzz with worry and heart hammering in his chest.

When Martin returns, Jon’s running his hand beneath the running tap and blood trails down into the sink in pink rivulets. Jon glances at him, the same exhaustion that stared back at him when Jon and the rest left for Great Yarmouth on his face, a combination of physical exhaustion and the culmination of several months of emotional upheaval, of bitterly contemplating his own humanity and his role in Elias’ inscrutable plans.

“There’s no need to worry about the first-aid kit, Martin. Didn’t you hear? I heal, ah, preternaturally fast these days. See?” Jon holds up his hand to Martin, and, much to Martin’s surprise, the seeping cut on Jon’s finger is completely gone, no trace even of a faint scar.

“I...I didn’t know, Jon,” he almost whispers. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since I—since I woke up. From the coma.”

Martin mouths an “oh” and considers what this means in the context of what knows about Jon’s actions while he’d been working for Peter. It’s almost sadder that Jon ventured into Ny Alesund knowing that he couldn’t be permanently harmed—or into the coffin, for that matter. Walking into extreme danger knowing that he’d likely bring pain on himself but he’d almost certainly live despite it—”self-destructive” was even more accurate than Martin had imagined at the time Daisy said it.

Martin heaves a tension-relieving breath and hopes it doesn’t sound like a sigh. Making Jon feel guilty about something he can’t exactly help isn’t something he wants to do tonight. Or ever. “Why don’t I go put this back, then, and let’s pick up where we left off. I’ll take over the solemn duty of chopping onions if you start preparing the beef and sausage.”

“Yeah, that might be for the best,” Jon concedes too easily.

The room is quiet after that. Not much sound ever permeates the safe house’s walls, trees and hills absorbing much of the ambient noises of the surrounding area before they even get to their cottage. And they’ve both gone silent, the only sounds filling the room the sharp thuds of a knife hitting wood and the squelching of ground meat.

By time Martin’s done dicing one onion to replace the one Jon bled on and an extra onion that the recipe didn’t call for because “onions are flavor vehicles, Martin,” or so Jon claims, Jon’s still mixing the beef and sausage together.

“H-hey, Jon, I think you’ve mixed those pretty thoroughly, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He stills, hands still submerged in the mixture.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks slowly, head and gaze drawing downward, like he no longer has the will or strength to work against gravity.

Martin reaches out a hand to shake him out of his stupor but thinks better of it. Has he somehow lost more color in his cheeks? “Jon, I think you should maybe go lay down or at least sit down.” Nothing. “I’d love to hear you talk about Discworld if you’re not ready to lay down yet.”

This seems to break him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “Oh. Ah, yes. Right. I understand. I’ll, um, just go.”

What is there to understand, Martin wonders as Jon turns back to the sink and runs water and soap along his hands, movements almost comically slow if not for how worrying they are and the frenetic energy that usually accompanies Jon completely missing.

Martin reaches out a supporting hand, intending to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “The bedroom’s awfully far away; let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll bring over some tea and blankets, yeah?”

With energy summoned from the aether, Jon leaps out of the way of his hand, throwing himself boldly against the lip of the countertop with a cry. “No. No. That’s all-that’s all right. I can get there by myself,” he says, chest heaving and the trembling Martin noticed more pronounced than even a moment ago.

“Jon, love, you’re not in any condition to be doing anything by yourself. In the most affectionate way possible, you look like you feel awful right now. Please let me help.” Martin’s unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Jon looks—Looks?—looks at him, eyes wide, almost bulging, fear and a host of other emotions dancing wildly in them. “No, n-no. You don’t have to…. Please, don’t. I didn’t want this.”

“Don’t what, Jon? What didn’t you want?”

“This. I didn’t want this.”

“Um. I don’t really understand, Jon, but let’s talk about it over on the sofa. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Martin takes a small step forward, palms of his hands facing forward in a gesture of openness and safety. This time when Jon leaps backward, he slips. Martin’s not close enough to grab onto him, and a split second later, the deafening crack of Jon’s head hitting the wood floor fills the room and clamps a vice around Martin’s heart.

Too shaken to yell his name, he bounds over to where Jon lies still and slides into a sitting position beside him. All Martin can see for a terrifying, desolate moment is Jon in that familiar adjustable hospital bed, crisp, undisturbed white sheets carefully arranged over top of him, attached to various monitors that have been silenced to not alert staff of his absent heartbeat and non-existent oxygenation levels.

“Jon. Jon. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Jon, do something—say something if you can. Please, don’t….” Should he move Jon at this point? Martin remembers from a rudimentary first-aid class he took when his mother’s worsening condition started to accelerate that you shouldn’t move people with suspected head or neck injuries without first stabilizing them, but they had nothing like that here. And there was still some question as to how far his healing ability really extended.

He has to be okay. Without giving the action any thought, Martin gently places a hand atop Jon’s chest to check for breathing. They’re shallow breaths, but his chest does rise and sink in a slow rhythm, and Martin lets out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

“Love?” He near whispers, as if Jon were merely asleep. “Come back to me.” He brushes away some of the fly-away hairs that have fallen onto his face. That is when Jon begins to stir.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin exclaims. For whatever mysterious reason, Jon is trying to wriggle away from him. “Don’t try to move yet. You hit your head pretty hard, and your healing isn’t immediate, Jon. Just stay put!” Jon wasn’t listening to him, still scrambling to move out of Martin’s reach.

That’s enough of that. Martin lays himself over Jon’s chest and holds him while he waits for him to calm down.

It takes some seconds, maybe a minute or two, but Jon does calm down eventually, becoming boneless in Martin’s arms.

“Hey,” Martin starts, “you with me, Jon?”

Jon lifts a hand slowly, making a so-so gesture.

“Okay. How’s your head?”

He winces. “Hurts.”

Martin hmms. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head.

“Okay. I’m moving us to the sofa, then. And don’t try to protest,” Martin warns.

Martin gets half-way to his feet, slips his arms until Jon’s legs and back, and proceeds to pick them both up off the floor. In the short time it takes to cross the room, Jon nuzzles his head into Martin’s chest. The frustration and concern and worry Martin’s feeling subsides somewhat in the face of overwhelming affection for this man, and he hugs him just a little bit closer.

“Stay here; I’ll be right back,” Martin says as he lays Jon down gingerly onto the sofa. He puts their dinner ingredients back into the fridge for the time being and puts some water on for chamomile tea. His thoughts drift as he waits for the water to come to a boil and some more as he waits for the tea to steep. He glances at Jon every so often, who has rolled over onto his side while Martin’s been gone.

“Hey, you,” Martin says as he sits in front of Jon at the edge of the sofa, the mug of chamomile making a soft thunk on the table.

“Why are you doing all this, Martin?” Jon murmurs into the worn fabric underneath him, and Martin can’t tell if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Jon.”

“Why are you staying so close to me, touching me? Taking care of me?”

“I would have thought the answers to those questions were pretty obvious,” Martin says mildly, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon’s silence says everything.

Martin exhales and then steels himself for a delicate conversation. “I love you, Jon. Have done for quite a while now. If there’s anything I can do to lessen your pain and discomfort, I want to do it.”

Jon clenches a fist and refuses to look at him. “I know that, Martin, in every way possible. But...” he stops, apparently to think. He sounds wrecked. Tabling this conversation for when Jon is feeling better might be a better idea, but it’s rare that Jon gets the gumption to speak openly about the things really bothering him, so Martin’s remains quiet. “Things haven’t been easy for you since…. Christ, for a long time, I think. Since Prentiss, at least. But since leaving the Lonely, you’ve been…. You go away for long periods of time, and it seems like you can’t handle people being around you, too.”

It occurs to Martin that they’ve never actually addressed any of this together, not their individual traumas, not their shared traumas, not this thing, these feelings, between them. They’ve been testing the waters, so to speak, bit by bit. Touches and soft barbs and sweet words pass between them unacknowledged but nevertheless heartfelt. But so much else has also remained unsaid in the interim, he now realizes.

“And I get it. No one escapes one of the fears without being marked, and you’ve been marked thoroughly by the Lonely, Martin. It’s...it makes perfect sense that these things are happening, that you feel overwhelmed when people are near.”

He stops again, and Martin gives him ample time to gather his thoughts. Martin is still running his hand through silky salt and pepper strands when Jon lifts his head and looks up at him. His complexion still carries that worrying gray tint and his eyes are and cheeks shine with moisture.

It’s the darker green spot on the sofa where Jon had had his face pressed that really does Martin in, that causes him to throw caution to the wind

“Move back a little, Jon. Just a little, okay?” He says, low and soft. Jon mutters a “yeah” and does as he’s told. “Thanks, love. Now, hold still.”

Daisy’s sofa is by no means a large sofa, and Martin is by no means a small man, but he’ll make this work. He lays himself down beside Jon and works his arms around him, tucking himself into any space he can against him, the lines of their bodies almost completely flush with one another. His back is close enough to the edge that Martin constantly feels like he’s about to fall, but it’s worth it to have Jon in his arms like this. “I’m listening, whenever you’re ready to continue.”

Jon buries himself in Martin’s chest before picking up where he left off, prompting Martin to cup the back of his head and pull him in closer.

“You’ve borne the brunt of maintaining our relationship for so long, Martin, and now it’s my turn. I can take care of you when you’re far away, when you can’t be around people. I can do the shopping, I can cook. I can do all these things.

“And I can stay away when it’s too much for you to be around me.” He clenches the fist caught between them even harder. “I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, Martin. That’s the last thing I want.”

Martin considers all this for...several moments, really, and comes to an ugly conclusion.

“Jon...is this why you didn’t let me touch you earlier?”

A muffled “yes” reaches Martin’s ears, and his heart just breaks.

“We really should have a long conversation about this in the near future—preferably when you’re feeling better—but I want to say a couple things right now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Martin. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Martin gives a little squeeze of gratitude and then continues, “For one, you’re right. There’s leftover stuff from the Lonely I’m dealing with right now, and sometimes it’s hard to be around anyone. And I hate it so much that ‘anyone’ sometimes includes you. From here on out, I’m going to try to tell you when I’m feeling this way, so you don’t have to try to guess. And if I’m reaching out to you, please trust me that I’m okay in that moment.”

“I do trust you, Martin. I trusted you to handle Peter. I trusted you to handle the Extinction. I’ll...do my best to trust you in this, too. I...I’m just deeply afraid of ruining this, ruining us.”

“Thank you. And I understand. I worry about that, too, but please also trust me when I say there’s not much that you could do that would ruin this.”

Nodding into Martin’s chest, Jon whispers, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. And second, I want you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to feel like you need to make up for anything.” Jon is tensing up, preparing to protest—he can feel it. “No, I mean it. Our relationship isn’t transactional. You don’t have to meet every comfort I offer you with one of your own just for the sake of reciprocation. That’s not how it works. You’ve done so much for me Jon, just by being you. That’s not even including the Lonely and everything that’s happened after, though I’m grateful for all that, too. You’re already here for me in every way that matters. You don’t need to do anything more.”

Martin places a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head, and they just lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, previous evening plans all but forgotten. Martin thinks Jon dozes a little bit, the stress of the evening finally taking consciousness away from him, but he’s proven wrong when Jon speaks up once more, muffled slightly by Martin’s jumper.

“For the record, I love you, too. In case that needed to be said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘need,’ necessarily, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like hearing it!”

“I see,” Jon croaks. The man needs to rest. “Well, I guess if you don’t need it, then I won’t bother saying it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He laughs and feels the smile on his face widen.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Good. Now, drink your tea.”

Martin pushes himself away from Jon to give him some room to sit up and to get a good look at this face. His face isn’t covered in tears anymore (now probably absorbed by the fibers in his knitted jumper), but he looks positively exhausted, eyes lidded and face otherwise lax in an easy smile, not at all like the one he wears with the intent to soothe. Martin places the still warm cup of chamomile in Jon’s hand.

“Still feeling up for a little dinner?” He asks.

Jon hmms and replies, “Yeah, I could eat a little. Just give me a few minutes to—”

“Absolutely not, Jon. I’m going to make dinner while you take a nap here. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. A nap sounds wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll wake you up when everything’s finished.”

Martin starts to dislodge himself from Jon when Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Love you. And good luck.” Jon gives him possibly the most self-satisfied wink he’s seen before taking a sip of his tea.

It’s not terribly cold in the safe house with a fire going, but Martin lays Daisy’s crocheted blanket over Jon anyway, and starts taking everything back out for dinner.

It’s meat sauce—how hard could it be?

#tma valentines exchange #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #tma #scottish honeymoon #set between mag 159 and mag 160 #idk if there's a unifying scottish honeymoon tag on here #miscommunication #panic #hurt/comfort #sickfic (arguably)#ombre writes #ombre writes fic

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mvnvgedmischief · 3 years

Text

unremarkable days.

summary: sirius black is trying to be a good man, a good brother, a good person. Sirius has a steady job designing book covers for a publishing house, a flat he never leaves, and a traumatized brother who was just removed from the custody of his parents. All in all, it's wildly unremarkable.

chapter: 5/?

characters: sirius black, regulus black, wolfstar, background marauders

tags: tw: canon compliant abuse, child abuse, social services, abuse, eating disorders

read it on ao3 here

read the last chapter here

words: 4.2k

Sirius felt his mind whirring, as usual. God, it was so hard for him to be normal, to cope with the stress and the frustration and the exhaustion. He didn’t know how he was meant to. He remembered just a month ago, when Alice told him he should take a parental leave. Six weeks off he could have had if he wanted them. But he wanted to keep his trajectory undisputed. It was a mistake, in hindsight. He didn’t know then just how difficult his parents would make things. He didn’t know then what he knew now. He would have said “fuck it” to his trajectory if he would’ve been able to sleep. After all, it was the only thing he really wanted. It was the only thing, other than Regulus’s safety.

He knew that he couldn’t do anything about this Remus situation. It was too dangerous. If he did something, he didn’t want it coming out in court. If he didn’t, Remus would probably never approve a design again. At least, not from him. So he chose to do what anyone would in his position. He called Marlene and looped in Alice. The calendar invite specified the meeting would begin in twenty minutes. He had titled it “Team Touchbase: The Girls are Talking Shit Again” in hopes to lighten the mood. However, there was no way that it would work. Not with the conversation he was about to have.

He found himself breathing deeply. Trying to muster the courage to do this. They would be upset. He was sure of it. Especially when it was something this earnest, this niche and close to his chest. But Sirius didn’t have any other choice. Not as far as he could tell. So instead, he made plans for all of the inevitable ways they would try to convince him not to do this. But his mind was already made up. There was no going back now. Not when he was already this committed to the decision.

“I need to be dropped from this project.” He doesn’t even bother with pleasantries. “Alice, please take me off of this project.”

The scoff caught him off guard. In all the time he had spent working closely with Marlene, she had never scoffed at him. Then again, he’d never asked to be taken off either. “You’re gonna let one bad meeting get to you? It’s not that big of a deal, Sirius.” Marlene was looking at him expectantly. As though she expected him to realize that he was wrong and laugh about it.

“They’ll all be bad. I need to be dropped from the project.” He stated it like a fact. Maybe because to him, it was one. He just kept repeating it because if he said it enough times maybe they would just believe him and drop him from this book, and this chaos.

“What happened in your meeting earlier? I feel like I’m playing catch up.” It really wasn’t fair to Alice that she didn’t know. But Sirius didn't feel like explaining.

“Sirius wants to get dropped from the poetry book.”

“But—“ Alice paused. She looked like she was sussing something out. “But aren't those your favorite pet projects?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So what’s the problem? “ Marlene cut him off again, and Sirius was beginning to lose his will to do this. He knew he couldn’t just not show up to meetings, but it would show them he needed to be taken off this project.

“Alice, I have so many projects right now where the author doesn’t hate me. I don’t really have the time to be on a project where he does.” He wasn’t even acknowledging Marlene right now, because she clearly didn’t understand. why he wanted to be taken off. And that was okay, he didn’t mind, as long as he could get off this project.

Marlene and Alice were good people. They weren’t going to make him do this when he reminded them of how much he was doing, how much weight he was actually pulling. He was sure of it.

“Bullshit. He doesn’t hate you.”

Well that wasn’t what he anticipated.

Marlene wasn’t having this. She began to extrapolate on her point, and Sirius was only half listening. “He thinks you’re cool and intimidating, Sirius. He was trying not to feel small. It might not be your style to take that on, but he doesn’t hate you and you know it.” Marlene seemed really keen on keeping him on this project. Sirius wondered why for a moment, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn't know how hard she worked to put him on this account in the first place.

“Marlene, I don’t know how else to tell you this, but,” he could feel his tone rising. He was starting to get upset. “I don’t have the luxury of time right now to redo the last week of work by myself. Especially when he wants it by today. I don’t have the fucking time. All because he doesn’t like me. I don’t have the time. Take me off the fucking project.”

“I’m sorry what? What even happened in this meeting?” Sirius wished she had just been there. He wished she watched it happen, because the idea of going through all of the gory details all over again made his skin crawl.

“Her,” It was probably unfair to place that much emphasis on the word, as though it was Marlene’s fault, “client told me to start over, and when I asked him for any feedback, he essentially told me that if I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it that I should be out of a job.”

“You’re being dramatic, Sirius! He didn’t say that! He just said that–” She paused, and Sirius assumed it was because that was exactly what Remus had said. “that you were the artist, not him.”

“Marlene, we don’t let our junior designers take project lead most of the time. I know you really wanted him on this project, but one of the reasons that junior designers don’t lead projects is because a team of two designers on one project is less likely to get bullied. Start cc’ing me on all your emails, I’ll be overseeing this project. “ Alice was speaking with conviction and grace, something Sirius knew he lacked. He knew that lacking in that made him hard to root for, but he didn’t care.

“Can I clear out my schedule from these meetings? I really don’t want to even look at them anymore.” He wished he didn’t sound like a kicked puppy right now.

“No.” Alice affirmed, “You are not about to let a client bully you out of your job. Besides, I’m overseeing this project, and this relationship. If you’re not there, there is no relationship.” She really had an air about her that made her hard to question. Sirius wished he had that.

With that, the conversation was over. Neither Marlene nor Sirius look satisfied, but Alice has provided her mentee as good of a solution as he was probably going to get right now. And effectively Marlene got what she wanted. Sirius was still on the project.

“Both of you, take the day to cool off. I’ll be getting in touch with the client later today to make sure that our client relationship terms are actually being upheld. Something tells me he didn’t read them.”

Sirius nodded numbly. He felt emotionally tapped out. There was no way that this was going to work. How was he supposed to juggle all of this, on top of his already stressful life. So instead, he logged off, like Alice suggested. He was not going to be logging back on any time soon. He could practically guarantee that.

Sirius found his way to the couch, with its ever inviting comfort. All of the coziness of falling asleep, none of the bedroom associated trauma. That was definitely a bonus. Falling asleep on the couch always seemed far safer than falling asleep in his bed. There was less likelihood of nightmares, less anxiety, less flashbacks. It was a wonder Sirius ever made it to bed. Today, he didn’t. He sat on the sectional, curling himself into a small ball in the corner, and turned on something low intensity. He put on a documentary series about penguins, which felt like it would be soothing, and before he knew it, he was asleep.

He was lucky when he logged out of his email, it auto populated his Out of Office message. Or at least, usually he thought that. Today he would have rather died, then have that functionality turned on. Because he was sure it was what prompted Remus to wake him from his peaceful nap with a call.

Well, peaceful was a strong word. It definitely had its own fair share of thrashing, but Sirius would take thrashing and nightmares he couldn’t remember over this phone call. He dreads it until he slides the accept call button.

“Sirius Black.” He begins, because what is there to say. His voice sounded thick with exhaustion. He could hear it.

“We need to get that meeting on the calendar.” Didn’t Remus know he could just send a calendar invite? This remote thing wasn’t nearly as complicated as he made it out to be.

“I’m out of office Remus.” His tone was dripping with contempt. He didn’t want this. He wanted to sleep.

“You’re always out of office. You never answer when i call you, it’s fucking nutty how hard I have to work to get you on the phone.”

“It wouldn’t be if you could just check the google calendar or get your nose out of my business.” Sirius didn’t know he was feeling this spicy today. But apparently, he was enjoying controlled confrontation.

“i don’t think that’s—“

“Stop asking people why I’m not in office. It’s none of your business.” He wasn't pulling any punches right now. He was going to get this man off of his back. “It’s fucking weird. I don’t know you.”

“I was just–“ Remus wasn’t going to get a word in edgewise. Sirius wasn’t going to let him.

“And for that matter, it shouldn’t matter whether or not I’m remote. It seems to bother you so much, but you were the one who tried to put me on the project. You were the one who asked Marlene about it. I’ve been remote since before you got picked up, it’s not news to anyone else on the team. It’s weird that you’re so concerned with me.”

“You were the one who—“

“That was a big fucking mistake.” Sirius spit in response. Sure, he wanted to see Remus again when he had asked him on that date. But putting it all in perspective, he couldn’t do that. And he didn’t like that Remus was pressing everyone for the details of his personal life. He would rather cut this off here, not risk the court date and the details being aired out. Especially not since they could be used to take Regulus from him. He couldn’t risk it.

“What was the point of it then? Why’d you ask me and then pull this?” Remus’s voice sounded small. Like he was going to cry.

“I liked you until you started prying into my life. I don’t need more people running around trying to dig up information on me.” Sirius shouldn’t have said that. He felt it in his chest, but he couldn’t take it back now. He practically wants to scream, you could have just waited, I would have explained. But he could not do that, because it definitely wasn’t true.

“Oh.” That’s all Remus said, before he clicked the phone off and hung up.

Sirius didn’t have the time to think about that. He just didn’t. While six months ago he would have spiralled out of control thinking about what that short “oh” meant, but he couldn’t spend that time right now. Shit. What time even was it? He checked the time when his eyes began to focus again, and took a moment to try to collect himself. It was half past five, and he had no time because Regulus would be home from football in twenty minutes and Sirius needed to have dinner on the table. So he jumped off of the couch, and tore from the living room area into the kitchen. What was he even going to make? How would he even pull this together?

He was moving at a speed he wasn’t sure he even possessed these days. He was running through what he could make mentally, trying not to come up with anything that would wear on him too heavily or signal a lack of effort to Regulus. It was a fine line that he walked every night. When food was too terrifyingly bland, too ashen in his mouth, and too overwhelming to his mind, how did he settle on something comforting for his brother? And on top of that, he needed to be quick. He was running out of time. He grabbed a jar of pasta sauce that he had made earlier in the week, and a box of spaghetti, and hoped that this would be enough. It wasn’t good enough to stand up to the chefs in the Black family home, but then again, he didn’t think Regulus wanted that anyways.

When Regulus finally walked through the door, Sirius was almost done cooking. He had meatballs in a pan, the pasta was strained, and the sauce was warm. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe he would have done enough for them to just enjoy dinner, and have a normal night.

“Hey, Siri.” Regulus looked calm for the first time in a long time. Hopefully tonight would be a good night. Hopefully they could have a normal meal, laugh and smile and have a good time. It would be nice.

“Hey, Reg.” Sirius replies, putting together a bowl for his younger brother. He wanted so badly to just let things be normal. He puts one together for himself as well, and brings them over to the table. If he needed to do it, he would. He didn’t want to be anything other than a positive force in Regulus’s life. He didn’t want to cause problems for him. “How was school?”

Regulus looks up, god, when did his eyes start looking so sad. Where did the light he used to have in his eyes go? Had Sirius really missed so much of his life? “School was fine. Kind of long. They sent me to the social worker today. Grilled me on what it was like living with you.”

Sirius felt his eyes go wide. Sure, it wasn’t surprising that they did, but still, it terrified him.

“I told them everything was awful, obviously.” Regulus chuckled, and for a moment, Sirius’s heart dropped. However, in a moment, he was laughing right along with Regulus. Of course it was a joke. He hadn’t told them that, because he didn’t want to go back. Sirius was terrified of anyone taking Regulus, but Regulus seemed to be terrified of being taken away. At least today, he seemed to be. “I told them it’d be easier to get acclimated if someone stopped mum and dad from taking us to court all the time.” That statement was smaller, more fearful. It was as if Regulus was afraid he had done something wrong.

“Mate, I–” Sirius began, but Regulus stopped him, “Siri you can’t stop them. You don’t need to apologize to me.”

That sentence could have made him crumble. It probably would have, if they weren’t interrupted by a knock at the door. Sirius felt himself jump, and he watched Regulus do the same. God, Sirius wished they weren’t so fucking damaged. He wished that any noises that they didn’t know was coming didn’t startle them. He wished they hadn’t been conditioned to be afraid for so many years. But then the key is clicking into the lock, and Sirius is jumping up. He doesn’t want this right now. He can’t do this right now. He knows it’s Jamie as soon as the sound of the tumblers click into place. So he walked over to the door with speed and a mission. He would keep them out of his home if he could help it, because he couldn’t do this tonight. They needed a calm night at home, a night of peace and family time, and Regulus was shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

“Jamie, you can’t be here.” Sirius began, before he even opened the door.

“Mate, you didn’t come to the family dinner. We wanted to see you, so we came to you,” James laughed and when Sirius looked around, it was the team. Including Remus.

“No,” Sirius puts his foot behind the door, holding it closed with only his head poking out.

“But Sirius it’s been forever since anyone’s seen you,” Peter called from behind him.

“No, lads. Go home. It’s a school night.” Sirius wasn’t budging. In fact, he was pleading.

“You don’t have a kid.” Remus called, clearly looking bitter. Sirius wanted to scream that he didn’t know what he’s talking about, because he didn’t.

“Go home, guys. You can’t come in. It’s a school night.” He repeated. They couldn’t. He didn’t want Reg to be so uncomfortable, which he clearly was.

“Fine.” James looked irritated. Sirius understood why. He understood that he had forgotten the plans James made, but at the same time, he couldn’t juggle this right now. He didn’t have the time for all of this. He knew he had been MIA from his friend’s lives, but this wasn’t forever. It was just until he was done with all of these hearings. Just until his parents would stop. Just until Regulus felt more comfortable. Just until the chaos ended.

Sirius returned from the door, and sat down at the table again. He didn’t really care to talk about it, but his brother looked so guilty that he felt like he had to.

“They could’ve come in. I would’ve eaten in my room.” His eyes welled with tears, and he looked so deeply uncomfortable.

“Reg, this is your house. Not theirs.” Sirius responded with as much authority as he could muster, but he definitely didn’t want to scare him. He didn’t want to seem like his parents, he didn’t want to behave the way that they did ever. It was a fine line to walk, and he knew it would get harder when he needed to put his foot down, be a disciplinarian in any way. But for right now, that wasn’t a concern of his. Right now he was much more focused on making this a welcoming environment. It needed to be comfortable for him before they could handle anything else.

“It’s your house, you can have people over if you want.” Regulus’s voice sounded thick with concern, laced with guilt. Sirius was terrified that he was royally screwing this whole thing up. He wanted to be a good brother, a good guardian, a support system. “I don’t wanna cause problems.” There it was, the sentence before the crumble. Sirius could see it coming, because it was like looking into the past. Regulus reminded him of himself so much that it hurt sometimes.

“Reg, mate,” he started, and then he stood up (and pretended that he wasn’t seeing stars). “You aren’t causing problems,” in just a moment, he was beside his younger brother and his arm was wrapped around the teen’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re here. All I’ve ever wanted is to get you out of there. I just couldn’t before. The council wouldn’t let me.”

“But– but–” Reg was stuttering and spiralling, “If I wasn’t here they wouldn’t be taking us to court all the time, there wouldn’t be private investigators, you wouldn’t have to worry.” His words felt like burns on Sirus’s skin. It felt like a vice gripped his heart, and all he wanted to do was support his brother. All he wanted was for everything to finally be okay.

“Reg, look at me.” Sirius’s calloused hand gently pulled his brother’s shoulder to face him. “I want you here. I have wanted you here since I left. I missed having my kid brother around, alright?”

“Oh,” Reg responded, but he had already become despondent and detached. He wasn’t coming back from the stress and the emotional turmoil tonight. Sirius understood. He had been like that when he first left. Hell, he was still like that. He didn’t have the energy to do for himself what he had done for Regulus, by getting him the best treatment he could, and making sure to keep him together. He was trying to do for Regulus what Euphemia and Monty had done for him. He knew that he wasn’t measuring up to them, but he was trying. He knew that he had taken for granted what they had done, he was re-engaging in behaviors that weren’t healthy for him. Things they had worked so hard to pull him out of. But he was trying, and he didn’t have the time to take care of all of those old behaviors that had flared up. He didn’t have the energy to work on himself, when he had all of this going on.

Shortly thereafter, Regulus decided to go to bed. Sirius understood, it had been a lot of effort to go to school, and footie, and deal with the stress of Sirius’s friends showing up out of nowhere. And Sirius was thankful in a way, because he was about to rip into James for doing this again. He should know better. Within minutes, he was ringing James and seething. He can barely wait until the phone is done ringing to start going in on him.

“Jamie, you can’t fucking do that to me.” He began, “You can’t just bring people to my fucking house, especially not people who don’t know what is going on. I can’t have people over– they have a fucking PI looking into me, documenting everyone who’s here, when they’re here. I can’t have a bunch of people over on a fucking school night! They’re going to try to take him from me over the smallest fucking thing, let alone having several twenty somethings over in the middle of the week out of nowhere!” He was not even taking a moment to breathe, “How could you fucking do that to me? Why do you want to help them? I can’t even fucking leave my house without being fucking interrogated about it every two weeks in court! You can’t bring people here!” He reached up to push his curly black hair out of his eyes, and he realized that he was crying. He was really caught off guard by it.

James waited a moment, before responding. James was always much better about keeping his cool than Sirius had ever been, and if he was honest, Sirius appreciated it. He appreciated that James kept it together when he couldn’t. “Sirius, I didn’t know. I don’t want you to get him taken from you. I’m sorry.”

“Jamie they can’t do it– they can’t take him– I can’t let them–” Now it was Sirius’s turn to spiral. The anger had subsided, and all that was left was his fear. He was terrified that he was going to lose his brother again, and he couldn’t handle that.

“Siri– a judge would have to be mad to take him from you.” While that might have been true, it didn’t quell Sirius’s fears.

“They have so much money, Jamie. They have so much power. They can do whatever they want and get away with it. It doesn’t matter if it’s legal.” Sirius wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. He was so terrified, and there was nothing that anyone could do to make this less terrifying. It was almost terrifying just how much power the Black family actually held. Sirius wasn’t sure that he could do enough to stand up to them.

“I’m worried about you, Pads.” James let out a sigh, it seemed like this was a conversation he was dreading having. “You’re alone all the time. You never go anywhere. You’ve been lashing out at people— Pads, I can’t remember the last time it was this bad.” He sounded almost as terrified as Sirius felt.

“I see them more now than I have in years, Prongs. I can’t handle this.” His voice is breaking. He was trying so hard not to lose it, but it hadn’t worked and it probably wouldn’t anytime soon.

“You haven’t been seeing your counselor.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“You don’t know that.” He was right, Sirius hadn’t been seeing his counselor.

“Yeah I do. You’re online when you usually see her. Is it about the money? Me and Lil can help you out with money.” Sirius hadn’t expected to be called out like that. He didn’t have the energy to handle this conversation right now.

“I can’t do this right now.” Sirius responded, “I’ve gotta go.” He didn’t really, he just wanted to be alone. He just wanted to not talk about it anymore, pretend everything was fine, dissociate for hours. That was what he wanted. It was completely unremarkable.

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cutie1365 · 4 years

Text

Winchester Part 1/4

Pairing: Sherlock x Winchester!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Violence, language, blood

Request from imboredsueme, and I think their account is deactivated now :( I swear this request is from like over 3 years ago and I’m just the worst. I finally got some good inspiration for this story and I really like it so far. Not sure how many more parts there will be of this, it’s gonna be a mini series so we’ll see as I write the next few parts.

Any and all feedback is welcome and greatly appreciated :)

Masterlist in bio. Link to join taglist is at the bottom of my masterlist.

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Sherlock liked you from the moment he met you, and that didn’t happen often... maybe ever.

“Any witnesses?” Sherlock turned to Lestrade and asked as they approached the crime scene.

“Yeah one, one of my guys is talking to her now.” He lifted his finger in the direction of the woman down the road with her hands in her coat pockets. She almost looked... bored? She had just witnessed a murder, shouldn’t she look more... distraught? Emotional? He clearly didn’t know who he was dealing with.

Sherlock was accustomed to useless witnesses, none of them really noticed what’s important.

American. He noted her accent as they got closer, the officer talking to her nodded and left, flipping his notebook shut.

“We’ve just got a few more questions for you Ms. Winchester.” The Detective Inspector said, but Sherlock was too focused on her. No signs of shock, no crying, no emotions, much unlike any other female witnesses to gruesome murders he’d seen. Interesting.

“What did you see?” Sherlock asked, squinting his eyes to examine her.

“This guy,” you pointed to one of the white cloth covered bodies as you spoke, “shot this guy in the face, then blew his brains out. Seems pretty open and shut to me.” You shrugged.

“So it would seem...” Sherlock turned to Lestrade with an annoyed look as if to say why the hell was I brought in then?

“That is, unless you take into account the sniper from two buildings over.” You pointed over your shoulder.

“What?” Both Sherlock and Lestrade turned back to you, surprise evident in their voice.

“Sure, this guy was pointing a gun at him, but it was as if the shot came from behind him, it scared him. When the other guy dropped, he panicked and stuck the gun in his mouth... seems odd.” You spoke calmly.

“Why do you believe it’s a sniper?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.

“I’ll let you analyze the entrance wound and ballistics report, but I guarantee that that bullet didn’t come from this man’s gun.” You said, confidently.

Sherlock strutted over to the body, not wanting to believe you on your word alone. He pulled the sheet back and sure enough the entrance wound was higher on the forehead near the hairline, with the exit wound down near the base of his head where it meets his neck. A man standing a few feet in front of him wouldn’t be able to get that kind of angle. He silently moved towards the other body, and slipping a glove on his hand, picked up the gun lying on the ground. He opened the revolver, and to his surprise, only one bullet was missing. It would have taken two, one to shoot the man and one for himself. Lestrade watched him intently, waiting for him to speak. He looked up at you, he couldn’t read you... you were different, useful.

“She’s right.” Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade’s eyes went wide.

He moved to stand in front of you, he looked taller than on TV where you’d seen him in the news.

“Winchester, was it?” He asked.

“Y/N.” You smirked, placing your hand in front of you for him to shake, which he did.

“Come with me.” He said, beginning to walk down the street, and you followed him.

You followed him that day, and you’d do it again, everyday. You’d follow him into hell itself and do it with a smile.

He took you along on one case, and that was all it took. He liked having you around, you were insightful and helpful, not to mention unphased in the face of death. One case enough for him to realize you were going to be trouble. Good trouble or bad trouble, of that he wasn’t sure yet, but the thought of you always brought a smirk to his lips.

The more time Sherlock spent around you, the more it became clear: you had secrets. He liked that, he couldn’t read everything about you. He was quite sure he’d never met a woman like you before, and likely never would again. Someone who challenged him intellectually, made him laugh (a rare sight, admittedly), and made him feel alive.

They say your past has a way of coming back to bite you in the ass... and your past had fangs. Literally.

Sometimes all it takes is one second, one tiny moment to bring you back to where you were, to what you’d thought you left behind. You can’t go home, but maybe home can come to you.

You didn’t realize it until it was too late... but everything you’d come to hold dear was going to be tested and threatened like never before.

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It seemed like a simple case, a simple stabbing, it should have been cut and dry but something was bugging both of you about it. Something was off.

The murder weapon wasn’t recovered, and it wasn’t just a simple knife. Truthfully neither of you knew what the man was stabbed with, and it was going to drive you crazy.

You and Sherlock sat in his bedroom, well... based on the amount of time you spent in it, you could almost call it ‘your’ bedroom. Sherlock paced in front of you as you sat with your back against the headboard, the pictures of the crime scene spread on the bed before you.

“Arrow?” Sherlock suggested.

“Mm, too thin.” You glanced at the picture, shaking your head.

“Harpoon?” You tilted your head, eyes dancing across the pictures.

“Cut’s too clean for that.” He shook his head.

You’d been at this for hours now, naming every pointy, knife-like object you could think of to find the murder weapon. The wound was so odd. It was almost squared on the front entrance wound, but thin and a quarter of the diameter on the back where it had run him through.

“We need a fresh perspective on this.” You said, running your fingers through your hair, quickly pulling it up into a messy bun as you moved to get off the bed, “You go check out his girlfriend’s place again, and I’ll go check the bookshop he worked at, there’s gotta be something we’re missing.”

Sherlock tossed you your coat as he slipped his own on and you both made your way out of the flat, going in opposite directions.

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The bookstore was only a couple blocks away from Baker Street, so you were there in no time. You decided to look around the shop for a few minutes before approaching the manager. You flitted through the different sections of the store, the same shelves the recently departed victim would pass each day.

You stopped as your eyes caught something in the Science Fiction section - Supernatural by Carver Edlund. You picked it up with a smirk, of course they’d made it international, you shook your head.

“Can I help you find something?” The manager comes around the corner and asks you with a smile.

“Oh, no,” You smiled, placing the book back on the shelf, “I’m actually here to ask you a few questions about Ben Whitman.”

Her face turned into a sort of sad smile.

“Of course, how can I help?” She said somberly.

As you interviewed the manager your eye caught something outside the window. Her back is to the front door, as the manager goes on about Ben’s punctuality you see two large men move like they were going to come into the store. They caught you talking to the manager and suddenly diverted course around the side of the building.

“Has anyone ever come in looking for Ben, or asked about him?” You pulled your attention back to the manager.

“Not before you lot.” She smiled.

You thanked the manager for her time and helpful information, although she didn’t give you anything you didn’t already know. As you left the store, you turned down the same side alley you’d seen the men disappear in. You heard voices coming from all the way back behind the bookshop.

You peaked your head around the corner, seeing the two men standing, talking to each other. You knew something felt wrong about them, but weren’t sure what it was until you saw their eyes turn black.

Your breath caught in your throat, that was the last thing you expected to see today. You thought you had successfully stayed out of sight until your foot shifted on the gravel as you tried to take a step back.

Immediately, their eyes went back to normal as they whipped their heads in your direction.

“What are you looking at?” The shorter one asked aggressively, they both stepped toward you. You stepped away from the wall, there was no point hiding now, they knew you were there.

Suddenly, everything clicked, and you were overcome with a wave of confidence.

“I don’t think Crowley would be pleased to hear about a couple of demons going rogue. You killed the bookstore clerk with a stolen angel blade didn’t you.” You spoke bravely, although in hindsight, it might have been stupidity and not bravery that guided your actions.

“Who the hell are you?” The taller one asked, with venom in his voice.

“Oh Lucifer, you’re that little Winchester bitch aren’t you,” His mouth morphed into a sadistic smile as they realized, “You’re far from home.”

“No big brothers here to fight your battles.” The other pulled out an angel blade as they began to stalk towards you.

“Fuck.” You muttered, putting your fists up as they attacked you.

You fought back, but took a few hits. You were able to disarm the one with the blade. You were pretty sure you broke his arm when he came towards you. Unfortunately you hadn’t realized the blade had sliced your side as you took a hit to the face from the other demon. Running on pure adrenaline, your fist rammed into his face, blood coming from his nose. The demon with the broken arm muttered something you couldn’t hear to his partner, before they both left their vessels. Your ears were still ringing as you felt the blood begin to drip from your brow bone.

You knew you couldn’t make it all the way back to your flat like this to get cleaned up. You held your side to slow the bleeding. Baker Street was just around the corner. You could use the back streets to get to Sherlock’s flat and not scare too many bystanders on the street.

You knew Sherlock wouldn’t be in, he’d gone to investigate the girlfriends house with John and that was on the other side of London.

The adrenaline began to wear off as you hobbled up the stairs of 221B, thanking god Mrs. Hudson hadn’t greeted you at the door. You hurried into the bathroom and began pulling out the alcohol and suture kit from the cabinet.

You cleaned the wound on your brow quickly before slapping a butterfly bandage over it for the time being. As you looked at yourself in the mirror you saw the dried blood on your face; and the bruises were already littering your arms and abdomen when you slipped off your shirt.

You sat on the edge of the tub as you began to clean the laceration on your side. You started to stitch it up, holding some extra gauze in your mouth. You were so focused on what you were doing you didn’t hear the door opening.

“What the hell Y/N.” Sherlock’s voice made you jump and drop the gauze from your mouth.

“Um, o this. This is nothing.” You tried to smile, but he wasn’t having it.

“Y/N! This is not nothing. John!” He called out through the door into the flat.

John came around the corner and his eyes went wide as they landed on you. He quickly took the suture kit from you and helped to stitch up the remaining open laceration. You hissed slightly as he poured alcohol over it once more before covering the wound with sterile bandages.

The three of you sat in silence, Sherlock no doubt running a million scenarios in his mind, as you concentrated on not passing out. When John finished, you stood in front of the mirror, wiping the rest of the dried blood off of your face before slipping your shirt back on and turning towards the two men who hadn’t said a word.

“So I guess I have a little explaining to do.” You admitted.

“You think?” Sherlock retorted in a protective tone.

You sighed as you made your way into the living room, the two men in tow.

“You might want to sit down.” You motioned towards the couch, you know what you had to do. You’d kept your past a secret for as long as you could, but now it was time to come clean. Now it meant life or death.

Sherlock and John hesitantly sat before you on the couch as you stood in front of the coffee table.

“I solved the case.” You said after a moment, unsure of where to begin.

“You solved the case?” Sherlock asked slowly, in disbelief.

“I know who killed Ben and with what, but I don’t know why.” You admitted.

“Well who did it?” Sherlock asked, impatiently, still not believing you.

“Um so, the problem is we’re not going to be able to find them.” You danced around the real answer, knowing what their reaction would be.

“Why not?” John asked, with furrowed brows.

“Because they’re never going to look the same, one day to the next.” You tried to explain without sounding crazy, but you knew that wasn’t really an option anymore.

“Care to elaborate?” Sherlock raised a brow.

“They’ll be in different bodies.” You spoke quickly, knowing how it sounded.

“John did you check her for a head injury?” Sherlock turned to John and asked, completely ignoring what you were saying.

“Yeah you’re probably concussed.” John nodded.

“I’m not concussed,” You yelled, but thinking back to the beating you took today it was likely, “Ok, maybe I am but that doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth.”

“They’ll be in different bodies? That doesn’t make any sense Y/N.” Sherlock shook his head, not entertaining these fantasies.

“I know, I’m trying to word this in a way that doesn’t freak you out. The murder was done with a special kind of blade, it’s about this long with a wide almost square blade that comes to a point.” You moved your hands as you tried to describe the angel blade.

“That would match the autopsy report.” John nodded to Sherlock, as if to say maybe she’s not all that crazy.

“Ok, there’s no delicate way to put this,” you clapped your hands together, knowing there was no point delaying the inevitable anymore, “They were demons.”

Sherlock immediately laughed and stood up.

“Why don’t you go lay down Y/N, you’re obviously not feeling well.” Sherlock moved towards you with a patronizing tone.

“I’m not done. Sit down,” You ordered, seriously, “There were two demons, I saw them and they recognized me, so they’ll be back.”

“Why would these “demons” recognize you?” Sherlock asked with air quotes, clearly not taking you seriously.

“Because it’s like my family business. My brothers and I hunted things like this, but I got out of that life.” You shook your head, desperately trying to make them understand.

“And when you say ‘things’?” John asked slowly.

“Ghosts, demons, wendigos, shape shifters, vampires, werewolves.” You listed off quickly, shrugging.

“We might need to order an MRI.” Sherlock turned to John and spoke as if you weren’t there.

“Sherlock would you shut up for five minutes? I know you don’t believe me. And I know you won’t until you see it for yourself but I’m being serious here. Ok? Lives are at risk. There’s two rogue demons running around London and this can’t be the first murder they’ve committed. And now that they know I’m here, there’ll be more.” You spoke so seriously that Sherlock stayed quiet. He didn’t believe you, but he believed that you believed what you were saying was true. Did he still want you to be psychologically checked out? Yes. But for the time being he kept his mouth shut.

“So what do we do?” John asked.

“We call in the big guns.”

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Please let me know what you think! And since I’m still writing the next few parts let me know if there’s anything in particular you’d like to see happen :)

Taglist in reblog.

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thehippaes · 3 years

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The worst of Bangers - playlist

Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ZZ3PEFfGCqNIVWUVpFt9t?si=4842722153114449 Intro Unbearable narcissist that I am, I was thrilled to see that Isaac Asimov’s Foundation was being adapted into a big budget straight-to-the-internet TV series not because I honestly thought it would be any good, but because I hoped it might finally vindicate one of Bangers’ most (perhaps unfairly?) maligned songs if a few more people consumed the source material that it was an extremely concise precis of. As it happens I’m proper enjoying the series, faithless as the adaptation is - incorporating both emotions and women (two of my favourite things) neither of which were really even hinted at in the books. This train of thought, the fact that Small Pleasures turned 10 earlier this year, and my realisation that I find most of the Bangers back catalogue to weigh heavily on my creative soul as well intentioned but badly executed trash, led me to create a Spotify playlist called The worst of Bangers and write this accompanying blog to revisit some of the most forgotten, dismissed and/or reviled deep cuts. Before I start, these songs are included for a variety of metrics, often because they have a noted down-turn of listens on Spotify compared their album position. That’s not a great metric for a band who split up before Spotify achieved the godlike ubiquity that it now enjoys, but c’est la pomme de la terre. If you can hum any of these songs just by reading their names then you’re doing better than me 3 hours ago. Asimov When Bird was released, I remember several people telling me that this song shouldn’t have made the cut. I got the impression that some people thought it was a joke that didn’t sit that well on an album that was mostly dwelling on depression and suicide, and some others thought it was just a bit shit. Exactly nobody told me that they understood what I was getting at, so for the sake of posterity I’ll explain what it meant to me. Foundation – as I see it – is a musing on humankind’s repeated inability to learn one of the most universal lessons. The story begins with the fall of the Galactic Empire, and each subsequent generation confronts a crisis which requires rejecting the philosophy of the previous generation. Each time, the ruling forces adamantly refuse to realise this – rigidly adhering to the most recent philosophy - until one character tricks them into it and saves the day, thus ushering in a new age. I find the prescience of this to be one of the most depressing facts of human existence, and something I was wallowing in at the time, hence the song. Listening back I think the chorus is great, and Andrew’s weird bass slide in the middle is a joy. Vibrate This song is undeniably cool, but every time we played it people stared at us like we were stupid. I think it’s the emotional pay-off for Bird, after such a miserable time it’s just an acceptance that probably the healthiest thing to do is to accept defeat and plod on ignoring all the glitzy wiff-waff and intriguing mysticism in the world. This is the Bangers song I still sing to myself when I’m doing really practical DIY like building shelves. The truth that I’m more of a practical ox of a guy than an ethereal waif has been one of the healthiest realisations of my life. Stressful Festival The only thing that I ever heard said about this song was that it sounded ‘like Bangers’ on an album that largely didn’t. I think that’s bullshit, Bangers very rarely played this kind of classic on-the-beat punk vibe. Two interesting facts about this song: 1. I remember writing all the guitar riffs in Berlin after playing with De Cracks in the Ramones Museum and their Ramones-core translating much better to acoustic guitar than any of Banger’s music did. 2. While recording I puked in my mouth singing “sick to death of every one of you” and swallowed it again before coming in for the last chorus. If you listen really hard you can hear it coming up. A Quite Different Coastline In amongst the fairly weird Crazy Fucking Dreams album, this song performs especially badly with people who aren’t in Bangers. I think it rips, but Spotify figures confirm a proper dip compared to the rest of this album. I just don’t know what’s wrong with people sometimes! Bad Jokes Someone in Austria told me to my face that this song was too boring, and we pretty much stopped playing it after that. I think it has a janky song structure, and the nearest thing to a chorus it has (none of the songs on Crazy Fucking Dreams really have a chorus) isn’t that catchy, but I think the song is OK. I can confirm that nobody ever shouted for us to play it live. The Nick of Time OK, here’s a proper deep-cut. It’s the first B-side from the Blind Hindsight single, and I couldn’t remember anything about it before listening today. I remember we cut it from Crazy Fucking Dreams because it didn’t sit well with the other songs, but on reflection it really carried the core message that I was trying to get across in that album. Namely that history forgets just about everybody, so why should we feel obligated to be interested in anything that’s mainstream enough to be remembered. I suspect that the lyrics are not that relatable, but they’re a good diary entry for me to remember the first person I ever watched die. Log Jam Second B-side. I believe we only ever had two B-sides. We recorded this in our practise room in Exeter, and I seem to remember we tracked it back to front with the piano first and drums last. Maybe Hamish was at work until late or something. This is the song to drag out if anyone tries to tell you Bangers were just a gruff punk band who sounded like The Menzingers. I think there’s a weird time signature change, and that’s probably not because we were trying to be clever if you know what I mean. A man like Jack McCall This is named after the guy who shot Wild Bill in Deadwood. I loved that show, but at the time I knew I was much more a drunken cowardly shit-heel than any of the heroic (or at least stoic) characters. It was on the Good Livin’ EP which I find mostly unlistenable because of some very sketchy guitar playing. This was the weird plodder at the end which we probably played live a handful of times and then realised that nobody really wanted to hear it and it wasn’t that fun to play. Every night’s a date night On the subject on not being fun to play, this song was always a pain. Something about the timing at the start just baffled Hamish, so we ditched playing it as soon as we had enough songs. However in my mind this is one of THE archetypal Bangers songs, it’s got that lolloping, on-the-push rhythm, not a normal power chord in sight, and three quite distinct sections without anything approaching a chorus. Small Pleasures is definitely our most listened to album on Spotify, but where some of those songs really defined how Bangers were perceived, this never really landed. The Love Nest I straight up laughed out loud today when I saw we’d called a song The Love Nest. I couldn’t remember anything about it until I listened to it today for the first time in years. We played this a lot when we were relevant to the DIY scene in about 2011, and I think people used to sing along. It’s included here because I fully forgot it existed. There was a positive vibe (when no one was left alive) + Walking on the ground These two songs make up the Last Songs EP (single?) that we just about managed to release in time for our last ever show. I think we’d decided to split up by the time we recorded them, but I wouldn’t put money on it. I don’t know if we ever played Positive Vibe live, which is a shame because both songs are great. I think the album that these songs were meant to become would have nailed a good mix of dirty pop that we were aiming at in that moment. We probably would have messed it up though. Outro After I put this playlist together I went and listened to Challenger – Give people what they want in lethal doses as a pallet cleanser. I heartily recommend you do the same. Go and support Andrew and Kay’s new doughnut shop Future Doughnuts in Bristol, and visit Hamish in Cambridge. I’m doing fine. Roo

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