#it took me three days to write this

[disneyprincemuke]

5 times * mv1

there are five times max almost caught himself saying he loves you, and then there's the time that he finally let you know

pairings: max verstappen x horner's niece!reader

warnings: i... don't know?

notes: yes, i'm making a comeback because i've gotten back into the mood of writing (i'm single) and because f1 has got me screaming, crying and throwing up. also, this took me 3 days to write, and i have grown attached. lmk if you guys want the counterpart (basically the same concept, but it's from your eyes???)

one.

"fucking," max cuts himself off, grabbing the closest thing to him. lucky for him, and his team, it's just his racing gloves, "bitch!"

it's just so infuriating to be so close to that podium. he crashed with 5 laps left of the race. his left rear decided to fail him stupidly near the end, after he'd poured his heart and soul to get on that podium. but here he is, moping in his driver's room.

after constantly being in the scrutiny of the public, especially with the way he handled losing, he'd resided here immediately. there's a bubbling anger rising up from him. he's so infuriated.

until a soft knock lands on his door. snapping him out of his thoughts, he knew what he wanted this time. "please leave me alone."

"okay. but christian just wants to know if you're alright." your voice sounds small. he could barely hear you with the door in the way.

he takes a deep breath, then walks over to the door. it reveals you with a hesitant smile on your face.

but he's always had a soft spot for you. all of the anger he'd been feeling merely 5 seconds ago dissipated. "oh. you're not in my room at the circuit often."

"i know. i'm sorry to intrude." you look down at the ground, your often confident self absolutely nowhere to be seen. "christian sent me to check in on you. i'll leave you alone, but i can't go back without an answer."

for starters, you're not a stranger to the signature max verstappen temper. but never has he directed it at you once. it's surely raised the eyebrows of christian horner the first time it happened when you joined the team.

one second he was all over the garage, only rude words coming out of his mouth. the next, he was silently raging as he sat on the tire of his car while you discussed dinner plans with your uncle.

"please, don't worry about it." he takes a step back, gesturing for you to enter the room. you do just that, although a bit hesitant. and he doesn't blame you for that. "come in."

there's a moment of silence between you two. for a moment, the engines from the cars outside start to die down, and the frequency of the fireworks is slowing down, and there are more footsteps in the gravel that surround the trailer.

"i'm okay." he leans on the massage table in the middle of the room. he still hasn't changed out of his race suit. his helmet, balaclava and gloves are all thrown in different directions of the room. they had all been victims of his uncontrollable rage.

it's apparent that he's not even close to being okay. he just has to bank on the fact that you don't probe with more questions.

"it's okay if you're not," you answer in a gentle tone. a soft audible sigh passes your lips as you sit on the couch in the opposite side of the small room. "it's just you and me. i'm not part of your racing team."

his eyes do the speaking again. the heaving of his chest is enough to tell you that he's actually contemplating it. without another moment's hesitation, he starts to go at it. all of the emotions he's been feeling lately, the frustration from just being 5 laps shy of being on that podium.

he's just ranting, throwing his hands in the air while he paces all over the room. he makes a mental note to find a way to make it up to you after this - you're just sitting there patiently, nodding your head empathetically while he talks.

it’s as if you knew and understood all that he’s talking about.

"it's just unfair! i did everything right this time!" he exclaims, hands clenched up into a fist. "i should have been up there! i deserved to be on that podium!"

there's one more thing that bothers him. you. whatever he feels for you. the way his heart races whenever you're around, or the way he's always thinking of the way you fix his hair for marketing promotion material - he can't get you out of his mind. for years, now.

he'd met you when he was 18, fresh into red bull racing as christian's new prodigy. he had only seen you a total of 15 times within the span of 3 and a half years. the transition from crumbs of your presence to full-out spending the whole racing season with you was more than his heart could handle.

now that he's gotten to know you better, the 22-year-old is almost convinced that he might actually have feelings for you. "and-"

he looks up from the ground, flinching back slightly when you're staring directly into his eyes from across the room. your eyes dart down to his hands and it's only then he notices how his hands are clenched into fists next to him.

he almost slipped up about his feelings for you. good thing he caught himself at the last second. his chest heaves as he looks at you, shoulders tensed up and eyebrows furrowed.

you raise an eyebrow, slowly nodding. you make a gesture with your hand to encourage him to continue saying whatever is on his mind. "and?"

"and," i have feelings for you, "it's just so unfair."

he feels his body melt at your stare. his shoulders slump, his breathing starts to regulate and his hands slowly unravel from a fist. it's just so unfair that he's so hopelessly smitten with his principal's niece.

"i know." you push yourself off the couch and walk over to him. stopping just a few steps from him, he looks at you sigh. "i'm sorry that it happened to you, max."

then a small grin slowly stretches his lips. the race is over - there is absolutely nothing he can do to change the result. he shrugs, "it's just racing."

"you can still feel angry about it," you grin, "it's just me."

max shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "i know. it's okay; i'm okay."

you drop your head slightly. max knows you don't buy his lie. of course, he's still angry about what happened. but there is still some truth to what he said - he got unlucky today with the car.

you take a deep breath. he's caught completely by surprise when your arms spread out, taking a step forward and engulfing him in the warmest hug.

he catches a whiff of all your scents - your shampoo, your perfume, and creepily enough, the soap you use for your clothes. and he completely basks in your embrace, his arms wrapping themselves around your smaller frame. his neck rests on your shoulder, silently straining his back just to take you in.

"i know you're not," you whisper. you lean your head into his as you rub circles on his clothed back. "i'm here for you, okay?"

and he wants to say it to you. he gets an inkling, after you just spent the better part of 20 minutes letting him scream about his feelings, that this is bigger than himself.

"i," he trails off, arms tightening around you. he closes his eyes, repeatedly reminding himself that he's not willing to risk it. he releases the breath he's been holding. "thank you."

two.

max can barely keep himself upright in the seat. he's clutching onto his balaclava, eyes following the light shone into his eyes as per the doctor's request.

he had a bad crash with lewis during the race that sent him flying into the walls. he blacked out for a couple of seconds, and he's been in pain since they escorted him to the medical centre.

there's a soft knock on the door, before he hears the creak followed by footsteps. "i'll be back with results, okay?" the doctor straightens up before walking away from him. he acknowledges the presence of someone new, then proceeded to walk out of the room.

the relief max immediately felt when he sees you standing shyly by the door, hands clasped together.

"are you okay?" you ask softly, slowly making your way over to him. "i came as soon as i heard what happened to you. that was horrible, what happened to you."

he tilts his head at you, ignoring the strain in his neck and the pounding in his head. "as soon as you heard?"

you chuckle, glancing down at the floor in what could only be described as embarrassment. "i was in the bathroom taking a piss when geri ran in yelling for me," you admit.

your eyes roam his body, your eyes matching the empathetic stares of everyone he has looked at since he was helped out of that stupid car. he hates it. he hates being on the receiving end of those stares, but it was strangely comforting coming from you.

"are you alright? do you have any more injuries?" you ask. you look at him, hands hovering above his hand that rests on his knee. max gives you a small nod of consent.

"it's just a concussion, from what i can feel," max admits. though, it hurts everywhere. when you crash into a wall at that speed and black out, it's definitely going to hurt everywhere that it can.

he's watching you intently. you're lifting his sleeves to scan for bruises and moving about the neckline of his race suit to look for any injuries. there's a tingling sensation that you leave behind as your fingers graze over his now exposed skin.

"i'm okay."

"i don't buy that at all," you scoff. you reach over for the empty plastic chair and pull it to his side. you take a seat. "i'm glad you're okay. i was really worried something bad had happened."

he smiles. the way you care for him never fails to make his stomach churn and his heart start to race. "it could've been worse. i'm glad it's just a concussion i've got."

you turn your head to look at him. god, he wishes he can just take you in for an embrace and reassure you that he's perfectly fine. because he is. it's just some body aches - nothing he hasn't had to go through before as an athlete.

"i'm sorry about the race." you take his towel into your hands and fold it up. you gently tap on his face, wiping away the sweat that had formed on his face. "let me know if you need anything, okay? water, ice... food..."

"i will handle," he grins, his gaze following your hands' movements. "thank you, though."

you don't say anything. you just smile at him as you put the towel back down on his knee. you rest your hand just above the damp material and tilt your head at him. "how do you feel, though?"

"g-"

"about the points," you cut him off. "it's a close fight for the driver's championship. how do you feel about that?"

he shrugs, pouting his lips out. you widen your eyes at him as you anticipate the next thing coming from his mouth. "it's just racing. i'll come back next weekend."

you roll your eyes and lean back into the chair. both of your eyes are on the tv, watching the broadcast of the race together. "i believe in you. there's still a long season ahead of you."

he moves his eyes to look at you. not his head fully - he doesn't need you catching him stare at you. your unconditional support for him just made him want to jump for joy.

thought, sometimes he does wonder if you're only doing it because you work for the team. but other times you're just so believable that he thinks it's him as a person you're rooting for.

and god, he wants it to him so bad.

"it feels like forever - this pain," he admits. without thinking, his hand instinctively reaches forward. he puts his hand above yours. he squeezes your hand.

he sees you shake your head. you manoeuvre your hand. now your palms are touching. he could have sworn it was the concussion making him see and feel things when you intertwine your fingers.

if he were to be honest with you, he feels like this could the lowest point of the season for him. that rear failure earlier on felt minuscule compared to this crash. deep down inside, there's a fear that there's no coming back from this.

you squeeze his hand, slightly tighter than he had done to you just a few seconds prior. "i wish i could make it better. i'm sorry, max."

your voice wavers as you speak to him. and it kills him that you’re so worried for him. he does have a healthy support system, as much as the public wants to make it out that he’s too cold for that.

max wants to reassure you, just as you'd done with him. but he doesn't even know how to do that. your presence now, while he's still slightly out of it from the crash, is enough to put him at ease.

he sighs, squeezing your hand once more. it's at the tip of his tongue. if he could just convince himself to say it to you.

yet, he settles with, "you're the best."

three.

max leans back into the wall, arms folded over his chest. the strobing lights, the music bouncing off the walls, and a plethora of bodies surround him.

next to him, sebastian is deep in conversation with daniel. a conversation that he had tuned out of a few minutes ago. when he found you on the dance floor, terrorising alex and lily with your dance moves.

if you asked him, he would've told you that you're a natural at many things. dancing, unfortunately, is not one of them.

his silent pining comes to a halt when he meets lily's gaze from across the room. a knowing smile on the girl's face, he feels his cheeks heat up when she drags alex down to whisper something in his ear while pointing at max accusingly. alex turns his head in max's direction and his body shakes with a laugh.

great. they've caught on.

alex nods and raises his eyebrows at max teasingly. alex glances at you, shocked to find out that you've managed to shimmy your way 5 metres down the dance floor to now terrorise george and carmen.

max smiles to him, watching alex bend over backwards to get your attention. it's proven a challenge when you sandwich yourself between them.

when alex manages to finally get your attention, you just smile at him. you hand him the empty glass in your hand and grab carmen's hands. it's a wonderful sight - alex struggling to get your attention. but when he did, max swears his heart skips a beat.

because you lean into alex, listening to what he says into your ear. alex points in his direction and your face lights up when your eyes meets his.

you stride across the room and push yourself through the crowd. before he knew it, you're staring up at him with a toothy grin and wide eyes.

from the corner of his eyes, he notices sebastian and daniel have stopped their conversation. across the room, lily and carmen have flagged their boyfriends down. all eyes are on the two of you.

"what are you doing here all by yourself? you should be out on the dance floor celebrating!" you shout over the music, tiptoeing slightly to meet max's height. "you just won a race!"

"i'm good here, thanks!" max laughs, moreso at your state. your cheeks are puffed up and your lips are swollen. even your voice sounds damaged from all the screaming you've done. "enjoy your evening, please! don't worry about me!"

you shake your head in urgency. "no! you have to celebrate!"

he continues to look down at you, genuinely considering if he should let your persuasion tactics work on him tonight. who is he kidding; he can never say no to you.

"okay, but i'm driving us back to the hotel. so no drinks for me." before he could finish his sentence, you've managed to yank him off the wall. your hand has a firm grip around his wrist as you guide him through the crowd towards the bar counter.

"we'll get a cab!" you stop right at the bar and turn around to look at him. "you won the race today! aren't you excited? are you not at least a little bit prideful that you're leading the driver's championship again?"

max supposes you have a point. he should be excited. here he is in his 6th year in formula 1, being so close to clinching the world champion title for the first time in his life. it's just one night, right?

he can't possibly let you be more excited for his achievements than himself. that's just not right. did he not believe in himself?

he watches you prop yourself up on the bar stool, carefully telling the bartender your order. max's hands hover over your body, just in case you'd fall.

once again, you have managed to make his heart race by putting so much emphasis on his achievements. he's made his way onto the podium several times now that it seems almost mundane for him to end up there.

he wants the next big thing; he wants the world championship title. but why exactly is he waiting a whole few months just to celebrate again?

"come on, max! let loose a little. you don't have to wait for the season to be over to celebrate," you answer genuinely. for a moment there, max almost thinks you're sober. "if you don't want to celebrate your small wins, at least let me do it for you?"

he huffs. you're a lot more convincing when you pretend to be sober, after having downed a couple glasses of cocktails.

you tilt the unscrewed bottle of beer towards him, a freshly mixed glass of cocktail in your other. "congrats on winning the race today, max. i'm so proud of you."

max takes the bottle out of your hands. he willingly taps the neck of the bottle onto the rim of your glass. "cheers," he grins, watching you excitedly sipping away on your mojito.

if he could guess, you’re 6 glasses in. you’re definitely going to regret it in the morning.

you swiftly intertwine your fingers with his and start to pull him towards the dance floor. "let's go celebrate!"

you stop abruptly, your cocktail almost spilling all over your dress as he plants his feet into the ground. you squeeze his hand and look up at him shyly with your chests almost touching. even in the sea of people in the club, you managed to make it feel so intimate.

just you and him.

can he really excuse the words threatening to slip out of his mouth with half the bottle of beer in his system? can he just say it without you remembering it the next day?

but you beat him to saying something. "i'm so proud of you, max."

he smiles, letting a small breath out. he squeezes your hand. "thank you. you're the best."

four.

it's upsetting, really, not having you in the paddock all weekend. what you'd thought to be a simple itchy throat from all the sweets you've consumed had turned into a covid scare. you're isolated in the hotel, albeit having tested negative, already better.

the team couldn't risk getting either driver contracting a sickness. especially not max, a clear contender for the title this year.

max has not seen you since tuesday. the photos of him on the red bull racing social media platforms are just not as good when it's not you taking them. nobody else on the marketing team ever tells him his hair is a mess. neither do you - you always just reach in to fix his hair for him.

max huffs, adjusting his shirt as he stood in front of your hotel room. the small bouquet of flowers suffocate in the grip of his hands. a plastic hangs on his fingers.

the lock clicks. the door is slowly pulled open. there you are, in all your glory. your hair is up in a ponytail, you're in your pyjamas with juice in your hand. your eyes widen. "max! what are you doing here?"

with flowers in his hands, there's really only so many excuses he can make up. he tilts his head and his eyes narrow down. he's searching his brain for an excuse - something that doesn't scream the fact that he is hopelessly in love with you. "um..."

he stays in the hallway of the hotel, and you stay inside with your hand still on the door handle.

when he had gotten off the race track, alex had celebrated with him. at some point, max expected someone to bring it up. it just shocked him that it had taken this long.

alex gave him a firm pat on the back as they strolled the paddock after media commitments. and the question finally came up. "so are you ever going to ask (y/n) out?"

the question should not have even shocked him in the first place. he had been sitting around waiting for someone to ask him this. nevertheless, he was still dumbfounded by the question.

he started explaining - how he can never get around to asking you out. you're christian's beloved niece. first of the next generation. christian even introduced you as the daughter he had to raise before he ever thought about having kids of his own.

and alex gave him the weirdest stare. because everyone on the paddock could easily tell max had feelings for you. he didn't do much to hide it either. it'd apparently been so bad that even toto wolff sneaks around the paddock with questions if there's been progress.

and so, here he is, standing in front of your hotel room after having won his home race. when he managed to escape his pr manager, he took a shower and immediately bought flowers, some food and came straight to you.

he missed you all week.

"max?"

his answer comes out in a ramble. if you hadn't spent so much time with him, you probably wouldn't have understood. but in your week of absence, the driver doted on you with video messages, voice messages and pictures. endless updates with the grid, the drama, the placements.

anything to make it feel like you were still there with him.

"can i take you out on a date?"

his heart races. beads of sweat form on his forehead. the hallway, that had once felt so icy suddenly became so warm.

"what?" your jaw drops, eyebrows are raised in shock. the silence is deafening.

is this some kind of sick prank alex is pulling on him?

immediately, max goes into defensive mode. "i mean, it's okay if you don't! i just thought if i don't shoot my shot now, then i'll never know. i won't take it personally!" he lifts up the plastic filled with tupperwares of food. "i even brought you supper!"

you scoff with a laugh bubbling up from your stomach. you leap up from your spot, throwing yourself onto max. you lift your feet off the ground. his available arm wraps around your waist to stabilise you. his other arm, already busy with gifts for you, darts out to hold the door ajar.

and what does this mean, exactly? max verstappen has never been one to take these things for an answer. he needs is in black and white - in the clearest of clarifications.

"yes, of course!" you squeal into his shoulder. okay, now he can celebrate. it had taken you a solid 10 seconds in a tight embrace before you decided that the hotel's hallways were too exposing for your liking.

finally, he lets you guide him into the hotel room. he can't stop the wide grin forming on his face either. by the looks of it, neither can you.

"right. these are for you," max finally says, holding out the bouquet of flowers to you. "and i'm sorry i'm late. i could have gotten here earlier if it weren't for alex and lando fighting me over what flowers to get you."

your eyebrow raises, willingly receiving the flowers. "you were in cahoots with those two?"

"and george," max shrugs simply, scrunching up his nose. "but he was easier to deal with than those two."

you smile, if it's possible to get even bigger than what's already there, as your fingers lightly graze over the petals of the flowers. max simply stands back while he watches you admire the brightly coloured bouquet.

he's confident about one thing that night: what kind of flowers to get you. so when lando and alex were fighting him over which flowers to get you, they were simply debating over the roses.

but he is in the netherlands. what else could have been the right choice of flowers but the tulips? and he's in an expensive sport, after all. it would be so uncharacteristic of him to undermine the way he felt for you.

long story short, he got the most gigantic bouquet filled with striped tulips. he spent 150 euros. that's not even near the amount he knows he feels for you.

if you asked him for the world, he'd simply exhaust every single resource he has to give it to you.

"thank you so much," you coo, finally looking up at him. you lean in, pressing a firm kiss to his cheek. and he will absolutely spend the rest of his night thinking of this exact moment.

this is quite possibly the furthest he's gone with you. and he almost slips up again. he should've just said it, but he's just not quite sure he should. it's just going to scare you off.

"oh! and, congrats on the race win today," you cheer before pressing your lips against his cheek again.

max grins. he doesn’t know why he put it past you. you’ve made it clear you’re going to be his biggest fan. “oh, you watched the race?”

you’re gently laying the bouquet on top of the table in the corner of your room. “of course. it was a brilliant race. i'm so proud of you."

he just squeezes your shoulder. "thank you. you're the best."

five.

in his dark hotel room, the tv illuminates your face as your eyes lock on the movie you've chosen. it's the only way max can see your face. he'd love to be able to pay attention to this movie, but how could be when you're all tangled up with him.

"are you scared?" you suddenly mutter. your first words in almost 20 minutes, almost making him question if you're making conversation because you're falling asleep.

"what?" he's genuinely dumbfounded with the question. he glances at the tv, curious if he had dozed off long enough for you to choose another movie. but no. it's still mamma mia playing. "we're watching a musical."

max watches your body heave up, then down. "for tomorrow."

he tenses up. he's been trying his hardest not to think about it at all, actually. since he'd finished up his evening with media commitments, he just went straight to you in the garage office. he packed his bags and took you out to dinner.

he's secured pole position for tomorrow. he didn't want to think of anything else right now.

he doesn't want that stress passed on to you.

max hums, suddenly feeling an interest in the musical. it's meryl streep singing abba, after all. how can he not be any more interested? he shrugs. "okay, i guess."

he avoids your eyes. all eyes and remaining attention of the evening is on the actress belting out a song. and it's rudely interrupted when you pause it.

you stumble around, propping yourself up to your elbow to give him a stern look. "okay?" sometimes max forgets you're now his girlfriend. he forgets that he doesn't have to put up a front to shield you from his real emotions. "what do you mean 'okay'?"

he sighs. he turns his head back to face you, almost flinching at the glare you're giving him. he clears his throat as he pushes himself up against the arm of the couch. he sits cross-legged and you mirror his posture. he shrugs again. "i can't overthink it now. i just have to do my best tomorrow."

you throw your hands up in the air, scoffing. "what?"

max is at a loss for words. what response, exactly, did you expect out of him? "what?" he says back, hands also thrown up into the air. from the amount of time you've spent around him on the race track, he expected you to know his mindset when stepping into a race.

he can't overthink it before he even gets on the track. in fact, there is no room for that at all.

you resign to the other end of the couch and fold your arms over your chest. you even pull your feet back, not wanting to be in the range of his touch.

"(y/n), i don't know what you want me to say, darling," max responds gently. he's slightly annoyed, yes, but he doesn't want that to triumph your relationship. "you know the clear mind i need to get into a race. if i overthink, that's when it's over for me."

you roll your eyes. "no. it's just you and me. there is absolutely no way you have no opinions about the race tomorrow. not even a single thought? seriously, max?" you tear your eyes from him. "i'm not christian."

max sighs. he scooches over to you on the over end of the couch. though you squeeze yourself further into the armrest away from him.

he huffs, wrapping his arms around you. he pulls you in and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "of course, i have a thought in my head about the race. but if i let it get to me, darling, it can cost me the championship."

you hum, but there's a hint of annoyance. though, you give in. because you drop your head back on his shoulder and pout. "okay, fine. race your heart out, max. i just know you've got this."

he gives you a slight squeeze. a weaker one compared to others. honestly? he's terrified of screwing up tomorrow. he just wants that title so bad. all his life, he's worked for it.

he's simply afraid to let christian down. more importantly, he's afraid to let you down. though his handful of mental breaks about being so close to the final race of the season, you'd reassure him that you'll always be proud of him no matter what.

it's just not enough for him.

the movie starts to play again. you coddle up into his lap and he rests his cheeks on your head. i love you.

thank you, you're the best.

max has not been able to get the ringing out of his head since he crossed the checkered flag. he has not been able to think straight since then.

he just won his first world championship title. he's on his knees, his head resting on the tire. all 58 laps, all he could think of is how is he going to win? how will the season play out?

he finally lifts his head, dropping himself back to sit on the track of the abu dhabi track. he groans loudly, almost into a scream, as he unclips his helmet. he yanks it off his head, then his balaclava almost immediately.

he is feeling so many things.

then across the barrier, he sees you. eyes filled with tears, hair pulled back into a ponytail, in your very own red bull racing uniform. his stare down with you doesn't last long. christian is quick to yank you away.

and he spends the next 5 minutes scanning the crowd for you. sure, he wants to celebrate with the people that made it possible for him to even be there in the first place. but there is you.

"max!" your voice makes him whirl around. a sigh of relief slumps his shoulder. it's you.

his face lights up at the sight of you. just a minute ago, he felt so drained. he barely found it in himself to walk to his team for cheers. yet here he is jogging towards you.

"world champion, max verstappen!" you scream. you leap off the ground, legs quickly wrapping around his waist.

his arms wrap around your torso, just holding you close to his body. "i'm so proud of you," you cry into his already wet neck. you wrap your arms around his shoulders tighter. "i fucking told you."

he doesn't even know what to think. his mind is in a jumble of thoughts. it's undeniable that you had pushed him to his best this season. just having you there, reassuring him every single weekend. even when he crashed, even when he'd retired out of a race.

your legs slowly drop back down to the ground, and he finally gets a good look at your face. for some reason, you're just as sweaty as he is. the ponytail on your head is falling apart and the makeup running down your face almost makes him laugh.

then the excitement obviously hits you again. because you give him a firm and strong pat on his shoulder. "you proved them all wrong, max! you're a world champion!"

his chin is held high and his chest is puffed out. you'd never doubted him. it almost brings him to his knees how much support you had for him.

max is so full of emotion. the race, the title; you. you jump in your spot and clap, nose scrunching up in delight. "i told you this was your season! i knew it all along!"

and he just blurts it out. "(y/n), i love you."

you don't even hesitate. it's like you'd been waiting around to say it too. "i'm so fucking proud of you. i love you."

#it took me three days to write this #and for what #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke f1 #f1 x reader

[engagedtobefree]

When the sadness comes, I don’t know what to do with it. Do I tell someone? Do I write it down? Do I call out sick just to sleep for the day? Do I go outside and try to forget? Whenever this happens, my mind always goes back to what Van Gogh said: “The sadness will last forever.” That’s what it always feels like. Out of all the terrible ways to feel, sadness is the only one that feels like it will never end.

I know this will pass, as all things eventually do. I think that possibly this bout of depression I’m going through is due to the new meds I’m on. My anxiety has also been pretty terrible too. I was on Strattera for about two months and it was actually helping me so much. I was amazed by how well I was able to function. But alas, my small glimpse into how non-ADHD people go about their day was not to last. I had terrible side effects, the worst of it being Akathisia and my libido was gone. The akathisia was so uncomfortable, but it might have come to pass eventually. The no libido thing, from what I read online about it from others, would only go away if I stopped the meds. It’s not like I’m having sex with anyone right now, but whenever I eventually do again, it would be nice to desire it. I read some horror stories, like people being on Strattera for years and then when they finally got off of it, their libido never came back. That was all I needed to read in order to decide that I wanted to try a different medication. I’m on Wellbutrin now and so far the side effects aren’t too bad, but I’m also nowhere near functioning like how I was on the Strattera. I’m hoping my psychiatrist does another dosage increase, but we’ll see. I’ve been contemplating going somewhere else for awhile now. She didn’t even want to try me on anything else after the Strattera because she thought I’d react the same way to every other ADHD med. I thought that was really strange. I’ve never had a psychiatrist think that, and the only other time I had that happen was when I saw a doctor for my mental health and she refused to change my dosage or try me on anything else. Well, I keep saying my psychiatrist but really she’s a nurse practitioner, but still, if she isn’t equipped to handle stuff like this then she should have someone else handle my meds. I can and will go somewhere else. I have no qualms about going to another psychiatrist if the care I receive is lacking, especially when it comes to my mental health. I’m not willing to give up so easily on something either. Like why would I stop after one medication when there’s so many others I could try? I’ve had a glimpse of what it’s like to function normally and I want that for myself long-term. It feels like all of my life there’s been this violent, howling gust of wind, following me wherever I go, even indoors. When the Strattera was working, it was like that wind finally stopped and everything became so quiet. It felt nice.

My friend Amanda saw an ADHD specialist and they prescribed her Adderall the same day. The downside with being on a stimulant though is that they don’t last and you usually have to take them twice a day, whereas non-stimulants have a much longer affect. It took me a week to go back to “normal” after being off the Strattera. I’ve heard nothing but good things about Vyvanse, but it’s very expensive. The patent or whatever finally goes public this month, so generic versions of it are expected later this year/early next year. But we’ll see. I do hope Welly-b starts working for me, but even after being on it two months now, I still can’t really tell. If this ends up not working out I might go where Amanda went, as long as they take my insurance. The downside though is if I want them to handle all of my meds then I have to make them my primary care too. I really like my GP a lot and it took me so long to find someone I’m satisfied with, so I really don’t want to change my GP over to someone else. I have a list of other psychiatrists I’ve looked into though so I could always go try them out first. 

Another thing I’m struggling with is the situation with Scott. I haven’t been able to tell him yet what I want to say. When he reached back out to me some odd weeks ago, I felt really confused. By our third conversation though, I felt fully positive that not trying again with him was what I 100% wanted. Since then I’ve struggled with how I want to go about it and what I want to say. There’s been a few nights where I was sleeping by the time he called me, and the one night I felt super confident about doing it, he ended up not calling me. He did come over last Friday, and I just felt so awkward about it. I was also doing all the talking most of the night. His only contribution was asking for me to do sexual stuff, which I told him I didn’t want to do. He said that wasn’t the only reason he came to see me but I don’t believe him. I could tell he wanted to kiss me when I hugged him goodbye, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. I felt super disappointed in myself that I just couldn’t find the right words. This week I wrote out a little script, just to give me some place to start at least. Idk that I’ll even say anything I wrote, but it makes me feel better having something to fall back on if I need to. 

I at least feel pretty sure that I won’t hurt Scott. At the most, he might just be disappointed. That was a big thing for me, just feeling bad that I had to do this and that it might cause him pain. My therapist Audrey told me though to remember that I’m not actually doing anything wrong, I’m just choosing what’s best for me. It hadn’t even occurred to me until she said that that I was equating possibly hurting someone’s feelings with also doing something bad. I am still unlearning always putting other people’s feelings first. It’s something that was ingrained in me since I was a child, so it’s taking some time. I’ve made some strides but I’m not quite at the finish line yet. 

I’ve been thinking over so much with Scott, and I still have some healing there to do. It’s been a long journey with this healing, something I started probably around this time last year. Every time I break down and get through a bit of it though, I come out the other side feeling much lighter yet stronger. When I was triggered by everything with Chris (which I wrote about in a post which I have since put on private), maybe a week or two later, I had a breakdown and cried pretty hard. I had started thinking about everything I had dealt with regarding Scott, the whole situation I had been in when I worked with him, and it just flooded me with emotion. I hadn’t even realized how much it had affected me until now. I mean, I had just turned 26 when everything started, and Scott was just turning 44. I was young and taken advantage of. We were flirting and he never told me he was married. I didn’t find out until months later. I remember trying to keep my distance, but then after a bit he started flirting with me again and I’d naively believe he became available, but really he just didn’t want me to stop giving him attention. I just kept putting my faith in him like that for over 2 years. I would stop flirting but then he would start it back up again, and I’d think “oh, maybe he’s separated now or going through a divorce.” Then, after so long of it going nowhere and him not telling me anything, I’d ask him what was going on, and the responses I got would be “I’m married. That’s all there is to it” or “It is what it is”. And then the cycle would repeat. I look back now and I feel so angry and distraught for my younger self. I always gave people second and third and infinity amounts of chances, even when they proved to me time and time again they were undeserving of them. I just want to hold my younger self and tell her that sometimes allowing yourself to believe that not everyone is good is the kindest truth you can give to yourself. I see her, curled up and crying, in the light of the normal world, and I feel like I’m on the flipside, this place almost like the Upsidedown in Stranger Things, where I have seen the ugly truth of things and I know what’s there underneath the surface of it all. There’s a quote that reminds me of all of this: “You'll end up really disappointed if you think people will do for you as you do for them. Not everyone has the same heart as you.” Scott has only ever cared about himself. He never thought about me or his wife. I remember one day when I finally had enough of his shit I said angrily, “I’m a person with feelings!” I still remember how he looked at me, as if he was only just registering that my existence went beyond providing him any sort of gratification. Just another red flag I glossed over. 

I’m sort of in this space now where I’m recognizing that I did have lessons to learn there for my own personal growth, but at the same time acknowledging that it impacted me a lot and caused me some trauma. I hesitated for a bit from using the T-word, but Audrey reminded me that even small traumas exist and that they add up. (On a side note, Audrey is generally pretty neutral with stuff, but in one of my recent appointments with her she was kind of encouraging me to cut Scott loose. I was surprised but it also shed even more light on how toxic this whole situation is and has been.) I see Scott now and I’ve come to recognize that all this time, I have just been holding onto hope that he’s a better person underneath all of this. He isn’t. Even now, while he says “sorry”, it’s only so he can make his way back in. Scott isn’t nice for the sake of being nice; there has to be something in it for him. And when there’s no one around to see him doing something nice, he’s gotta tell you about it so that you can praise him for doing something good. I could tell when Scott was here Friday that he wanted me to just give in and do whatever he wanted. That’s what I’ve always done. He’s always given zero to bare minimum effort and I’ve always shown him that that’s okay by accepting it. The me I am now is a hell of a lot different from the past me. I feel more resolute, more confident, and I know that next Friday, the 11th, I will be telling Scott I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want this to keep dragging out. I want a nice clean cut so that I can finally move forward. I think this has been weighing on me quite a bit. I remember how light I felt back in February when Scott reached out, then didn’t respond back to me, then I got pissed and told him off. I thought I would be upset and cry, but I didn’t feel heartbroken or anything, I just felt this huge weight lift. I want that again. I don’t want all of this on my shoulders anymore. 

The book course I’m currently doing has helped me a lot. One chapter really stood out to me, where the author says you can’t expect to move forward if you have one foot in and the other foot out. My one foot is still stuck here in this situation with Scott. I can’t be with anyone else if I continue to not let go of this person and this situation. The Scott I have created in my head doesn’t exist. Somehow over the years, maybe as a coping mechanism idk, I have envisioned Scott in my mind as this really great person who I can have a beautiful life with, but he’s a fake, a phony, an imposter. All this time I have been afraid of losing this person who isn’t real. And when I look back at the moments I’ve had of breaking down this past year, it was never really about losing Scott. I’ve mourned the Scott in my head, I’ve mourned the potential of and with him, I’ve mourned letting go of something I’ve held onto for so long, I’ve mourned a future that will never exist even if I stay in this with him. I’ve mourned for myself, how I’ve been treated, how I’ve constantly sacrificed myself for someone who never even gave me a fraction of what I gave them. It’s time for me to let all of that go for good. In the chapter I mentioned above, the author also says “You have to be okay with not knowing. You have to be okay with having nothing”, and up until now, I’ve been repeating that but struggling with fully implementing it. But I’m ready. Today I woke up and I knew that I was ready and I know that next Friday is the day I break this off for good. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that it is better than this. I know that having nothing is better than having something terrible that I don’t even want anyway. Having nothing at least gives me the space in my life to one day let someone new in. Having nothing is more comforting than having someone who will only ever take from me and not care when they bleed me dry. Having nothing can be good. 

I tend to get stuck sometimes in these places, but I always eventually move forward. I can’t ever stay stagnant, I can’t ever settle for things I don’t want. I always need to be moving forward. I’m just built that way. Life always has it’s moments of uncertainties, and some people are too afraid of that and let it stop them from pursuing better. I’ve always moved through those uncertainties. It might take me a bit, I might hesitate, but I always eventually make my way through. I kind of picture it as me standing on the edge of a cliff, and it’s windy and it’s cold and I’m miserable being there. I can’t turn away from the cliff, because there’s nothing behind me, there’s nowhere else I can turn to; I have to either stay standing on that cliff edge or jump into the water below. I’m always going to jump. I know the water is rough, and I don’t know where the waves will carry me off to, but I know that taking that chance is better than spending the rest of my life on that cliffside.

I’ve been writing a lot lately - I guess you could call it “poetry” - and I’m cycling through old traumas so that I can bring them back up, deal with them, and finally heal. It’s a lot to unpack, and many things I completely forgot about are resurfacing, which I guess technically is good since that’s what I want, but it’s still difficult at times to deal with. Writing has always been super cathartic for me, like when I write (or type) something out, it leaves me and transfers over to something else, whether that’s a screen or a piece of paper. It’s a really useful tool that has always aided me in finding healing and relief. Me going back through things I’ve never fully processed or healed has been tough but it’s necessary. The downside to me always being the type of person who continuously moves forward is that sometimes I don’t fully heal things that happened before I start moving forward again. Maybe that is somewhat normal though, as a lot of people tend to do healing as they move along or somewhere far into the future. But anyway, the poem I’m on now is about my first serious relationship that I was in from ages 18-20. It was an awful, toxic, abusive relationship, and looking back on that time now, I never really fully processed just how awful that time was for me. It took me many months of distancing myself from him and sitting and reflecting on my life to finally decide that I wanted to move on. I had an eating disorder at the time as well, and I was tired of spending my life being miserable and abused, not just by others but also by myself. I wanted more. So I left him and also decided to fully recover. Things weren’t easy and they actually got even harder for a bit. I still lived with my abusive mother and then 5 months after I ended my relationship, I was raped. I was unmedicated for all of my mental illnesses. I almost dropped out of school because it was all so much. I was just trying to build my life and myself back up from the darkest depths of despair and I really have no idea how I did it. Whenever I felt like giving up, I’d repeat to myself, “Keep going” and then I would be like, “Oh yeah, that’s right, I have to keep going.” It was such a small, simple reminder, but it helped me so much. I took things minute-by-minute and day-by-day; that was the only way I could get through everything. I’ve been thinking about that time in my life, a little over a decade ago, and I’m looking at my past self and she’s reminding me that I’ve survived worse. I’ve survived so much worse. That young woman and the choices she made started me on this path to make a better life for myself. It was still super rocky at times, I still struggled with other things along the years, but I am here now, age 31 and still going. I remember when I turned 30 how I cried because when I was younger I never thought I would live to see my thirties. I thought I’d be dead by now, but I’m not. That’s why when people say, “Ah I’m so old” when they’re actually not, it ruffles my feathers a bit. Some people never even make it past childhood, past their teen years, past their 20′s. Getting older is a goddamn privilege. But I get it, society has had a huge part to play in telling us we’re old even when we’re not. I had to unlearn that a bit too when I was younger and I’m glad I did. I am so, so lucky to still be here.

I was actually touching on some of these points with my friend yesterday. I could have died several times in my life, but I didn’t. It wasn’t my time yet and I’m grateful for that. My friend felt the same, as he did a lot of drugs when he was younger, especially cocaine. I didn’t mention my suicide attempt to him but I did talk about my mental illnesses, which he already knew about, and expanded upon how some people die from having an eating disorder for only a few months, and I struggled for years with mine. It got me thinking as I drove home about my suicide attempt too. I still remember the doctor coming in and talking to me. He had a very gentle voice that was full of concern. He told me that the amount of pills I took with the amount of alcohol I drank could have been lethal, and he was even surprised at how fast my body was recovering from what I just did to it. He said if I had taken Tylenol instead of ibuprofen that he wouldn’t be sitting there talking to me. I remember thinking, “Oh yeah, I knew that.” A few years prior, when I was in my abusive relationship, I had considered suicide and did a lot of research on what type of pills or pill combinations would be enough to kill me. I found out Tylenol could kill you if you took enough of it. I just hadn’t consciously remembered that piece of information thankfully. On my way home from school on the day I attempted suicide, I remember standing in the Walgreens and I had the ibuprofen in one hand and Tylenol in the other, both extra strength. I decided to put the Tylenol back because it was more expensive (not that it really mattered if I was going to die, but idk, that was just what I ended up basing my decision on). I didn’t know it at the time, but when I put the Tylenol back on the shelf, that was the moment I had decided to live. I took 97 pills out of 150 with 3/4 of a bottle of a vodka and Moscato mix (I don’t remember the mL, but it was a pretty big bottle). I remember when I was sitting on the floor taking the pills, my cat Jewel came over and laid on my lap, purring. This past January, 8 years and one day later from my attempt, Jewel was on my lap and we put her to sleep to ease her suffering. She had comforted me when I needed her the most and I can only hope that in her final moments I was able to give the same to her.

Okay, so this went off in a direction I didn’t plan on it going, so back to the stuff I really want to write about. My anxiety has been pretty bad this past week as I already mentioned, though it’s now beginning to ease up. I’ve had anxiety about literally everything, including Chris. I don’t know why I’m having anxiety about him. I mean, we haven’t dated, nothing has happened aside from some texting, and I don’t even really know him. I was doing good with just leaving the situation be and trying not to put too much thought into anything. This past week has been the total opposite of all that though. I still have absolutely no clue why he gave me his number. I have my next appointment with him mid-November, which we’re almost halfway to at this point, and I think it would be awkward that he gave me his number then just didn’t utilize that, unless he moves me off his schedule and onto someone else’s to avoid any awkwardness. He literally only texted me once and snapped me once; every other time I was the one initiating. I tried to space out me reaching out as much as I could, and then I just decided to stop altogether. I don’t want to bother him if he’s not interested or is already in a relationship or dating someone. He was at least viewing my Snapchat stories here and there, but he’s stopped that now too. I’m not sure why. Idk if I did or said something wrong, if I’m not who he expected, if he doesn’t even like me as a person, or maybe any of the previous reasons I mentioned, like just being not interested, not single, or dating someone else. Maybe it’s none of those reasons; I just don’t know. I think the last Snapchat story he viewed was a selfie from a few weeks ago (pic below). Maybe he isn’t really attracted to me like he thought, or maybe he thinks I’m weird. I was experimenting with some makeup that day and was just having some fun, but maybe to him it was some type of turn-off? I’ve always struggled with “needing” people to like me, but I have improved on this a lot over the years. Now it’s shifted more to when I like someone (in general, not just romantically) I hope that they like me too. Chris is just one of those people who I hope would like me back. 

To continue for a sec on the whole relationship thing, if Chris is already with someone, that’s not a man I want anyway. I was in that situation with Scott and I hated it. It caused me so much pain and in the end I realized any man who goes behind his partner’s back is not someone I want to build a life with. He wasn’t “unfaithful” in the traditional sense I guess, but he would still come into work and flirt with me all the time. I wouldn’t do that to a partner and I would also expect them not to do that to me. It wasn’t until Scott separated from his wife and I became a potential romantic prospect that I realized I didn’t trust him. It was something I never thought about when we worked together because I never thought anything would happen between us.

Okay, so back to Chris. This has all been so confusing, and I have been trying so freaking hard to stop thinking about all of this and put it out my mind. I don’t even really know him and yet, somehow he left some type of impression on me that I can’t shake. I usually don’t care much about men. I don’t worry my head about them and in general I’m just not into them that much. I’m not into women,  but it’s just very rare for any guy to catch my attention, and pretty much always a guy is interested in me first before I take an interest in him. With Chris I took an interest from day one. I don’t feel like writing out everything I have previously, both in my public and private posts, as I hate being repetitive, so I’m just going to add a few new things here. When I had my second appointment, I was very on-guard, observant, looking for any red flags, any type of feeling I had or action or anything he said that would raise alarm, and there wasn’t anything. And I keep thinking, “Maybe I missed something” but I just don’t think I did. If I did somehow miss something, I don’t know how it happened, because that’s never happened before. Ignoring, yes, missing, no. I’ve also made some connections, first with comparing Chris to Scott and then realizing that it goes beyond Scott to literally every other man I’ve been with. Chris is warm where they were cold, open where they were closed, generous where they were selfish, comforting where they were distressing. And again, I don’t really know him and that is all based off of just our few brief interactions, but I can’t help feeling like I know deep down that all of that is true. I can’t find the right words to really explain that inner knowing. Yet on the flipside, my mind won’t stop questioning everything. Part of me feels annoyed that I let myself get too hopeful about all of this, another part of me is really bummed that that hope was false, and then another part of me is still holding onto that hope, telling me not to give up yet. I’m being tugged in these different directions and I really, really want my brain to just shut up because I’m tired of going in these circles trying to figure out something that isn’t figureoutable. I just keep trying to redirect my brain to the positives I got out of this: the hope that better is out there and I can move forward, I’m writing again and reading again and beginning to slowly incorporate some things I love back into my life, and this little fire I feel kindled in me to try even harder in life than I already was. Meeting Chris has certainly been a blessing, even if this is as far as knowing him ever goes.

Then sometimes I just stop myself and ask, “Am I really ready to date someone yet?” and unfortunately the answer to that is actually “no”. There are things I need to take care of still. I need to kick Scott out of my life, first and foremost. I also have to find an ADHD medication that works well for me, as I really cannot bring anyone into my apartment in the state it’s often in, which is pure and utter chaos. It looked so good when I was on the Strattera. Also, I feel like I need just a bit more time to myself. I think it was the last week of June where I got dressed up and did my makeup, went out to a café to write, and then bought myself a nice dinner. Last month I wanted to do the same thing but try out a different café, but that ended up not happening. I did take myself to the movies instead to see Guardians of the Galaxy 3. I was going to ask my one friend to go who I know didn’t see it, but I decided I wanted to go by myself. I’ve seen a majority of the Marvel movies with my dad, it was always just our thing ever since we went to see the first Iron Man together. My dad was diagnosed with cancer this year and it’s been a tough pill to swallow, especially with each new test he’s had giving worse and worse news, and they still haven’t started his treatments yet. His insurance company has also been difficult and recently denied the last test he was supposed to get done. I wasn’t sure if seeing a Marvel movie was going to be upsetting, so I decided to go by myself to cry if I needed to without having someone else there needing to worry about me. I actually ended up not crying during the movie itself, but I did cry a bit on the drive to the theater.

I’ve been thinking lately about how I’m living, and trying to pivot towards what I want. What I want is a soft life. I want a life where I feel full and whole on my own, where when someone else is ready to come in, we complement each other. There is no need for completion; we are already complete. I want a life where I’m so connected to what I’m doing, where I have my yoga every day and my studying, where I’m following my dharma completely and fully. A life where I can thrive without needing an office job anymore. I want my astrology, and friends, and leisure time, a beautiful clean home, a garden, less stuff and more moments to enjoy, less distraction more presence, less doubt and more trust. I want to be so full of love and have a life so full of love that everyone I come across can see it. I just want to enjoy as much as I can as fully as I can. I want a simple, soft life. I know there will always be difficulties, but I want a life I love so much that it overshadows anything that can ever be thrown my way. And sometimes, I see glimpses of all that and that is what my life feels like, so I know it’s possible. I know I can have that all the time. I have been trying to be less digitally connected, less online, less on my phone and more in the here and now. I’ve been doing fairly good, and I’ve been a lot more mindful of it lately. I wouldn’t say I was attached to my phone before, but it is something I’d use as a crutch, like in certain situations or just to pass the time. Now I just look around and try to engage with what’s going on around me. It’s nice. 

My Vedic astrology app is always on point and supports me just focusing on myself for this time. I get updates every few weeks or so, so the focus will shift to something else then. The one I received this weekend is below.

So scary accurate. I wrote all of the paragraphs up above before even getting this notification. All of my updates are always like that. It’s crazy. It’s also weird that they even mentioned someone else in this one, especially considering how I’ve strongly felt recently that I would like for Chris to like me back. It also touches upon how I view him.

I’ve been getting back into my astrological studies and recently, the nodes of the moon shifted into Libra (south node) and Aries (north node). This transit affects me a lot as a Libra sun, and it actually represents themes I’ve really been focusing on this past year, like setting boundaries, believing in myself, and focusing on caring for myself instead of always focusing on others. There’s more than just those few things, but those are some big ones for me. I’m glad I got a head start, even though I didn’t realize at the time that this transit was coming. Also, the north node in Aries is transiting my 3rd house of communication, which means my focus now is about moving swiftly and confidently (Aries) towards connecting with others, taking time to write, pursuing my studies and taking action on what I want to achieve, etc etc. This will be a challenging time for me as a Libra, but I actually love these challenging astrological aspects. I know at the end of this transit - a year and a half from now - that I’m going to have grown so much. I thought this was weird at first that I would get excited for these challenging transits, but apparently that’s the right way to go about it. When I had my Saturn return a few years ago, I couldn’t wait for it to begin. A lot of people tend to fear their Saturn return and other difficult transits, but after mine started and I dug in a bit deeper, I learned that the best mentality to have during these times is a growth mindset and remaining positive. So that made me happy.

To end here, I’d like to just touch base on some ways I’ve been setting boundaries that I’m very proud of myself for. I’ve started implementing them with my mom, and she’s gotten mad at me for protecting myself, but then that always eventually passes. My mother doesn’t have any boundaries whatsoever, so I also grew up without any. She also doesn’t respect other people’s boundaries when they do have them. I have tried so many times to give my mom advice on things, and sometimes she kind of starts to make changes, but it doesn’t ever really last long. Recently I’ve been encouraging her to at least get on some anxiety medication, and she actually brought it up to her therapist. So me making my own boundaries has also been benefiting her a bit too. I also had to set a recent boundary with an ex. So 3 years ago he reached out to me and asked me for blowjob tips, then proceeded to tell me he already gave his friend a blowjob, and then asked me to have a threesome with them. I had to say no four times before he finally left me alone. I wondered what about me made him think I’d be interested in something like that, but then I realized he probably didn’t think about that at all and was simply asking a bunch of women he knew. I have always tried to be nice and considerate, even when others don’t give me that in return. I was firm with my “no”s but really, I shouldn’t have cared about being nice at all in that scenario. Well a few weeks back he reached out to me again in the same exact way. I know this because for whatever reason, our conversation in Snapchat from three years ago ended up being saved in there, but I remembered our conversation anyway because it’s not everyday you get asked by an ex-bf to give him blowjob tips and have a threesome with him and his friend. Anyway, as soon as he asked for bj tips I said, “I am not interested in this conversation”. He completely ignored me and kept on going. I paused for a minute and reflected on how to respond to that. Then I realized that this guy isn’t respecting me, so why should I show him any kindness? I wanted to protect myself. That was my first priority, and I don’t need to tolerate this behavior from anyone either. When I responded to him I said something along the lines of, “Whatever list you have me on, cross my name off of it. I am not interested in anything you’re going to ask me for and that’s never going to change. The answer is no and it will always be no”. His response was that he didn’t mean anything by it and he just thought I was a “cool friend”. 😑 Like, dude, we don’t even talk. I am not your “friend” and I am not stupid enough to believe some lame ass excuse. He can miss me with that bullshit cuz I blocked him  🤗 I was very proud of myself. And you know what? I didn’t even feel bad about it! Setting such a strong boundary felt so freaking nice and empowering. It’s also such an incredible feeling to see all of the growth I’ve done not only this past year but also from the past few months. I’ve come such a long way and I’m going to go even further. Self-love, self-preservation, self-confidence, self-care....it really is so essential to practice all of those things. Anyway, this is it for now, not that anyone other than me is reading this lol

#personal #chris #scott #yours truly #it took me three days to write this #🙃 #also idk why i always have to start my posts off so dramatically #cuz the rest of it is always just me ranting

[harrowharkwife]

i'm so used to there just being random unidentified bones laying around everywhere in these damn books that it finally occurred to me, just now, to wonder where the bones on new rho came from. y'know, the bones palamedes always tried to teach nona necromancy on.

they're his.

palamedes, who always loved teaching, living on borrowed time in a body that's not his own. palamedes, mentoring, teaching- parenting, by sixth standards, mind you. and that boy is sixth, through and through.

and the entire point of teaching nona necromancy in the first place was to try and determine if nona is, well, nonagesimus, right? so it has to be bones, it can't not be bones. bones are, like, her whole thing.

but they're not in the nine houses, anymore. things are different, on new rho.

they burn bones here. dig up the cemeteries. a society terrified of zombies will evolve to dispose of its dead differently.

the only bones he has access to now are his own. (camilla wouldn't let anyone take them- skull or hand, doesn't matter. they're still him, and she doesn't let go, remember? it's her one thing.)

palamedes woke up every morning wearing someone else's body to then gently place the shrapnel of his own in the cupped palms of a girl who's the closest thing he'll ever have to a daughter and try to teach her- how did the angel put it, again? normal school, as much as possible, for as long as possible.

(but hey, in a roundabout way, at least it's a chance for him to touch camilla again, right? nevermind that she's not there to feel any of it because he's in the driver's seat, that he can only stay for fifteen minutes at a time. it's atoms that belong to camilla touching atoms that used to belong to him, and that's close enough. he'll take what he can get, these days- if she can be their flesh, he can be the end. so what if holding his own bones is a mindfuck? so what if looking at them makes him nauseous? surely he can suck it up and deal with it for fifteen minutes. it's the least he can do— his poor camilla was the one who had to scrape the bloody pulp of them off the floors of canaan house.)

(speaking of, here's a fun fact: we actually only see nona practicing with the bones one time, on-page. camilla's final line in that scene, before palamedes takes over, is none other than: 'keep going. there are some bones left.' ow!)

remember, too, that the only part of dulcinea, the real dulcinea, that palamedes ever physically touched, was her tooth- the one that ianthe gave him, pulled from the ashes cytherea burnt her down to. he only ever touched dulcie once, and it wasn't until after she was already gone, but that doesn't matter- it still happened, and you can't take loved away.

in this same roundabout, bittersweet, by-proxy sort of way, palamedes has been physically touched by nona, too: the atoms she currently occupies, touching atoms that he used to occupy, and never will again.

the main interaction we've seen between palamedes and his mother took place back on the sixth, with her acting as mentor and him as pupil: the two of them studying a set of hand bones, juno encouraging him every step of the way.

we know that harrowhark's "most vivid memory of her mother was of her hands guiding harrow's over an inexpertly rendered portion of skull, her fingers encircling the fat baby bracelets of harrow's wrists, tightening this cuff to indicate correct technique."

they're still small for a nineteen year old, but the wrists are bigger, in this new set of memories nona's making. and it's not an inexpertly rendered portion of skull anymore- it's a hand, now, albeit one crafted from [a piece of skull reassembled (painstakingly—passionately—laboriously reassembled) from fragments, manually, and not by a bone magician, from the skull of someone who, soon after death or symptomatically during, had exploded.] and the identity and origin of these bones is no mystery at all. they belong to palamedes, and he's consented to their use for this purpose, and that matters.

but the details are just set dressing, really. the foundation of the memory is the same.

palamedes and his mother, juno and her son.

harrow and her mother; pelleamena and her daughter.

nona and her father-mother-teacher; palamedes and his daughter.

#these fucking books. every 2-3 business days i'll find some new detail to be insane about #this post took me like three hours to write. what the fuck #palamedes sextus #nona the ninth #the locked tomb #nona #palamedes the sixth #tlt #ntn #camilla hect #tlt spoilers #pal honey. im :( :( :( #spiritually that man is a MOM okay! there's a reason tamsyn specifically assigned him the same imagery in this scene #that she's been using to represent crucial bonding moments between mother/mother figure and child/child figure #that and the 'sextus you'll make a very irritating wife someday' joke and cam's 'i'll talk to your mother later' face #ie: talk to palamedes about nona #that boy is momcoded i don't make the rules!

[compacflt]

For the requests/open inbox, this may not be the lane you're looking for, but you made a throw a way mention in a response to the ask about Ice's enforcement of DADT that Bradley and Ice probably got into it at one point about Ice being totally okay with DADT as a policy (which I love your read on Ice being like, 'yeah, nobody should ask and nobody should tell. what's the problem here?') I would love to see that argument go down. Or honestly, just any Ice and Bradley interaction after the reconciliation that suits your fancy. I find that dynamic in your world super interesting. Bradley sees him as a father, Ice sees him as the person whose father I killed. I love the drama.

Five times Ice was so obviously Rooster’s dad + one time he explicitly wasn’t.

[Carole. 1994.]

He’s such a nervous man. Usually that’s not the word people associate with him. Nervous? Never! But he is. Carole Bradshaw’s more a religious woman than a spiritual one. She’s never put any stock into “chockras” or “ouras” or whatever the other girls her age were fooling around with in the late sixties and early seventies. But she does believe that you can understand a person just by looking at him or her, and when she looks at Tom Kazansky, she sees a little anxious creature, shivering in the cold, like one of those tiny spindly dogs who always needs a sweater. Maybe it’s her southern maternal instincts, something primal and animalistic inside her, I need to take care of you—and when he nudges her with a nervous shivering shoulder and whispers, “Can I bum a smoke?” —she reaches down to take his hand and says, “I only have one left. We’ll have to share.”

She knows she makes him nervous. His ears are red, and so’s the back of his neck. It’s early on a Saturday morning, and the church is crowded, and he’s self-conscious about the fact that she’s holding his hand. Good. It’s so rare she gets to make a man nervous anymore. She waves to Bradley, proud in his little striped button-down and his little blue bow-tie, where he’s lined-up with all the other aspiring pianists against the stage along the far wall, under the bare postmodern crucifix. The recital isn’t going to start for another five, ten minutes, and it’s organized by age, so Bradley’s somewhere in the middle. If Tom Kazansky needs a smoke, Carole Bradshaw will bum him a smoke.

They exit out the side door, and the low murmuring of the other proud parents in the church fades to the quiet of the alley. Birds chirping nearby. The sound of a latecoming car on gravel somewhere far away. Her cigarette and the flick of his lighter, her eyes on his mouth and his puff of smoke—it’s lit. He takes a drag, closes his eyes, then passes it to her. “Sorry to make you share,” she says, and she’s watching the red flush creep up the side of his throat with a silent pleasure. When she takes her own pull, she looks down to see that the filter’s gone the sweet red-pink of her old lipstick. Kind of like a kiss, sharing a cigarette.

“That’s okay,” he says. Nervous spindly little dog. “Uh, what’s he playing?”

“Beethoven. ‘Für Elise.’” Then, before he can think to judge, she goes on quickly: “It’s more complicated than you’d think. Goes up and down and all over the place.”

“It’s a good song,” Tom Kazansky says, “though I don’t know too much about piano.” He pauses. “I’m learning a little German, though. I think it’s E-leez-ah. She must’ve been an alright girl if Beethoven wrote a song for her.”

Carole Bradshaw doesn’t know what to say to that. So she says this instead: “Thank you for coming. It made Bradley—well, over the moon, I guess.”

Tom Kazansky smiles shyly. “Sorry Maverick couldn’t come. I know he wanted to.”

Of course he brings up Pete Mitchell. Drags her back into reality. “He’s in Washington again, isn’t he?”

“Correct.” He reaches out for the cigarette; she gives it to him. “TOPGUN’s biggest advocate. I keep telling him he should go into politics. I just talked to him yesterday—he told me he went to the Natural History Smithsonian on Wednesday—he bought Bradley a dinosaur picture book, I think. Does Bradley like dinosaurs?”

Carole Bradshaw shrugs. What nine-year-old boy doesn’t like dinosaurs, but… “He’s more into sea life these days. Whales, sharks, fish.”

“Some fish used to be dinosaurs, they think,” says Tom Kazansky, clearly just trying to fill the silence. Ears red, lips red. Smoke out of his mouth like a fire-breathing dragon.

Carole Bradshaw doesn’t know how much dinosaur history she actually believes. So she says, “It’s still really nice of you to come. You know, Bradley—Bradley thinks of you and Maverick as his—well, his fathers, I s’pose. So it’s nice for you to be here.”

She watches his reaction—just nervousness. Straight anxiety. He doesn’t meet her eyes, like she’s just kicked him in the ribs. He does not want to be Bradley’s father. 

She says, “You don’t have to sign any papers, Tom. You don’t have to put a kid seat in your car. I’m just saying. Don’t worry about it.”

He says, “I can hear the kids starting inside—we should probably go back in.”

So Carole Bradshaw drops the cigarette butt to the ground and steps on it with the bottom of her flat. They go inside, and wait for a kindergartener to finish an overly simple “Canon in D” to take their seats again. She takes his hand. He lets her. After another half-hour, Bradley sits down on the bench in front of the hand-me-down Steinway and busts out “Für Elise” without a single missed note. It still shocks her, sometimes, to watch him play—it still shocks her, sometimes, that she is the mother of all that talent. And now maybe Tom Kazansky is the father of all that talent. How did that happen?

At the end of the recital, Tom Kazansky lets go of her hand. She knew he would. Knew his fatherhood is only temporary. But he lets go of her hand to accept Bradley’s great-big hug in the parking lot: “Gosling, that was so good.” Bradley’s proud smile is missing a few teeth. It makes Tom Kazansky laugh.

And after he drops them off at home, and peels away with a wave and a smile, Carole Bradshaw lights another cigarette from the half-full pack she’d brought with her to the recital and brings Bradley out to the backyard so he can play and she can watch him. But before she lets him go, she looks down at him and says flatly, “If kids at school ask you about Uncle Tom and Uncle Pete—you need to tell them they’re just friends.”

And in his eyes, she can see the confusion of a little boy who hadn’t been aware that Tom Kazansky and Pete Mitchell were anything other than just friends—the confusion of a little boy learning about duplicity for the first time in his life. 

“Okay,” he says, so she lets him go.

—

[Maverick. 1998.]

“Don’t go easy on him,” Maverick hollers breathlessly over his shoulder, fishing around in the ice chest in the sand for two cans of Coors; “He just joined the J.R.O.T.C.; don’t go easy on him; he’s tougher than all your squadrons combined; beat him into the dirt…”

“Thanks, Uncle Mav,” shouts Bradley from across the volleyball court, where he’s getting initiated into one of the volleyball teams of younger fighter pilots. 

Maverick flashes him a thumbs-up and finds his T-shirt on the first bleacher bench, pulls it on with one hand, and then hops up the rest of the benches to sit with Ice, who’s got his CVN-65 ballcap on and a book open in his lap and is offering informal career advice to one of the other lieutenants: “Yeah, so, in my opinion, it’s all down to what you think you can stomach… If you want me to look over your C.V., I can totally do that—I think I’m free Monday at around thirteen-hundred, if you want to stop in to talk. Not a problem. Not a problem. Alright. See you later.” He watches the lieutenant go, then lolls his head over to look at Maverick, who’s tossing an ice-cold can of Coors up and down. “Hey. Good game. —Coors, Mav? This is an insult.” But he takes the offered can anyway, looking out onto the court, where Bradley—fourteen and just entering his beanpole phase of evolution—is currently spiking the ball. “Cool.” It’s a nice summer Saturday, a casual opportunity for the officers of Miramar to socialize with their families (Ice is wearing a golf shirt and jeans), and by now pretty much everyone knows that Maverick Mitchell’s raising his friend’s kid and that he and Captain Kazansky are good friends, so this is pretty nice. Not much to hide.

“C’mon,” Maverick says, popping open his own can, “you and I were having a scintillating conversation, a few minutes ago.” He’s hunting around for the sunscreen so the tops of his feet don’t burn to ashes in the sun.

“Scintillating. That’s a big word for you. Wow.”

“You’re rubbing off on me, Sir Reads-a-lot—”

“See, that’s funny,” Ice interjects, “because I seem to recall, before you so-rudely interrupted me to go play volleyball with the kids, I was telling you that it’s really not that interesting. It’s actually, Maverick, quite boring.”

“Well, I’m intrigued now. Go on. Finish it off, I wanna know.”

Ice slaps his book shut and gives the long tired sigh of a man who is very self-conscious about the fact that he’s about to turn forty. He pops the tab on his can of Coors and huffs in exasperation when it foams all over his hand. “I mean it, my family history’s really not that interesting. Typical eastern-European immigrant shitshow. U.S. officials change one letter in our last name and everyone loses their goddamn minds… Actually, that story might be apocryphal, I keep forgetting which former Soviet Socialist Republic I’m actually from, I just can’t remember, all the borders got redrawn so many times, one of ‘em…”

Maverick smiles and pulls his TOPGUN ballcap back down onto his head, tugs the brim down low over his eyes so he can tip his head back and not go blind from the summer sunshine. He’d thought Ice would be reluctant to share his family history, but it turns out that most people are just afraid to ask him, and he’s actually pretty eager to talk, if you just ask. Maybe over-eager. He’s rambling. Maverick cuts him off: “Yeah, you do have a left curve to you, don’t you. Genetic.”

The dirty joke strikes Ice dumb for a second, but then he forges ahead, wisely choosing not to engage. He keeps going, oblivious to the fact that Maverick’s not really listening… “Anyway, my grandfather was Jewish, but he died literally the second he stepped foot in America, so it doesn’t count…my grandmother was Orthodox, crazy story how they ended up together; actually, that story’s probably apocryphal, too…she’s the one who raised me, pretty much. I told you that. She brought my dad out to Southern California when he was a little kid, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed, So-Cal’s not exactly the Mecca of Orthodox churches or anything, so he wasn’t very religious at all… My mom was from Milwaukee, I think. Or maybe Minneappolis. Some kinda Protestant. Forget which kind. The preachy kind. But then she died and I didn’t have to go to church anymore, so I didn’t.”

“You just never believed?” Maverick mumbles, half-joking.

“Nah. I mean, I always had too many questions no one wanted to answer. For instance: okay, say you’re bad. Say you commit sin…”

“I’ve never sinned, sir. You’re talking hypothetically.”

“Right. Me, neither. Hypothetically speaking. So you go to Hell. Well, the devil’s there, too, ‘cause he’s a sinner, too. But why’s he want to punish you? What does he get out of it? You’re both in the same boat!”

“Probably a sexual thing,” says Maverick, watching the purple-green imprints of the sun dance around behind his eyelids. “He probably gets off on it. The devil, I mean.”

Ice laughs and laughs. “Sure. Try saying that in front of my mom and see if you survived. I learned pretty early on that they don’t want you to be too curious. So I kept all my questions to myself.” He’s also joking, not taking this super seriously, but that’s a pretty in-character answer. “What about you, Mav?”

“If I’ve told you my family’s history once, I’ve told you a thousand times…” That’s a joke. Maverick’s the one who doesn’t like talking about his family history. Ice hasn’t heard any of it, and for good reason. Maybe someday he’ll tell him about it. “Later. But, remember, I used to be Southern Baptist? Jesus, I was serious into that shit, Ice.”

Ice snorts. “Yeah, right. You.”

“Not joking. I had about eighty girlfriends between fourteen and eighteen, but that’s the most pious I’ve ever been. Lotsa loopholes to make my relationships biblical. Was thinking about being a youth pastor. —I’m not joking. It was my whole personality, for a while. Most of my childhood, anyway.”

Ice is still laughing in disbelief. “Oh, yeah? And then what happened?”

Maverick smiles. “…Got hooked on sinning.” 

“…Yeah,” Ice replies, and Maverick can hear the nervous smirk in his voice, “I guess I’d know a little something about that.”

And normally that would be the end of the conversation. But Maverick’s feeling a little sun-drunk, a little giddy, and he’ll never, ever, ever grow out of instigating stupid arguments with Ice just for the fun of it. From beneath the brim of his ballcap he mutters, “…You think Carole’s brainwashing her kid?”

Ice huffs a laugh, and says through a lazy yawn, “I’m not militant in my atheism, no.” But he, also, will never, ever, ever grow out of instigating stupid arguments with Maverick just for the fun of it, and his curiosity’s clearly been piqued. He stews in it for a second before he snaps, “Do you think Carole’s brainwashing her kid?”

“I’m just saying she has him readin’ outta the Bible, like, five times a day. She sends him to church camp. Does something to a kid.” He has no dog in this fight, but this is fun.

“And what did it do to you?” Ice says, reaching down to shove his shoulder good-naturedly. “Weren’t you just telling me not five seconds ago how you used to be the perfect model of Christian charity?” Maverick mumbles a retort sleepily; Ice pushes on through it: “Bradley’s a human being. Either he grows out of it like you did, or he doesn’t, in which case, whatever, land of the free. That’s the First Amendment. You swore an oath to the Constitution. Maybe you should read it.”

“I’ve read it. I’m not Congress, shithead. How’s it go, you want me to cite it to you directly, ‘Congress shall make no law…’ actually, I don’t know what comes after that. Got me there.”

“Don’t call me shithead, dipshit. And whatever. Good thing he’s Carole’s kid and not yours, then. He’s got a mom who wants him to go to church. It’s up to him if he wants to listen to her or not. That’s growing up.”

Maverick tips up the brim of his ballcap to look at him, sprawled out in the bleachers very unprofessionally for the CO of this entire volleyball court, and snaps back, “Well, he’s a little bit my kid. The same way he’s a little bit your kid.” 

Ice just flicks his sunglasses down onto his nose and purses his lips and neither confirms nor denies this allegation. 

They watch the game together for a while, Ice’s toes pressed against Maverick’s lower back discreetly, trying to work their way under Maverick’s T-shirt. Until one of the young pilots approaches a few minutes later: “Sir!” / “What’s that kid’s call sign again?” Ice mumbles to Maverick, prodding him with his foot. / “Hooker.” / “No shit.” / “Sir!” says Hooker again. / “Which one of us, kid?” says Maverick. / “Captain Kazansky, sir. We’ve got a spot opening up. Wanna play?”

Maverick looks up at Ice expectantly. Ice sighs and harrumphs and waffles for a minute— “I’m too old for this shit.”

“Sir,” says Maverick, “it’s not a competition, but if it were, I’d be winning.” 

Lighting the fire of competition under Ice like that is always a good strategy. He rolls his eyes, but immediately stands and tugs off his shirt and rolls up the cuffs of his jeans; “I’ll only play if I can play with the kid.” 

So Maverick watches the teams get scrambled again with a smile, and sits up to watch Ice join Bradley in the sand. Bradley’s only just now taller than Ice, and Ice clearly isn’t used to having to reach up to curl an arm around his shoulders to strategize, his eyes narrowed like an eagle’s, staring down the competition. Maverick can read his lips from across the pitch: Alright, kid, I’ve been watching for a while, and I think I know these guys’ strengths and weaknesses…okay, here’s what we’re gonna do… And the game begins when Bradley spikes the ball.

Ice won’t always be this fun, this down-to-earth, this human. The admiralty and the guilt and the grief of the years to come will strip it all away from him, bring him back to the cold, remove him from his own humanity. And maybe, even if it isn’t conscious, Maverick can recognize that, right now, watching Ice dive into the sand with a laugh: this summer sunshine is only temporary. It’s gonna have to end at some point. So he doesn’t take it for granted. He keeps his eyes open and watches and tries to commit it to memory.

And after the game, Ice and Bradley come over so Ice can finish his beer and put his shirt and his baseball cap back on, and Maverick can make fun of them for losing. And: “What were you guys talking about for so long before the game?” Bradley asks Maverick with a grin.

“Whether or not your mom’s brainwashing you,” Maverick says.

“Oh!” Bradley says mildly. “…No, I don’t think so!”

“Oh, that’s a great start,” Ice laughs. “You would’ve made a great Soviet. No, I don’t think I’m getting brainwashed. Hey, by the way, Gosling, if you want a beer, Maverick and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Aw, really?” whispers Bradley. “Thanks, Uncle Ice!” And he races down the bleachers towards the ice chest in the sand.

Maverick watches Ice watch him go, fingers still pinching the brim of his CVN-65 ballcap, clearly worrying about something the way Ice always is. 

Then he looks down at Maverick, stares openly for a minute, and says, “You don’t think we’re teaching him to rebel too much, do you?”

—

[Bradley. 2000.]

“Kiddo! You’re here early!” It was Uncle Ice, walking through his own front door, catching a glimpse of Bradley watching the Astros-Nats game on the TV. He was still in uniform, but smiling wide, and he set his bag down near the couch and leaned over to ruffle Bradley’s hair goodnaturedly.

“Practice ended early today.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. Maverick should be home soon, still at work—your mom’ll be here in about an hour—she told me to put the chicken breasts in the oven, but you know me, every time I use this oven I set off the fire alarm, so you oughta help me with that…”

“And,” Bradley said, watching Uncle Ice wash his hands in the kitchen sink, “I got here early because I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, sure!” chirped Uncle Ice. Then he paused, sensing a trap. “What about?”

“Advice,” Bradley mumbled. He took a deep breath, and stood to follow Uncle Ice into the kitchen “I was just—I was just curious. If you had any advice for me joining the Navy. You know, with me being gay, and all. How do I—I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It’s kinda been weighing on me. Do you have any advice?”

Uncle Ice was still drying his hands off on a kitchen towel. Rubbing them red and raw. And when he raised his head to speak, there was something dull and startled in his eyes: “I don’t, um—no, I don’t—I don’t know anything about that. —You should ask Uncle Maverick about that.”

“I did,” Bradley said desperately, because he had. Yes, he’d gone to Uncle Mav first. “He—he told me to talk to you.”

“…Oh,” said Uncle Ice, now standing in front of a shelf to return one of his books to it. This surprised him. Maybe hurt him a little. “No. I—I, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“But—”

“And there are probably better people to ask than me or Maverick. I—I don’t know—that’s not really my…I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

Uncle Ice swallowed, put the book back on the shelf, then clasped his hands together and set them on the shelf, too, as if leaning over his captain’s desk to chastise someone. He blinked for a long moment. Clearly shifting gears. Becoming someone else so easily. Why couldn’t Bradley do that? “But I can tell you this,” he said, and his voice had gone grave and dim, “and I know you and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on politics—but I can tell you this, professionally, because I respect you, and I care about you, a lot—you’re going to have to keep it a secret.”

Dismayed, Bradley said, “Why?”

“Why’s a funny question to ask about something like this,” said Uncle Ice curtly. He shrugged. “Why? Because it’s the law. That’s why.”

Bradley swung his bat at the hornets’ nest. This was always dangerous with Uncle Ice. “It shouldn’t be a law. Don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s the law. And we get paid to enforce the law, internationally speaking. And the military doesn’t work if personnel refuse to follow the rules in broad daylight. So.” He trailed his fingertip along the spines of all his precious books, then eventually found a different one, started flipping through it absentmindedly. “And even if it weren’t the law, it’d still get enforced extrajudicially. You know what that means?” He did that, when he was intentionally being cruel; used big words that Bradley didn’t know to make himself sound smarter. “It means outside the law. The way people talk to you. The way people respect you or don’t respect you. And this business, the one you want to go into, is all about respect. Being a pilot is kind of like being a knight: you have to be noble, you have to be honorable, you have to respect your service and your adversaries and yourself. And because I respect you, and because I care about you a lot, I’m just telling you the truth—you’re going to have to keep it a secret.”

Bradley blinked. There was something crushing and overwhelming about the truth—maybe the fact that it was the truth, maybe the fact that he hated the fact that it was the truth. It made sense. But it also meant his future was unspeakably bleak. He tried to speak over the lump in his throat when he said, “Yeah. That’s what Maverick told me, too.” And what he’d wanted to hear from Uncle Ice was that Uncle Mav was telling a lie. 

Something went soft and slightly wounded in Uncle Ice’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Uncle Ice said gently. “I wish I could give you better advice than that. But that’s all I know. I don’t know any more than that.”

“Don’t you want to know more than that?”

“No.”

And thus did the generational gap widen into a chasm. 

—

[February 2003.]

Dear SN Bradshaw, / Please call/email/write me back when you get a chance. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[August 2003.]

Dear AN Bradshaw, / I hope you’re doing all right. I hope at some point you and I can get in touch to talk. Please let me know if there is some other address I should be sending my letters to. I am not sure if they are finding you. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[May 2004.]

Dear AN Bradshaw, / I wanted to congratulate you on your acceptance to college. Yours is a very good AE program & you should feel very proud. Please let me know if there’s anything you might need as you prepare to start your first year. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[August 2010.]

Dear LT Bradshaw, / I wanted to let you know that I’ll be at NAS Oceana for a conference from December 6-9. I understand that’s your neck of the woods—would you be interested in having dinner with me on either that Tuesday or Wednesday night? I would love to hear how you’ve been doing. You can reach my secretary at the number below. / Love Uncle Iceman.

…

[October 2014.]

Dear LT Bradshaw, / We Maverick and I want to wish you a Happy Birthday 30th Birthday. We heard you are deployed out in the Atlantic now—we hope you will be able to enjoy the enclosed gift card when you make it back to terra firma. Our updated personal cell numbers are below. / HAPPY BIRTHDAY! FROM UNCLE MAVERICK & Uncle Iceman.

…

“Haven’t heard back from the kid yet.”

“…You think we ever will?”

The longest silence.

—

[Pacific Air Type Commander Beau Simpson. 2016.]

You could see it in the way they held themselves. An utmost similarity. Aristocratic propriety. Maybe a little sense of entitlement: look how hard we’ve worked to be here. All three of them had it. More accurately: Captain Mitchell and Admiral Kazansky both had it, and had passed it down to their son.

“Captain Mitchell.” Everyone was watching. The sun had only just set; the sky was melting from horizon-red through orange and yellow and teal up to midnight black above them.

“It’s an honor, sir,” said Captain Mitchell, accepting Admiral Kazansky’s handshake. God, you’d never know it by looking at them. Half the people here on this Roosevelt flight deck knew about them, but they were so convincing that more people weren’t sure. TYCOM Simpson glanced at Rear Admiral Bates, who glanced back in confusion—I thought they were…? They were, TYCOM Simpson signaled, just abnormally good at keeping it a secret.

“Honor’s all mine, Captain,” said Admiral Kazansky, and he passed by without a second glance.

And when he made it down the line of aviators to Lieutenant Bradshaw—you could see it. The similarity in the way they held themselves. Straight and rigid and unyielding. Cold and dismissive beyond belief, even to each other. Admiral Kazansky held out a hand. Lieutenant Bradshaw took it, but refused to make eye contact. Quiet rebellion under the radar: Admiral Kazansky had taught him well. 

TYCOM Simpson glanced at Captain Mitchell, to gauge his reaction. And for once, he and Captain Mitchell were clearly thinking the exact same thing.

Like father, like son.

You could see it in their stubborn determination. How far they were willing to go. How hard they were willing to push. How long they were willing to hold their own hands to the fire, if it meant the familiar painful comfort of staying warm. “Ice-cold, huh?” TYCOM Simpson asked him the next morning, trying to pin down their strategy, trying to secure a guarantee that their family would do what their country asked of them, even if that meant death. Even if that meant the ultimate sacrifice.

“Only when I have to be,” replied Admiral Kazansky, which meant always, and—soon thereafter, he ordered Lieutenant Bradshaw to his death.

But also, Lieutenant Bradshaw went willingly, too.

“Dagger One is hit.”

“Dagger Two is hit.”

Loss is supposed to hit a man in stages. Isn’t that the truth? —Not so for Admiral Kazansky, whom grief obviously swallowed whole in just an instant. He did not break, or bend under its weight. Just stood there staring at the E-2D AWACS screen with wide wounded eyes—not disbelieving eyes. They were gone. Captain Mitchell and Lieutenant Bradshaw were gone. He was in no denial whatsoever. He had leapt straight to acceptance.

“Sir,” said TYCOM Simpson hesitantly, and he reached out to touch him—the stars on his shoulder—guide him back to reality—what must it be like, to lose a son?—to willingly forfeit your family?—

But before he could make contact, Admiral Kazansky drew a breath, moved away, and closed his eyes for just a second. Perfectly composed, even with the waters of grief closing over his head, even with three dozen observers in this C2 room all scrutinizing him for his response. Perfectly composed. How did he do it? How could he manage? How was he possibly still this proud?

“Vice Admiral Simpson,” he said calmly, “I relinquish my command to you, until you deem me necessary to return to my post.”

“Sir,” said Rear Admiral Bates, darting panicked, sympathetic eyes to TYCOM Simpson, but it was too late—Admiral Kazansky was already leaving the room. Head held high and steady. 

Some confusing weeks later, after Captain Mitchell and Lieutenant Bradshaw returned from the dead, TYCOM Simpson and Rear Admiral Bates would casually debrief the mission together in the lobby bar of the Waldorf-Astoria in Washington, D.C. No hard liquor, just beers. Just barely enough alcohol to give them an excuse to philosophize. “You think pride is a sin or a virtue?” TYCOM Simpson found himself asking, tracing the rim of his gilt-edged Stella Artois glass with a finger, after having recounted the above testimony.

“Neither,” said Rear Admiral Bates. “Gotta be a vice.”

“A vice.”

“Yeah. Good men die because of pride, bad men die because of pride…we send our sons to battle because of pride…wars are fought and won and lost because of pride… every war in human history, when you boil it down, begins when someone says, ‘You’re wrong and I’m right, and I’m proud of my own righteousness, proud enough to kill, proud enough to die, proud enough to send my sons to die…’”

“Oh, okay. That’s the root of all human conflict, then, according to you, Warlock. Okay.”

Rear Admiral Bates smiled and laughed at himself, too. Pride, he mouthed. Then shook his head. “We’re a proud species. It’s our vice.”

TYCOM Simpson was thinking about the two proudest men he knew, Admiral Kazansky and Lieutenant Bradshaw, and wondered what it was, exactly, that had driven a wedge between them, you’re wrong and I’m right and I’m proud enough of my own righteousness to send you to your death/inflict my death upon you… And then he remembered the warnings he’d previously received about Lieutenant Bradshaw and Lieutenant Seresin and their open relationship, and then he remembered Admiral Kazansky coldly shaking Captain Mitchell’s hand… and he wondered if the wedge between them was exactly that: the matter of pride.

—

[Tom. 2018.]

“Merry Christmas and a happy new year, and all that,” says Pete, raising his glass and reaching over the dining table to clink rims with Tom and then Bradley. “A good year! A really good year! —Sorry your guy couldn’t be here, Rooster. We’ll call him tonight before you go. Tell him we miss him.”

“Where is he again?” Tom asks.

“Washington,” Bradley says with a smile. “Big conference at the Pentagon. I’ll see him next week.”

“You know,” Pete says with a sly grin directed at Tom, “I’ve never actually heard the story of how you two got together.” 

“Oh,” Bradley says, shrugging as he tears open a dinner roll, “not that interesting. Pretty much what you’d expect. Inter-squadron competition-turned-sexual tension. Not exactly within regs, but we did meet each other before D.A.D.T. got repealed, so it wasn’t like we’d’ve ever been within regs, either…” (All the while, Tom’s smirking over the rim of his wine glass at Pete, No, Mav, I’m not gonna tell him I had them reassigned to the same boat…) “We broke up when I got sent to TOPGUN. But we figured it out eventually.”

“Glad you did. Sorry he couldn’t be here.”

Bradley hesitates, then says, “You know what I just realized? I never heard how you two got together…! You’ve never told me that story!”

Tom glances over at Pete, do you want to take this or shall I, and when Pete motions all yours, he sighs and says, “Uh, we don’t really know. We’ve just been telling people nineteen-eighty-six because it’s easy. But in a much more real sense…” He thinks about it, then shrugs. “Whatever. If you really want to know. In nineteen-ninety-three, right after I came back to San Diego to take command at Miramar, he and I had a drunken one-night stand. By accident. Which then turned into twenty-five years of accidental one-night stands. So.”

“Oh, c’mon. You guys bought a house together.”

“Yeah, that,” says Pete, “that was, uh, to facilitate the accidental one-night stands. Make it more convenient for everyone.”

“Cut out the middle-man,” Tom supplies, then shrugs again at the look on Bradley’s face. “That’s our story, kid. It’s not super romantic. We weren’t thinking about it that way. We didn’t know how.”

Pete raises the wine bottle to refill Tom’s glass—though it’s still halfway full—and then raises his eyebrows when he “notices” the bottle’s empty. Changes the subject as he stands: “Okay, what’s everyone feeling? Red, white, what’s next?”

“Red,” Tom says absently. “Anything big, I guess—first cab you see…” But then he thinks about it, and he amends his order before Pete leaves earshot: “Actually—we’ve got that petite sirah we gotta drink—two-thousand-four. Israeli. Might be somewhere in the back, sorry. But now’s a good occasion, I think, to bust it out for the holidays. No reason to save it.”

“Israeli sirah two-thousand-four,” Pete repeats, “okay. I got that.” 

Then he steps outside, leaving Tom and Bradley alone. It’s not awkward—they’ve worked really hard over the last two years to make it not-awkward, after the mission—but human beings are human beings. Prideful, stubborn creatures. There will always be a little guilt between the two of them, and a little blame.

“I have to be honest,” Tom says after a moment, interested in being honest for Bradley’s sake, “sorry we don’t have a better story to give you, about us. It is a little hard to talk about.”

“Why?”

“Well—we don’t know the words we’re supposed to use, for one. It’s your generation who sets the standard for that kind of thing. You young people. We’re a little out-of-date. And…well. I guess we’re just jealous of you. It’s hard to talk about.”

“Jealous?” Bradley repeats quizzically. “Why?”

Tom leans back in his chair and really thinks through what he wants to say. This is one of those impromptu speeches you never really intend to make, but are probably still important to get off your chest. “Maverick and I,” he starts carefully, “will never stop feeling guilty about what we did to you. Ever. You need to know that.” And when Bradley scoffs and huffs and tries to interrupt, he goes on, “Not just pulling your papers from the Academy. It goes back further than that. We will always feel like we deprived you of your father. The merits of that feeling are debatable, sure, but it’s a fact of life. A fact of our lives, anyway. And it’s dictated so much of how we live, and how we’ve lived, over the past thirty years. Part of the reason I came back to Miramar in nineteen-ninety-three was to be with you and your mom. Because I felt I owed you that, in return for what I’d taken.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Bradley says. “Or, at least, I never blamed you for killing him. You or Maverick both. You guys were my dads. You didn’t take anything from me. —Excepting the obvious, the Academy, but that was mostly my mom, I guess, so, whatever.”

“I’m just telling you what our lives have been like since the day I met you. Why we did what we did.”

“Okay. But I still don’t understand why you’re jealous.”

Tom smiles, a little faintly. “Because the other part of the reason I came back to Miramar in nineteen-ninety-three was to be with Maverick,” he says, “and I’m jealous of you because I didn’t recognize that at the time. —Everyone hopes, when they have kids—because, look, I’m not your dad, but you are my kid, really—everyone hopes they can bring their kid into a better world than the one they had when they were a kid, and we did. But no one prepares you for how jealous you get when your kid grows up in a better world than you did. I’m not sure people your age understand how hard it was for us when we were your age.”

“I do.”

“Sure, but I don’t think you do. I—I didn’t…” He sighs. “I never meant to fall in love with Mitchell. He never meant to fall in love with me. There certainly were men in relationships in the Navy back then who could make it work—we weren’t those guys. We looked down on those guys. Most people did. And when you were an officer, your job security and your paycheck relied on your subordinates’ respect for you. If we’d rocked the boat, traded away our respect for our relationship, well, we’d have each other, but we’d be out of a job. And then, if we’d been fired—what did we kill all those people for? For nothing! What a waste of all the lives we took! It wouldn’t have been honorable. Would’ve disrespected the Navy, our careers, the men we killed. So we didn’t talk about our relationship. You know that. Didn’t talk about who we were, or what we were doing, or why, because we were afraid of losing our own honor. Didn’t talk about it until the day you two died and came back from the dead. That’s what it took. Maverick still hates talking about some of that stuff, all the labels, all the words—that’s why I sent him to get a bottle at the back of the fridge, he might be out there a while…”

“Cunning,” Bradley says softly, but leaves the space open after he speaks.

Tom looks away. “Maybe this is getting too deep into the weeds. I’m just trying to tell you what it’s been like for us. Not sure how much of this you want to hear.”

“All of it. —All of it.”

Tom clears his throat. “…Well, Maverick keeps trying to convince me that we never wasted any time. And I know there is some truth to that—we didn’t start out liking each other at all—even if we’d been as brave as people your age are nowadays, even if we’d been open with each other about that kind of stuff, we still probably wouldn’t have ended up together. I mean, we really didn’t like each other. Especially right after your dad died, and especially after you left, in two-thousand-two. So maybe it was better for us in the long run that we didn’t talk about it. But I look back on the thirty years I’ve spent with him, and…it still all feels like a waste to me.” Maybe he really is too deep into the weeds. But he just wants Bradley to understand. “Look, Mitchell is, beyond any possible shadow of a doubt, the love of my life. Always has been and always will be. Right? —I just wish I’d known that at the time. I’m jealous of you because you’re exactly the age I was when I came back to Miramar to be with you and your mom and Maverick, and you’re already married, and you won’t ever have to sacrifice any of your honor for your marriage. You’re one of the most respected men in the Navy.”

“So are you, Ice, and you’re also married to another man.”

“I’ll remind you, though it hurts a little, that I’m almost exactly a quarter-century older than you, and you and I got married within a week of each other. I had to wait for times to change.” He holds Bradley’s gaze for a moment, then finishes the last of his dinner and sets his fork down on his plate. “So, if you were ever wondering why Mav and I are a little bitter around you and Jake, well, it’s because we are.”

“Oh,” says Bradley. “See, I always thought it was just because you and Maverick are both notoriously bitter people.”

“We are,” Tom admits through a laugh. Then he continues, “But—you should also know how proud of you we both are. How proud of you we’ve both always been. We’re not very brave men—well, we are, of course, but maybe not in the way that matters. It’s pretty gratifying to have a kid who’s braver than you are. Every parent’s dream, whether we want to admit it or not. You’re brave enough for all of us.”

It’s at this moment that Pete opens the garage door and sticks his head inside and hollers, “Ice, I can’t find it. What about a merlot? Can we do a merlot?”

“No, baby, the sirah,” Tom answers without turning his head. “It’s on the second shelf, you might—have to rearrange some of the bottles—we have too much wine. We need to drink more, me and you.”

“Not a problem,” says Pete, and he shuts the door again.

“It’s on the third shelf,” Tom tells Bradley in an aside. “He’ll find it eventually. He would’ve tried to change the subject six times by now. —The previous Secretary of the Army—he actually just got married this week, I think; I need to send a card—also gay. He and his partner invited Maverick and me out to dinner the last time we were in D.C. Most uncomfortable I’ve ever seen Mav in my whole life. Asking us questions like, ‘How did you guys get together…?’ ‘Was it easier for you guys because you were in the Navy…?’ ‘When did you…know…?’” When Bradley laughs, Tom does, too. It’s really nice, it turns out, to joke about this stuff with someone who understands. “We just made our answers up out of thin air. I was uncomfortable too, admittedly. That’s what I’m saying. Mav and I never learned the vocabulary to answer questions like that.”

Bradley starts taking their plates to the sink. What a good kid. “You know,” he says from the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder when Tom joins him at the counter, “it’s so funny you bitch that you and Mav don’t have a romantic love story, or whatever. When I was a kid, you and him were literally the pinnacle of romance.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah. There’s something romantic about the secret, too. When Jake and I made our relationship official—the first time—I begged him to keep it a secret just for a little while. You know; it was sexy, for a few minutes! Something only he and I knew!”

“And you immediately discovered how awful it is, I’m sure,” Tom says noncommittally. “I’m jealous of you that you learned that lesson young. —Yeah, real romantic. Maverick and I could’ve ended each other’s careers fourteen thousand times over. Real romantic.”

“And trusted each other not to,” Bradley points out—

—which makes Tom reconsider. 

Yeah, okay, maybe it’s a little romantic. The way Grimm’s fairytales, once you wipe away all the blood, are just a little romantic. “I’m of the opinion that the only thing getting old is good for is looking back on your life through rose-colored glasses. Sure. Historical revisionism it is. It was a little romantic.”

“What’s a little romantic?” says Pete, stepping into the kitchen and triumphantly brandishing his 2004 petite sirah; “Have I missed something funny? —It was on the third shelf, by the way. Could’ve told me that before I went and reorganized the whole fridge.”

Tom graciously accepts the half-annoyed kiss to the cheek, and answers, “Nothing you would’ve laughed at, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, one of those conversations,” says Pete, hunting around in the drawer for the corkscrew. “If you were planning on continuing, I can go out and rearrange the wine bottles by region instead of by year—” and scoffs when Tom kisses him back to reassure him, conversation’s over.

“Did you know,” Bradley says, “your husband is now openly calling you the love of his life?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Pete with a smile, popping the cork from the bottleneck, “he tells me that all the time. Nothing new.” Tops up their glasses, then deftly changes the subject: “Oh, gosh. I never asked. This is the big news. How are you and Hangman enjoying SOUTHCOM?”

“Oh, God,” says Bradley, rolling his eyes. “Let me tell you…”

“I think we did good,” Pete says later that night—they’re alone now, so he’s fine talking—as he tugs loose the tucked sheets to clamber into bed, and when Tom moves to turn off the light he adds, “No, you can keep reading.”

Tom sets his book down onto his chest and pulls his glasses off anyway. “Well, you and I are known for doing ‘good,’” he muses after a second. “We’re pretty universally renowned for being good at stuff. But, regarding what in particular? —Raising our kid?”

“Yeah. We did good.”

Actually, they didn’t do very well at all. But of course that’s not what Pete means. Pete means: it’s shocking and stunningly fortunate that they did as poorly as they did and still somehow ended up with such a good kid. Tom’s looking up at the ceiling and feeling very small. “How did that happen? Genuinely, how did that happen? I did always build getting married into my plan for my life—but I never thought far enough ahead to consider having kids. And now you and I have a kid who’s in his thirties. How’d that happen? I remember when he could barely walk!”

Pete yawns and rolls over onto his side and closes his eyes. “You and I have a kid who earned a Medal of Honor.”

“I know exactly how that happened” —and doesn’t like to think about it too much. “I suppose we’re just a family of overachievers. A lot of failing upwards, you and me. Somehow we failed our way upwards into a very happy lifelong relationship, a superstar kid…a few dozen medals each, ourselves…”

“That’s life,” says Pete sleepily.

“That is not most people’s lives. You’re aware that our lives look nothing like the average person’s life, right? You understand that?”

“That’s our life.”

Tom considers this. Yeah, it is their life. Wild how that happens. 

He smiles at the singular word life, sets his book on the nightstand, presses a kiss to Pete’s bare shoulder, and turns off the light.

#happy Father's Day! #some light discussion of religion in this one but u should be used to that with me #this one is long bc it hits a LOT of prompts sry it took a minute #going thru my inbox: for this anon obv #and FTAW (for the anon who) wanted more competitive icemav #for the FOUR anons who wanted ice and bradley to talk about queerness in the navy #FTAW wanted rooster to explain how hangster came to be #FTAW wanted more ice breaking the rules (‘management tier asshole’ lol) #for the THREE anons who wanted more soft 90s icemav #which is hard for me to write bc those years are kinda boring #it’s literally just: they wake up together. Go to work together. raise their kid together. eat dinner together. fall asleep in the same bed #occasionally fuck. Keep it a secret. don’t talk about it. #for 5 years. like… narratively speaking it’s v boring but yeah they’re happy :) #FTAW wanted more of ices prenavy backstory (this isn’t really much but…) #FTAW wanted icemav’s relationship with religion #tom iceman kazansky #pete maverick mitchell #top gun maverick #top gun #icemav #top gun fanfiction #you guys sure love ur anonymity don’t u #i wanna know who’s sending in asks!!! my dms are open!!! Please come say hi!!! #there are some timeline issues wrt Carole in this one sorry. u can deal.

[thou-babbling-brook]

Sanctuary

AO3

Rating: T

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationship(s): Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe

Word Count: 6344

Tags: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Maria Thorpe, Al Mualim, Original Characters, Assassin's Creed I, Masyaf, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Crusades, Implied Happy Ending

Summary: After stumbling upon a small caravanserai during a narrow escape, Maria has questions about Altaïr's past - particularly, his defining scar.

This fic is based on some of @nebulacrum's thoughts and headcanons about Altaïr's relationship with Al Mualim, along with his lip scar.

You can click here to see @ramshackledtrickster's accompanying pieces!

I hope you guys enjoy!!!

“Baba, we have customers!”

Fahmi glanced up from his ledger, brow furrowed and eyes squinted as the setting sun squeezed through the cracks in the sandstone walls. His son bounced before him while gesturing wildly to the door. His words blended together with the constant ringing present in Fahmi’s ears. Setting his hands against the desk, he rose, groaning as the aches in his joints cried in protest.

“Ameen,” he murmured, hunched as he shuffled to the gnarled wooden door, sand seeping onto the floorboards as the evening gusts of wind swept the hot sand inside. Maryam wiped her hands on her tattered apron before laying them on Ameen’s shoulders. 

“Come, it is late, and your father is tired,” she whispered, kissing her son’s head while guiding him away from the door. Fahmi nodded his thanks, shuffling to the window and shielding his eyes from the golden glare of the sun as it sank into the horizon. 

“But Mama!” Ameen protested. Maryam shushed him, her words inaudible as she and her son walked through the narrow doorway. Fahmi groaned as he reached down to the floor. Grabbing a few wooden panels, he straightened his back and placed them against the open window. His wrinkled hands trembled with each movement. Each knuckle ached as he flexed his hands and flattened his palms against the wood.

A resounding thud against the door disturbed the sand and dirt gathered by the entrance. Squinting, Fahmi poked an eye through the minuscule cracks in the wood panels. Two camels knelt before the water trough. Their backs were still covered with blankets and saddles. Yet, aside from the rushing winds of sand, the quiet hissing of nearby snakes, and the low chuffs of the camels, Fahmi found no sign of visitors.

Ameen rushed to his side, much to the protest of his mother as he tugged at his father’s robes. “I told you!”

Fahmi quieted the child, hobbling to the door as he pressed his ear against the wood. Another resounding set of knocks, this one more desperate than the first, echoed in the sandstone room. Broken Arabic shattered the silence. A woman, her voice high and exhausted, shouted through the door. Her accent was foreign, reminding them of the soldiers that had marched through the desert not long ago. Maryam tightened her hold on Ameen, pressing him against her front with wide eyes.

Maryam turned to her husband. “We were not expecting any caravans for another week.”

“I know,”  he replied, voice barely above a whisper. Ameen curled against his mother as the pounding continued.

The voice begged and pleaded behind the door. Her pronunciations were muddled and awkward, but the desperation caused Fahmi to move his knobby hand. Slowly, he unlatched the door, prying it open enough to peer an eye through the crack. Immediately, he gasped, hobbling back and slamming open the door. The voice (a Frankish woman, it seemed. Though, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between their accents) was not alone. The pale woman stumbled forward, thanking Fahmi in her jumbled Arabic while Maryam covered her mouth.

“Help,” the woman pleaded, her eyes wide as she looked at her companion. Arm slung over her shoulder, a hooded man collapsed against the woman’s frame. An arrow stuck from his side, covered in gore. His linen robes were coated in dark liquids, sand, and dirt, a few notable slashes still seeping blood into the cloth. Maryam rushed to his side, shouting over her shoulder for Ameen to grab freshly drawn bandages, wine, and washcloths. The boy scrambled backward before turning and sprinting through the doorway. Fahmi knelt before the strangers, eyes darting to his wife as they shared a fleeting, anxious look.

“What has happened?!” Fahmi demanded, still breathless as Ameen returned, arms full of supplies as he tripped and stumbled into Maryam. The foreign woman could only stare with furrowed brows in return, her eyes jerking over Fahmi’s face.

“Mercenaries,” the wounded companion spat. It was clear that he was from the region. If not, a traveler passing through to his home. His face remained hidden beneath his cowl, eyes toward the ground while Maryam gestured for the woman to help her. The two laid the man on his back, flat against the cool floorboard. With the glaring sun hidden behind vast mounds of sand, Fahmi reached for two candles, placing them by his wife’s feet once they were lit. “We barely escaped.”

“God has willed it,” Maryam praised. Ameen sat awkwardly by his father’s side, face growing pale as Maryam and the strange woman attempted to treat the man’s wounds. Fahmi laid his hand on Ameen’s back, rubbing it soothingly. 

“Ready a room for them,” Fahmi instructed his son. “They will need somewhere to rest if he survives, God willing.” Ameen nodded and rushed off down the side corridor. In the meanwhile, Fahmi came to his wife’s side, his hands laying on the strange man’s stomach while Maryam surveyed the entrance wound. 

“It is shallow, praise be,” Maryam explained. The man grimaced, clenching his jaw and nodding. He turned his face to the woman, trading Arabic for a language Fahmi could not quite identify. French? German? It had been so long since he had served in the sultan’s army. He could not recall the languages of their adversaries. The woman shouted frantically back, to which the man turned to Fahmi and Maryam.

“Can you pull it out?” the man asked through gritted teeth. Maryam and Fahmi exchanged glances. 

“It would be unwise.”

“I did not ask if it would be wise. I asked if you could.”

The foreign woman seemed to understand enough of their conversation to slap his shoulder, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. She shouted again, her voice choking while her eyes glistened. The man squeezed her forearm, groaning and murmuring something that managed to calm her enough for him to return his attention back to Fahmi.

“You were a soldier. Have you dealt with this before?” the man asked.

“How can you tell?” Fahmi redirected. 

“You avoid resting on your knees.”

“You are right, but I have not seen this in decades.”

The man hissed as Maryam accidentally brushed her hand against the arrow. “Please, sir. My… my wife can help, but I will not be able to translate while you pull it out. I need someone with experience to help your wife.”

Fahmi, for the sake of the man, ignored his own, visceral reaction to such information that the strangers were married. Instead, he nodded, motioning for the woman to join him and Maryam by the arrow. Maryam handed the woman a cloth damp with wine, offering a weak smile as Fahmi placed his hand on the man’s stomach and the end of the arrow.

There was a silence before the man’s screams echoed off the sandstone walls, Fahmi quickly ripping the arrow out of the man’s body. The foreign woman slammed her hands down against his side, the damp cloth preventing blood from pouring out. While the woman kept pressure on the wound, Fahmi helped Maryam wrap the bandages around the arrow wound. They bound the cloth snugly around the man’s muscular torso, then turned their attention to the other slashes on his body. To the mysterious man’s credit, his screams only lasted as long as it took for the arrow to come out. Instead, he huffed through his nose, turning on his side and retching as nausea struck him all at once. His wife stroked his hair beneath his cowl, shushing him in their shared language until he fainted from the pain.  

“We need to examine his body for more wounds,” Maryam explained. She turned to the man’s wife, hesitating before gesturing to her own eyes, then the rest of the man’s body. It was enough for the foreign woman to understand as she crawled to the other side of the man, raising his robes high enough on his chest to view his other wounds. The trio worked diligently, trading supplies as they wrapped the wounded man’s body. 

“How is his face?” Fahmi wondered. He pointed to his own face, and the foreign woman nodded in understanding. However, she paused at the cowl still covering her husband’s head, as though debating whether to look. Her brows knit while her lips formed a pout. Maryam scooted closer, offering to help. The woman hesitated, but finally gestured for Maryam to continue. Fahmi thought nothing of it until Maryam gasped. 

“My God! What happened to him?!” she demanded. Fahmi hurried to her side while the woman tilted her head, squinting her eyes. His eyes widened at the scar adorning the man’s chapped lips. A man younger than what his eldest son would be now, God rest his soul. He laid his fingers against the scarred tissue, twisted and stretched from his chin to his cheekbone. A scar several years old, yet poked and prodded at judging by the abnormal healing.

“God help him,” Fahmi murmured, bowing his head and murmuring a prayer. “This is no sword slash.”

“And these are no normal wounds. Who is this man?” Maryam replied quietly. She raised the cowl once more. The man’s wife glanced between the two with a puzzled expression. Ameen returned with the commotion now ended, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the corridor.

“The room is made, Baba,” he spoke. Fahmi nodded, groaning as his knees protested as he stood. The foreign woman stood alongside him, glancing between him and Ameen.

“Room,” Fahmi spoke to the woman, gesturing to his son. “He will take you to your room.” He spoke slowly, overly annunciating his words. The woman nodded along, reaching inside her pockets. She handed him a heavy bag of coins. When Fahmi poked inside, his eyes widened. It was nearly a month’s revenue inside the bag. He protested, shaking his head and shoving the bag back into her hands.

“Too much,” he protested. The woman chuckled tiredly, laying it on the desk regardless of his protests. She knelt down to her husband, slinging his arm around her shoulder and heaving him onto her back. Her muscles strained beneath her tunic and trousers. Fahmi had to admit his astonishment at the woman’s strength, knowing he would be of little help. Regardless, he did loop the man’s other arm around his own shoulder, helping the woman carry her husband to their room. Together, they laid the man down on the bed. Maryam laid a fresh set of bandages, linen cloths, and a bottle of wine by the bed.

“For the wounds,” she explained. The woman nodded, eyes downcast to her husband.

Ameen scampered forward, offering a small bucket. “He might be sick,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed with color. The foreign woman managed a smile, mustering her best Arabic as she murmured her thanks. Fahmi and Maryam bowed their heads in respect, ushering Ameen out of the room and closing the door behind them. The couple shared fearful looks.

Just what kind of man had arrived at their doorstep? Worse – who had this man angered that dared mutilate his face before God?

.~.~.

“I have questions.”

Altaïr retched into the bucket, coughing and sputtering while nausea overcame him. He gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to Maria. “Right now?”

“Yes, but I will give you the courtesy of finishing,” Maria decided, scooting closer to the Assassin. Her palm rubbed his back as he heaved. 

“How kind,” Altaïr muttered.

“I rather thought so.”

Altaïr heaved into the bucket again. This time, Maria slid her hands to Altaïr’s chest, holding him up while he kept the bucket close to his frame. Freshly changed bandages demonstrated that Altaïr’s wounds were healing appropriately, but they did little to dissuade the nausea. She laid her cheek against his toned back. 

“You called me your wife.”

Altaïr panted, setting the bucket down by the bed. “What?”

“Your wife. You called me your wife when you spoke to the couple,” Maria murmured. 

Altaïr said nothing. He laid back against the pillows, eyes closed as he steadied his breathing. Maria propped her elbow on the pillow next to him, cheek resting on her palm.

“You were a fool for taking that arrow to your side,” she chastised. 

“You would have done the same for me,” Altaïr replied. His eyes remained shut, brows furrowed as beads of sweat cascaded down his face and chest, his robes long abandoned as they sat folded neatly in a nearby chair. The sweating was good, Maria reminded herself, though it was harder and harder to do so with how pale her companion was becoming.

“It does not make you any less a fool,” Maria murmured. She laid her hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his torso. Altaïr laid his hand over hers, his heart thumping against her palm. 

“I thought you had questions,” Altaïr whispered. He opened an eye, peering down at Maria. She hummed.

“I do. You ignored my first one,” Maria replied.

“It was not a question.”

Maria huffed, pushing on Altaïr’s chest. “Fine. Why did you call me your wife?”

“To avoid suspicion.”

“You could have called me your sister.”

Altaïr paused. “Would you have preferred as such?”

Maria pursed her lips. After a moment, she answered. “No.”

“Then I see no reason for concern,” Altaïr responded tersely. He grimaced as he shifted on the bed, holding his side. Maria sat up, easing Altaïr into a more comfortable position.

“I did not mind it,” Maria clarified. “You know I did not. I… I was just curious.”

Altaïr nodded, though Maria could not tell if he agreed. She fidgeted next to her friend, eyes falling to his lips. His familiar, plump lips, marked by his most defining feature. She leaned forward, reaching up to his lips and pressing her fingertips against his scar. Altaïr stilled. She could feel his body tense under her simple touch.

“They seemed horrified when they saw this,” Maria explained. “I did not understand why. They spoke too fast.” She repeated the few Arabic words she remembered, but they felt clunky and heavy on her tongue. Altaïr’s lips parted slightly, dry and chapped from their journey through the arid dunes. He avoided her eyes, tilting his face to the side as he reached for the goblet of water.

“Your Arabic is improving,” Altaïr complimented. 

Maria frowned. “You are avoiding the question.”

“You did not ask a question.”

“You know damn well what I meant.”

Altaïr shot her a look. Maria gulped. Yet, she held her chin high, too proud to back down from her words now. “I thought your scar was a battle wound, like mine. The man seemed to think otherwise.”

“It is, in its own way,” Altaïr muttered.

Maria laid her hand on Altaïr’s cheek, turning his face toward hers. She studied his scar, eyes narrowed as her fingers returned to trace the sensitive flesh. His upper lip split into his scar, providing a small slit into his mouth and exposing a sliver of his teeth and gums. It was barely noticeable from afar, and rarely had any man reached Altaïr’s face long enough to observe how his scar melded into his face. But for Maria, it had been the first feature she noticed, the cool metal of his hidden blade nicking her throat while she sneered. Admittedly, it had terrified her upon their first meeting. No man’s lips should form such a gruesome tear, after all. She was surprised it took the older couple so long to notice it. 

Maria was no doctor, but she had experienced more agonizing pains and wounds than the average man could dream of. The scar marked just above her left eyebrow proved it, nicked by a Saracen sword in a battle alongside Richard I. For years, Maria wore such a wound with honor. It was her first permanent scar since she had traded a wedding ring for a sword. A sign that no man, nor woman, could confine her. An affront to the English nobility that once trapped her. Such scars were not becoming of a woman, so Maria puffed her chest and bore hers with pride. Her scar was not a trap, but an escape from desirability as she wandered to the ends of the Earth. Her scars were gnarled and twisted and deep, but they had healed.

Altaïr’s most prominent scar differed in this regard. It was gnarled and twisted and deep like her own, but the flesh had not healed as hers had. Her eyebrow scar healed over a decade ago. Altaïr’s lip scar looked nearly as old, but the flesh had not healed. Not until recently, at least. The outer edges of his scar were light, contrasting against his deep tan and dark hair. The edges were fully healed. His lower lip and chin had been spared as well, the scar a faint pale against his skin. But whereas these areas were faint and light, the rest of the scar remained an irritated red. Not infected, but irritated, as though prodded at constantly. The dark shade of his upper lip failed to conceal the redness of his scar. Only in the last month or so had it begun to heal, slowly fading into a pinkish red.

Even as Maria trailed her fingers along his scar, Altaïr sat eerily still. Too still, as though he was bracing for impact. His jaw was clenched. His biceps tensed as Maria moved closer, her face lingering by his. She guided her fingertips to his jaw, brushing her thumb against his jawline. 

“You should shave,” Maria hummed, eyes glancing up. “Your face is growing scraggly.”

Altaïr cocked a brow. “Is that a question?”

Maria shook her head and pursed her lips, brows raised. “No. A suggestion.”

Altaïr stared at her. Those piercing, golden eyes that made even Maria shift under his gaze. She remained so close, barely a breath away from his lips. The puff of air from his nose as he exhaled tickled her own. 

“I can do it for you,” Maria suggested.

Altaïr almost smiled. “This feels like a demand rather than a suggestion.”

Maria rolled her eyes, huffing as she stood and walked to their things. Searching his bag, Maria located a small razor amongst his barren things. Throughout their time together, he always packed lightly. Truth be told, she was surprised he even possessed a razor. She returned to the bed, guiding Altaïr to sit up further with a candle in hand. She set the candle down on the bedside table, then unsheathed his razor. Carefully, Maria raised the blade to the Assassin’s jaw and scraped away a few wrily strands of curly, dark hair. 

“No water?” Altaïr asked.

“You will be fine,” Maria remarked, eyes focused on her work as she brought the blade closer to her thumb. “Besides, it is a trim. I rather like your facial hair. You should let it grow out.”

It did not escape Maria’s notice how Altaïr tensed at her words. For his sake, Maria paid it no mind and continued her work, trimming his coarse hair. A moment of comfortable silence passed, interrupted only by the scraping of the razor against Altaïr’s sharp jaw and the snoring of their camels just outside the minuscule caravanserai. Much to Maria’s surprise, it was Altaïr who broke the silence. 

“You said they were shocked to see my face?” Altaïr spoke. His words were uncharacteristically soft.

Maria frowned. “Not your face, your scar.”

“Is it not one and the same?”

Maria stopped in her tracks. She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she tracked Altaïr’s movements. His golden gaze avoided hers, cast down upon the scratchy sheets. His lips were parted ever so slightly, Maria watching as he quickly swiped his tongue over them. Her eyes flicked to his hands, which lay awkwardly in his lap. Once again, his body was tense, muscles straining and breath shallow.

“What makes you say that?” Maria questioned, tone harsher than intended.

Altaïr’s throat bobbed as he shifted his gaze back to hers. “What makes you ask?”

“No, no,” Maria argued, setting the razor down against the bed. “We are not starting this. Altaïr, what makes you say that?”

There was a long pause. In the past, Maria would have dropped the subject entirely, writing it off as some sort of Assassin trick to dig into the deepest pits of her heart and mind. Now, however, Maria held her chin high as she forced Altaïr to keep her gaze, her heart thumping against her chest.

“How did the scar upon your brow form?” Altaïr asked. 

Maria closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “Altaïr, I am not going to–”

“Do you want to know or not?” He snapped. Maria’s brow furrowed, and Altaïr quickly cleared his throat. He repeated his question, his voice much softer and weaker than before.

Maria stared incredulously, but ultimately decided to play along. “My first battle. One of Salāh ad-Dīn’s men slashed my brow.”

Altaïr nodded. “Were you shamed for it?”

Maria shrugged. “A few soldiers from my infantry joked here and there, but no.” She squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow. “What are you getting at?”

“In Islam,” Altaïr explained, “it is believed God places all of our senses and beauty into our faces. It is why Muslims avoid striking the face.”

Maria scoffed. “My scar begs to differ.” 

Altaïr did not laugh, though she did see the corners of his lips tug up in a phantom smile. “It is taboo to do so. It can leave the face… disfigured,” he explained. “It is not so easy to conceal as a scar on one’s arm or leg.”

Maria’s expression fell. She hesitated before she finally asked her burning question. “Where did you get your scar?”

“Who do you think?” Altaïr all but answered.

Maria should not have been surprised. She only knew of Altaïr’s master through his stories and his codex (Maria could not help it – his journal had been left wide open). Despite Altaïr’s almost nostalgic tone toward a man who had betrayed him time and time again, each story left a sour taste upon her tongue. Now, her tongue tasted bile and copper in disgust. 

“How old were you?” she demanded, her words eerily still. Her blood boiled. 

“Old enough to know better,” Altaïr replied, quiet. 

“Horseshit. How old were you?” 

“Thirteen winters.”

Maria stood from the bed, pacing back and forth by the side. “You were a boy. A boy!” She rustled her dark locks from their meticulously braided bun as she grasped and tugged at her hair.

“I knew better than to speak out of turn,” Altaïr replied, his voice raised almost defensively. “I owed everything to him. My progress, my training, my life. He cared for me, in some twisted way, after my father’s death.”

Maria flocked to his side, kneeling before him on the bed as she cupped his cheek. Her thumb grazed over his scar. She tried not to gag imagining a small boy, voice yet to crack, begging the one guardian in his life for mercy. Apologizing desperately for words that should not have offended an allegedly wise leader so greatly. 

“That is one thing,” she managed once her voice was composed enough. “But it should be healed. It should be healed by now. For God’s sake, Altaïr, you are twenty-seven! Why is it only now healing?!”

Altaïr caught his lip between his teeth. “I have never been good at staying my tongue. I needed reminders.” His jaw clenched as his throat bobbed. Maria nearly choked as he spoke. “If I would not close my mouth, he would pry it closed for me.”

Maria stared. What else were she to do? She stood, pinching the bridge of her nose while Altaïr silently stared – no, glared – down at his own hands. 

“Your master would mutilate you before God,” Maria murmured, her head spinning, “and you would defend him?”

“He was an ordinary man,” Altaïr replied softly, “in control of illusions.”

“This is no illusion, Altaïr.”

“I know.”

Maria tossed her hands in the air before setting them on her head, pacing once more. She inhaled, standing and placing her hands on her hips. She gestured to Altaïr, speechless as she attempted to form words on her heavy tongue. “For thirteen years, Al Mualim slit and prodded your mouth to silence you, on top of his manipulation. As a boy, I understand your hesitance, but you never once fought back?”

Altaïr stood, hand clasping his side while he straightened his back. Maria took a step back, eyes wide but jaw tensed. “How do you fight a man who thinks himself God?” he questioned with narrowed eyes. “What would I have gained? Where would I have gone?” Altaïr winced and sat back down, eyes cast down shamefully. Maria sighed, sitting next to him on the sheets.

“Assassins are not always required to hide their faces,” Altaïr confessed quietly. He tenderly rubbed his stub of a ring finger, thumb brushing over the seared and scarred skin. “Most lower their hoods in Masyaf if they are not patrolling. There is no reason to hide amongst brothers.”

“And you?” Maria dared ask.

Altaïr shook his head, running a hand through his coarse curls. “I was no brother. I was his personal weapon.” His throat bobbed, and Maria tore her face away when she noticed his golden eyes begin to glisten in the flickering candlelight. “He created me. He could mold me into whatever he pleased. He could slice and strike my face. He could shave my beard and treat me not just as a boy, but a dog. He could isolate me. He could tear my name from me and make me the son of no one, loved by nobody. He could do whatever he pleased.” He turned to Maria, voice wavering as he spoke. “Where would I have run to? Who would I have hidden behind that would not whisper my arrogance to Al Mualim?”

There was silence as both Altaïr and Maria turned to stare at the cracked sandstone before them. “My face was unsightly, he told me,” Altaïr whispered. “Disrespectful, even.” He bent forward, elbows digging into his knees while he craned his head and rubbed his eyes. “Better kept hidden beneath a cowl, even in the arms of my brothers.” Altaïr swallowed. “He was correct.”

“No,” Maria opposed. “Your scar is not unsightly. It is not disgusting, or disrespectful, or anything that blabbering fool would have you believe. Your face is not unsightly. You are not unsightly.”

Altaïr chuckled, though it nearly sounded like a sob. “You do not have to lie, Maria.”

“I am not!” Maria all but shouted, coming in front of Altaïr and bending her knees slightly, stopping when she was level with him.

“I am nothing.”

“You are everything,” she pleaded. Maria cupped each of his cheeks, thumbs brushing the heavy, dark bags beneath his kohl-covered eyes. “You are kind and good and curious and wise and beautiful.”

It was Altaïr’s turn to scoff. “Beautiful? I hoped in our time together, you would have some respect for me, even if minute.”

Maria bit back an argument. Instead, she reached for his hands, squatting on the ground while she squeezed them. “You are not some ‘ugly, old Assassin’ beneath your hood,” she murmured, briefly lowering her voice and swapping her accent to mimic his words from Cyprus. Once she had seen his face in Cyprus for the first time, she had thought he was joking during their initial meeting with his Cypriot allies. Now, staring into his piercing eyes, Maria’s heart shattered knowing he had truly not lied. At least, he did not believe so.

She held his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle. “You are so beautiful. Strikingly so. In fact, it is embarrassing to admit,” she managed a soft laugh. “You are not some broken, shattered weapon. You are the Mentor of the Assassins. You are a scholar. You are a man. You are Altaïr. And Altaïr is more than enough.” 

Altaïr was quiet. Maria did not press for an answer. His tear-stained cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight, were enough to signal the power of her words. Her heart pounded as she imagined the utter agony one man could carry. Maria had little autonomy under Robert’s control amongst the Templars, but Altaïr had possessed none under Al Mualim since the age of eleven. His name was stripped from him. His masculinity was torn away in favor of a boy to manipulate. His face was mutilated simply because Al Mualim could. To be at the mercy of a man with none, who believed himself worthy of the powers of God… Maria choked back her tears, instead burying her face in his hands and kissing each palm. 

“Altaïr,” she murmured, gazing up into his tearful eyes, “you are everything to me.” She cupped his cheek, ignoring her own hot tears as she smiled solemnly. “You have given me a fresh start. You have given me compassion, wisdom, love.” She swallowed a sob, standing before repositioning herself on the bed. Altaïr still said nothing, his eyes simply following Maria with every movement.

“Please,” Maria begged softly. She cupped her hands around Altaïr’s. “We are more than the instruments people would craft us to be.” Shuffling forward, Maria laid his hands over her heart, her own hands keeping them flat against her chest. “You are Altaïr. I am Maria. That is all we need be.”

Maria could not recall what resulted in Altaïr’s lips melding perfectly against her own. Perhaps it was the thump of her heartbeat. Perhaps it was their matching tears and snotty noses. Perhaps it was Altaïr’s released anguish. Or perhaps, it was merely Altaïr distracting himself from his nausea. Whatever the case, Maria gladly opened her mouth, finding Altaïr’s mouth absolutely delectable as her fingers combed through his curly locks. It was not the first time their lips had met so fervently. It was not even the first time their lips had met with so much love. But it was the first time their lips had met so unencumbered. There was no hesitance as Altaïr deepened their kiss, no weariness behind his lips. Nothing but relief and love and catharsis.

Eyes fluttering, Maria dug her fingers into Altaïr’s coarse hair. The warmth of their breaths mingled with each kiss. She sank her teeth into Altaïr’s lower lip, tugging it and slipping her tongue into his mouth. All the while, Altaïr pressed fervently in return, deepening their kiss as he tugged her forward. Maria’s head spun as her lips lingered by Altaïr’s long after they parted for air. His breath was hot and ragged on her cool skin. She tilted her head up, squinting her eyes as she analyzed his face. Tears stained his sharp cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy. Even with his mouth shut, Maria could see his teeth and gums through the exposed sliver of his scar.

Maria cupped both of his cheeks, her thumbs swiping the stray tears from his skin. She watched as his eyes crinkled and his lips tugged into an awkward hint of a smile. His curved nose, slightly crooked from Maria’s boot to his face only a few months prior, bounced the candlelight off his face. The flickering light highlighted his strong, sharp cheekbones. His eyes, a piercing swirl of gold and amber, were only emphasized by the kohl beneath them. Every inch and crevice of his face captivated her. The longer she stared, the more he strained against her palms as if tugging away from the attention. Tears welled in his eyes as her hold left him utterly exposed. But she could not let him tear away. His dark curls and his striking gaze and his full lips and his winding scar and his scruffy beard and his tan skin enchanted her very being. 

She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. 

“Say something,” Altaïr croaked.

Maria did not. Instead, she leaned forward, peppering gentle kisses to his scar. Maria was careful not to irritate the slit in his upper lip any more than it already was. Rather, she gingerly trailed her velvet lips up along his scar, leaving small caresses along the trail. His facial hair – not quite a beard, but not quite stubble – tickled her cheeks. She smiled. 

“My first demand as your wife,” Maria murmured between kisses to his scar, “is that you must grow your beard out. I am fond of it.”

The world spun still with her words. Beneath her gentle touch, Maria could feel Altaïr’s body stiffen. “What?”

“Oh honestly, Altaïr, you cannot just stop listening to me immediately!” Maria huffed. “You have to wait at least a year.”

“I do not understand.” His voice shook – perhaps from nausea, perhaps from nerves, or perhaps from both.  Maria laid a hand on his bandaged chest. His heart threatened to thump out onto the floor. She grinned.

“We have been like this for many months,” she explained. “Stumbling around our feelings like some prepubescent children. One might think us virgins the way we stammer about.”

“Aside from insulting our maturity,” Altaïr spoke, his face contorted in confusion, “I am assuming you have a point to this.”

Maria waved her hand in dismissal. “Hush, let me get there.” The Englishwoman grasped Altaïr’s hands in her own, her thumbs stroking his calloused palms. “But tonight… something… it is difficult to explain.” She inhaled and squeezed his hands. Her pale, cerulean eyes met his amber stare. “I love you. I think you and I know that intimately by now. But it was not until tonight, with the mercenaries, the arrow, your scar… that I understood the extent of my love.”

Altaïr furrowed his brow. “I still do not understand. Why now?”

“Because for the first time,” Maria breathed, “I thought I would lose you.”

“This is not my first arrow. This is not even our first battle.”

“No, but I have never seen you so injured or ill. I have never seen you, the great Altaïr, retching over a bucket with bandages covering your entire torso.”

“If you do not make a point soon, I fear you may again.”

Cautiously, Maria handed Altaïr the water-filled chalice, waiting until he had drunk his fill to continue. Her throat swelled with tears as she gulped down her pride. “You have been so truly and utterly vulnerable tonight. You have shared with me the deepest parts of your pain. You have let me care for you and stay by your side.” She smiled through her tears, rolling her eyes as she wiped a few away and scoffed at herself. “Oh good God, this is humiliating.”

Altaïr managed a smile. A true smile. Not the phantom of a smile, or a mildly amused look. A small, bright smile that tugged his lips into his cheeks and formed a pair of dimples. Good God, Maria had never even noticed that before, and the revelation was not aiding her poor attempt at an explanation. “No, it is not,” he assured quietly. It was his turn to cup her pale cheeks. He swiped a tear from her eye, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Maria inhaled sharply, praying that God would not see her break into some weeping wildflower.

Mustering the courage and dignity that remained, Maria tightened her jaw and stared up at Altaïr. “I would walk with you to the ends of time, Altaïr. To our glory, to our doom, I do not care. As long as I walk beside you and chastise you for your foolish decisions to put yourself in front of arrows for the rest of my life, I will be content.”

Altaïr hesitated. “How can you make such a decision so hastily?”

Maria laughed. “My life is nothing but hasty decisions, Assassin.” She crawled beside him from the edge of the bed, wiggling by his side to find a more comfortable position. “But this is not one of them.”

Altaïr laid his head against the creaking headboard, closing his eyes. “So, you have decided that you are my wife now? I have no say in the matter?”

“Is that a question?”

“Maria.”

“No,” Maria answered plainly. “Not yet. But I will be.”

“What makes you so sure?” Altaïr taunted.

“I am a stubborn woman. You are a hot-tempered man. One will wear the other down eventually,” she teased.

“What if I said no?”

“You would not have called me your wife, then.”

Altaïr grinned. “That is true.” He opened his eyes and turned toward Maria, who quickly shot out her hand to ease the pain in his side. “Then you will need to learn more Arabic. It was horrendous before.”

Maria feigned a gasp. “You said I was improving!”

“Both can be true,” Altaïr countered.

“Fine. Next time, I will leave you to die amongst the vipers and vultures in the dunes.”

“You would not.”

“I will stab the arrow back into your side, Altaïr.”

“Now that, you would do.”

The two glared at one another, squinting their eyes and puffing their chests, until finally, Altaïr began to gag. Maria swooped for the bucket, lifting it to her lover’s face before he heaved into it. He murmured apologies, but Maria merely shushed him, her fingers stroking his curly hair. 

“You are still a fool for taking that arrow,” she reminded.

“You still would do the same,” Altaïr grumbled, panting into the bucket before wiping his mouth and gulping down what water remained inside the goblet. Maria kissed the top of his head, grabbing the nearest rag and wiping the beads of sweat from his face.

“You are not a weapon, Altaïr,” she reminded, careful as she dabbed around his scar. “You are a man. You do not need to earn my love or any other through reckless acts. You are a man, and that is enough.” 

Altaïr nodded, and Maria prayed he believed her.

#assassin’s creed #altaïr ibn la'ahad #maria thorpe #ac1 #fanfiction #ac fanfic #i love fucking bitches up #this took me like three days to write #but I'm very proud of how it turned out!! #and I hope u guys enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it #poor Altaïr <:( #im evil >:3 #altmar #altaïria

[lesamis]

being a fic writer is so funny. i just gave my phd thesis into print and literally my first thought looking at the final word count, the culmination of 3+ years of agony and research and blood and tears etc., was "well that's substantially shorter than the exr college au i wrote as a 19 year old in a depressed haze over six months"

#''did my yaoi stickers arrive!!!! ...... it was my bachelor's degree :/'' type vibe #like this thesis falls thirty. thousand. words. short #in writing evergreen in 2k15 i have created my own white whale. nothing i write will ever be this much or this fast. ever again #also @ everyone who's ever commented that they read that fic in the space of a day and night: what 😭 #i didn't realise how long it was! it took me weeks to proofread my thesis! and that was apparently just three quarters of evergreen! #longfic readers are so strong and interesting and also i hope they're ok. love you kings

[dear-ao3]

yo, is it ok if i yoink the kinda idea of the silly season post? i wanna write one about car setups in f1 and i like the vibes and trhe way its written so i wanna emulate that sorta thing

yeah man go ahead

#its just a shitpost basically im just a dramatic writer lol #its the creative writing major in me ig #not a tag #from saph #glad youre enjoying my disaster tho the most recent update took me 5 days to write and tumblr deleted it three times

[zannolin]

Fic Summary: “You need to sleep,” he says.

Lucy says, almost without thinking, “I don’t want to.”

Because she doesn’t. Because sleeping means dreaming and Lockwood knows exactly what dreaming entails right now. And then there’s the cold, which still hasn’t retreated, even with the cape and the tea and Lockwood’s arm pressed in a warm line along her own while they drank it.

He doesn’t answer, just takes her by the hand and leads her from the kitchen, flicking off the lights as they go. And she lets him, because she’s tired and aching, and because it’s Lockwood doing it.

(or, recovering from walking in the land of the dead isn't easy, but lockwood and lucy are giving it their best shot.)

#lockwood & co #locklyle #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #lockwood and co #hell how do u tag things in this fandom idk #zanna writes #AT LONG LAST!!! its done <- literally only took me three days #my soul has been waiting to write this since 2015. i cant believe it took me 10 years to write and post lockwood & co fic

[bigirlsdontc5y]

My thoughts on Marie, Jordan, & Halloween

If they don't do a couples costume...

Jordan is definitely the type to pretend they’re chill about Halloween when they’re absolutely not. If someone asks about their costume beforehand, they’re like, “I’m not going.”

Spoiler Alert: They go.

When (not if) they go out, their costume is most likely a character from an iconic video game or action movie. I can see them as Lara Croft, which is a great choice, because the costume is super slutty in both forms. Or they show up in a yellow tracksuit with black stripes on the sides, and when people inevitably say, "Oh, you're the bride?"

They’re like, "No, I'm Bruce Lee in Game of Death 🤨"

They chose their costume, specifically, to throw people off. It's a fun little game they play. But Marie guesses correctly on the first try, and Jordan is a little annoyed for the rest of the night.

Anyway, Jordan wins the costume contest with a costume they started working on at 9 pm the night before.

Marie, on the other hand, is 100% a last minute costume person. The only reason she’s dressed up is because Emma asked her to. And by dressed up, I mean she bought a cat ear headband from Walgreens for 5 dollars on her way to the event. Emma is going as a sexy mouse or Alice (of Alice in Wonderland), so they technically match. Just one person put effort into their costume, and the other person still has the tags on theirs.

If they do a couples costume...

I had a lot of different ideas when I was theorizing this. At first, I wanted Marie as Claudia from IWTV(2022). I feel like Marie would find a lot of comfort in her character. Claudia, like Marie, did not get to experience girlhood in the same way as her peers. Choices they could not make for themselves took it from them. Marie was given compound v as a baby, and they turned Claudia while she was unconcious. Both instances made them into something their family members were disturbed/afraid of. (This is me advocating that someone get to work on a Claudia & Marie edit.) But I eventually decided I wanted to do a couple's costume, and Claudia does not work with that.

Because I was still very attracted to the idea of Marie as a vampire, I stuck with it. I wanted to do something with classical monsters because the tropes they come with have so much fascinating symbolism.

Vampire novels, to me, are about hidden desires. Vampires are creatures that take what they want when they want it. Usually, it's an analogy for general hedonism, queerness, sex, gender ambiguity, etc, etc. The main character of a vampire novel is often disturbed by their desires, needs, and inability to control when they engage with those needs.

Jordan and Marie feel a certain amount of insecurity and discomfort around their powers. There was a time when Jordan didn't shift unless necessary, and Marie believes her powers make her a danger to society. Their discomfort harms them more than helps them because their powers are a part of their identity. Those characteristics make them conceptually aligned with the vampire.

Another choice, in line with the theme of identity and uncontrollable compulsions, was Maren and Lee from Bones and All.  But I felt like Lee wasn’t a character that Jordan would be interested in embodying.

Eventually, I settled on Marie being a vampire and Jordan being a werewolf. Werewolves share a lot of themes with vampires, but there’s one key difference. Werewolves explore ideas around transformation. Sometimes, their transformation is permanent, but usually, the werewolf is in constant movement between being a werewolf and being human.

Werewolves are about a fear of the true self. It’s the idea that being free and exploring things outside the mainstream will hurt other people. Being different from the masses makes you a danger to society. This story is preached to a werewolf so often that they believe it themselves. They take desperate measures not to shift. Even though said measures harm them.  A werewolf is depicted as being in constant emotional turmoil because they’re not “strong enough” to prioritize the needs of their community over themselves.

The werewolf's experience mirrors Jordan's experience. Their parents, ex-partners, and Vought tell them their identity is too confusing. That their identity is hurting their relationships. And that their identity is hurting their career. They tell Jordan that if they just stayed a boy, their life would be better. But Jordan knows staying a boy would be a disservice to themselves and their happiness.

Jordan putting on the costume of a werewolf is their form of reclamation. They take it on as a symbol of what they used to be (afraid of themselves) and contort it to their current feelings of who they are. Jordan’s Werewolf is about being yourself, being free, and making your own decisions.

The couple's costume Is 100% Jordan's brainchild, and Marie just agreed to go along with it. They go as a nerdy vampire and a werewolf jock. Their costumes are a fun twist on 1950s youth culture. While they’re visually mainstream, taking on the role of a monster separates them from it. The 1950s was a time when the policing of gender and sexuality was at an all-time high. Playing these characters for Halloween is a fun, transgressive experiment.

With that, I’ll walk you through each mood board and explain some of my aesthetic choices.

Marie’s preppy vampire has claw-like nails. Her teeth are sharp and uncomfortably white. She wears a neutral-colored button-up with a knit vest pulled over it. On her feet are a pair of unstylish black oxfords and fuzzy red socks. To keep her hair out of her face, she dons a ribbon or headband. A pleated skirt and leather belt tuck in her top. Blood paints her face.

The costume includes a brooch. Which is in reference to the 1950s youth culture practice  of “getting pinned”. It implies that Jordan’s Werewolf and Marie’s Vampire are dating. I chose a pin that incorporated pearl with Jordan’s Frankenstein pearl necklace in mind. So it’s less of a pin and more that she has a piece of Jordan attached to her knit vest.

In her hand, Marie holds her school books, which she ties together with a brown leather strap. The book strap calls back to an era before backpacks were popular. It solidifies the time and place of her costume.

Jordan's werewolf has recently gotten into a fight. The skin around their stark yellow eyes is a dark, discolored purple, and there's a gash across their nose. Blood drenches the front of their crisp white shirt. They styled their hair after jocks of the 50s. By that, I mean (too much) gel helps to form perfectly placed curls .

For their ears, they have prosthetics that make them appear larger than they are. The ears add an extra amount of scruff to the otherwise clean-shaven look.

On their neck, Jordan has two bite marks. The implication is that the marks are from their vampiric girlfriend, Marie. I decided to include this aspect in their costume because I get the vibe that Jordan is the sort of person who engages in PDA. They like people to know Marie is their girlfriend, and the faux bite marks are a new way for them to do it.

I heavily considered having Jordan wear their signature bomber instead of a letterman. But if I went that route, it wouldn't be of a costume. So, Jordan is sporting a blue letterman jacket to solidify their werewolf's role as a jock.

(Bonus - Cate is a siren, Sam is Chucky, and Andre is a loser.)

Happy Halloween,

bigirlsdontg5y

#Begging someone to make a Marie & Claudia edit #gen v #marie moreau #jordan li #limoreau #jordan li x marie moreau #halloween #I had like 7000 Pinterest tabs open to put these mood boards together. #sam riordan #andre anderson #emma meyer #cate dunlap #Jordan's mood board took like three days to make even though I had a very clear image of what I wanted #In comparison Marie's mood board took me like an hour #happy halloween #halloween costumes #halloween costume ideas #While writing this I realized that we've never seen Jordan in jeans

[samcscreams]

Tara Knows AU: previous

“She know. Oh fuck. She knows.” Sam says as she jumps out of bed and makes it about two steps before collapsing on the floor. This might be the most hungover she’s ever felt.

Crawling towards the water and meds Tara had left for her, she tries to remember the night before.

“Come on Sam” she mutters to herself as she swallows the pills and chugs the water. Using her night stand she pushes herself up to try and walk again. She fails and falls back onto her bed.

“Moving can wait. First think” she says to herself

Sam ponders the night before. Rubbing her temples she remembers the party she went to and the six pack she brought. She remembers smoking on the back porch and someone yelling shots causing her to stumble back in side. She remembers thinking one won’t hurt. Oh fuck but it wasn’t just one. She blacked out. Normally Sam could put a few things together the next day. A blurry version of how she got home and got to bed. But nothing would appear in her head this time.

That’s when it hit her. She was gonna puke. Now Sam’s always been strong. She NEVER wanted to be the waisted girl at a party with her head in a toilet. She became a master of holding it down even the next day. She already had to deal with her mother drunk out of her mind. She didn’t want to be like that. Was she like that? Had she turned into her mother already? Was turning into her father not far behind? Sam’s head was spinning she had to move now or she’d be scrubbing her sheets all day.

With all the might she had she forced herself out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom slamming the door behind her and lunging towards the toilet.

Tara with her bedroom door open sees her sister fly by making her jump a bit.

“Sam?”

Sam, already hacking her guts up doesn’t hear her sister call after her

Tara, again was straddling the thought, help or don’t help. There’s so much she wanted to ask, to say. But the fear of pushing her sister away gripped her throat. Sam would come to her when shes ready, She thought to herself.

Through watery eyes and shaky hands Sam pulled her self off the toilet and stumbled over to the sink. She turned the faucet on and splashed her face. Life couldn’t possibly get any worse than this she thought to herself. It could and it would. Sam grabs the towel that’s next to her to dry her face. With a big sigh she finally looks up to see the mess she had become only to be startled by the dark brooding eyes of her father.

It had only been 6 months since she was diagnosed with schizophrenia and a year since she started to see him. Her meds helped but they were far from perfect. Certain drugs, and alcohol helped the sounds and sights quite. But with every success there’s always a failure. At 17 she was offered LSD for the first time. She thought oh what the hell what’s the worse that could happen. He is. He is the worst that could happen. All of here fear and worries perfectly personified into the one person she hated the most. Billy Fucking Loomis. Her father.

“No, fuck, not now” Sam said

“Oh yes now. Isn’t this amazing! She knows! God I can’t wait for you to tell her all about me” Billy said with a twinkle in his eye

“Tell her about you? In what demented world would I tell her about you?” Sam snaps back

“You really want to let her cultivate an opinion on her own Sam? Asking her little friends about me? How do you think that will go Sam? She’s your family don’t be so naïve. They’ll take her away from you.” His voice was low and sharp

Silence filled the air. Sam just stared at her father mouth slightly agape

“You know I’m right Sam. Come on. She’s your sisters Sam. SHES YOURS” His voice grew loud and angry snapping sam out of the trance like state she was in.

Sam shut her eye trying to make him go away “No no no she’s… she’s not mine. She couldn’t understand. I… i…”

“You can’t run away from this Sam.” He said

“Oh yes I can” she sneered

“You’re almost my age, it’s time to face the facts.” He said sternly.

“I…” Sams voice broke as she realized it’s true, her 18th birthday was but weeks away.

“Now that she knows you can do it together. How fucking cool would that be.” He continued

“Tara’s good. She would never been like you. She’s pure” Sam scoffed

Her sister could never be like him. She has no connection to him. Her blood isn’t tainted the way Sam's is.

“She might not be my blood Sam. But she’s is yours” he said while laughing

Sam couldn’t take it anymore and ran out of the bathroom hearing her fathers bellowing laugh follow in her ears. Only to not see Tara in the hallway and slamming right into her knocking them both down.

“Ow geez” Tara said rubbing her head

“Oh fuck Tara I’m sorry I didn’t see you” Sam said scrambling to her sister to help her up

“I’m fine. I’m more worried about you” Tara said as she stood up.

Sam’s immediate reaction is to push away and shut down. But the burning questions pertaining to the night before left her feeling extremely vulnerable

“Tara… I…” Sam at a total loss for words just looked at her sister. Those big brown eyes staring up at her begging for her big sister to let her in. Sam could feel the pin prick of tears behind her eyes and the fear gripping her guts.

“Saaaammm. Tell her. Tell her about me. Teach her Sam” Billy echoed through her head

“I… I can’t I’m sorry” Sam managed to finish as she took off to her bedroom leaving Tara abandoned on the hallway.

“Sammy please” Tara shouted. Surprising both herself and Sam.

Sam standing in front of her bed room door eyes locked on the door handle she had in her hand.

Tara feeling miles away yet only a few feet down the hall took a step towards her older sister. Tara didn’t know what she was going to do but she knew she couldn’t let her sister go. Not yet.

“I don’t know if you understood me this morning. But I know. And I don’t care Sammy. please I need you to talk to me” Tara barely finished before tears flooded her eyes.

“I know. I just. I don’t know how to talk.” Sam said as she fought every instinct to run to her sister and hold her while she cried.

“I don’t either. Maybe we can not know together.” Tara said with a shaky voice causing Sam to finally look up at her

“You don’t have to be alone anymore.” Tara exhaled wishing she could say what she truly wanted

“I don’t want to be alone anymore”

#sam carpenter #scream #tara carpenter #I decided to call this Tara Knows. Simple. Easy. Honestly this took me like three days to write and I'm not even sure i like it. #But I'm still proud of it so here it is! #AU: Tara Knows

[asummersday]

hey! i'm not dead!! :D

So, here’s the thing. Leo never really realized how many things were casually phrased as orders until he got cursed. Turns out, it’s a lot more than he originally thought.

#hi <3 #took me a while to get this out because depression was kicking my ass this month #but its here now!!! we're moving things along!!! #sorry about the ending tho #(i say. like a LIAR) #IM FINALLY FUCKING FREE #GOD IVE BEEN WRESTLING THIS DANG CHAPTER FOR WEEKS #i have a love-hate relationship w this chapter actually #i like how most of it turned out but i hate it so so much bc it took me fucking forever to write it #I WILL NOW SLEEP AND NOT LOOK AT THIS CHAPTER FOR THE NEXT THREE BUSINESS DAYS THANK YOU 🙏 #(hoping and praying it doesnt feel rushed bc i lowkey did rush thru some scenes that were giving me grief. ill reread and fix it i prommy) #rise leo #rise donnie #rise mikey #rise of the tmnt #rise raph #summer post #my writing #rottmnt fic #rottmnt #ataimw #my fic

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Shrimpy?

We have Grim, and now our dearest Shrimp Prefect is here (I finished them August 18th but haven’t posted them yet).

#dove knits #koebi-chan #does this count as a Yuu-sona??? #twst #twisted wonderland #shrimp #my knitting #they’re about 20 or 25 cm long #grim towers over them #I was cursing myself the entire three days it took me to make them #why? because shrimp are decapods; aka they have 10 legs #ramshackle dorm is now complete #ignore the towel; it’s the only blue thing that i have on hand #can’t do fun poses with them really; alas #also ignore that they don’t have eyes please #btw i finished knitting them while watching the OG little mermaid; which felt fitting #yeah i was knitting them while waiting for my laptop to charge when i was writing malleus's soul match #i am not knitting the rest of the cast; dear gods; i still want to keep my sanity

[leviathiane]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 死印 | Shiin | Death Mark (Visual Novel) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mashita Satoru/Yashiki Kazuo | Kujou Masamune Characters: Mashita Satoru, Yashiki Kazuo | Kujou Masamune, other mark bearers mentioned but not present Additional Tags: Post-Canon, for the first game, Fluff, Character Study, Pre-Relationship, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Biting, Dissociation, Touch-Starved, Fluff and Humor, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Mild Sexual Tension, they are both gay men trapped a heterosexual woman centric fanservice game Summary:

...Maybe Mashita is the problem. Maybe if his libido stopped going for haggard older men, this wouldn’t be an issue at all.

#lets GOOOO #it only took me three days sdjahvgdjsba #for such a short fic i was very busy and struggled a lot #anyway yashita mashiki. here #death mark #my writing

[bisexual-panic]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Loki (TV 2021), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Loki/Sylvie (Loki TV) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Sylvie (Loki TV) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex, Excessive Hair Pulling, Car Sex, kind of a fix-it but not really, Fluff and Angst, more tags to be added later Summary:

Loki takes a break from his study of mechanics, physics and engineering to go satisfy a craving of his… at McDonalds Or Sylki fuck in Sylvie’s truck

For Loki this is set in ep 6 during the time he spends learning about the loom and whatnot. For Sylvie it’s set during ep 5 before Loki finds her after the loom incident at the end of ep 4

#sorry that i've been dead for the past couple of days #but here is the fic that took me a month to write (i took me three writing days and a day to proof read but i'm just lazy) #I'm half way proud of this #more in the fact that I wrote something rather than the writing but we'll see #idk what else to say #but here ya go hope u enjoy and pls leave kudos and comments #sylki #loki season 2 #loki laufeyson #sylvie laufeydottir #loki series #fic related #ao3 #ao3feed #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #ao3 writer

[mister-eames]

You really do be out here blessing us with all your headcanons 🥺 I’m thinking though... what about the first time Arthur and Eames make each other laugh? I am literally so about all those small and seemingly inconsequential moments that lead to the ‘oh’ moment 🥰

The Snort.

It's been an hour. A whole goddamn hour of listening to Edmund the Extractor droll on about their planned heist, circling around and paraphrasing it in so many different ways and Eames has had enough.

"...and so, if we can just reiterate the outline..."

That's it, he's zoning out.

Settling back in his chair he allows his gaze to roam around the rented office space. He catches Arthurs eye from across the room, who, if possible, looks even more bored than Eames does. At least it's not just Eames then. He tilts his head towards Egghead Edmund and makes a face, crossing his eyes and scrunching up his nose.

Arthur's lips purse as he supresses a smile, but his cheek indents, giving him away. Then, while Edmund is turned away, Arthur raises two fingers to his temple and mimes shooting himself, tongue lolling out for a moment as he plays dead, only to straighten when Edmund turns back.

The playfulness catches Eames so off guard he can't help the snort that escapes his nose.

The dirty stare that their extractor sends him is worth it.

2. The Snicker.

Generally speaking, Arthur believes in just desserts. He doesn't hold egregious grudges and tries not to interfere in matters of revenge too much. People who deserve it will get what's coming to them.

Except, Arthur also happens to have an inner thirteen year old that is not above petty pranks in the name of being the arbiter of said karmic justice - and Eames, that thief, that fucker, has been riling Arthur up all job. Little things here and there, stealing his pens, his keys, standing in front of the coffee pot in the kitchen and refusing to move when Arthur wants to make a coffee -- and on one memorable occasion, sketching dicks all over his paperwork. Dicks on his dossier.

Eames does this all the while looking at Arthur with an infuriating expression that somehow managed to be both blank and smug.

Well, that's it. Arthur has had it. He doesn't know how Eames manages to be so annoying to the point of Arthur breaking his composure, but he's achieved it.

The opportunity for a bit of pay-back comes at the end of long day, near the end of the job. It's only them and the architect left in the warehouse.

Eames goes to sit but Arthur, seeing the opening, kicks out at the base of the chair at the last second, wheeling it away. Eames drops to the floor with a heavy thud.

The startled look at his face is hilarious.

Arthur looks down at Eames with the same smug look he'd received these last few weeks.

"Messing with a mans chair," Eames grumbles, getting up, rubbing his rear with his hand as he does so. He nods Arthur. "I'm going to get you back for that, just you wait."

"You've got dust on your ass," Arthur says politely.

Eames looks back and down at his slacks, the dark fabric indeed imprinted with dust. Then he shrugs and jauntily walks away, hips swaying with an exaggerated swagger, the dusty handprint shifting with the bounce of his derrière. The architect barks a laugh at the sight.

Jesus.

Arthur swivels his chair around so Eames can't see him snickering into his palm.

3. The Giggle.

This has been the most boring job in the history of jobs.

They've been stood upon this rooftop observing the dreamscape for snipers and other assassins for hours. Worse, Eames isn't even here in the dream to forge, to be an acteur, he's here because Arthur called him and asked if he would like something to do and Eames was stupid enough to say yes. This mans mind is 'mildly' militarised, in Cobbs words, hence the need for extra manpower. At least Arthur is with his to keep him company.

It hasn't been all bad though. The boredom, after several hours, has clearly gotten to Arthur too.

"That projections' name is Brenda," Eames says. "She looks like a Brenda."

They've been playing this game for the last thirty minutes.

Arthur peers over the ledge at the projection, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, brushing shoulders with Eames to get a better look. Arthur nods, continuing their game.

"She works as a corporate receptionist by day."

The projection walks down the pavement in a respectable two-piece, talking on her phone. Eames asks, "and by night?"

"She works at a strip club."

"Oh, how saucy."

Arthur adds, "Also as a receptionist."

"Do strip clubs have receptionists?"

"The classy ones do."

"You would know, would you?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's how I got through senior year of high school."

The mental image of a barely-legal Arthur sat in the shady shrouds of a subterranean strip-club sends Eames mind to a strange place. The moment is silent, pensive. Arthur's face is solemn, like he's stuck in an awful memory, brow furrowed, lips twisted in consternation.

"You wouldn't believe how out of order their taxes were," Arthur says suddenly, shaking his head in disgust.

An embarrassing wheeze-giggle expels itself from Eames chest.

He thumps it with his fist when Arthur turns to him with a surprised smile, cheeks creasing with dimples Eames has yet to see up this close.

Oh Arthur, he thinks, grinning back as butterflies swarm in his belly, never change.

4. The Regular Laugh.

The email catches Arthur off guard. For one, it's delivered to his personal email address, the one he's had since the internet was a thing (arthur_is_king69) and secondly, it comes in the midst of a drought of work. A drought so severe that Arthur has been stuck home so long that indubitably become domesticated.

The email is brief.

at a bar for my mates 30th. they have a drink here called the king arthur. reminded me of when i stumbled across this e-male addy of urs LOL. embarrasing.

Attached is a picture. It's Eames, holding up an actual goblet and pointing to it proudly, like he's just caught a big fish. He's grinning widely, all-teeth, his eyes hazy with intoxication and good cheer.

He looks loose and happy and so dumb.

If Arthur laughs and saves the picture, well, no one is around to see it.

5. The Full-Body, Belly Laugh.

The couple next door have been going at it for an hour and Arthur is starting to get seriously pissed off.

Not that he would begrudge anyone a sex life and honestly, besides criminal activity, that's mostly what he assumes these motels are made for, but it's two in the morning and Arthur is tired, alright, he's been up for forty hours thanks to a job gone bad and has to lie low, has to share a room with Eames who snored the last two nights and it's two in the fucking morning.

"Yeah, baby," a woman moans through the wall, "so good. You fuck me so good."

Arthur stares in disbelief across the room at the other twin bed as the sounds of mattress springs squeaking rises in volume. Eames, tucked under the covers, is staring right back at him.

"How is this our life?"

"Better question is how are they still going?" Eames mumbles into his hand, eyes wide. He looks as traumatised as Arthur feels.

"Fuck yeah, slap my ass!"

Their eyes widen in unison as the headboard begins pounding against their shared wall. They say nothing for a long time, listening to the occupants next door having the most enthusiastic intercourse he has ever heard. If only the motel had working had working hot water, god, he'd get in the shower and try and drown himself - at least he wouldn't have to listen to this or Eames' snoring ever again.

"Do you think they're using a condom?" Arthur wonders idly, his will to live wilting at a rapid pace.

"Probably not, given the squelching."

A man grunts, "Oh, oh!"

For some reason that makes Eames snicker. "Fucking hell. Did you hear that bloke?" He imitates the sound. Arthur cringes at the accuracy.

"Stop."

"Fuck my ass," Eames says breathily, snickering when again when Arthur throws a pillow at him.

Arthur purses his lips together when they threaten to spread wide in amusement. "She said 'slap my ass', not fuck."

"Oh, did she?"

"Yeah."

"An important distinction, my liege."

The moans next door escalate in pitch, getting more excited and loud until its a cacophony of passionate screaming and wall-banging. There's a wailing crescendo as the occupants seem to reach completion and then --

Finally.

Silence. His shoulders relax and he slowly removes the hands that have somehow made their way to cover his ears during the climax. It's quiet. It's blissfully fucking quiet.

And then--

"Oh yeah," Eames whisper-moans, high and feminine, a grin on his stupid face.

It bubbles up and erupts unbidden. Arthur can't help it - he's so fucking tired and Eames is so annoying. He throws the duvet over his head to muffle his laughter, Eames' wheeze-laugh setting him off all the more, his stomach muscles straining with unbridled mirth.

+1. Laugh so hard they cry.

The next morning they leave their room at the exact same moment the couple next door appear to be checking out.

The woman with the mutant lung capacity steps out first, slinging a duffle over her shoulders. She's very pretty - tall, leggy and blonde who looks like she's got every inch of beauty sleep, amongst other things, that he and Arthur did not.

It's the man the steps out afterwards that has them all pausing.

He hates this man. He hates him so much he didn't think he could hate him any more before last night. A quick glance at Arthur's rigid posture, fists balled at his sides, would suggest the same sentiment.

"Edmund!" Eames greets, smiling brightly. "What a coincidence."

The extractor seems to shrivel into himself upon sighting them, as if sensing this. His fair-faced paramour has no such instinct, affectionately winding her arm around his waist.

Edmund clears his throat. "Arthur, Eames," he returns the womans embrace. "We work together," he explains to her.

"Oh, at the MoMA?" The woman looks impressed.

"And who are you?"

"I'm Brenda."

Out the corner of his eye, Arthur stills.

"What do you do for work, Brenda?"

"I'm a receptionist."

Eames bows his head, looking down at his feet, jaw positively burning with how hard he's clenching it to suppress his laughter.

"We gotta to check out," she says, disentangling herself and heading to the front office, waving. "It was nice meeting you!"

As soon as she disappears through the doors Arthur, who has not slept more than twenty minutes of microsleep in the past two days, plants his hands on Edmunds chest and shoves him, hard.

"Arthur---what??"

"If I ever have to hear you fornicating like a wild animal again I am going to shoot you. In the dick."

Fornicate, Eames recites internally, slapping a hand over his face as a hysterical snort escapes his nose.

"Wait--"

"Go."

Eames looks up just as Edmund skedaddles, sneakers squealing against the pavement in his hasty departure.

"And have some fucking decorum!" Arthur snaps after him. He turns to Eames, hands on his hips once Edmund is out off earshot. "Jesus."

Decorum. At this point his shoulders are shaking with laughter. Arthurs face.

"Brenda--" he wheezes helplessly, losing the words to laughter.

Arthur's whole body crumple into laughter at the same time Eames' does. And he doesn't know if it's the exhaustion, the situation or the utter delight of Arthur's disarming sense of humour, or all of it, but Eames can't help but follow, loud, braying guffaws breaching the containment of his body and out of his mouth, eyes burning.

Even through his tears Arthur looks both pleased and hysterical, even as he attempts to compose himself and Eames finds himself utterly charmed, stomach swooping, by the wrinkles pleating at the corner of Arthur's eyes as he fails to control his smile.

They head to breakfast once the laughter has petered out into the odd snicker. Noisy neighbours and jobs gone wrong aside, Eames is going to miss the easy camaraderie of the last few days once this is all over, if he must admit it.

In the meantime, he observes the fellow patrons at the diner whilst they're in the long line to order and starts making stories about them.

Arthur grins openly, leaning into him.

#inception #arthur x eames #dreamhusbands #mini fic #you really out here blessing me with the BEST asks!!! #also my apologies that it took me three days to respond to this work has done me a murder this week #but i wanted to write this quick lil thing #arthur is secretly the funniest person i will die on this hill

[monstersandmaw]

It's not hyperfixation. It is just interest. Don't use language that doesn't apply to you

*big sigh*

#lets' have a jolly rant in the tags shall we #not that i have to justify anything to a stranger on the internet who doesn't know jack shit about me #but i've written 15880 words in 4 days #that's longer than my final masters dissertation which took me a year to research and write #and watched predator 1987 #watched every yautja info video and movie clip on youtube #thought about buying some more polymer clay to fucking sculpt Feral but i don't have enough money to do that so i didn't #neglected other projects #and other things that are significantly more important than a free story for Tumblr #fucking dreamed about these characters for three nights straight #forgot to eat two nights in a row because i was writing that story #but yeah i'm not allowed to use that word for some reason? #anon ask