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maybe-boys-do-love · 7 months ago

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SOTUS Review: Engineering the Bridge To BL

I'm not exactly a sucker for teen dramas. Miss me with Gossip Girl and Pretty Little Liars. Even less soapy shows like The OC or Dawson's Creek that I checked out because of their critical status in the genre were not shows that I felt compelled to finish after watching a few episodes. However, teen dramas were a rare space in media where queer characters were allowed to exist as secondary or tertiary characters, so in my young gayhood I searched amongst less popular shows for gay storylines like in Canada's Degrassi. I binge-watched Australia's Dance Acadamy until they killed off the gay character and sought out lists about groundbreaking shows from before my time like My So-Called Life.

The latter is not simply exceptional for its gay representation but for aiming higher than its teen soap peers for realist complexity in its characters. Later, shows like Freaks and Geeks and the UK's Skins would take up that torch, then Friday Night Lights, which had the genius to bring in the institution of American football culture in the South of the the US to ground its commentary on American racial and economic politics. Norway's Skam arrived in 2015 using the "Russ Bus" tradition for similar purposes--and used the strength of its writing to depict a globally celebrated queer story the same year as SOTUS. These elevated coming-of-age teen dramas I count among my favorite series ever in any genre.

I bring up all this TV history because I found no review yet that adequately conveys SOTUS's equivalent storytelling goals and prowess, nor do they fully indicate that SOTUS is one of the most compelling BLs to this day. Historically important, they read, but mediocre production values, primarily for straight women and homophobic, with a hazing setting that might be triggering for viewers, all implying its a relic of a less enlightened time in BL history that later shows will improve upon. While I'd recommend reading them to learn more about the history of the series that I'm less interested in covering here, these are not exactly rave reviews. What a surprise to begin the series and witness right out of the gate precision, complexity, and depth to its queer depictions that's equal to any Thai BL that followed in its groundbreaking wake.

The series manages to engineer (wah wah) bridges to blend the naturalistic elements of those other elevated teen drama precedents with the tropes and styles that populated Thai BL novels (like the pink milk from 2Moons2) and will define Thai BL series in the years to come. In Thailand, the series Love Sick came first in its BL focus, but, as lovely as Love Sick is, it sprawls across flatter characters in its focus and fails to celebrate the breadth of queerness in some harmful ways. On the other hand, SOTUS, in pacing, casting, characterization, and theme development, links BL to a plot-driven Western style and decidedly queer perspective. There's a reason it was the show to begin the more intense global interest in BL series.

Below the cut, you'll find my review about the qualities that made SOTUS so outstanding to me.

SOTUS initially struck me with the tightness of its dialogues and cuts, especially compared to many other Thai BLs that I've seen, which have a bawdy theatrical spaciousness in their tempo, more in line with broad comedy or soap opera, telenovela, and Thai lakorn. Not so in SOTUS. It gives time enough for its actors to emote but orients toward storytelling precision. Plot-forward Thai BL comparables I've seen so far might be Not Me or Moonlight Chicken. Unlike those series, SOTUS won't be any cinematography nerd's dream, clearly limited by its budget in this matter, but it works hard to keep the limits of a small budget from distracting. The cheaply licensed scoring music, for example, is surprisingly effective, its repeated pulsing dread adding to the momentum ignited by the SOTUS initiation of the freshman at Thai universities.

Senior year of high school, I selected universities for application based on my fear of hazing. No fraternities near campus for me. The gendered organization and reputation for homophobic cruelty were existential threats to me as a closeted teenager. For many gay men, including myself, frat houses and initiation ceremonies were also sites of homoerotic fantasy. Thus is the duality of gay experience.

The Thai hazing context differs from the US (no gender segregation, for example), but the series mines the same psychological tension between danger and eroticism with its controversial use of the real-life SOTUS hazing induction system--the abbreviation stands for Seniority, Order, Tradition, Unity, and Spirit--to ground its queer romance. The actual implementation of it at Thai universities has more issues than the show depicts and, while the series' hazing is a form of bullying that can trigger some, the mildness of the abuse depicted ought to be stated, especially when compared to American ideas about hazing abuse and queer media's depictions of homophobic violence. SOTUS portrays shouted verbal instructions and physical endurance trials as the means of degradation, with no physical violence and reprimands with consequences when its believed seniors have disrespected their charges or put them at risk.

Rather than a critique of the SOTUS system itself, the system provides the organizational hub for the series' broader societal commentary, and itts treatment elevates the show to the likes of Friday Night Lights or Skam. Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice title was taken from a line in Fanny Bruney's Cecilia about the two faults being both the cause of miseries and the reason for their termination. The series treats the SOTUS system and everything else within in the same manner: with complexity rather than binary keep-it-or-leave-it moralism. The S.O.T.U.S. values parallel the confines of a deeply imperfect society that when seen as strictly authoritarian pass down rules and pain from the elder generation to the the next. However, when viewed and practiced as the series encourages by the end of its story through a more nuanced understanding of the Asian filial philosophies at play, the values of seniority, order, tradition, unity, and spirit also invite compassion and affinity flowing in both directions across the generations.

The slowly emerging slight but significant age-gap romance between righteous freshman Kongpob and head 'hazer' Arthit is the central device for this exploration, but every element and scene, from the side couples to the food orders, develop our sense as viewers of the social order that the show wants to address. And the scenes move like well-lubricated assembly-line machinery toward their final purpose. It's obsession-inducing.

Despite the machinery of SOTUS's pacing, it delicately fashions its character and an environment gently permeated by homophobia and misogyny. Celebratory moments occurred to highlight themes without drawing attention to themselves, heterosexual coupling and marriages, for example, or a classmate coming out. Slurs surfaced casually, too, and old-fashioned masculinities were performed not as major plot points, spectacles of violence, or lessons for characters to immediately learn from, but to illustrate how inherited ignorance and constraints bear down almost invisibly on the characters. No one was demonized or ostracized for their ignorance, not because the writers view their actions positively but because they view their ignorance as a product of systematic failings, failings each generation can and will attempt to improve upon as they inherit the reigns. No one generation will make it all perfectly right. They are only human.

You can feel that humanity in the way the characters are written. All of the characters are distinguishable and interesting. They're written well and performed with heart. We have actual girls just chilling and being friends in a BL series, which was historically novel. Ingenues and horny girls and shy lesbians. The guys are recognizable guys, which is another feature Thai BL does exceptionally well. There are some dorks, some bros. The best friend in the freshman group is shy with strangers but open with his friends and fierce on the basketball court. I've known people like these. They are characters that are broad enough to recognize from a distance (or less screen time) but not simple stereotypes.

Then, on top of this you have the casual trans, gay, and nonbinary inclusion of bit parts and side characters that, to this day, only Thailand is doing in its shows to this extent. Its just impressive to see that their BL industry started off from the get-go at this level. But in SOTUS its not simply casual inclusion, either. These characters, unlike comparable characters in Love Sick, delineate moments of queer kindness that blur the understood hierarchical order of the initiation system and the heteronormative order holding our romantic leads back. In subtle ways they offer queer guidance and a model to Kong on his journey.

Then there's Kongpob and Arthit at the queer center of it all. Ugh! These two characters! These two performances! In Singto's watery sphynx-like eyes, in Krist's clinched jaw, in the electrified space between their bodies that the characters must restrain themselves against crossing, these are the heights of longing the romance genre can reach at its peak. There's an inner pain in these characters. That pain is old-school romance and its old-school queer pain.

I've read complaints about the physical intimacy in this show that I realize after watching the series are ignoring the characterizations of repression and inexperience that impact every interaction between Art and Kong, even their kisses. They aren't on the het timeline, instead having their first kiss and relationship in college, which is why SOTUS aligns with the teen drama genre so well despite its university setting. The greenness of their physical affection (we see it grow more competent and comfortable as the show progresses), however, belies an emotional chemistry that's intense, erotic, and intimate. Many more explicit BL scenes feel tame compared to Arthit grabbing Kong's shirt in rage or whispering in his ear in front of a waiting taxi.

I'm looking forward to SOTUS S and its Our Skyy episode to see more about KongArt's partnership, because their characters resist the seme/uke categorization of the BL genre they emerge from (which are also basically the stereotypes of top and bottom that gay men placed on themselves lol). Their ages and behaviors are reversed from the expected, first off. Kong, the younger, pursues, making him technically the seme and Arthit the uke, character definitions that also indicate sexual preferences of top and bottom. This wasn't unheard of in BL texts from what I've read, but less typical. Then there's the matter of Arthit being the one who initiates physical affection, partly due to Kong's regard for his challenges with internalized homophobia. Apparently, even the pronouns used between the pair are an intimate negotiation rather than an accepted order, returning us to the more complex ways the S.O.T.U.S. acronym can be enacted.

Plus, Kong's played by Singto with impressive power and confidence that's still soft-spoken, slippery, sibilant. To my trained eyes, its a character with mannerism and speech that are legibly gay. Not so legible that all his peers will notice, but he's clockable for queer eyes and worrisome for those afraid of deviation from the norm. For me, this is Thailand's biggest BL breakthrough (and its persisted down this path*) because, for many in the LGBT+ community, challenges begin well before anything to do with sexual attraction.

Gender deviance is the key issue. I was teased by a classmate at 8, well before I had a sexuality, that when I walk I move my hips like a f*gg*t. Don't worry. He wasn't totally wrong. I have a killer strut and I own it now. His antagonism wasn't about who I liked; it was my swish, my non-masculine behaviors. The hatred of gender deviance (and its misogynistic reasoning) is the underlying bogeyman for much of homophobia. Even plenty of men who are perfectly happy to have sex with men, at least where I live in the US, take issue with effeminacy. (Try finding the most overt lesbians on tv outside of OITNB, too!) That applies to audiovisual media, too. Unless comedic, consumers have tended to be more excited about queerness when the bodies and expressions appear in-line with gender expectations. The power of Thai BL and Singto's performance of Kong is how it opened space in the market and audience's minds to take queer affects seriously in young adult romance.

It's no surprise, then, that Kong forges friendships with the characters who are overtly LGBT during the series. The associations made between Kong and the fullness of the LGBT spectrum provides a more complex context for the show's choice to include him expressing the BL trope of 'only gay for you.' While it's a harmful concept broadly, the show seems to be using it subversively. How much more regressive it would've felt coming from Arthit! With Kong and all of his queer associations, it plays as the words of a gay romantic. With the diversity of coming-outs and identity-naming we now have in BL, Kong's moon-eyed statement made on the night his boyfriend comes out for him holds less of a harmful influence on the whole.

Context is just as important to the oft-critiqued scene where Kong says that he'll make Arthit his wife. Based on what I'd read and how impactful and problematic people felt it was, I thought the statement had been a romantic declaration late in the series. Imagine my surprise when it occurred in the first episode as an attempt by Kong to disrupt the patriarchal power of the seniors. Rather than illustrating the show's belief about gay relationships being the same as straight relationships, the scene points to the patriarchal assumptions the series intends by its end to disrupt. The exchange gets reenacted when the freshman decide to act it out at the faculty beach outing for everyone. The seniors interrupt, and the freshman fear they're about to be punished for disrespecting their elders only to find out they're being invited to finally celebrate their inclusion into the faculty. It's denied fruition as a tool to dis-empower and a true testament of Art and Kong's relationship.

It's at the beach where the freshman are given their gears, one of the many examples of how the series used symbols with significantly more depth than the copy-cats that tried to make bank by using the exact same motifs later. The proceeding BL engineers owe not a debt but an apology to SOTUS. The engineering faculty fit perfectly with the show's questions about systems and how individuals fit into them. We have these gears, which could simply be cogs in a machine that forces you to fit in and lose your humanity, but SOTUS envisions the gear as a heart, something unique, attempting to find its place and fit its grooves within a greater purpose. Its a symbol of authentic belonging.

The pink drink, which could've simply served--and has served in other series since--to be a symbol of pink gay girly tastes, is more fully used to emphasize Arthit's stubborn desire for familiarity, his inexperience (in trying other drinks), and a certain childishness in his preference for sweetness, a childishness that humanizes him to his freshman paramor. A trade even occurs with the drink, shifting all these meanings onto Kongpob as he begins to face his own prideful assumptions about his own righteousness.

Beyond all the English teacher symbolism and queer value, though, SOTUS is just the kind of well-told romance that will make you swoon. Despite a low budget and simple plot, its performances, editing, and most of all its script mesmerize. People shouldn't watch it as a history lesson. Its too entertaining to be relegated to that. Labeling it as simply historically important doesn't do it justice.

SOTUS stands tall among teen dramas, a literary work in a genre that doesn't require those heights; SOTUS stands tall among queer media peers, paving new lanes for queer storytelling and performances to walk down; and SOTUS stands tall among its BL peers. Clearly many of the greats in Thai BL, like 1000 Stars, Bad Buddy, and Until We Meet Again, aim to evoke their predecessor, more out of love and awe than an apology (as has been suggested by others). The ways they differ seem to be additions and diversification of queer narratives rather than a critique. SOTUS is simply one of those Great Stories. It inspires binging, revisits, investigations, and, most importantly, the biggest feels. Watch it now if you haven't. Watch it again if you have. Its not a piece of history. Its the kind of story that doesn't get old.

*Thank goodness for LITBC bringing Korea some overtly gay characters. Japan's got a few options--KENJI!--but not enough for my liking yet. I haven't seen enough of the other country's output to make a judgment.

Tagging @dropthedemiurge for being the biggest supporter of my new-found SOTUS obsession and @respectthepetty for the petty watch that got me over my lack of motivation to watch this series! Petty was half-joking but also so right about the kink undertones to this relationship!!!

There are certainly more versed BL history experts so feel free to let me know about any mistakes I made with my history! I'm just a broad and casual tv history and queer fiction and history fan tryna share my new-found BL joy.

#sotus #sotus the series #kongart #singto prachaya #kristsingto #krist perawat #took me a whole week to put this all together but it was so worth it #I love this series so much #Now i can finally let myself watch SOTUS S!!!!!

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sai-int · 8 months ago

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Panther | Original Sin

[NEXT]

MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 3.6k words

DEC 24 - 2020

The deafening roar of the helicopter’s blades hammered against my eardrums, even through the headset. We were close.

"Hawk's down in five!" the pilot barked over the comms, raising a hand in signal. Five of us were crammed into the Black Hawk, shoulders pressing together in the tight space.

I glanced to my right at Captain Alvarez, who took a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the rushing air. His face was unreadable, just like always, but his reputation spoke loud enough. I let out a slow breath, bracing myself for what was coming.

The helo touched down about ten klicks from the target. Him. The slippery bastard who’d evaded us time and time again. I’d been praying for this moment for weeks—praying for the intel, the hit, the chance to finally end it.

When it came, I almost didn’t believe it.

The higher-ups called the mission a long shot, said it was reckless. But what Alvarez wanted, Alvarez got. That cocky son of a bitch thrived on impossible odds, dragging us into suicide runs like it was a sport. Worst captain I’d ever served under, hands down.

We rolled out fast, hitting the ground running. The Black Hawk lifted away as we bolted for the treeline, rifles up, senses sharp. We regrouped in the cover of the brush, dropped to a knee, and waited for orders.

Alvarez crouched in the middle of us, his voice low but commanding. "We’re sticking to my plan. Screw the one they handed down," he said, as if this was news.

"Alpha team: Dawson and Tate. Bravo: Michaels and Cain. Charlie: me and Floyd. We’ll flank the building from your assigned sides. Sit-rep once you’re inside. And remember..." He paused, flashing that trademark grin. "Shoot anything that moves."

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: "But be tasteful about it."

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Alvarez's "taste" usually left a trail of bodies we’d spend weeks explaining away. The guy was going to get us all killed. But for now, we moved.

Because what Alvarez wanted, Alvarez got.

10 Klicks to target

Tate and I had been moving through the forest for about an hour, the only sounds our boots crunching on dead leaves and the faint hum of distant rotors fading into the horizon. Then, a rustle. A twig snapped.

I shot Tate a glance, my expression set in its usual RBF with just enough suspicion to match. Without a word, we ducked behind an overturned picnic table, rifles up.

"On me," Tate whispered, his voice barely audible.

He moved forward with practiced precision, and I followed, keeping low as we flanked the source of the sound. We each took cover behind a tree, ears straining for movement. I leaned out to signal I’d heard nothing, but the instant I did, another twig snapped—and a shot cracked through the stillness.

Tate hit the forest floor hard, his body landing with a dull thud, gear clanking like shattered glass against the silence. My breath hitched as I pressed myself back against the tree. Death wasn’t new to me, but this one stung. Tate wasn’t just another teammate—I liked the guy.

For a moment, there was nothing but the faint rustle of leaves, the shuffle of his gear, and then...

A soft trickling sound.

I froze. No way.

The bastard was pissing on him.

My grip tightened on my rifle as rage settled in. Quietly, I moved, my steps deliberate, each one muffled against the leaf-strewn ground. My eyes locked on the man—light armor, cocky stance, totally unaware he was about to die.

Just as he zipped up, I slipped a knife from my vest. The blade felt cool in my hand, steady as the adrenaline pumped through me.

I lunged, grabbing the man by the back of his helmet. He struggled, hands flailing for his weapon, but I was faster. I yanked up his helmet strap and drew the blade clean across his throat.

Blood spattered the tree in a violent arc as he gurgled and crumpled forward, landing atop Tate’s desecrated corpse. The forest fell silent again, save for the ringing in my ears.

I crouched beside Tate, my hands moving quickly to retrieve his dog tags. They jingled softly as I stuffed them into my pocket, a small weight heavier than it should’ve been.

I keyed my radio and spoke low. “One KIA. Hostile neutralized. No one’s at the base yet.”

No time for mourning. I turned, shoulders squared, and kept moving through the forest.

3 Klicks to Target

I’d been ordered to regroup with Michaels and Cain. By the time I found them, we were just under two miles from the base, the weight of the mission bearing down on us.

Hostile activity had spiked over the last seven klicks. Each of us already had at least three kills to our name, but the forest was alive with movement, a reminder that the enemy wasn’t giving us a free pass.

Cain, taking point, suddenly stopped and raised a fist. Two hostiles emerged about ten meters ahead, their careless steps crunching on dried leaves. Cain didn’t hesitate—two muffled pops from his silenced AR, and they dropped like stones.

“These fuckers are lurking,” Cain muttered, scanning the treeline as he reloaded. “They know we’re coming. Stay vigilant.”

“Affirm,” I murmured, my eyes sweeping the rear and sides for any sign of movement. The forest had gone unnervingly quiet again, like it was holding its breath.

We moved in tandem, every step measured, every sound scrutinized. The closer we got, the heavier the air felt.

The Target

We pressed forward until we reached the outer perimeter of the base. Towering concrete walls loomed over us, jagged and imposing. They weren’t just designed to keep people out—something told me they were meant to keep something in.

Michaels keyed his comms. “Captain, this is Bravo. We’ve reached the perimeter. Awaiting instructions.”

A crackle, then Alvarez’s voice cut through. “Copy that. Move to Phase Two.”

Michaels glanced at us. “Let’s move.”

Cain and I fell in behind him as he took point, the sun dipping toward the horizon, painting the landscape in eerie shadows. Nothing about this mission felt right. From the moment we veered off the original plan, my gut had been screaming at me.

Even with the walls towering over us, I could hear muffled chatter from the guards inside. Too many voices. Too close. We slid back into the treeline, using the cover of darkness to approach our entry point.

Michaels led the way, Cain and I hanging five meters behind, keeping to the shadows.

The whisper of a silenced bullet cut through the air.

Michaels froze, his body stuttering as blood sprayed from his throat. He turned, locking eyes with me for a fleeting second before crumpling to the ground.

Another bullet zipped past, splintering bark inches from my head. Cain and I dove for cover, hearts pounding as the unmistakable blare of the base’s alarm shattered the stillness.

“Dawson, what the hell is going on?!” Alvarez’s voice thundered in my ear. “The facility’s on high alert an—”

Static. Then silence.

The siren wailed on, piercing and relentless. My comms were dead, jammed, and the situation had gone from bad to worse.

I peeked out, angling a mirror from my vest to scan the top of the wall. At least fifteen hostiles with snipers had lined up, weapons trained on our position.

Cain muttered a curse, pulling a granola bar from his pocket and tossing it toward a nearby tree.

It didn’t even hit the bark before it was shredded by gunfire.

I met Cain’s wide-eyed stare, the fear in his expression mirroring my own. “Can you reach Alvarez?” I hissed.

He tapped his comms, whispering, “Captain, do you copy?” Silence. He tried again. Nothing.

The base’s main gate creaked open, revealing a squad of heavily armed hostiles. Half broke off toward the direction of Alvarez and Floyd; the other half came straight for us.

The crunch of leaves and rustle of gear drew closer. Cain and I locked eyes, unspoken agreement passing between us.

Run.

We bolted, weaving through the dense forest. The enemy was right on our heels, bullets snapping through the trees.

Three shots rang out. Cain stumbled, his body crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

My lungs burned, my legs screamed for mercy, but I pushed on, shooting blindly over my shoulder. A single body hit the ground, but the rest kept coming.

The darkness thickened as I pressed deeper into the forest, the canopy swallowing the last remnants of light. My gear weighed me down, each step slower than the last. Desperate, I tore off my vest and tossed it aside, feeling a grim sort of relief at the newfound lightness.

Vaulting over a fallen tree, I heard the enemy slow, their heavy breaths blending with the rustling leaves. Some had given up, but the determined ones were closing in.

I stripped off my jacket, then hesitated before unhooking my rifle. It hit the forest floor with a dull thud. Now, it was just me, my Glock, and my knife against the hunters.

With adrenaline surging, I spotted a climbable tree and scrambled up, my body moving faster than my mind. The rough bark scraped against my palms as I ascended, settling into the canopy. The branches groaned under my weight, but they held. For now.

Below, flashlights cut through the darkness, beams of light sweeping the forest floor. I climbed higher, pressing myself into the shadows of the leaves, praying they wouldn’t look up.

The men shouted to each other in Russian, their voices growing fainter. Then, the rumble of an ATV engine broke through. The hunters regrouped, mounted the vehicle, and disappeared into the distance.

Alone at last, I slumped against the trunk, my chest heaving. Exhaustion swept over me, and I used my belt to secure myself to the branch.

The distant wail of the base’s alarms faded into the night as sleep took me. For now, I was alive. But I was far from safe.

・・・・・

The early morning sun kissed my face, stirring me from restless sleep. My body ached, every muscle screaming from the abuse I’d put it through the night before. I blinked against the glare of sunlight filtering through the canopy, and as my senses sharpened, reality crashed down on me like a wave.

I was still in the tree.

It hadn’t been a dream. Michaels, Cain, the ambush—all of it was real.

I shifted carefully, readjusting my belt so it was strapped securely around my waist instead of the branch. The ground was a dizzying 10 meters below, littered with fallen leaves and broken twigs that would give me away the second I made a wrong move.

Then I heard it—voices.

They were faint but unmistakable, carried by the gentle morning breeze. My head snapped toward the direction of the sound, my heart hammering in my chest.

The bastards were still hunting me.

I shielded my eyes from the sun’s glare, squinting as I scanned the forest floor. Through the shifting shadows, I caught glimpses of movement—three, maybe four men, armed and sweeping the area with calculated precision.

Adrenaline surged, washing away the fog of sleep. If it was a hunt they wanted, it was a hunt they were going to get.

Quietly, I unholstered my Glock, checking the chamber. One mag. One shot for each of them if I didn’t miss. But the knife strapped to my thigh whispered a different promise: silence, precision, and no wasted bullets.

I planned my descent, every move deliberate. They wouldn’t see me coming.

The trees had become my sanctuary and my prison for the last five days. Rain hammered down in relentless sheets, thunder rolling across the sky like some celestial predator announcing its presence. But still, they searched.

There must have been dozens of them, their voices drifting through the storm as they hunted me with a determination that bordered on obsession. And I met them, one by one, with my own.

I’d run out of bullets long ago. The knife became my lifeline. Every movement I made was calculated, every kill methodical. When one was foolish enough to wander too close, I dispatched him however I could. This morning’s first kill was especially crude—I’d hanged him from a branch with my pants.

The torrential downpour had ruined any semblance of order I had left. My hair, once neatly tied in a bun, now clung to my face in a tangled, sodden braid. The heat and humidity forced me to shed my heavier gear, leaving me in a black Under Armour tank top and athletic shorts. My skin was slick with sweat, grime, and blood—some mine, most not.

Five days in the wild had stripped me down to my primal core. I moved like a panther through the canopy, silent and lethal, an animal fully embraced by its instincts.

But today was different. Today, they didn’t come.

I crouched high in the branches, waiting for their usual patrol to stumble into my territory, their boots crunching on leaves and twigs. But the forest was silent, save for the distant chirp of insects. They didn’t get to see my latest handiwork, their comrade swinging grotesquely from a branch. What a waste.

Hours passed, and my restless vigilance turned toward the base. From my elevated perch, I surveyed it from every angle I could find. The once-bustling compound appeared eerily quiet, its defense towers unmanned, its gates closed but unguarded.

Had I really killed that many of them?

I stopped counting after the first twenty, the numbers blending into a haze of survival and savagery. Yet, the stillness of the base felt unnatural. My instincts screamed at me that something was off.

Was this their play? Lure me into the open, make me believe I’d won, only to ambush me the moment I crossed their threshold?

I stayed in my perch until night fell, the dark forest cloaking me as I watched the base with unblinking eyes. Not a single sound or sign of movement betrayed its quiet facade.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’d move. Whatever trap they’d laid, I’d spring it on my terms. I’d come this far, and I wasn’t about to stop now.

The darkness of the early morning clung to the Earth like a heavy blanket as I woke, my body stiff and aching. Time was an abstract concept now, measured not in hours but in the beats of survival. I had no idea what hour it was, but my instincts screamed that it was time to move.

For the first time in days, I descended from the trees, my bare feet hitting the damp ground. My white socks, now stained a dark, rusty brown and torn from wear, clung to my skin. Blood from splinters soaked through the fabric, but the pain was a distant memory, drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through me.

I navigated to the access point Tate and I had initially scouted. Memories of him flickered briefly, but I shoved them down. Grief was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Pressing my back against the wall beside the entry, I strained my ears for any sound of movement. Nothing.

I slipped inside, letting the shadows envelop me as I moved through the corridor. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft scuff of my feet and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling.

At an intersection, I heard footsteps. A single patrolman.

Lowering myself into a crouch, I waited. The man came closer, his boots echoing faintly against the walls. He was mere steps from me when I peeked around the corner. He had turned his back.

Seizing the opportunity, I leapt onto him, my legs locking around his waist like a vice. His rifle discharged a single, deafening shot as I plunged my knife into his neck. The body crumpled, lifeless, and I rolled off him, pressing my back against the wall once more.

The gunshot was a beacon, and I knew it.

The first wave of hostiles came swiftly, their shouts echoing down the hall. I fired on the two charging straight at me, their bodies collapsing in a heap. The darkness became my ally, shrouding me as I maneuvered through the corridors.

One unlucky man tripped over my outstretched foot. Before he could regain his footing, I drove my knife into his skull with a sickening crunch.

Then came the brute. His arms clamped around my waist like iron bands, lifting me off the ground. I thrashed and grunted, struggling against his grip, but exhaustion sapped my strength. His helmet gleamed in the dim light, impervious to my blade.

Desperation took over. I swung my head back, baring my teeth, and latched onto his throat with feral ferocity. Blood filled my mouth as I tore into his flesh, the taste metallic and bitter. The man gurgled and released me, collapsing as his life drained away.

I spat the flesh from my mouth and wiped the blood from my chin, ignoring the sticky warmth that soaked into my shirt. Picking up the keycard that had fallen from his pocket, I pushed forward, each step heavier than the last.

The base loomed ahead, its corridor dimly lit. Pressing my ear to the final door, I heard voices—two of them, close but not alarmed.

Swiping the keycard, the reader beeped softly. The voices stopped.

I hesitated, waiting for movement, but none came.

With a sharp inhale, I shoved the door open and launched myself at the nearest man. My knife found his eye, sinking deep before I ripped it free. Using his body as a shield, I advanced as bullets tore into the corpse. Blood sprayed onto me as I pushed forward, shoving the body onto the second man and firing.

Panting, I stood amidst the carnage. My heart hammered in my chest, but I pushed on, methodically clearing room after room. My reflection in a shattered window caught my eye—a vision of blood, sweat, and grime. A monster.

I reached the final floor, the noise of activity buzzing like a hive. Voices and footsteps filled the air, too many to face head-on. Crouching behind crates, I picked them off one by one, my knife painting the walls with red.

Cracking open a door, I froze at the sound of Russian.

"Кто это? Кто там?"

They were here for him. Protecting him.

Barkov.

The thought made my grip tighten on the rifle. Steadying myself, I kicked the door open and unleashed a storm of bullets. Bodies fell, and I ducked behind cover, playing a deadly game of cat and mouse until the room was silent once more.

A single shot rang out, searing into my bicep. My arm fell limp, the rifle clattering to the ground. Gritting my teeth, I crawled to a fallen pistol, gripping it awkwardly in my left hand.

The final man groaned, dragging himself toward the wall, blood staining his uniform.

"Barkov." My voice, raw and broken, cut through the air.

His eyes met mine, defiant even in defeat. "I'm still here. Still alive... Killing rats. I am Russia's protector. I will never surrender to you."

He spat blood onto the floor, his voice a rasping mockery. "If you're going to end me, do it quickly... киска."

I crouched beside him, the barrel of my pistol hovering near his head. My bloodied face twisted into a grim smile.

"You don’t get to rush this."

I slumped against the wall, every nerve in my body frayed to its limits, staring at the grotesque heap that was once Barkov. His mangled corpse lay sprawled behind me, a testament to the nightmare I’d clawed my way through.

The radio sat on the table, silent and lifeless, mocking me with its lack of response. I fiddled with the dials, patching wires and flipping switches with trembling hands. The static buzzed faintly, a maddening sound that fueled my desperation.

Gripping the mic, I cleared my throat and spoke, my voice raw and gravelly.

"Base, this is Dawson. Barkov's KIA."

The only reply was the cold hum of static.

"Dawson to Base, does anyone copy?" My voice cracked as I tried again. Still nothing.

I slammed my fist against the table, the sharp pain barely registering. "Goddamnit! It's fuckin' Dawson! Does anyone co—"

"We hear you loud and clear, Dawson."

The voice cut through the static like a lifeline. Relief washed over me so quickly I could’ve wept.

"How are you still alive? How are you reaching us?" the voice asked, tinged with disbelief.

I shook my head, a shaky smile breaking through the exhaustion. "Details later. Barkov's done... Need immediate evac..."

"Sending a hawk to your location now. Medical?"

The tears came then, unbidden and unstoppable. A flood of relief.

"Please," I choked out, my voice breaking.

"ETA 20 minutes. Hang tight, D."

"Copy, over."

"Over 'n out."

The line went dead, but the words echoed in my mind like a hymn. I slumped to the floor, my body giving way to exhaustion as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably. It wasn’t joy—it was hysteria, raw and unfiltered, spilling out as I stared at Barkov’s broken, eviscerated form. The absurdity of it all hit me at once. I’d survived. I’d killed him. I was alive.

Minutes felt like hours as I waited, the silence broken only by my labored breathing. Then I heard it—the unmistakable whir of the helicopter’s blades cutting through the night. The sound grew louder, vibrating through the walls as it landed on the roof.

Dragging myself to my feet, I made my way up the stairwell, every step a herculean effort. As I pushed open the door to the rooftop, the rotor wash whipped at my sweat-drenched skin. The bright floodlights of the helicopter illuminated the rooftop, casting long, eerie shadows.

Three soldiers disembarked, their boots hitting the ground with purpose. They advanced toward me, but the moment they caught sight of me, they froze. Their faces said it all—shock, horror, disbelief.

I could only imagine what they saw: a blood-soaked, grimy figure, drenched in sweat and covered in cuts and bruises, with dried blood streaked across my mouth and shirt. My hair hung in disarray, and my eyes, sunken and wild, met theirs with an intensity that even I didn’t recognize.

One of them finally stepped forward, his voice hesitant. "Jesus Christ, Dawson... What the hell happened to you?"

I let out another laugh, dry and hoarse, as they helped me onto the helicopter. Collapsing into the seat, I looked back at the base one last time as the chopper lifted off, its blades slicing through the air.

What the hell happened to me?

I survived.

panther mlist

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estapa-edwards · 1 year ago

Text

BROTHERS BEST FRIEND - D.MERCER

paring: dawson mercer x fem! reader

word count:3.7k

requested? no

warnings: use of y/n.

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From the moment I first laid eyes on Dawson Mercer, I knew he was something special. It wasn’t just the way he moved on the ice, gliding effortlessly as he weaved through the opposition, or the precision with which he handled the puck, making it seem like an extension of himself. No, it was something deeper, something that tugged at my heartstrings and made my cheeks flush every time our paths crossed – which, as the sister of one of his teammates, happened more often than I’d care to admit.

In a household where hockey reigned supreme, with my brother Jack Hughes as the star center for the New Jersey Devils, and my other brothers Luke and Quinn also lighting up the ice, I was well-acquainted with the fervor and passion the sport inspired. Yet, nothing could have prepared me for the unexpected crush I found myself developing on one of Jack’s teammates, Dawson Mercer.

Being around the team, attending games, and cheering from the stands was a routine part of my life. It was during one of these games that I first felt that indescribable connection with Dawson. I was watching from the VIP box, my eyes darting across the ice, following Jack’s every move, when Dawson stole the puck and made an incredible breakaway. The crowd erupted into cheers, and as Dawson skated past our box, our eyes met for a fleeting moment. That was all it took. My heart skipped a beat, and I was hooked.

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After the game, I found myself mingling with the players at a local hotspot they frequented. Dawson, still flushed from the excitement of the game, made his way over to me.

"Hey, Y/N," he greeted with a playful smirk. "Enjoying the game?"

I grinned, trying to hide my blush. "Oh, you mean that amazing breakaway you had? Yeah, it was alright," I teased, feigning indifference.

Dawson chuckled, leaning in closer. "Just alright? I was hoping for a standing ovation."

Rolling my eyes playfully, I responded, "Well, maybe next time. You'll have to give me something even more spectacular to cheer about."

Dawson's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Challenge accepted," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

The flirty exchange left me with butterflies in my stomach and a smile on my face, realizing that my crush on Dawson Mercer was more than just a passing infatuation.

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Over the next few weeks, I found myself looking for any excuse to be around Dawson. Whether it was attending team practices, hanging out in the locker room, or joining the boys for post-game celebrations, I was there, soaking in his presence like a sun-deprived flower. Each interaction, however brief, only intensified my feelings for him.

I would often find myself arriving early to practices, lingering near the rinkside to watch Dawson and the team warm up. The way he moved on the ice was mesmerizing, his every stride and shot exuding confidence and skill. I would cheer him on from the sidelines, our eyes meeting occasionally, sending a thrill through me every time.

Hanging out in the locker room was another opportunity for me to be near Dawson. While I respected the team's space and tried not to intrude too much, I enjoyed the casual banter and camaraderie that flowed freely among the players. Dawson would often catch my eye and flash me a smile or make a playful comment, making my heart race with excitement.

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The post-game celebrations were perhaps my favorite part. There was something exhilarating about being in the midst of the team's jubilation, sharing in their victories and witnessing the bond between the players. Dawson would always make an effort to include me in the celebrations, whether it was sharing a drink, introducing me to his teammates, or simply engaging in light-hearted conversation. Each moment spent together, no matter how fleeting, felt special and significant.

One evening, as I was preparing to leave the arena after a game, Dawson approached me with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Hey, Y/N, the team is having a little get-together tonight to celebrate the win. Would you like to come?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful tone.

Caught off guard by the invitation but thrilled at the prospect of spending more time with Dawson outside of the usual hockey environment, I replied, "Sure, I'd love to!"

"Great! It's at Alex's place. I'll pick you up around 8?" he suggested, his smile widening.

"Sounds perfect," I said, trying to maintain my composure despite the butterflies that had suddenly taken flight in my stomach.

Later that evening, I found myself eagerly awaiting Dawson's arrival. When he pulled up outside my apartment, I was struck by how handsome he looked in his casual attire, a stark contrast to his hockey gear. He flashed me a charming smile as I climbed into the passenger seat.

"You look amazing, Y/N," he complimented, his eyes lingering on me a moment longer than necessary.

"Thank you, Dawson," I blushed, feeling a warmth spread through me at his words.

As we drove to the party, the atmosphere in the car was charged with anticipation. Dawson reached over to turn up the radio, and soon we were both singing along to the catchy tune, our laughter filling the confined space.

Upon arriving at Alex's lavish apartment, we were greeted by the lively sounds of music and laughter. The place was packed with players and their friends, all in high spirits and eager to continue the night's celebrations.

Dawson took my hand, guiding me through the crowded room with ease. "Come on, let's grab a drink," he suggested, leading me to the makeshift bar set up in the corner of the living room.

As we waited for our drinks, Dawson leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper. "You know, Y/N, I've been looking forward to tonight. It's not every day I get to take such a beautiful date to a party."

I felt my cheeks heat up at his flirty remark, but I couldn't help but smile at his boldness. "Well, I'm glad I could be your plus one tonight," I replied, my voice tinged with playful sarcasm.

Dawson grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me, the pleasure is all mine."

Throughout the night, Dawson's attentiveness never wavered. He introduced me to his teammates, always keeping a protective hand on my waist or back, subtly claiming me as his. We danced, laughed, and shared whispered secrets, the undeniable chemistry between us growing stronger with each passing moment.

As the party began to wind down, Dawson pulled me aside, his expression sincere. "I had a great time tonight, Y/N. Thank you for coming."

I smiled, feeling a rush of warmth and affection for the man standing before me. "The pleasure was all mine, Dawson." With that, he leaned down, capturing my lips in a gentle yet passionate kiss.

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The morning after the party, I mustered up the courage to address the kiss with Dawson. As I approached him in the kitchen, he was busy making coffee, seemingly unaware of my presence.

"Dawson, can we talk about last night?" I began, my voice hesitant.

He looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What about last night?"

Caught off guard by his response, I stammered, "You know, the kiss... between us?"

A look of genuine surprise crossed Dawson's face, as if he had completely forgotten about our intimate moment. "Oh, that? I thought we were just caught up in the moment, celebrating the win," he replied casually, stirring his coffee as if discussing the weather.

The awkwardness of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt embarrassed and foolish for assuming the kiss meant something more to him.

"So, you're saying it didn't mean anything to you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady despite the sinking feeling in my stomach.

Dawson looked up, seemingly realizing the gravity of the situation. "No, Y/N, that's not what I meant," he said, his voice softening. "I just... I didn't want to assume anything and make things awkward between us."

Feeling embarrassed and wishing I hadn't brought it up, I quickly responded, "You know what, never mind. Forget I even said anything," I said, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Dawson's expression was a mix of confusion and concern. "Y/N, please don't say that. I didn't mean to dismiss our kiss. It meant something to me, too."

I shook my head, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. "It's fine, Dawson. Let's just forget it happened," I said, trying to sound casual despite the turmoil inside me.

Dawson reached out, gently placing a hand on my arm. "Y/N, I care about you, and I don't want to brush this aside. Let's talk about it, really talk about it."

But I couldn't bear to discuss it any further. "Maybe some other time," I mumbled, pulling away and fleeing the room, leaving Dawson standing there.

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A few days later, I found myself at the practice rink with Jack, watching the Devils go through their drills. I had tried to put the awkward encounter with Dawson behind me, but the lingering tension between us was hard to ignore. As I stood by the boards, cheering for Jack and the team, I couldn't help but notice Dawson's distant demeanor.

During a break in the practice, Jack skated over to me, his brow furrowed in concern. "Hey, is everything okay between you and Dawson?" he asked quietly, so as not to be overheard by the other players.

I hesitated for a moment, trying to hide the turmoil I was feeling. "Yeah, everything's okay. What do you mean?" I replied, attempting to sound casual and dismissive.

Jack looked at me skeptically, clearly not buying my nonchalant demeanor. "He's been acting weird lately. Did something happen?"

I shrugged, trying to maintain my indifferent facade. "How should I know? We don't even talk," I replied dismissively, masking the hurt and confusion I felt inside.

Jack frowned, clearly concerned. "That's not like Dawson. I'll talk to him and find out what's going on."

"Please, Jack, no, it's nothing," I insisted, trying to downplay the situation and avoid making a bigger deal out of it.

Jack looked at me skeptically, hesitating for a moment before finally nodding. "Alright, if you say so. But if there's anything going on, you know you can talk to me, right?"

I nodded gratefully, appreciating Jack's concern and support. "I know, Jack. Thanks."

As I watched Dawson from the sidelines for the rest of the practice, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that something was amiss between us. Every time I glanced his way, I noticed he was staring back at me, his gaze intense and filled with a mixture of regret and longing. Despite my attempts to brush it off and maintain a sense of normalcy, the lingering awkwardness and distance between us were impossible to ignore.

It seemed as though he was trying to communicate something without words, his eyes searching mine for understanding and connection.

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As the practice came to an end, I started gathering my things, ready to head home. Just as I was about to leave the rink, Dawson suddenly rushed over to me, determination evident in his stride. Jack, sensing the gravity of the moment, gave me a knowing look before skating away.

"I'll let you two deal with it," Jack called out, his voice filled with understanding.

My heart raced as Dawson approached, the tension between us palpable. I looked up at him, searching his eyes for any sign of clarity or explanation.

"Y/N, we need to talk," Dawson began, his voice earnest and slightly shaky. "I know I've been distant lately, and I'm sorry. I didn't handle the situation well, and I regret that."

"Dawson, I really don't want to talk about this," I said, my voice tinged with frustration and disappointment. The uncertainty and awkwardness of the situation had taken its toll on me, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to address it just yet.

Dawson looked taken aback, his face reflecting a mixture of regret and determination. "Y/N, please-"

"No, it's over, really. Just let it go," I interrupted, cutting him off, my voice firm as I turned around to leave.

Before I could fully turn away, Dawson reached out and gently grabbed my arm, halting my movement. His touch was gentle yet firm, his eyes pleading with me to reconsider.

"Y/N, please don't walk away like this," he said, his voice filled with desperation. "I know I messed up, but I want to make it right. I care about you, and I don't want to lose you over a misunderstanding."

I hesitated, torn between my desire to escape the awkwardness and the lingering feelings I had for him. I looked into his eyes, searching for sincerity and a hint of the connection we once shared.

"Dawson, I-" I began, but he cut me off, his voice earnest as he began to speak from the heart.

"Y/N, I love the way you laugh, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you're passionate about," Dawson started, his voice trembling with emotion. "I love how caring and supportive you are, always putting others before yourself. I love the way you challenge me, pushing me to be a better person and player. I love your smile, the way it brightens up even the darkest days. And most importantly, I love the way you make me feel when I'm with you - god, I can't even put it into words."

He took a deep breath, looking deeply into my eyes, his voice soft yet filled with conviction. "Y/N, I love you."

"You love me?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his confession sinking in. The depth of his feelings for me was both overwhelming and comforting, and I felt a mixture of joy, relief, and uncertainty.

Dawson nodded, his eyes never leaving mine, his expression sincere and vulnerable. "Yes, Y/N, I do. I've been struggling with how to express this to you, and I'm sorry for the confusion and the distance I've put between us."

I took a moment to process his words, my heart racing as I grappled with my own feelings for him. Despite the recent misunderstandings and awkwardness, I couldn't deny the deep connection and affection I had for Dawson.

"Dawson, I need time to sort out my feelings," I said softly, my voice filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty. "The way things have been lately, it's been confusing and overwhelming. I need to figure out what's best for both of us."

Dawson nodded, releasing my arm and taking a step back, his face etched with a mix of regret and understanding. "I understand, Y/N. Take all the time you need. Just know that I'll be here, hoping we can find a way back to each other. "

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Back at our apartment, the familiar comfort of home did little to ease the turmoil swirling inside me. I had been trying to avoid the topic, hoping to find clarity on my own, but as the days passed, the weight of the situation became too much to bear. Jack, sensing my distress, approached me in the living room where I was lost in thought.

"Y/N, are you okay?" Jack asked, his brow furrowed with concern as he took in my tear-streaked face.

I tried to brush it off, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine, Jack, just tired."

Jack didn't buy it, sitting down beside me and gently placing a hand on my shoulder. "Y/N, you can talk to me. What's going on?"

Unable to hold back any longer, I broke down, the floodgates opening as I poured out my feelings and confusion about Dawson and our complicated relationship. "Jack, I don't know what to do. I care about Dawson so much, and I thought he felt the same way, but everything has been so confusing lately. He confessed his feelings for me, and I want to believe him, but the way he's been acting... I just don't know anymore."

Jack listened patiently, his presence a comforting anchor as I struggled to make sense of my emotions. When I finished, he wrapped his arms around me, offering silent support and understanding.

"Y/N, relationships are complicated, especially when they involve someone close to you," Jack began, his voice gentle and reassuring. "But you deserve clarity and honesty, especially from someone you care about. Have you talked to Dawson about how you feel?"

I shook my head, wiping away my tears. "I tried, but every time I bring it up, it becomes so awkward and uncomfortable. I don't know how to fix this, Jack."

Jack pulled back, looking me in the eyes with a determined expression. "Then maybe it's time for a heart-to-heart conversation with Dawson. You both need to be honest with each other and clear the air. Whether it leads to a deeper connection or the realization that you're better off as friends, you owe it to yourselves to communicate openly and honestly."

I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. "You're right, Jack. I need to talk to Dawson and sort this out, one way or another."

Jack smiled, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly. "I'm here for you, Y/N, no matter what happens. Just remember, you deserve happiness and clarity in your relationships."

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The atmosphere in the Prudential Center was electric, the tension palpable as the New Jersey Devils faced off against their rivals. I was watching from the stands, my heart pounding with every play, every hit, every save. As the game progressed, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off with Dawson. He seemed more agitated than usual, his gameplay erratic and tense.

Midway through the second period, the tension reached a boiling point. Dawson got into a heated altercation with an opposing player, exchanging words and shoves before throwing a punch. The referees quickly intervened, but it was too late. Dawson was assessed a major penalty and ejected from the game, leaving his teammates to finish the game without him.

Feeling a mix of frustration and concern, I made my way to the locker room, hoping to talk to Dawson and offer some support. As I entered, I could hear the distant roar of the crowd and the muffled voices of the players outside, celebrating their hard-fought victory.

Dawson was sitting alone in the corner of the locker room, his head in his hands, his posture defeated and desolate. He looked up as I approached, his expression closed off and distant.

"Dawson, are you okay?" I asked softly, trying to keep my voice steady despite the worry and confusion swirling inside me.

Dawson sighed, avoiding my gaze as he replied, "I'm fine, Y/N. Just not in the mood to talk right now."

I took a deep breath, steeling myself as I sat down beside him, determined to break through his walls and offer the support he clearly needed, whether he wanted it or not.

"Dawson, I know you're upset about the game, but shutting me out isn't going to make things better," I said gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his arm. "I care about you, and I want to be here for you, especially when things get tough."

Dawson looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. "Y/N, I appreciate your concern, but right now, I just need some space. I don't want to drag you into this mess."

I shook my head, refusing to back down, my voice firm yet caring. "Dawson, we're in this together, whether you like it or not. We need to communicate and support each other, especially when things get tough. Please, let me be here for you."

Dawson sighed, his defenses slowly crumbling as he looked into my eyes, the weight of his emotions evident in his gaze. After a moment of silence, he finally nodded, his voice soft and defeated. "Okay, Y/N. I'm sorry for pushing you away. I'm just frustrated and disappointed with how things turned out."

I reached out, pulling him into a comforting embrace, feeling the tension in his body slowly ease as he allowed himself to lean into the support and understanding I was offering.

"It's okay, Dawson," I whispered, holding him close. Dawson pulled back slightly, his eyes filled with guilt and regret. "Y/N, I feel like shit. I shouldn't have lied to you," he said, his voice heavy with remorse.

I looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and pain reflected in them. Taking a deep breath, I gently cupped his face, forcing him to meet my gaze.

"It's okay," I reassured him softly, trying to ease the burden of his guilt. "Let's not focus on that right now. We'll work through it, together."

Dawson nodded, his shoulders sagging with relief as he leaned into my touch, grateful for the understanding and forgiveness I was offering.

"Thank you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Moved by his vulnerability and sincerity, I closed the distance between us, placing a gentle hand on his cheek as I leaned in, our lips meeting in a soft, tender kiss.

"I'm sorry too, Dawson," I whispered as we pulled apart, our foreheads resting against each other, the weight of our recent misunderstandings and emotions hanging between us. "I shouldn't have overreacted like I did."

Dawson looked into my eyes, his gaze filled with warmth and understanding. "It's okay, Y/N," he whispered back, his voice soft and reassuring.

Feeling a surge of emotion and clarity, I took a deep breath, my voice trembling with sincerity. "I love you, Dawson."

Dawson's eyes widened momentarily, a look of surprise and overwhelming emotion crossing his face before it softened into a genuine, heartfelt smile. "I love you too, Y/N," he replied, his voice filled with love and conviction.

As we sat there, our hands entwined, the weight of our recent challenges and misunderstandings lifted, replaced by a renewed sense of connection, understanding, and love. We had navigated through the storm together, and now, we were ready to face the future, committed to each other, stronger and more united than before.

#dawson mercer #dawson mercer x reader #nhl x reader #new jersey devils #nj devils #njd

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talas-first-lady · 9 months ago

Text

Additional Wynonna Earp Vengeance thoughts

This is going to be all the spoilers. You have been warned.

First of all, things that brought me a lot of joy:

The first scene up until things went bad. Nedley. Mercedes. Being buddies. Everything Mercedes was wearing including her monogrammed fanny pack of fishing lures.

Mercedes being like “the face. Kill me if you must but do not harm the face.” And hey, props to Mina for listening?

Bunny Loblaw cameo. The woman just gets better every time.

Any and all Wayhaught physical activity.

The entire Wynonna and Doc intro in Tombstone. That was just pure 100% Wynonna perfection.

“No we will NOT be redoing those stairs. They are very important to me for reasons.” - Nicole Haught

Every comment from Wynonna about how drunken brawling is actually precisely what Mercedes would have wanted at her wake (although I think Mercedes would have wanted more male strippers tbh).

I am typing this as I walk my dogs and we just passed a gold penis-shaped piece of confetti on the sidewalk outside a bar. Mercedes Gardner: never truly gone.

There was some quality Earp sister time that I did enjoy although it was slightly off (see Waverly discussion).

I am very much not up on current music so I didn’t get 100% of the references but Doc talking to Waverly about Megan Thee Stallion is what I came for.

Wistful comment about friend from Arizona. Thank you, Doc. Sorry your new bf was a tool.

The conversation between Wynonna and Nedley at the cemetery was perfect and should have happened years ago.

The fact that no one for a moment doubted that the three people Wynonna loves most are Waverly, Alice… and Nicole. I will be a Wynnaught shipper till the day I die.

Wynonna going to hell was pretty badass.

Nedley hitting hellhounds with his truck.

No pyramid schemes!

Now for the complaints.

At no point did they convince me that Mina was actually worse than all the demons they’ve faced before. Really? Sure, she doesn’t follow Revenant rules, but they’ve dealt with Bulshar. She does not remotely compare.

I also didn’t really buy the backstory stuff: Wynonna trying to impress a bunch of mean girls by summoning a demon for them? Taking them to the homestead at all? None of that felt true to her. I also don’t know why the group home girls were just suddenly back in Purgatory. (Also Dawson’s Freaks is the STUPIDEST.)

I think maybe Mina would have worked with a full season of build-up, but this was just not enough time.

I’m really pissed off about Mercedes surviving everything just to be murdered as a plot device. I love her, ok? She deserves better.

I am less pissed about Doc because I think they handled it decently - one last epic shootout, burying him in the spot where he wanted to raise Alice, the symmetry with burying Dolls (on the same hill, I think?), letting him come to terms with aging and dying. But it was so unnecessary. And so rushed: we never got to see anyone’s reaction but Wynonna’s (and Jeremy’s wildly out of character non-reaction). He was such an important character and we never got to say goodbye properly.

Not enough Jeremy.

Nicole’s attitude towards Wynonna up until that big don’t tell Waverly moment just made me so sad. I love their dynamic. I don’t know what happened.

In general, it felt like Nicole majorly backslid.

Biggest problem, though: Waverly. And I’m going to be upfront here and say that I was never as enamored with Waverly as a lot of people are. But I did like her and this didn’t feel like Waverly.

I think it’s fantastic that Dom has come out and become more comfortable in their skin and that they didn’t force them back in the girly Waverly box for this.

But I think they changed too much. Physically, the hair, the nose ring, the tattoos, the wardrobe choices (the wifebeater? The bolo tie?). But there was also her behavior. Jumping into a bar fight aggressively after relatively minor provocation was a lot. There was nothing of the light, bubbly Waverly left aside from a craft room. It just felt like part of her died. Like something happened over those 5 years that traumatized her worse than the stuff we actually witnessed. And Nicole being so unconcerned about it.

Anyway, that’s most of it?

#wynonna earp vengeance #wynonna earp #wynonna Earp vengeance spoilers #wynonna earp spoilers

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ciceroprofacto · 7 months ago

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Well-Played Instruments

Fable, Castling, Counseling, Exercises, Moving out of Mulligans, Ring of Gyges, Built the Fire // The Offer (next)

Whitehall Slip, October 1775

“Do you have any idea where you are?”

Hamilton’s head was a flashpan of pain. Too abruptly conscious for comfort.

It was Troup’s voice, coming from somewhere behind him like the proverbial angel on his shoulder. Though, when Alex turned his head to look at him, the daylight brought on a wave of inescapable nausea that had him flopping back over the edge of the retaining wall to vomit into the murky harbor. So, perhaps he was the devil instead.

Contact with the planks under his shredded palms and Troup’s steadying hands over tender bruises brought on the memory of Dawson’s fists. The night returned in the physical feeling- the fight, the flight, the beating on both ends.

That had been the point, he supposed.

“It’s nearly noon," Rob said. "We have drill today, and you’re a fucking mess.” He was dragging Alex up by the elbows as soon as the retching ceased. “What the hell were you thinking?”

There was no thinking beyond the fleeting anticipations of blows. Blocking a punch over his forearm, dipping beneath the next swing, side-stepping a kick- straight into the next fist. Dawson’s knuckles cracked through Alex’s cheek, rattling his teeth and sending him sprawling into the containment wall and the arms of the crowd.

Laughing and jeering over jaunty fiddle music and the stomping of the crowd upstairs, they were raucous. Sailors, smiths, guilders, merchants, the occasional gentlemen looking only somewhat out of place. Fighting Cocks wasn’t precisely respectable, even in its front-facing cockfighting business.

But betting on birds was far more-respectable than the show that took place below ground, so it was a general understanding between the men that came to watch the daily fights that no one should speak of this ring. Newcomers were rare which meant the audience was familiar with him, was rooting for him- at least at first.

Alex had been doing quite well in the dailies’ bracket. Now, he was paying dearly for an early slip in this match, and from the fall in the crowd’s tone, they knew it. He was losing. Half his remaining earnings off ‘The Farmer Refuted’ riding on a single pot and he couldn’t imagine anyone worse to lose to…

“I squared you from the first step you took in here,” Dawson was bobbing on his toes and disparaging while Alex regained his footing. “Snooty schoolboy blowing his allowance on the punishment he needs cause his papa doesn’t give it to’em. Don’t worry, I’ve got’chu.”

Alex raised his fists back up to his face. His vision was swimming, the crowd roiling like a sea of fabric and faces and limbs. He was getting distracted with unfocused eyes. They locked on a mop of curly blond hair- hair that was familiar, but out of place here. The figment was hunched over the fiddle as the tune he was hearing took on a complicated trill, it couldn’t be, so- Alex dismissed it as his imagination, focused on Dawson, narrowly dodged another swing, then-

“Quit dancing with me!”

He had no desire to do that. These were probably the only dancing lessons he’d ever afford. Another dodge, another miss.

“Face me like a man!”

“Then hit me like one!” The taunting was unnecessary in a fight that was practically decided, but it got the crowd riled on Alex’s behalf. There was nothing men loved more than watching brutality, particularly when it was well-earned, begged-for, something they could comfortably laugh at.

Dawson took another swing and missed again, but this time, Alex took the chance to land some taunting little slaps to the back of his neck as he twisted around his guard. “Fucking fairy!” A growl of frustration, “Fighting cocks- more like taking them,” he spat.

Alex’s step stumbled at that. It was enough for an elbow to crack into his cheek and Dawson was spinning on him while he was stunned. A fist like a brick landed against his ribs and his feet buckled. A leg swept them out from under him.

He rolled to his knees, but before he could get up, fingers were tearing his head up by the hair.

“Y’should’a gone to St. Paul’s- I hear they’ll fuck you when you lose.”

Alex didn’t know he could tackle a man to the ground without a conscious thought.

He didn’t feel himself do it.

But, he found himself there, knees digging into Dawson’s ribcage, scalp stinging from tearing his head away, throwing punch after punch, crunching the brute’s nose in, boxing his ears viciously, the temple, the eyes, striking again with knuckles that came away wet and bloody, numb to pain- inflicting as much as possible. Dawson bucked wildly and tried to elbow his thighs or roll him off. Alex’s fists squished in the eyes, cracked on temples, sliced on teeth and jagged edges of a broken nose. He was aiming to mangle and break and hurt-

Arms were grabbing him from above, tearing him away, kicking and flailing to the tune of the violin’s crescendo in third position, notes high and flying in a solo that no wharf-working fiddler would know. Just as urgent and wild as it was a distinguished display of technical prowess. Something that belonged in the gilded halls of Liberty Hall. Something Kitty or Brockholst might spend a few hours on each day with their tutors and never truly learn like this.

He should’ve been more concerned about being dragged from the tavern than about the identity of the fiddler for the night, but for a moment there, he had thought- and the song- he was sure…

Rob’s arms really were unfairly strong. Like a plank of lumber or a stone column, solid and stable as they hauled him down Broad Street. All their drills and training had only enhanced them. Given his response to their previous flirtations, Alex was pretty sure squeezing and admiring would not be well-received.

Rob was angry.

Alex could feel it, like a scab he couldn’t help but scratch. “Mulligan could’ve come got me himself if he was worried,” he said.

“You think Mulligan sent me?”

A listless shrug, “He knew about the match- makes sense he’d send someone.”

“I sent myself,” Rob hiked him higher over his arm to fix Alex’s position and earn a hiss of pain. “Nick, Sam, Henry, and I have all been out looking for you since dawn after you didn’t come home last night. Nick’s been beside himself.”

It suddenly felt terrible, leaning on Rob, so Alex put his feet under himself and picked up his weight as well as he could. Something in his hip felt wrong, maybe broken. “I was fine.”

“You were drowning in a puddle of your own vomit.”

There was nothing to say to that.

“I know you’ve been under a great deal of pressure. I know that my actions did nothing to alleviate that,” Rob said. “But, there’s no excuse for this. You want to be an officer- to assume control of men- make their orders and have their lives depend on you. You want to lead them into battle, yet right now, you’re failing to control even yourself.”

At a bar, two blocks south, Alexander nursed a glass of whiskey and pressed the most over-charged block of ice he’d ever held, wrapped up in a cloth against his cheek.

“Between us, there really are men at St. Paul’s that would fuck you.”

Hamilton knew the voice that came from his left, but he didn’t move the ice to look. He could feel eyes appraising him. Perhaps a mockery of flirtation. Perhaps not. The point was to make him question whether he was being seen too clearly. To intimidate. He hadn’t been able to look for Cleary before being dragged from the Fighting Cocks, so he hadn’t been able to confirm that it had actually been him that he’d seen during the fight- much less heard playing violin.

But, he knew this was a cat-and-mouse game they were engaged in, so the visit only mildly-surprised him. He didn’t want any surprise to show, so he waved down the barmaid for another cup of whiskey. She brought one over and glanced between the two of them. Alex paid for it and slid it to his side, still without looking. Cleary made sure to brush their fingers together as he took it.

“I knew that was you playing Vivaldi,” Alex said. "Winter, right? Little early for that."

“It's my favorite of his seasons. You showed me your passion tonight, I thought I’d show you one of mine.”

“How genteel.” There were questions that Alexander needed to ask, but he knew better than to take this friendly exchange as it was offered. Such things were never actually on offer with people like them.

“A good fight, though you had me worried in the middle.”

It was not a good fight.

A display of poor sportsmanship that left Dawson’s face swollen, black and purple, one of his eyes half-blind, Alex would be barred from the ring and remanded. Back to balancing bets at best- if he could manage to stay on at all.

But, there was a more-important issue at hand.“You’re a regular to Fighting Cocks, but the dailies are invite only,” Alex said. “Should I be flattered that you worked so hard to get in or worried that you already had a connection?”

“I think you’ll worry whether I tell you to or not,” Cleary said knowingly. “But, I hope you’ll believe it’s my intention to flatter you.”

An unsurprising answer, given the agent’s modus operandi thus far.

It was only two nights ago that Cleary had caught Alexander trailing him and Alex had given the flimsiest possible alias. It had earned a laugh and two slender fingertips dragging under his jaw to tilt his face up in a move that was both irritating and oddly-arousing- then even more irritating because of it. Cleary had smiled at him with brilliant long teeth and said, ‘good luck then, Cope,’ before disappearing.

So the game began, and Alexander was usually a contender at this game, but in this case- with this agent, he had been unable to dig up anything of use- where he was from, how he got to New York, why the Sons of Liberty still tended to trust his information when every lead he had provided ended up wasting time and resources. Weapons caches that were ruined upon capture, spoilt powder, emptied coffers, absconded traitors. Regardless of his obviously-intentional futility, every source Alexander had interviewed about Cleary were positively charmed with the boy, half of them were more than charmed- obviously itching to fuck him given the chance.

So, it was easy to see that this flirtation was not special to him, and that made it less concerning. What was concerning was his greeting. Half-drunk and sore-headed, Alex forgave himself for the slow realization: if he’d been the fiddler, there was no way Cleary could have heard what Dawson said to him in the ring.

Either he had gotten the story off someone else who had been at Fighting Cocks tonight or- “You told Dawson to say that?”

The question earned an impressed chuckle, and Alexander almost wished he hadn’t said it. Cleary’s fingers were touching the back of his hand over the cloth, gentling the ice away from his cheek. Rivulets of cool water trickled down his neck until he dabbed them away gently, trailing the ice to his exposed collar then up to the back of his flushed neck. Alexander hadn’t felt particularly underdressed for the purposes of visiting the docks. Between the dailies and the warmth inside the public houses here, there was little need for the overcoat and hat of a gentleman. But, he felt abruptly naked and intimately informal.

“I figured I’d show you what I can do with an instrument,” Cleary said loudly enough to hear over the din of the bar, but no louder. “Considering how intent you are to fashion yourself into one.”

“An instrument.”

One edge of his clever-bowed lips curled, “Violin specifically is my specialty,” he said. “Requires excellent dexterity in the fingers, don’t you agree?”

Those same fingers were massaging a bruise in Alex’s jaw. Too soon to be soothing, and instead causing a pleasant ache. Alex grabbed his wrist tightly, “We’re not talking about your violin.”

“Aren’t we?” Cleary said, leaning much closer now. “I assure you, Cope, I could play you just as well.”

“I’m not a violin.”

“No, I know. You’re a Pen. Maybe someday a Sword…”

Somehow, that was worse than if he’d called Alexander by his real name. The idea that this stranger might know so much about him. Between this and his flirtations, it was too much to take. “We were talking about Dawson- you told him to insult me in the ring- to accuse me of being a sodomite. For what- my attention? You already had it and you knew that. So, what purpose did he serve you?”

“Serve me?” Cleary’s brows were pinched in the first genuine reaction he’d worn.

Alexander quickly cataloged the expression and released his grip on his wrist.

“I’d hardly think of a person that way. Call him my instrument if you must, at least I can make music with an instrument. But, people are not tools. Unless, like you, they think it of themselves first.”

“Like me.”

“Oh, dear boy, I mean no offense by it,” Cleary dabbed the wet cloth to his temples and then brushed the loose hairs behind his ears in a motion that was far too familiar.

Alex gave in to the impulse to jerk his head away- finally.

Cleary kept his face steadily neutral. “It’s a virtue to be useful, if that’s what you choose.”

It was. Years ago- perhaps decades. Alexander had decided on this path for himself, to give himself over to his causes and make himself useful to the people of his country. He had to believe that he had chosen this because the alternative was intolerable. “So, showing me what you can do with a violin was meant to do what?”

“Demonstrate my fingering mostly.” Cleary grinned and let his eyes trail down Alexander’s exposed collar like a lascivious touch. “Show my appreciation for a beautiful instrument...make it sing for you.”

Alex knew that acknowledging this tactic was exactly what Cleary wanted, but he couldn’t just take this quietly. “You think you can seduce me into being useful to you?”

“No, you’re quite spoken for, I suppose.” The agent rose from his seat and set the ice cloth on the bar top in front of him. He picked up his glass, poured the remainder of the whiskey in Alex’s cup, patted him between the shoulders and said, “A shame though. Good night, Cope.”

Alex didn’t know when he’d stopped drinking, but he doubted that he had. He didn’t know when or how he’d made his way to the waterfront to pass out in the street, but it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen into the harbor or been carried onto a ship and taken out to sea for his labor.

His pockets were empty and he was definitely still drunk. It was the only thing that kept him from arguing against Troup’s earnest assessment.

“I can’t take you to drill like this.”

If Alex tried to respond, he’d probably vomit again, so he leaned his forehead against the side of Troup’s head gratefully and let his most loyal friend carry him home.

#Cleary / Cope #Robert Troup #Historical Hamilton #backstory fic #ficlet #tw: vomit #tw: period-typical homophobia

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thafreedomwall · 2 months ago

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The original dark earth .40 cal Glock mags, these were originally procured by CAG to easily differentiate them from their 9mm counterparts, and for a while, were exclusively sold to the DoD before being made available to civilians.

No CAG RTF2 G22 clone is complete without one of these.

#CAG #Delta #SMU #SOCOM #JSOC #Glock #Glock 22 #RTF2 #Glock RTF2 #Glock 22 RTF2 #.40 #.40 cal #Dawson precision #KKM

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moodoo-van-spoon · 7 months ago

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Figaro's Famous Fanfare | 66 Brilliant Baritones Battle OUT NOW!

Gioachino Rossini’s opera Il Barbiere di Siviglia (The Barber of Seville) remains one of the most beloved and enduring works in the operatic repertoire.

Among its many memorable moments, Figaro's entrance aria, "Largo al Factotum," stands out as a tour de force for the baritone voice and a cornerstone for both character development and comedic expression.

The famous "Figaro, Figaro, Figaro" section, performed unaccompanied, exemplifies Rossini's wit, musical humour, and masterful control of operatic timing.

This moment showcases the singer’s vocal precision, agility, and musicianship, while also highlighting their acting skills, characterisation, dramatic flair, and ability to engage the audience.

In this 10-minute video, 66 great operatic baritones bring their own unique interpretations to this iconic a cappella passage.

List of Figaros:

Giuseppe Campanari [1855–1927] — Over 200 Met performances Mattia Battistini [1856–1928] — ‘King of Baritones’ Joseph Winogradoff [1866–1936] — Sang Figaro in Yiddish John Forsell [1868–1941] — Debuted as Figaro Mario Sammarco [1868–1930] — Noted for versatility & acting Emilio De Gogorza [1872–1949] — Recorded prodigiously

Riccardo Stracciari [1875–1955] — Figaro a signature role Giuseppe De Luca [1876–1950] — Created Sharpless & Schicchi Titta Ruffo [1877–1953] — ‘Voice of The Lion’ Pasquale Amato [1878–1942] — Sang at the Met 1908–1921 Peter Dawson* [1882–1961] — Bass-baritone. Over 1500 recordings Carlo Galeffi [1882–1961] — One of the finest interwar baritones

Enrico Molinari [1882–1956] — Sang as bass & baritone Armand Crabbé [1883–1947] — A lead in London 1906–1914, 1937 Giuseppe Danise [1883–1963] — Four Met premieres Anafesto Rossi [1883–1933] — Graduated as a bass Enrico De Franceschi [1885–1945] — Figaro in Turin & Honduras Umberto Urbano [1885–1969] — Recorded ‘marvels of lyric beauty’

Apollo Granforte [1886–1975] — c.1800 performances Giulio Fregosi [1887–1951] — Figaro in Paris Luigi Montesanto [1887–1954] — Created Michele Giacomo Rimini [1887–1952] — Sang Figaro with GalliCurci Heinrich Schlusnus [1888–1952] —Top German interwar lyric baritone Mariano Stabile [1888–1968] — Outstanding singing-actor

Richard Bonelli [1889–1980] — Sang Figaro in early sound film Benvenuto Franci [1891–1985] — A top Figaro interpretator John Charles Thomas [1891–1960] — Hollywood Walk of Fame Mario Basiola [1892–1965] — 66 roles. Taught by Cotogni Giovanni Inghilleri [1894–1959] — Sang with Ponselle & Gigli Lawrence Tibbett [1896–1960] — Legendary singer & actor

Iso Golland [1898–1961] — Respected pedagogue Dennis Noble* [1898–1966] — Bristolian [UK]. Prolific broadcaster Carlo Tagliabue [1898–1978] — Sang Wagner, Excelled at Verdi Ivan Petroff [1899–1963] — Debuted as Figaro Igor Gorin [1904–1982] — Cantor fluent in 8 languages Alexander Sved [1906–1979] — Taught by Sammarco & Stracciari

Frank Valentino [1907–1991] — 26 roles in 21 seasons at the Met Leonard Warren [1911–1960] — Met lead. Had a top C Gino Bechi [1913–1993] — Cast in musical films Tito Gobbi [1913–1984] — 136 roles over 44 years Paolo Silveri [1913–2001] — Sang as bass, baritone & tenor Giuseppe Valdengo [1914–2007] — Debuted as Figaro

Josef Metternich [1915–2005] — Created Hindemith’s Kepler Giuseppe Taddei [1916–2010] — Aged 69 at Met debut Robert Merrill [1917–2004] — Met’s principal baritone Manuel Ausensi [1919–2005] — Famous full recording of this opera Sesto Bruscantini [1919–2003] — Also sang Bartolo Aldo Protti [1920–1995] — Student of Basiola

Ettore Bastianini [1922–1967] — Recorded this opera for Decca Cornell MacNeil [1922–2011] — ‘Rivals, but [..] no equals’ Renato Capecchi [1923–1998] — Singer, actor & director Frank Guarrera [1923–2007] — Figaro a signature role Rolando Panerai [1924–2019] — More than 150 roles. Famed for buffo Piero Cappuccilli [1926–2005] — 17 major Verdi roles

Nicolae Herlea [1927–2014] — Sang Figaro c.550 times Peter Glossop [1928–2008] — A lead in London, Europe & USA Hermann Prey [1929–1998] — Figaro in film and live TV Yuri Gulyayev [1930–1986] — Figaro a best role Yuri Mazurok [1931–2006] — People’s Artist of the USSR Stoyan Popov [1933–2017] — ’The Bulgarian Titto Gobbi’

Sherrill Milnes [1935-] — Recorded Figaro under Levine Franco Pagliazzi [1937–2018] — Became dramatic tenor Silvano Carroli [1939–2020] — Taught by Mario Del Monaco Muslim Magomayev [1942–2008] — ’Soviet Sinatra’ Allan Monk [1942-] — Awarded a Golden Jubilee Medal Amartuvshin Enkhbat [1986-] — Numerous international awards

*Recorded 'Largo al Factotum' in the Key of Bb

Please join me for the premiere of this new video and share your thoughts in the comments and in the chat! I’m curious… Who’s YOUR favourite Figaro?! 🎶

There's a 'notify me' option available on the video page

Feel free to invite anyone else who might enjoy it— I look forward to you joining me there! Moodoo Van Spoon

youtube

#baritone #opera #largo al factotum #figaro #ilbarbieredisiviglia

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