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concussed-to-pieces · 1 year

Text

More Honest

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls Five: Skyrim

Pairing: Argis the Bulwark/F!Dragonborn

Rating: Holy shit M.

Author's Note: Happy Valentine's Day, gang! I hope you all like this indulgent little shindig inspired by a glitch that I encountered. Enjoy!

Tag List: @stargazerofgoldenwords @toxiicpop @thirstworldproblemss

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains canon-typical violence and unprotected sex between two consenting adults. Stay safe!]

Argis had always just assumed the leather thong around her neck bore a pendant of Talos. It would explain her hiding it beneath her clothes for the entirety of their partnership, and it would also explain her never taking it off. Many of his fellow Nords had a difficult time accepting the ruling on Talos.

So he was stunned when, one night at the tavern, the pendant that slipped out from beneath her undertunic was…

"An amulet of Mara?" He had asked before he could stop himself, his brow furrowed. "You're looking for marriage, then?"

Tor had gone red in the face, waving him off with an awkward cough. "I've been a follower of Mara since I was very little. I even made this pendant myself, see?" The Nord woman turned the bauble in her hands, showing Argis just how rough the traditionally-smooth edges were. "As you can tell, jewelry-crafting was not my strong suit. I was a stripling when I forged these beads and the pendant, and my patience was thin." She explained, chuckling quietly.

"It's better that way, isn't it?" Argis found himself saying. "More honest. Mara accepts us despite our faults, if I remember those long-winded sermons right."

Tor nodded. "Aye, she loves us and wishes us to love in turn. One of the things that drew me to her is that the world is far more cruel than it needs to be. I would…make it less so." She carefully tucked the amulet back beneath her clothing and, seeming to realize he had watched her do it, rushed to clarify. "I've kept it hidden since I came of age to marry," she elaborated with a sad smile. "There have always been far too many pressing concerns to trouble myself with finding a partner."

The discussion had been brief, begun and ended just as quickly. So why couldn't he get it out of his head?

…

"Why not worship Dibella? Her followers make many lofty claims in the name of love." Multitudes of beautiful men and women made their way to the shrine of Dibella every day, clad in a conglomeration of tastefully minimal garb. Surely the goddess of beauty and passion's worship would go hand in hand with the goddess of love!

"I am not nearly so vain as to believe I could become a worshipper of Dibella!" Tor had roared draconically with laughter at his suggestion, amber eyes alight. "Argis, I cannot parade like a peacock with the rest of Dibella's comely faithful. There is far too much work to be done."

"Aye, but-" Argis had paused, her words catching up to him. "My Thane, you are more than capable of being one of Dibella's faithful." He insisted boldly, unsure of where this bravery came from.

Tor's laugh was a bit softer this time. "This body has taken a beating, Argis. I am not some soft and unmarred offering."

"It is better that way, isn't it?" Argis found himself echoing what he had said months ago. "More honest. Love is not young and untouched, but neither is it old and weary. Love…it endures through hardships, after the passion has faded."

Tor had given him a curious look, nudging her mount with her heel to bring their horses closer together. "Oddly profound for you, my housecarl." Her tone was teasing, yet serious enough that Argis knew he was on thin ice.

"I meant no disrespect to you, my Thane. It was a simple observation, nothing more."

"Then I will take the compliment." Tor had winked at him, then clicked her tongue to urge her horse into a canter.

…

Those conversations resounded in his head now as he stared at the innkeeper, who stared back at him with a perplexed expression. Kleppr finally asked, "what ails you, Argis? You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

"N-Nothing, nothing is wrong." Argis fumbled to respond, his mind already miles away. Two days ago. She accepted that job two days ago. I only noticed her bow was gone yesterday. She's been gone two days and she didn't bring her axe--the stables, I'll ask at the stables. If her horse is still there, that means she's on foot.

The Forsworn had been harassing travelers more and more often; no doubt they had caught wind that the Dragonborn resided in Markarth. It only made sense that the Jarl would post a bounty for the clearing out of a camp nearby.

Argis stormed through the tiny market, heading for the gate. One step at a time, he told himself, trying to quell the rapidly rising panic that was gripping his throat. We gather information.

He didn't even have to question the stable attendant; the enormous head of Tor's horse (a dun beast by the name of Zace) was clearly visible over the half-closed stall door. The horse whinnied at the sight of Argis, no doubt expecting the Nord to come bearing the usual treats. Argis' own horse Tannin, the ungrateful bastard, didn't even look up from his manger.

Argis fretted for a moment, scratching Zace's pink muzzle. He quickly made his choice though, beginning to saddle both horses. He would find her faster riding than on foot.

Hopefully.

…

Well, Tor thought, in pain and more than a little concerned, this is a fine mess I've gotten myself into.

The plan, inasmuch as there was one, had been to scout the encampment and retrieve Argis once she was confident she had memorized the layout. The camp had been a bit further away than she had been led to believe, but Tor was confident they could easily reach it before the denizens of said camp decided to launch another raid.

However, she hadn't anticipated the Forsworn would be led by a hagraven. The unsettling amalgamation of avian and woman had sniffed her out almost immediately and, armed only with a rarely-used bow and limited magics, Tor had been captured. She had Shouted one of their warriors to his death, sending his body flying off the edge of a cliff, but that had just whipped the rest of them into a frenzy.

Their Briarheart had brought her down, striking what would have been a killing blow to a mere mortal when his saw-toothed blade tore through her side. Tor had been hard-pressed to stop the bleeding even with her healing spells, a task made all the more difficult by her captors frantically scrambling to bind and gag her.

Now she lay on a filthy pile of straw, attempting to glare daggers through the back of the Briarheart's head. He had been the one to rouse her from her uneasy doze in the weak, gloomy dawn, his antlered headpiece knocking the poorly-framed doorway of the hovel they kept her in. The entire structure shuddered with every gust of bitter Reach wind but still somehow managed to maintain its integrity. More’s the pity, the Dragonborn mused uncharitably, flexing her hands in their binds. They seemed to have gone numb while she slept, though whether from her position or the tightness of the ropes she could not say.

“...jarl will have no choice but to accede, once we can scrape together the paper,” came the wheezing, tremulous rasp of the hagraven. There, that shuffling drag of clawed feet over the paltry soil. So she was fast approaching. “Our demands will be many, as this is certainly a worthy prize.”

Tor grimaced. The Jarl of Markarth, Igmund, did not exactly relish her presence in Vlindrel Hall. She doubted whatever demands this hagraven had would be particularly well-received. Hell, it might be weeks before Igmund even found whatever missive they sent; he was often mired in tedious deliberations with the Thalmor for days on end.

The woman jerked upright as another thought struck her. Argis. She hadn't left a note, oh gods no. He hadn't been at Vlindrel when she departed either, which meant that any hope of rescue she may have harbored was quickly withering away. It could very well take a week for Argis to realize she was missing, and at that point Kleppr probably would have entirely forgotten that he had even given her that bounty…

Tor cursed herself inwardly, furious at her own ineptitude. Why did she always manage to land in these situations?! Alone, hogtied and headed to whatever axe-man the gods saw fit to place in her path this time. Except now she wasn't even able to use the Voice, and she doubted she could count on the dubious charity of Alduin to save her once more.

Normally, she prayed from force of habit, an evening routine forged in her early years by parents who were long gone. She had never received a direct answer to a prayer, but that hadn't dampened her faith. You must be realistic with your prayers, dear one, her mother had chided her one evening. This is not a wish. It is a prayer.

Mara, Tor begged silently, her eyes closed tight. Mara, please. I need help, I need something, anything. She could work with whatever she was given, but she knew she was running out of time. The hagraven may not wish to keep her alive, and little could turn the crow-wife from her path if she decided to snuff out the Dragonborn. No, Tor jolted, the realization making her stomach lurch. It would be much simpler to kill me and replace my heart, raise me under her control. The Forsworn with the Dragonborn on their side?

Gods, what a fool she had been. She had practically hobbled herself and fallen into their snare.

Talons curved beneath her chin, pricking the skin of her throat. "I know you are awake, little morsel." The hagraven growled, her breath hot and rank with the stench of old blood. Tor couldn't keep herself from flinching and the witch chuckled, a little jackdaw cackle. "Is it afraid of me? Poor sweetling." She cooed tenderly, clawed fingers raking through the mess of Tor's half-braided hair. The Nord woman bore this insult in silence, her teeth clenched into the gag while she continued to glare at the Briarheart. He had turned around to stare at her and his hagraven master, half-closed eyes uncannily glassy.

Briarhearts, as far as Tor knew, teetered on that gray edge of mortality, neither truly alive nor dead. Their existence was hellish at best and blatantly cruel at worst; freshly-deceased warriors wrested back from their eternal slumber by their blood-soaked matrons, the hagravens raising the body anew and enslaving the soul in the process. Tor had only witnessed one such raising and she had fell upon the feathered creatures and their corpse-spawn with such a violence that there had been nothing left but ash.

It seemed, however, that she would be joining their ranks soon. The hagraven, unnaturally strong even in that wizened frame, bent Tor over until her forehead was inches from the floor and slid a brown-stained bowl beneath her throat. "Cannot waste a drop of dragon blood." The hag explained needlessly, accepting a dark-bladed knife from the Briarheart. "It will not be swift. Try not to struggle, so you don't ruin your pretty, pretty flesh." Her tone was almost motherly, but it was thoroughly ruined by the horrible scrape of her voice.

Tor, of course, immediately began to struggle, thrashing as best as she could in the iron hold of the hagraven.

The Briarheart, who had returned to his post in the doorway, grunted suddenly, his hands half-raising. "What, can't you see I'm busy?" The hagraven spat in annoyance, squawking with alarm when the Briarheart fell to its knees. Argis, his sword still run through the briarheart fruit that had replaced the half-living warrior's heart, planted a foot in the Briarheart's back and tore his blade free.

"Where is-" he began in a fierce bellow, his volume stunning even Tor. The hagraven shrieked, talons bared, and she lunged at the large warrior. Her claws squealed against the metal of his sword, showering sparks on the floor before Argis managed to parry, the housecarl forcing his full weight down on the witch as a riposte to her attack.

Argis! Tor's eyes fell on the ceremonial dagger the hagraven had dropped and she flung herself on top of it, fingers clawing for the hilt in the straw and packed dirt of the floor.

…

Fire exploded around the edge of Argis' shield and he snarled, ignoring the flames licking over his hauberk sleeve while he slammed the sturdy metal into the hagraven's face. The witch reeled backwards from the blow, hurling curses at him in Bretic and some other foul tongue. Argis wasn't wildly sure, but he got the sense that a few future generations of his bloodline may have been involved in her wrathful incantations.

He for his part remained silent. Tor was alive, he had arrived in time. Relief had nearly brought him low, his defenses in shambles after the frantic dash on horseback over the mountainous, scrub bush-choked lands of the Reach. It had been all he could do to master himself before the hag reacted, only just managing to use his superior height and weight to break their stalemate. For all that their appearance was waifish and frail, hagravens had a terrible, wiry strength to their limbs.

The witch continued to scream and clamor at him like a wild beast, her raw-throated wailing threatening to wake the dead. Argis crashed the flat of his blade on his shield and shouted in retort, drowning her out with his own din until she seemed to snap under frustration. A whirling mass of feathers engulfed her and Argis braced himself for another attack. He didn't have to wait long, though the attack came from above and he was barely able to fling the hagraven away from him before she tore his remaining eye out. She howled in fury, her motions now a frenzied race to sink her claws into any exposed skin.

"Morsel, morsel!" she jibbered at him, which he rewarded with another stout slam of the shield against her beak-like nose. Her claws snagged in the sleeve of his hauberk and Argis was made abruptly aware of his own mortality, the warrior taking a hearty step back to pull the witch with him into the weak sunlight. A sharp, violent jerk later and he freed himself, but not without cost; his hauberk and the skin beneath it were rent deeply from those terrible talons.

The hag paused, seeming to notice the disarray of the filthy camp around her. There had only been six Forsworn Argis had found, but he knew if any of them escaped they would raise the alarm.

So none of them had escaped.

The witch gnashed her teeth, stamping those clawed feet on the ground and tearing at the dirt. "You'll pay for this, meat!" She raged, her eyes wild with madness. The feathers swirled once more, leaving Argis uncertain as to where her next attack would come from. Behind him, if he had to guess, and regrettably he was proven correct.

Claws hooked into his shoulders, shearing through his mail like it was simple leather and digging for purchase in the flesh beneath. He was dragged back a step before he could find his footing, then the Nord man gritted his teeth and lunged forwards, ripping free from her ferocious talons.

He whirled to face his foe with blade already raised to fend off the next attack, but the hag had suddenly gone still. A black point protruded from her throat and, as she collapsed in a heap, Tor was revealed behind her, the woman still in the process of thrusting the dagger home. The witch writhed on the ground for a moment, clawing futilely at her neck, then went limp.

"Tor," Argis breathed, simultaneously relieved and frantic. A deep wound marred Tor's side, the injury blotting her stained leathers black with blood. Argis stormed forward, seizing her arm. Tor looked up at him, her eyes wide, and he forced her to sit before she could manage to wriggle free. "Be still," the Nord man grated out through clenched teeth. "I'll fetch the horses."

"Argis, you're-"

"Be still." He barked, irritated when she jerked out of his hold. "Woman, I've been half out of my mind trying to find you. The least you can do is follow one simple order." The man seethed, panic sharpening his words to a razor edge.

"Argis." Tor snapped, her hand slamming down on the wound on his arm. The sudden pain had the large man breathless, and he dropped to one knee before he could steady himself. Golden light poured from beneath her hand, familiar healing magic knitting Argis' arm back together. "I'm fine." She insisted, her brow furrowed. "I'm fine, I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Were those…was she crying? Argis blinked rapidly, fumbling at her side. The skin beneath her thin traveling leathers was indeed fine; she must have healed her wound and all he had seen was the old blood still smeared on the area. "Thank the Nine." He sighed. "I thought…there was blood, I assumed the worst."

…

"I'm fine." Tor repeated tremulously, tears streaming unchecked down her face. She couldn't seem to stop them. She was fine, Argis was wounded but alive. Why was she crying?

"Aye, I suppose you are." Argis murmured, his touch uncharacteristically gentle when he cupped her cheek to wipe the tears away. Tor found herself crumpling, shoving her face into his chest and gripping his back like he would be torn from her if she didn't. After a moment, Argis' arms wrapped around her.

They were silent for a time, Tor with her ear pressed to his still-pounding heart and Argis with his chin resting on the top of her head.

"I'm glad I arrived in time." Argis said finally.

"As am I." Tor took a deep breath to steel her nerves, then pulled away. He was smiling, beaming at her and she was stunned silent by the sight. He smiled so rarely, to see him this pleased…

Argis shifted awkwardly under her stare, seeming a bit uncomfortable with her sudden muteness. "I should…er, get the horses."

Tor's ability to speak made an abrupt return as she asked, "did you bring any food?", her stomach rumbling the punctuation on her hopeful query. Her housecarl chuckled, assuring her that yes, he had indeed stocked the saddlebags.

Argis rose, offering her a hand up even as he swayed on his feet. Tor waved him off, worriedly examining the wounds on his shoulders. Tandem trios of raking claws had ribboned the hauberk, gambeson and flesh beneath them badly. Instead of complaining of the pain, Argis bemoaned the fact that he would need to have the chain mail repaired. Tor couldn't help her laugh at that.

Her housecarl, ever the pragmatist.

"Once I get some food into me, I'll make quick work of those scratches," Tor promised, draping Argis' arm over her shoulders to help him walk. He was a bit unsteady, which had her concerned.

"My Thane, I…" Argis paused, squinting. "My head feels odd," he admitted. "It's aching badly. The light hurts."

Hell. "Stay with me until you can show me where you left the horses, Argis." Tor instructed, tightening her hold on his arm. Argis nodded, his jaw set in a grim line.

After a short, stumbling eternity, the Nord man pointed toward a tangle of juniper across the next ridge. "There." It seemed to take most of his energy just to say that much; he sagged perceptibly after the word.

Tor knew she didn't have the strength left to drag him over the rise, so she settled him down on the ground. "Stay here, I'll bring the horses to us."

Argis blinked wearily up at her, his exhaustion evident in the way his head kept lolling forwards onto his chest. Tor puffed out a breath, and then turned to clamber up the steep incline.

Zace, bless his heart, was mouthing disinterestedly at the scrubby brush around him. Tannin noticed her first, if his huffing snort was any indicator. Zace whinnied loudly when she called his name, trotting to the end of his lead.

"Aye, I should have brought you." Tor allowed with a rueful smile, rubbing her mount's nose and then taking Tannin's reins.

…

Brain Rot, a common ailment when battling hagravens, had been what robbed the spirit from Argis' nigh-indomitable form. Oh certainly, the priestess of Dibella had assured that he would recover if he was allowed to rest, even offering her own body to lie beside him in an effort to break the fever that wracked his unconscious form.

Tor may have ushered the extremely-beautiful woman out of Vlindrel Hall a bit more hastily than was proper, but managing her jealousy had never been a strong suit. She had wondered more than once if it had something to do with her dragon blood and just how hot it ran. She tended towards fierce, almost single-minded protection of whatever she held dear, and Argis…

Argis was indeed dear to her. Not that he needed to know that, of course! It would be much simpler for him to find a normal partner, settle down with them and enjoy his life. Tor understood with a heavy sadness that should he turn his wandering eye to her, it would only lead him to grief…a life of violence, bloodshed and no-doubt eventual death at the hands of some ambitious soul. It was not a life she wished on any, and so she had stayed carefully distant. Whatever feelings bloomed in her heart were always hers alone to bear.

He had rescued her, though. That knowledge kept her awake fretting into the early hours, the foyer consistently frequented by restless pacing. She hadn't gotten the chance to ask him just why he had come after her so quickly, why he had thought that the Dragonborn wouldn't be able to manage a simple encampment of Forsworn. Admittedly, her Thu'um was not well-trained. A single full shout could leave her throat raw for hours, as it had during her bout with the Forsworn, and she was lax in her meditation. Inner peace hadn't seemed like a priority what with a world-ending beast breathing down her neck.

Perhaps she had been too confident. Truly, if Argis hadn't arrived when he did, she shuddered to think of what blind havoc her body could be wreaking. He had rescued her.

He had rescued the Dragonborn.

If nothing else, she could endure the blow to her pride to give him the satisfaction of her admission of that fact.

…

He became aware of the embers in the hearth, listening to them softly hum and crackle to one another as they died down. It must be late.

There was the clatter of a wooden object being placed on the table beside his bed. After a moment, a ladle was pressed to his lips and the man drank ravenously from the cool water.

Argis finally managed to open his eye for the first time in what felt like weeks, staring upwards at the stone ceiling. He heard a gasp beside him but he didn't even have the strength to turn his head.

"Argis!"

Her.

His body suddenly felt like it was full of sunlight, too enormous to fight, too airy to grasp. He strained to move and her hands carefully framed his jaw, easing his head to the side.

Tor was alive. He hadn't failed. The fever dreams had been so vivid at some points that Argis was still uncertain if this was reality. He had watched her die so many times…

"Thane." He rasped.

Tor hushed him, a damp rag smoothing back the hair that had gotten stuck to his forehead. "It's alright, you're safe." She soothed, her expression achingly concerned. Argis' breath hitched, eye widening.

Why is she looking at me like that?

He tried again to speak, swallowing hard beforehand. "My Thane, I-"

"Please Argis, save your strength. You've been ill for days." Tor murmured. "I'll fetch you some broth."

Moving his body felt like it was nigh-impossible, but Argis still managed to grab her wrist before she could flee. "Are you well?" He breathed, his sight already wavering with exhaustion.

The woman nodded, blinking rapidly before turning away. "A-Aye." She mumbled, scrubbing at her eyes. "Quite well, my housecarl."

He couldn't recall her ever saying his title so tenderly.

…

The dynamic seemed to have shifted between them and Tor didn't know how to adjust.

Argis had silently accepted her thanks and proceeded to act as though the mishap had not occurred, the man clearly ready to put the whole thing behind them. On the one hand, it was as if nothing had changed, but on the other, everything had changed. Tor floundered, simultaneously wishing he would say something and being grateful that he had so quickly moved past it.

Perhaps the dynamic had only changed for her, so bound to her dragon pride that she couldn't reconcile herself with these uncertain emotions. Uncertain!, she scoffed at herself, hardly uncertain. It is longing for what I cannot have, and lust for my shield-mate. It was plain as a fresh coat of whitewash but still she bandied with it, tamping down her thoughts night after night.

Mara, I don't know what to do.

…

The trek to Riften had been long and fraught with wretched weather. After dismounting Tannin, Argis had to brace himself against a beam in the stables so he could settle his hip back into place. Alongside him, Tor stretched with a long groan, shaking the rainwater off her oilcloth cloak.

"I can speak with the jarl tomorrow morning." She grunted as she raised her arms overhead. "Tonight, all I want is a hot meal and a soft bed."

"Aye." Argis agreed, beginning to remove Tannin's tack. "I assume you'll be going to the shrine?"

"Indeed, before my meal so I don't fall asleep mid-prayer." Tor grinned up at him from beneath her hood but Argis quickly averted his gaze, continuing to busy himself with his mount's needs. He heard her exhale after a moment, then, "I'll get us a room and arrange our meals. Could you-"

"I'll tend to Zace." The man cut her off, already knowing what she would say. This was their usual arrangement, after all. He must have said it a bit sharper than he intended however, because Tor fell silent and departed without another word.

What am I doing? Argis rested his forehead on Tannin's side, sighing heavily. What am I doing?

He stepped out into the weather once more an hour later, squinting against the downpour as he moved from lantern to lantern. Riften made Argis uneasy, but since becoming Tor's housecarl he had noted a significant decrease in harassment of his person. It was as if even the ne'er do wells of Riften could sense the power rolling off of Tor in silent waves, and they did their utmost to give the woman and her housecarl a wide berth.

Upon entering the Bee And Barb, Argis was assaulted by a wave of sound and light. The common room was packed to the gills with townsfolk, all of them drinking and discussing their day with one another. In spite of himself, Argis could feel his shoulders relax. Blessed normalcy, the fleeting taste of the mundane. The world continued on it would seem, civil war, dragons and all.

Talen-Jei waved him over, the Argonian obviously in good spirits. "Tor told us you would be coming! How do you fare?" He asked the housecarl, raising his voice to be heard over the din.

"Well enough. The trek was misery, so we are glad for your hospitality." Argis replied stiffly, always torn between being a proper housecarl or speaking in a more casual manner.

Talen-Jei didn't seem to mind, the provisioner clapping him warmly on the shoulder. "Tor secured your bed and a hot dinner, would you like the key to your room now or will you wait for your meal to be prepared?"

Argis shook his head. "I can wait. No need for you or Keerava to trouble yourselves serving us."

"You are too kind, as always!" Argis raised an eyebrow at how chipper Talen-Jei was. He seemed to be in remarkably good spirits, almost suspiciously good. Upon pointing that out though, Talen-Jei simply offered him a broad, toothy grin. "It is good that you and Tor are here, my friend. May Mara smile upon you both."

Argis blinked, feeling more and more like he was missing some vital piece of information as the innkeeper bustled away, humming a tune the whole while.

…

Tor pursed her lips, a bit confused. Normally the shrine of Mara was vacant aside from the clergy and perhaps a worshiper or two. Tonight for some reason the shrine entrance was draped in wet garlands of rain-battered flowers, and inside appeared to be teeming with people. She recognized a few vestments of Dibella amongst the crowd, and after several moments of thought (as well as some frantic mental counting) the Dragonborn realized that today was possibly the worst day they could have come to Riften.

Not that Markarth would have been any better, if anything it would have been far more chaotic, but Hearts Day was celebrated by any who had a vested interest in romance and all that came with it. Dibella's faithful often intermingled with Mara's, especially today when the songs were sung and the flowers braided into their boughs for the lintel.

So much for her evening of quiet prayer! She ought to have realized once she saw how crowded the stables were, but she had been preoccupied with…

Tor frowned, tugging her hood forward and carefully making her way through the festooned congregants to the altar. The statue of Mara gazed upwards with that vague, loving benevolence, her arms wide in welcome. Before her was the customary bowl for offerings, currently piled high with seasonal blooms, greenery and gold pieces.

The Dragonborn breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of spice and incense that hung heavy in the air as she rested her palms on the altar. Mara, is this a sign? Coming here on this day, with no true intent to do so, finding a room at the inn on this day? If this is mere coincidence, I fear my heart will break.

The deity, as expected, gave no direct reply, and Tor departed after placing a handful of Septims in the basin atop its plinth.

The rainy night seemed all the more dreary once she left the warm, bustling atmosphere of the shrine, so it was with quickened steps that the woman made her way to the Bee And Barb, where Argis was waiting.

Argis. She froze inches from pulling open the inn's door, her hand hovering in midair. There had only been one room available, and she hadn't questioned whether the room would have two beds.

Perhaps she was making a mountain out of a molehill. Tor felt a bit annoyed with herself, a bit frantic, and then more annoyed that she was frantic. What did she have to fear? She could have any partner she chose! They should count themselves lucky if she graced them with her presence. As the Dragonborn, she had to but speak and she would be flooded with proposals.

Aye, and there was the problem with the whole thing. It would be some grasping nobility, some starstruck yearling coming to her to ask you're looking for marriage?, greed or awe shining in their eyes. Not the one person she sought.

Tor straightened her shoulders, smoothed her expression, and opened the door to the inn.

…

"Ah." His conversational skills had always been lacking, but now Argis was at a loss. Tor, for her part, turned about the room again, seeming to be searching futilely for a second bed.

"It would appear," she began carefully, shooting him a look that was downright apologetic, "that this lodging has afforded us one bed."

Argis grunted in reply. He may only have the lone eye, but it still worked. He settled down into one of the chairs beside the bed, placing both their trenchers on the somewhat-rickety table. "Come eat. You must be hungry. I know I am." He tried to soften his words somewhat, gesturing towards her with an already-full spoon.

Tor lowered herself gingerly into the chair across from him, exhaling a sigh when the furniture held her weight.

Argis couldn't help his chuckle at that, shaking his head. "My Thane, if these matchsticks could support me, they'll assuredly support you."

"It's always so damp here though, I fear the moisture gets into the wood." Tor mused, tearing a piece of warm bread from the loaf and dunking it into the stew they were to share. Argis caught himself watching her hands and he quickly adjusted his posture, staring down at the baked potatoes in front of him.

He heard Tor's spoon clatter against her trencher, the woman exhaling harshly once more. "What is it?" She erupted crossly. "That's the fourth time you've done that today alone! Have I upset you, my housecarl?"

"I-" Argis stuttered, bewildered. She didn't usually snap at him, her temper always held in the burning, tense posture of her shoulders. "I apologize, my Thane. I meant no offense. I…I find myself at a loss, is all."

"Whatever for?" She still sounded annoyed, her voice sharp and carrying that burr of draconic rumble. "Look at me, Argis. What is the matter?" Tor continued after a moment of him studying his potatoes further.

"That is the matter." Argis was horrified to hear his own voice mutter, the warrior betraying himself at the bitter end. He heard her breath hitch. "I shouldn't look at you. If I so much as look at you, my mind…does things I cannot allow." He tried to explain, the words coming painfully slow. "I am your housecarl, and you are my Thane."

"Be honest with me, Argis." Why was her voice so soft? "What are these thoughts you struggle with?"

"Daydreams." Argis grated out, praying for mercy.

The gods were not with him this evening, however, as he heard and felt Tor lean her weight onto the table. "Daydreams, aye?" Her voice now held a note of teasing, almost smug, but too warm for it to endure. "Daydreams about your Thane? Oh, surely that would be unheard of."

"Do not mock me, woman." Argis growled, glaring intently down at his meal.

"I could never." Tor insisted, and Argis finally dared to look up at her. She was just sitting there, elbows propped up on the table with a serious expression on her face. "The question is, would you rather keep it to your daydreams?"

Argis opened his mouth, then paused. "You would have nothing to fear from me regardless, my Thane." He replied stiffly. "I am able to master myself and this…issue doesn't need to impede our current arrangement." Please don't send me away.

Tor sighed, rubbing her upper arms in a clear effort to banish some phantom chill. "I'm not concerned with impedement, Argis. What concerns me is that you may not understand the gravity of what could happen to you if you…if we become involved." Her face had gone pensive with contemplation. "I am the Dragonborn. You've witnessed time and again what lengths my enemies will go to in order to remove me from this mortal realm."

"I am sworn to carry your burdens," Argis rasped around the traitorous lump of hope in his throat. "Whatever they may be."

"But is this what you want?" Tor pressed. "I would not have you risk your life for me out of a misplaced sense of duty. We need not discuss this again, should you reconsider."

"I will not." Argis snarled. "I've thought and thought about this, I can't bear to think about it anymore. I…I want to." He was ashamed of how quiet his voice was when next he asked, "are you looking for marriage?"

"You've asked me that once before," was her light response, offering him no true resolution.

Slowly, carefully, Argis slipped a finger beneath the leather thong around her neck, tugging the amulet of Mara into view. "Answer me, Tor." He murmured, using the sturdy leather cord to ease her closer. "Answer me. This goes no further than what you'll allow." She avoided his gaze for several long seconds, the woman obviously turning something over in her mind. Argis merely waited patiently, the uncertain conclusion twisting his stomach into a tight knot.

"I am." The Dragonborn, the woman, answered his query softly, glancing up at him through the curtain of her lashes. "Are…Are you interested?"

Argis cleared his throat. "I am."

"You are." She breathed, her whole face lighting up. "Soon?"

"Aye." Argis agreed eagerly, rising from the table and extending her a hand. "Now."

"Now? But the food-!"

Argis groaned in exasperation, knowing he could never tear her from a hot meal. "Finish the blasted thing, then. But hurry."

…

Maramal, priest of Mara, raised his hands while smiling at the couple before him. "It was Mara who first gave birth to all creation, and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learn to love one another. It is from this love that we learn a life lived alone is no life at all."

A breathless hush had fallen over the crowded shrine. All that could be heard was the sound of crackling torches and the fierce downpour outside hammering on the courtyard.

It's perfect, Tor decided, giving Argis' hand a small squeeze. The priestess at the shrine and multiple enthusiastic faithful had seen fit to adorn her hair with flowers scavenged from the altar, carefully braiding the delicate blooms into her long brown locks. Argis had simply stood there and watched it happen, an odd little smile on his face the entire time while Tor protested half-heartedly.

"We gather here today under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and in the next, in prosperity and poverty, in joy and hardship." The priest then turned to Argis, asking the time-honored question, "Do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?"

"Now and forever." Argis echoed, his voice strong and certain.

Tor closed her eyes, a wave of relief washing over her. No matter how much she had tried to reassure herself, there had been that fear he would decide against this…incredibly impulsive course of action.

Now though it was her turn to respond, the priest giving her a proud, warm look as he queried, "do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?"

"Now and forever." Tor said it softly, but the rafters still shuddered overhead from the power of the Thu'um. Argis chuckled, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed." The officiant intoned, smiling broadly. The packed shrine burst into cheers, pilgrims tossing flowers and offering well-wishes to one of the many newly-wedded couples they would see that evening alone. As Tor and Argis stepped aside to make room for the next pair, Tor was startled by her housecarl sweeping her up in his arms and bringing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

Not my housecarl, she corrected herself hazily after a moment, my husband.

"Sorry." Argis apologized, the man sounding as breathless as she felt. "Wanted to do that for a long time."

"Well don't stop now." Tor implored, dazed from the kiss and the sincere smile that he was aiming at her. "Surely you have more you would like to give?"

Argis opened his mouth, seeming to be about to retort, but he abruptly shook his head. Instead, he grasped her hand once more, urging her outside.

…

"My wife," Argis breathed against her mouth, trailing kisses down her jaw. Tor was still fumbling with the buttons on her tunic, soft, helpless little whimpers catching in her throat. "Should we wipe the paint off first?" The man asked after a moment, his thumb smearing her customary facial adornment.

Tor seemed to come back to herself, jerking fully upright. "Yes, I-I ought to-I mean, I should." Argis moved to fetch the ewer and basin, inciting her to frantically protest, "I can do it myself!"

"Shh, let me." He soothed, dampening the washrag. "Let me tend to you, my wife."

"But…" Tor's eyes half-lidded when the cloth met her cheek, and Argis felt her lean into his touch.

"You can clean mine off, how does that sound?" He bargained, chuckling when she nodded silently. "Our first compromise." The Dragonborn opened one eye to glare at him but remained silent, tilting her chin when he asked her to so he could clean the paint off her brow. "There, my…" Argis tripped over his words momentarily. He had considered so many options, had thought about this moment for much longer than was appropriate, yet he had never settled on what he would call her. "...my love." He finished softly, making one last sweep over the bridge of her nose.

Tor cradled his face in her hands, her eyes bright with emotion. She brought their foreheads together, whispering, "my love."

A tremor ran through Argis' body, so like when she was using the Voice near him in battle and power surged in his very bones. Yet it was also different, for the sensation sent a rush of heat to the core of his body. Argis mutely enfolded her in his arms, everything that he had longed to say still tangling up in his chest.

Tor's sigh was deep, but it did not seem to be borne out of discontent. She pulled away from him, picking up a fresh washrag to remove his own war paint. "What will we do after this, my love?" She clearly relished the title, lingering on it a bit longer.

Argis stayed silent, waiting until she had finished cleaning the marking from his cheek and jaw. Then, the Nord man surged forward, capturing her mouth with his own and pressing her back against the wall. "Whatever your heart desires, Tor." He rumbled, relishing the shiver his voice drew from her. "Whatever you ask of me, whatever you need. I am yours."

Tor plied her fingers greedily through his damp hair, her eyes focused on the collar of his shirt instead of his face. "I…would greatly enjoy it if my husband…"

Oh, she was everything he could have dreamed of and so much more, her face aflush and her fingers sliding down to cup the back of his neck. "Ask it of me and it shall be done." Argis promised. Then, unable to keep from teasing her a bit, "surely the Dragonborn can find their Voice?"

Tor huffed at him, obviously embarrassed. "Fine, if you will force me to say it!"

"Never." The man replied gently. "I will have it from you willingly or not at all."

"I am willing, it's just that…well, it's you." Tor explained awkwardly, tight fists resting on his shoulders. "You are…different. Special."

"High praise, but I've carried your spoils across the entirety of Skyrim. Flattery will get you nowhere." He had rarely witnessed her so rattled. If he hadn't been smitten before, her actions now would have certainly tipped him over that edge. "I would hear you say it if you can, my Thane."

"I…take me to bed." She mumbled out in a rush, burying her face in his neck. "P-Please, Argis, take me to bed and make love to me."

"Have you ever before?" Argis queried while easing them down on the counterpane, letting her continue to hide her face for the moment. He felt her nod into his shoulder and he smiled without meaning to.

"I was very young." The woman tried to justify her answer, seeming concerned about his judgment. "Old enough, of course, but foolish."

"Likewise. Good to know that this isn't a first attempt for either of us." Argis rolled his neck, grunting when it popped and released some of the tension he carried in his back. "I'm not sure I would be able to keep my hands off of you," he admitted ruefully, offering her a crooked smile. "I would try, of course."

"Suppose that's all I can ask of you." Tor chuckled.

…

It was always him.

That was how it felt, anyway. Since the day she had stumbled through the gates of Markarth, worn and haggard from the road, it was as if she had been drawn to him.

Argis had been gruff at first, not unpleasant but not overly friendly either. He had kept his distance from her until he had witnessed her fight for the first time, witnessed her using the Thu'um to scorch a path before her. Even then, he didn't cower in awe or fear. He merely hammered the flat of his blade on his shield and raised his voice with her own, unleashing the ages old fury of the shield-mate dirge.

They had stood back to back on that rise, her axe and his sword falling upon their enemies with fervor. "Forgive me, my Thane!" The man had apologized mid-strike through gritted teeth. "I did not believe the stories. I should have known better than to doubt."

"No harm done!" Tor rasped in reply, her throat raw. "Hard to believe without seeing."

"You are as gracious as you are fierce in battle!" The compliment had shot down her spine, providing strength to her weary limbs and reinvigorating her prideful spirit.

Once they had finally routed the enemy troops, Argis had clasped arms with her.

"Honor to you, my Thane." The man had said sincerely, the faintest shadow of a smile on his face. "I will protect you with my life."

After that skirmish they had fallen into an easy camaraderie, oftentimes riding out to scout the way ahead of the battalion's movements. For all that she wanted to keep her distance, Tor had cherished those times on the road together. It had been peaceful, normal even, like she was a regular woman.

Soon enough reality would crash back down on her however, leaving her tossing and turning in her bedroll while nightmares of Alduin plagued her sleep.

One night Argis had woken her from a particularly harrowing dream, and she had nearly used the Voice on him before she realized where she was, who he was. The Dragonborn hunched over in a rare moment of visible weakness, her shoulders shaking with the force of her barely-contained sobs as she cried, "it's too much, Argis, it's all too much, I can't do this-"

"You don't have to do it alone." Argis had cut her panicked rambling short. She could still recall the sharp shadows playing over his face from the low flames of their fire, the ferocity of his expression while he stared her down. "I am sworn to carry your burdens."

It was always him.

"Argis," Tor breathed in his ear, loving the way he shuddered against her. "Thank you." Her arms lazily slung around his neck while he thrust into her, the woman basking in the attention her new husband saw fit to lavish upon her. He was not gentle by any means but he was also not without care, seeming content to touch his forehead to her own and softly mutter praise under his breath.

That is, until he settled back and draped her legs over his thighs. One finger traced a line between her breasts, down her stomach, over her mound, and all the while Tor trembled with anticipation. "May I?" Argis asked, his hand resting above where their bodies were joined. The woman nodded rapidly and he graced her with that rare smile once more, thumb cautiously circling on her clit. His hips shifted, hilting his cock fully in her, and Tor saw stars. Her head rolled back, fingers clutching at the tangled blanket beneath her while her new husband tenderly worked her into a lather.

"Argis-" she managed to sob out, moaning when he halted his touches. Instead, they were replaced by an adjustment in position, the man easily tugging her upright to ride his cock. Tor ground herself against him and Argis busied his mouth with her breasts, all the while his hands grasping at her hips until she was certain she would be bruised.

"My love," Argis grunted suddenly, "I am close."

"T-Touch me again," Tor begged, attempting to widen her stance. The man took the hint, middle and index finger working in tandem to help her to her climax. The nails of her free hand dug into the scarring left by the hagraven on his shoulders, and Tor arched her back. "I'm never–" she gasped, struggling to speak. "Never letting anything harm you again." Her forehead met his with a renewed urgency, dragon blood running high when she snarled, "You are mine."

"As long as you're mine in return." The Nord man responded, rumbling in what could only be satisfaction when Tor nodded without a moment of thought. "Come for me, my love." His voice then dropped to a seething whisper, "come for your husband, be a good wife and come."

Something about the way he spoke made Tor's entire being quake and she found herself crumpling into his chest as she came, her shoulders heaving with some forgotten sensation. Pleasure, she realized dimly, it is a good feeling. She had denied herself so long it seemed as though a dam was breaking, the experience powerful enough to have tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

Argis muttered an oath, picked her up off his cock like she weighed nothing and slid her down to rest on his thighs. Tor grasped his cock, needing no prompting to stroke him to his own completion. The man exhaled a shuddering groan as he came, his hot seed ending up smeared across her stomach in spurts.

Tor dipped a finger in the mess, tucking it into her mouth for a taste. Argis groaned again, his hands carding through her disheveled hair. "Gods woman, mercy, mercy." He implored with a breathless laugh. "Have pity on me before you carry on doing something like that!"

"I love you." Tor blurted out, freezing immediately afterwards. Argis stilled as well, his lone eye wide. "I…I know we've only just married, and I'm--well, I'm not certain if you feel the same, but…" the Dragonborn trailed off awkwardly, fidgeting.

"Woman," Argis sighed finally, cupping her chin. "Do you really think I would have dealt with the frippery of that shrine if I didn't love you as well?" She could feel his hands shaking despite his stern tone. "This is not for duty or anything else you may tell yourself. This is…what I'm doing is for love."

"Ah." Tor said weakly. "I had hoped that was the case, but I didn't want to assume-"

Argis cut her off with a kiss, laughing a little. "You are permitted to assume. Assume away," he teased, "especially if you do it while naked in my arms." Tor could feel her flush spreading down to her shoulders, which only seemed to encourage Argis' mirth.

"Not certain how much longer I can endure you being in such good humor." She finally muttered, a bit sulky.

"Don't pout, my love." Argis murmured, giving her one last kiss before pulling away. "Let me clean you up, and then we will rest."

"I can do it mys-!"

"Hush, love. Let me take care of you."

It really wasn't fair how he could look at her a certain way and all the fight seemed to leave her body. Tor felt a bit domesticated and she scoffed at herself, laying back at her husband's insistence and allowing him to wipe her clean. Before he could pull away again, she drew him back in for another kiss. "Forgive me my petulance?" She asked softly.

"It's already forgotten." Argis replied just as quietly, his expression warm if a bit tired. "Are you well?"

Tor waited a moment to mull the question over, taking inventory of how she felt. "Aye," she mused, stretching luxuriously. "That I am, my love." She paused, then glanced up at her husband. "Though I am a bit cold. Perhaps we could share the bed for tonight."

"Oh, only tonight?" Argis jibed, a low rumble of laughter punctuating the query when Tor huffed at him. "Of course, whatever you need my love."

"I ask for time in this." Tor whispered once they had made themselves comfortable in the bed. "I am…set in my ways." She half-hoped her new spouse had dozed off without hearing her.

"We have our entire lives." Argis slurred, the man clearly already half-asleep. A kiss landed on the nape of her neck. "All I ask in return is that you remain honest with me."

"I…" Tor bit her lip, the worries rushing to the surface anew. As if sensing her mental discomfort, Argis wrapped his arms around her, the large man protectively tucking her against his body.

The Bulwark.

"I…I will, my love." Tor twined her fingers through his own, bringing his hand to her mouth and painstakingly kissing each knuckle. "I will do my best to give you the honesty you deserve."

"Good." Argis mumbled. "Now, be quiet and sleep."

Tor barely managed to stifle her giggle at the grumpy declaration, snuggling back into her new husband's embrace and humming in contentment. Oh certainly, the dawn would bring more work to be done! But here and now, in this moment, she could be at peace.

#argis the bulwark #female dragonborn #f!nord dragonborn #argis x f!Dragonborn #argis x female dragonborn #friends to lovers #mutual pining #skyrim #tes v skyrim #argis the bulwark imagine #skyrim imagine #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fandom #canon typical violence #happy valentine's day!#tor the dragonborn

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senditcolton · 1 year

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call my bluff... call me babe (3)

CHAPTER THREE

summary - Madeleine moves into her new apartment and makes a friend... or maybe two, or three, or five.

word count - 5k

warnings - marijuana use

a/n - hello friends! this is a longer chapter because we are introducing some new characters, some of which will become very important in later plot points. and yes, we are now getting into the story! so excited to continue to bring you on Maddie and Tyson’s journey. (also keep your eye out for a bonus chapter coming out later today!)

previous part ~ playlist ~ series masterlist ~ join the taglist ~ bonus! ~ next part

The thud of the last carboard box hitting the wooden floors echoes around the empty apartment. Madeleine lets out a sigh, wiping the sweat off of her brow as she looks around her new place.

The walls were still barren and the only items taking up space as of right now were the multitude of boxes that Madeline transported for miles, across state and even country lines, shoved in the back of her powder blue ’69 Bronco. The moving truck was coming later that day but even now, in the somewhat empty apartment, Madeleine can’t help but feel a spark of hopefulness in her chest.

It was a new city, a new job, a new start. And the golden September sunlight filtering in through the blinds made her spirits lift even more.

The sound of the Toploader’s “Dancing in the Moonlight” emanates from Madeleines phone, alerting her to a call from Tyson. She wanders over to the kitchen counter where she left it and answers.

“Hey Tyson.”

“Madeleine, what’s the number of your apartment? I just pulled into the parking lot.”

“Apartment 517. You have to buzz me to get into the building but after that, you should be able to take the elevator right up.”

“Awesome. See you soon.”

“Sounds good,” Madeleine replies, hearing the short succession of beeps which signaled that the call had been disconnected. She hasn’t even set her phone completely down when the buzzer to her apartment sounded. Quickly, she makes her way across the apartment to the pad by the front door, hitting the unlock button before she turns her attention back to the mess of boxes behind her.

Madeleine manages to sort the boxes into little collectives corresponding with their respective rooms – bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen/living – when she hears a knock on her door. Not containing her excitement, she practically bounds over to her front door before swinging it open to see Tyson standing on the threshold with a bouquet of flowers cradled in his arms.

There it was again, the fluttering in her heart as she watches Tyson’s smile brighten impossibly more at the sight of her in front of him. It is barely a second before they launch into each other’s arms, embracing and smiling. Madeleine can feel the tickle of the delicate flower petals that Tyson still had clutched in his hands against her arm.

Finally, they release each other and Madeleine steps back.

“Welcome! To ‘Chez Madeleine’,” she says with a dramatic flourish of her arm, welcoming Tyson to take a few steps into the new place she called home.

“Pretty snazzy Maddie,” Tyson says, walking over the threshold and taking in the apartment. “You got a balcony?”

“Yeah, I lucked out on that one,” Madeleine says, following Tyson. “I don’t have any outdoor furniture though so it might just be storage or something for right now.”

“You could buy a hammock.”

“And what would I do with a hammock?”

“I don’t know. Relax, listen to music, read. Just a few ideas.”

“Play ukulele?” she asks, her voice light, the teasing evident and Madeleine can’t help but laugh at the blush that lights up Tyson’s cheeks.

“I wish I never told you about that,” he mutters.

“Come on, Tyson. I think it’s pretty adorable.”

“Oh, so you think I’m adorable?” he asks, now his turn to tease her.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Madeleine says. “Besides, you’re not here for me to inflate your ego.”

“Actually, that’s exactly why I’m here: say hi, have you call me adorable. Now I’m leaving.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“What do you need help with?” Tyson asks, placing the bouquet of flowers down on the kitchen counter, along with the small backpack that was slung over his shoulder.

“Honestly, not much right now,” Madeleine replies, staring at the assortment of boxes. “The moving truck with my furniture should be coming soon and that’s really what I need help with. But since it’s not here yet, I’m not sure what to do.”

“Well, what do you have done right now?”

“These are all the boxes that I could fit in my car. And I’ve organized them to where they go.”

“Well, how about we move the boxes into the correct rooms, free up some space, and then go room by room and unpack as much as we can?”

“That sounds perfect.”

They both get to work, Madeleine directing Tyson to each room in the apartment, inadvertently giving him a tour of her new place in the process. Tyson performs his duty diligently, making no complaint as he lifts box after box and carries it to the corresponding room. While doing this, they talk, telling each other about the trip to Colorado – Madeleine from her old apartment in Calgary, Tyson from his house in Edmonton.

“You by far had it worse when it comes to travel,” Tyson says, reappearing from the bedroom after dropping off the last box. “Border crossing in your car with boxes piled in the back? Did you have any trouble?”

“No,” Madeleine replies, opening the kitchen cabinets, scoping out the space. “I mean, the agents wanted to know exactly what I was doing, where I was going. You know, a girl travelling alone with a decent amount of boxes in the back of her car. But I explained. I also was thinking ‘if you all want to search my car, you better put everything back where you found it’.”

“And your furniture?”

“The moving truck should be here soon. But it’s just one of those portable storage cube things, so we’re going to have to unpack it by ourselves.”

“By us, you mean me?”

“Hey, I’ll help!” Madeleine says, spinning to face a jovial Tyson, grinning at her in that boyish way. “But, I mean, you are the big strong hockey player so you might have to do some heavy lifting,” Madeleine continues, her teasing tone matching Tyson’s expression.

“What if I invite more hockey players?”

Madeleine’s eyebrows furrow at Tyson’s reply.

“You mean… your teammates?”

“Yeah, who else?” Tyson chirps, forcing Madeleine to sigh and shoot him at look that screamed ‘you know what I mean’. He gives her a small laugh before continuing. “Nah, a few them are already here in Colorado and I mean, I figured that you’d be meeting them eventually.”

“What do you mean ‘I would meet them eventually?’”

“C’mon Madeleine. You’d have to know I’d be bringing you to team events as my plus-one.”

“Oh, you don’t have any other girl to bring with you?” Madeleine teases.

“No one as special as you,” Tyson explains, turning away from her and digging into one of the boxes labelled kitchen. His casualness concerning their… friendship causes Madeleine to pause.

Was he really that lonely here? Did he really have no one else?

Did he really miss her that much?

Madeleine watches him as he begins to unpack one box and moves about her kitchen, only half-listening to him question which cabinet she wanted the plates in. Tyson notices her lack of response and spins to face her, the stack of pale peach plates held in his grasp. His head tilts, a response to Madeleine’s pensive stare.

“What is it?” he asks.

There is no good response to that question. The truth was unthinkable; their friendship, while rekindled, was still fragile. They were still finding their way back to each other. She didn’t want to place weight on a statement that might have none. But Madeleine couldn’t outright lie to him either.

So instead, she placed her questions about their relationship onto a different one.

“Do you think they’ll like me?”

She can see it takes a minute for Tyson to register that she is referring to his teammates. But when he does, Tyson’s puzzled expression softens. He puts the dishes down onto the counter before moving over to Madeleine, placing his warm hands on her shoulders.

“Hey, they’re gonna love you. I think it’s impossible for anyone not to,” he replies, the sincerity in his voice warming Madeleine to the core, more than the gold afternoon sunlight.

“Okay Tyson. Invite your friends over,” Madeleine says, giving him approval for his earlier request and Tyson smiles at her before he peels away, grabbing his phone and sending a text to what Madeleine could only assume was a team group-chat.

“I have no idea who will show up. I hope at least you get to meet JT,” Tyson says, placing his phone in his back pocket as he wanders back into the kitchen area. Picking up the dishes once more, he turns towards her again before repeating: “Now, which cabinet do you want your dishes?”

Madeleine sighs, walking past Tyson and swinging open a random cabinet drawer and points into the shelves inside with a playfully exasperated point, one which Tyson takes in stride. He only shoots Madeleine another smirk as they both turn to the rest of the boxes resting on the countertops.

The two of them continue to work, the boxes slowly unpacked and the items that could be put away placed in their proper spots. About halfway through, Madeleine gets a call from the moving company, letting her know that her items were out front. Both she and Tyson venture down to figure out a gameplan, Madeleine’s new apartment keys firmly in her grasp. After looking at the work that needed to be done, Tyson suggests that they carry up as many items as they can by themselves and figure out the rest when the boys get there.

Madeleine and Tyson manage to carry up chairs, her television, coffee table, a few floor lamps, the boxes of her clothes, and set to work on bringing up the small dining table.

“You got it?”

“Will this even fit in the elevator?”

“It’s not that big Madeleine,” Tyson laughs, holding one edge of the table while she settles on the opposite end.

“Well, listen, I don’t know these things!”

“You just don’t want to have to carry it up five flights of stairs.”

“Do you?” Madeleine asks, her eyebrows raising in challenge. There is a pause before Tyson sighs.

“You got me there. Now, lift!”

The two of them manage to shuffle the table into the building and just barely manage to make it fit in the elevator – but only one of them ride up with it.

“Can you drag it to your apartment yourself?” Tyson asks, leaning over the wood to peek his head into the elevator in order to talk to Madeleine who was shoved into the far corner.

“I should be able to,” she replies. “Drag might be the operative word but yeah, I’ll manage.”

“Give me your keys. That way I can bring up a few more things and meet you up there.”

Madeleine wordlessly hands off her keychain to Tyson, before he removes himself from the elevator and the metal doors close. As the elevator starts to rise, Maddie can’t help but smile at the day so far. It was nice, especially having Tyson by her side. It made moving to a brand-new city a little more bearable; knowing there was someone there for her.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the elevator stopping at her floor and that’s when she realizes that she is in a terrible position to even attempt to move the table out of the elevator. She’s about to leap onto the table in order to exit the elevator so she can pull it into the hallway when the doors swing open and she sees another woman standing at the elevator’s threshold.

“I’m so sorry, I did not think this through,” she explains to the brunette standing in the doorway, the confused look on her features.

“Do you need help?” the woman asks, her puzzled expression fading into one that was nothing if not amused which Maddie figured was better than angry.

“I can manage,” Madeleine says, once again readying herself to jump on the table before the brunette holds out her hand.

“It’s no trouble, really,” she says and before Maddie can say anything in rebuttal, the woman has grabbed the side of the table closest to her and starts to pull it out of the elevator. It takes a moment for Maddie to react, before she squeezes her way on the opposite side and lifts the table, allowing it to be maneuvered more easily.

Once it has fully cleared the doorway of the elevator, Madeleine sets the table down with a sigh before turning to the woman.

“Thank you.”

“Not done yet,” she replies, her hands not moving from the edge. “Where are we taking this?” Another pause happens as Maddie processes the question and once she does, she starts to stutter out a reply.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I’ve – I’ve already been enough of a nuisance to you.”

“Really, it’s okay. I’m happy to help. It’d probably be faster with the two of us than just you pushing it down the hallway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Alright, it’s 517.”

Together, they effortlessly lift the table and bring it down the winding hallways until they reach Madeleine’s front door.

“Thank you again.”

“Anytime,” the woman says before holding out her hand. “I’m Ashley.”

“Madeleine,” she replies, shaking Ashley’s hand.

“So, are you going to school at DU?”

“No, I’m actually working there,” Madeleine explains.

“Oh, no way. I work there too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I teach a few poetry courses.”

“You’re a professor?” Madeleine asks, not bothering to hide the shock that paints her voice as she looks Ashley up and down. She couldn’t be more than a few years older than Maddie and yet as Madeleine takes in more of her outfit, she notices the polished professional look and large laptop bag thrown over Ashley’s shoulder.

“Well, professor is a nice word. In reality, I’m more of an interim until they find someone to actually fill the role,” Ashley explains with a dry laugh. “But hey, we all got to start somewhere right? Speaking of which, I have to jet. Have a few things to get finished before the semester starts on Monday. I’ll see you around campus, Madeleine.”

Ashley turns and starts to make her way back down the hall. She’s almost out of sight before Madeleine snaps out of the haze that the random turn of events caused.

“I work at the library,” she shouts down the hall to Ashley, causing her to glance back at her.

“503,” Ashley calls back in reply and it takes a minute for Madeleine to register that that was Ashley’s apartment number; a simple invitation before she disappears from sight. Madeleine takes a moment, another smile creeping onto her face.

Did she just make a friend?

Madeleine resets with a quick shake of her head. Maybe Ashley would be a friend but right now, she was just a kind stranger that helped Maddie carry a table that she still had to get the rest of the way into her apartment. After swinging open the unlocked door, Maddie slides the table across the wooden floors into the living area.

She only just collapsed into one of the chairs her and Tyson brought up earlier when Tyson comes walking in, two picture frames held under his arms.

“Who was that woman that I just met stepping out of the elevator? She knew your name and somehow knew I was helping you move in.”

“Oh, that was probably Ashley,” Madeleine explains and when the bewildered expression doesn’t disappear from Tyson’s face, she laughs. “I only just met her. She helped me carry the table.”

“Well look at you – making friends already,” Tyson coos.

“Shush,” she chuckles in reply. “How are we looking down there?”

“Pretty good. It’s really just the big items left like the parts of your bedframe, sofa, and mattress.”

“Ugh, the mattress is going to be a pain,” Madeleine sighs, collapsing forward on the table, her face buried in her arms.

“We’ll worry about it later. There’s still a few small things but I can bring those up myself if you want to take a break.”

“Could you? I want to go through the place and make a list of things I’m going to have to go out and buy.”

“Sure thing,” Tyson says, patting his pocket to make sure he still has the keys before he disappears again. Madeleine sighs before lifting herself up from the chair and starts to wander around the apartment, the notes app in her phone open and two separate lists being created: one for groceries and one for every day apartment items. And as she wandered, the lists grew and the anxiety started.

If she was being honest with herself, this reaction was a long time coming; big stressful moments like these always got to Madeleine. They had since she was a kid. But now, realizing how much work she had already put into this move and how much work there was still left to do, it was slowly starting to become overwhelming.

So overwhelming that she doesn’t hear Tyson come in, doesn’t even register his presence until his hands touch her biceps, a touch which startles her, makes her spin to face him as Tyson quickly pulls his hands back.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, brown eyes scanning over her face, taking in her shallow heaves of breath and, most heartbreakingly of all, the slight glimmer of tears in the corner of her eyes.

“It’s – it’s just a lot,” Madeleine tries to explain, the waves of stress bringing on a fresh bought of homesickness. For what home, she wasn’t sure. Calgary? Kelowna? Canada? “I just… I just want this to be great.”

“Hey, it’s going to be awesome,” Tyson replies, his hands returning to their spot in her biceps. “I mean, look: you’ve got an amazing job, a fantastic apartment, and you already made a friend!”

His bright voice and attempt to inject some joy causes Maddie to laugh, the sound a little choked but made Tyson smile nonetheless.

“I don’t know if you’d call Ashley a friend. I barely know her.”

“Still, you’re going to be fine. And hey, I’m always here for you if you need it, okay?”

Madeleine glances up, her eyes connecting to Tyson’s and she knows that what he said is true. Sometimes it still feels odd to say that, since they had previously gone years without talking, but now…

There was something now that felt different than before.

After a small sniffle, her hand coming to wipe away the few teardrops that had fallen, before Madeleine nods her head, a smile appearing on her face.

“Okay,” she whispers, the grin that she always loved breaking out on Tyson’s face.

“Do you know what this calls for?” Tyson asks. Madeleine gives a negatory shake of her head. “A dance break,” he says, his voice so authoritative, a strong contrast to his words.

“What?” Madeleine laughs but doesn’t get much of a response as Tyson pulls away from her, rummaging in the small backpack he brought before he removes a small speaker from its interior. It takes another few minutes for his phone to connect and him to scroll before Madeleine hears the voice of Taylor Swift pour from the device.

I promise that you’ll never find another like me.

Madeleine laughs again as Tyson turns back towards her, his shoulders bouncing to the drum line rhythm.

“Really?”

“Don’t lie to me Maddie. I know you’ve been listening to her new album obsessively since it came out.”

Madeleine can’t retort because he was right. The album had only been out for maybe three weeks and she already knew all of the words to every song. Tyson is still bouncing along to the music, attempting to hit the falsetto notes in the chorus causing Madeleine to laugh harder before she finally joins in, singing along and moving to melody.

They continue to laugh and sing and dance in the kitchen, the half put together apartment around them disappearing. The song hits the bridge and her and Tyson fall into the call and response of the lyrics.

“Girl, there ain’t no I in ‘team’,” Tyson sings.

“But you know there is a ‘me’,” Madeleine responds.

“And you can’t spell ‘awesome’ without ‘me’,” they both yell at the top of their lungs. “I promise that you’ll never find another like me!”

As the final chorus hits, Tyson surges forward, picking Madeleine up and spinning her around, causing shrieks of laughter to fall from her lips. Tyson continues to twirl around, the room around them blurring forcing Madeleine to close her eyes, her laughter never ceasing. That is, until an unfamiliar voice breaks through the noise.

“Are we interrupting?”

Madeleine is almost thrown by the speed at which Tyson puts her back on the solid floor before gripping her hips to turn her about-face. It takes a few seconds for her to shake off the dizziness before she registers the sight of five strangers standing in front of her.

“We can just go and come back later if you two are in the middle of something.” It was the redhead that had spoke, a smirk on his face as his eyes bounce between Tyson and Madeleine.

“Shut up JT,” Tyson says and Madeleine doesn’t have to see him to know that a light dusting of pink was making an appearance on his cheeks.

“JT?” Madeleine asks, finally finding her voice. “You’re Tyson’s friend. It’s nice to finally meet you,” she continues, composing herself and extending her hand to the redhead.

“Nice to meet you too,” JT replies. “Sorry about just barging in. We tried knocking but there was no response.”

“Oh, yeah… sorry about that,” she says, a blush of her own flooding her cheeks.

“No worries. Tyson, aren’t you going to introduce us?” JT asks, gaze jumping back to Tyson.

“Yeah. Right,” Tyson speaks, walking up to linger by Madeleine’s side before continuing. “Guys, this is Madeleine. Madeleine, these are the guys. Nate, Cale, Gravy, Burky, and of course JT,” he says, gesturing to the two blondes first before moving to the tallest of the bunch, and then to the curly haired boy.

“Gravy? And Burky?” Madeleine questions, her eyebrows raising at what she assumed were the hockey nicknames that were attached to them.

“Ryan,” the tallest says, holding out his own hand towards Madeleine, which she accepts, trying not to falter at how his hand basically engulfs hers.

“Andre,” the other mimics, giving a small wave.

“Andre is actually new on the team this year,” Tyson explains to Madeleine causing her to smile in his direction.

“Well, I guess this will be a bonding experience for the both of us then.”

Andre laughs at her words which lets Madeleine relax a little bit more, happy to make a good first impression.

“So, what’s the gameplan?”

It is Nate that speaks this time and out of habit, Madeleine turns to Tyson only to see his eyes fixed on her. It takes that for her to realize that she was technically the one in charge here since it was her apartment and her stuff.

“Oh, um, well it’s only a few big items left so… how about we bring the rest of the stuff up and then start assembly.”

“That works,” Tyson says. “I still have your keys so the guys and I will start to bring everything upstairs.”

“Perfect! Could you start with the bedframe? I’d like to not sleep on the floor tonight,” Madeleine jokes, a few more chuckles drawn from the boys around her.

“Will do. Let’s go boys.”

Madeleine watches as they all exit in a group out of her apartment, the beginnings of a conversation echoing down the hallways before fading and she was left with just Taylors voice singing about paper rings. She quickly turns towards Tyson’s phone turning down the volume before reorienting herself to the tasks ahead.

It’s Andre and Nate that return first and they bring part of her bedframe into the bedroom, followed quickly by the rest of the pieces brought up by the others and before Madeleine really knew it, all of her furniture was moved into the apartment.

The rest of the day devolves into laughter and stories all while attempting to get work done. It manages to go decently well, a few of them breaking off into small teams to get more things done; Nate in charge of hanging all her pictures because he is ‘pretty meticulous’ –

“Don’t you mean anal?”

“Shut up Josty.”

– Ryan getting to work on unpacking and organizing her books onto the bookshelf, Cale putting her sheets on her bed, both pieces of furniture assembled by Tyson and JT. Madeleine almost found herself put into a more administrative role, answering questions and providing guidance. But soon, she hated feeling like she wasn’t doing anything so she manages to take some time to hang and organize her closet and bathroom. After closing the last dresser drawer, she wanders into the living room where all the guys were now sitting, trying to put together her couch.

“Out of all the things that we needed to build, I didn’t think the sofa would be the most difficult,” Tyson grumbles, his head practically buried in the instructions.

“Eh, if it doesn’t get done, I can figure it out tomorrow,” Madeleine says, sitting down on the plush rug next to Andre.

“Yeah, besides, pizza’s almost here,” Ryan says.

“Pizza?”

“Yeah, while you were in the bedroom, we ordered a few pizzas for dinner,” Cale explained to Maddie.

“Ugh, that’s such a smart idea. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything since early this afternoon,” Madeleine sighs, leaning back onto the couch cushion behind her.

“Tyson said you liked pineapple on pizza?” Andre asked.

“It’s a Canadian thing.”

“It is not,” Tyson says, exasperated because he and Maddie have had this argument since they were kids. “Madeleine, you’re talking to a room full of Canadians, with the exception of Burky and JT and you are the sole pineapple on pizza lover.”

“Well then, you guys aren’t Canadian enough, I don’t know what to tell you,” she playfully retorts, a chorus of oohs going up around her.

Eventually, the pizza arrives and Madeleine and boys don’t bother to move from the rug, arranging themselves haphazardly around living room before eating. Madeleine manages to convince Andre to try a slice of pizza and he likes it which makes Maddie let out a triumphant shriek, declaring that Burky is more Canadian than the rest of them. The pizza is consumed and as Madeleine takes a look around the apartment, she is slightly shocked to see that it has almost entirely come together.

“Hey, thanks you guys, for doing this,” she says, turning to look at the hockey players still lounging on the floor. “You really didn’t have to.”

“It was no problem,” Cale says, shooting her a soft smile.

“Yeah, it was nice to be focusing on something other than hockey and the seasons start,” Ryan adds.

“Want to lose focus more?” JT asks and everyone’s head turns to him. The smirk that Madeleine had come to recognize as commonplace was once again plastered on his face as he pulls a small circular object out of his pocket followed closely by a thin package. It took Madeleine a split second to recognize the grinder and rolling papers dangling from JT’s fingers.

“Really JT?” Nate asks.

“What? I thought a stressful move was the perfect time for a little smoke,” JT replies oh so casually. “But it’s entirely up to you Madeleine. It’s your place.”

Maddie takes a pause, thinking it over. She only smoked a few times in college, mostly with Logan huddled up in dorm rooms with the smoke detector covered by a toque and a towel shoved against the door. But she wouldn’t deny that she did like it.

“I could go for a joint or two,” she says. JT just hits her with that mischievous grin before he is lifting himself up to move to the coffee table that was placed off to the side. Madeleine watches as Tyson follows suit, wandering over to help JT, causing Maddie to furrow her brow.

“Tyson, you smoke?”

“Yeah,” he mindlessly replies, his focused trained on the rolling paper between his fingers.

“What would Mama Jost think?” Madeleine hums, her voice still light.

“Hey, there are a few things that we don’t tell her,” Tyson says, his own tone teasing as he shoots a warning glare in her direction.

Madeleine sighs and continues to watch JT and Tyson work. It isn’t long before Tyson hands her a perfectly rolled joint, pressing a small lighter into her palm, allowing Madeleine to take the first hit. She lights up, inhaling the smoke before holding it out wordlessly, only for Ryan to reach out, his elegant fingers plucking the joint from her.

JT finishes off his joint and lights it before passing it to Cale and Tyson rolls a second, taking a hit himself and hands it off. The seven of them relax back, the three joints being passed between all of them, the smoke dancing around the room. During the prep time, Nate thankfully had the forethought to crack open the balcony door, the fresh air breezing in.

The smoke calms Madeleine even more and she willingly lets the high carry her. Time passes and it isn’t long until Madeleine finds herself stretched across the rug, her legs thrown over Cale’s lap and her head perched on one of Nathan’s muscular thighs. It’s hard to stop the tingles from running down her spine as Nate runs a hand through her hair as he passes her the joint, which she gladly takes.

She inhales more of the smoke, the wispy tendrils falling from her lips as she wordlessly hands the joint over towards Burky who is sitting to the side. Madeleine’s eyes fall close as a sigh escapes her, getting lost in the moment.

This was happiness. Smoking with people she just met but who she knew would easily become friends, lounging in her new apartment. This was peace.

This was home.

taglist: @starjoyyy @fallinallincurls @kenna-thomson

#nicole writes #CMBCYB #tyson jost fic #tyson jost imagine #tyson jost fluff #tyson jost x oc #buffalo sabres fic #buffalo sabres imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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x-authorship-x · 11 months

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Can I just say that except for a handful of characters (I can't think of anyone outside the main Yamanaka family and, like, the old farts of Konoha and the various clan heads and maybe a couple of people from other fandoms here and there) Shisui is very shippable with like, every other character in existence

Hey Anon so I'm going to blow this wildly out of proportion and say that you're absolutely right but Shisui isn't just the ideal character to ship with others but ALSO one of the best to play with in general in the sandbox of fanfiction. Like, let me say my piece-

Shisui is powerful. You can make him literally the baddest bitch out there and you wouldn't even be stretching things. Shisui ALSO has the potential to be pathetic (the hot mess of his death is just...so...so stupid) AND you can make the world's best damsel out of him. Shisui can save people and fix shit BUT he can also be saved and swept off his feet. What a versatile king.

And it goes on. Shisui is sunshine, he's the only Uchiha grinning in public and making friends and he laughs. He's also so fucking traumatised and tortured. You can make Shisui the heart-bruised hero or you can have him as the comedic chaos king or you can have him as baby boy who needs loved or you can have him as fucked up beyond belief but no one believes you because would a psychopath be the nicest person in his whole clan?

You could have shisui siding with Tobi and suddenly the whole world is rewritten because guess what you can't DETECT Kotoamatsukami-

Shisui can be a hero, THE hero, and he has the potential for a great villain, an even more heartbreaking Martyr. He's sweet and hurt, he's loud or sensitive, he grins in anger and he laughs in tears. Shisui contains a LOT of multitudes. I think he's really so baby boy for that.

And look at where he's situated in canon, in the power ranking, in the timeline. He holds Konoha's whole existence in his hands, he can tear into the past that led to that point AND he can reshape her future.

Shisui is painfully loyal but he's also willing to manipulate everyone he knows and loves for his own ideal of peace, stripping them of their autonomy in that moment. He's also willing to die, to actually kill himself, before letting others take that power. He's a genius, the kind that made him Itachi's mentor as a fellow child, and he was given arguably the most powerful and terrifying Mangekyou ability yet he made his name by revolutionising a basic technique, the Shunshin, into something legendary.

A bit of canon divergence and Shisui completely rewrites the world that Naruto's generation inherited. He's the legacy of Kagami, who was the legacy of Tobirama. There's so much you can do, forwards and backwards, with just this one character.

He's also, you're right, ideal for shipping. He's pretty, he's a genius, he's also a mess and an idiot. Frankly, who wouldn't want to kiss him lmao

Yeah, I'm a Shisui supremacist 😉

#torship #torship talks #ask #anon #shisui #character study #blorbo shisui #precious baby boy shisui #hes my baby boy and my son but also my idol and my bestie and my enemies to lovers and my blorbo and my fav and my mortal downfall

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rin-enjoyer · 6 months

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long and detailed ramblings about rin's character under the cut <3

rin is flatter than almost any other character in naruto- an impressive feat, considering how badly kishimoto hates woman. i'm not saying that everyone else was written better than rin- all things considered, the complete lack of attention focused on her means that she's probably one of the more consistent characters. no, the flatness arises from a general lack of anything interesting about her presented in an easy to understand or. um. intentional way.

fandoms take the traits that characters display and explore and expand upon them- when a character or concept is interesting but poorly executed in canon, it will often receive a large amount of attention dedicated towards giving it its due.

when a girl has no real personality to speak of and exists pretty much just to die and make two others guys sad- well, that doesn't lay a very good base to explore! it's no wonder rin is an incredibly overlooked character.

not me tho. id never overlook my girl. this is because i am a little bjt insane and also rabid about her. take my hand. let's explore the deep rabbit hole ive been silently digging for half a year now. there's nuance to her character i prommy- let me show you it.

disclaimer before we begin: i'm aware that the amount of character depth i can extrapolate from rin was not intentionally written in. i mean, like, that's not gonna stop me or anything. but im aware of it. some of the things here have little to no canon basis- i cobbled my rin characterization together with dramatic irony, copious amounts of masks, and spite. i do think that viewing rin like this adds flavor to the canon story, though, so maybe keep that in mind?

the first, central headcanon that influences pretty much everything about rin (to me) is that she hates the idea of being misinterpreted in life or in death. despite that, she wears masks built of what people expect her to be, and makes no effort to remove them and build real connections. and then she gets mad when no one really knows her. she contains multitudes.

this also adds a delicious twist to canon- from rin's pov, obito's great fault is not the murders, the betrayals, or the longing for a perfect world; its him mis-remembering her so BADLY that he somehow mischaracterized the mask she was wearing. my guy.

part of the reason rin wears masks is because she is unsure of who she is and what she wants, and she views that as a personal failure. she has made the logical fallacy, of course, that she has an immutable "true self" who she has managed to lose. she's also 12 and living in kill people repress your emotions city, so i guess we can give her a pass on that. the real important thing to understand here is that rin views any presentation of herself that is not her "true self" (smth that doesnt exist) as equally false. therefore, she assumes that it is easier to continue on with the mask she is already wearing than switch it out for smth just as bad. she does not know that the self is something cobbled together over a lifetime of stealing thoughts, feelings and mannerisms from other people and mixing it with your experiences and innate personality. she paints her cheeks purple because her father does, and he does it because his father did, who did it because his mother did, and on and on, but she cannot comprehend that the laugh she learned from him is just as unique. lmao

another thing about personhood: kakashi and obito, from an outside view, seem very put together. they have goals, for heaven's sake, they must know what they're doing! rin doesn't have a crush on kakashi- she admires him because he looks like he's got his life figured out! (when you start thinking kakashi's put together, you know something's wrong.)

the thing about rin's relationship with the rest of her team is that it's very one-sided. rin is obito's best friend- obito is not rin's best friend. the team spirit and unity that konoha tries to impress on them is lost on rin because she interacts with them like she's on an infiltration mission, and then gets mad that they don't know the "real" her, gets sad that she doesn't know the "real" her, and then puts on more masks to make sure no one notices, and the cycle repeats. the rest of team minato is fooled into thinking that they are close with her, and rin drifts further and further away. we see this when obito "dies-" she almost unaffected by it. now, it's probably portrayed like that as to not take away from kakashi's reaction, but it feeds nicely into my interpretation that she just… doesn't really care.

after obito dies and kakashi starts falling apart, i do think he and rin get a bit closer. he's obviously not in a great mental state to be worrying over her in any manner except physical safety, but he does wonder when her smile stretches a bit too thin and brittle. he never knows rin- not by her definition- but i think sometimes he gets to see her without any masks on: a limp doll who's tired of pretending at humanity.

last point on rin's mental state before we move onto the totally-there-and-real symbolism aspects of her character: she has a very, very apathetic attitude towards death that's only exacerbated by the fact that she's not really close to anyone. she's not exactly suicidal, but she wouldn't care if she died. she's not jumping at the bit to sacrifice herself- that apathy means she doesn't really care if anyone else dies, either. she holds on until she can't hold on anymore, and then she drops it like a hot potato. rin voice: wait if there's an afterlife why are we scared of dying. and then no one ever explained it to her so she never unlocked her fear of death.

ok! symbolism time! i, personally, am a huge proponent of moth/astronaut/icarus rin. there's a few threads that weave into that tapestry, so stick with me while we make our way through em.

first: remember what i said earlier, about rin hating obito for mis-remembering her rather than the whole infinite tsukuyomi gig? well, part of that is because she just really hates being misinterpreted, but the other part is that she wouldn't think infinite tsukuyomi was bad at all! remember, rin is very… nihilistic, and already has a tenuous relationship with consequences- she wouldn't see the problem with fixing things with an illusion. this slots into the moth interpretation- she's chasing the moon!

second, there's the whole chidori thing. idk if you guys remember it, its only the most defining moment of rin's entire character in canon. the chidori looks like the sun. icarus. do you catch my drift

the rest of the points towards this symbolism are more vague and tend to lean more towards like. obscure references to the challenger crash and a reliance on my insistence that moths and icarus and astronauts ARE basically the same thing, thank you very much, but i think i've said enough to get my point across.

there's more i could say- we could explore aus where rin lives to adulthood, and how she would grow and develop, or we could dive into the fascinating relationship she has with minato and being a mednin, or how she and sasuke are 2 flavors of the same guy, but this post is already stupid long, so i'll save that for another time. just know that rin is the coolest girly ever. and she deserves to kill.

#nohara rin #rin nohara #naruto #send me asks if you have questions or contributions btw. id love to talk about her lmao

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heartfucksmouth · 1 month

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im here, things are ... holding steady. my mil is making attempts at addressing many of the things I told her when I unleashed my fury upon her. I keep telling myles that it makes me feel weird, and he asked "does it make you feel powerful?" and well, yes, yes it does.

but my child being a velcro baby can still bring me to tears (overstimulation) lmao but hrs standing unassisted for longer, his coordination is slowly expanding, he's making more vowel sounds and he initiates peekaboo with the curtains which is truly the best thing ever - his face as he pops out and I yell peekaboo... he's so excited happy proud. it's a drug to hear him laughing., and it's torture when he cries. goddamn motherhood really isn't for the faint of heart/mind/spirit haha

I contain multitudes. just miss embodying some them at the moment. things change, it's the only constant.

also I'm 90% likely going to postpone surgery until after ade is a year old. he is SO attached to me and I have severe anxiety over him not understanding why I won't be able to hold him/walk him around for over a month (crutches and no load-bearing) I'm just gonna keep working on my core + hip strength and walking stamina in the meantime. plus my tilt table is in August and I feel like having official POTS dx on my record will be helpful for future anesthesia situations sooooooo

yep. feeling real weird but like.. good weird mainly. I have a lot of hopes and dreams but still can't look much further ahead than what's happening now and the next day.

ugh. so much to say and no energy to word. someday someday.

#personal

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mysterious-moonstruck-musings · 3 months

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Welp, I'm here in your box with the D. I'm mean it's the D, how could you turn it down? You won't because you want the D, desire the D and think about the D all the time.

Dieter Bravo is a lot of things, he contains multitudes. He says so himself. It isn't crazy to see the man starting at you. He actually does it pretty often. You've become used to being watched. Maybe that's what he wanted, so he could eventually watch you without you thinking about it at all. That way, he wouldn't see you censor or limit your actions just because he was there. Bravo knows he's gone a lot and there much he doesn't see of you. He wants to know all sides of you. The little bounce of your right hip when you go into the corner of the closet for your silver heels, the ones you love wearing with your black dress. You always tuck your hair behind your left ear first then your right when you focusing on something, licking your lips as your mouth dries. He knows that you have that one mole on your abdomen that you think is a little big, has been checked out and is fine. He knows that you have a different smile for when you're placating his antics, actually laughing and when he's sure that the world has stopped and you're looking at him as if it has.

Dieter Bravo is greedy and wants to know everything as he watches you.

Love Nerdie ❤️

P.S. Dieter will also give you the D. He is watching you for another reason you know. 😏

@nerdieforpedro bestie, please forgive me for sitting on this. I totally forgot to reply. 🤦🏻‍♀️😂

You are such a breath of fresh air and never fail to make me cackle with your antics. This is no exception.

You’re right, I want the D. All the D. I can never stop thinking about the D. I’ll let you figure out which D I’m actually referring too… lol

💜Mysty

#dieter bravo #I love the D #talk to me #nerdie talks #nerdie asks #i love my moots #i love my besties

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casadegatos · 1 year

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Thank you @shutterbug-12 for the tag!

TAG GAME: EIGHT SHOWS TO GET TO KNOW ME

Going in order of oldest to newest. And I'm only including shows that have a complete run, so there's that. (that's not a rule, I just did that for me)

MASH

I don't always love a sitcom, but watching MASH was a family activity. Growing up we had one TV, it was before the internet and home computers, so we watched what Dad chose usually (more on that later). MASH was a lot of things, but mostly it taught me about being yourself in a group, that it was okay to be whatever you were and that you could make a family anywhere.

The Rockford Files

Jim Rockford, being witty and sarcastic but also a loving son and good friend, driving fast and solving cases as an ex-con Korean War vet in 1970s LA. What's not to love about all that? Dad really had an iron grip on the TV guide back in those days and for a kid some of the plots didn't make sense, but I have rewatched the whole series multiple times and I'm here to tell you, a lot of it holds up. What does it say about me? I guess it says that I really like car chases and easily solved mysteries wrapped up in some wide lapels. But also I guess that James Garner as Rockford is a blueprint for the kind of hero I enjoy (flawed but ulitmately kind and very loyal).

Twin Peaks

This is becoming about my Dad here, but this is another show that we both loved. Turns out, my Dad likes the weird stuff, too. This is the last show that we watched together regularly before I moved out. Narratively who knows wtf happens in any David Lynch joint, but that's not really the point to me. I love the absurd, dark, haunting elements it makes me think about. Sometimes it's incomprehensible and that's okay. Just like life.

Justified

The show that teaches you that dialogue makes the character. Boyd Crowder will forever be one of my favorite characters solely because of his dialogue (and Walton Goggins's delivery). Every character on this show has a distinct way of speaking and behaving and it is really one of the most enjoyable shows ever just for that reason. I have never dug coal, but I feel like I have after spending time with these characters. I guess this one says that I like realism sometimes? Also, a flawed but ultimately kind and loyal hero (Raylan Givens, meet Jim Rockford).

Orphan Black

I could go on for days about what this show means, but others have already done that better than I could, so I'll just say this: we all contain multitudes. Also, Tatiana Maslany should have won every acting award ever during her time on this show. Another show that made me think about how being yourself is really complicated sometimes and we don't always figure it out alone (found family, etc, etc).

Parks and Rec

A workplace comedy? On my list? Yes, and it's this one. Always makes me laugh and I see a bit of how I act with coworkers in a lot of the characters (not Leslie usually, but Ron frequently). Gently sending up living in the Midwest while not making fun of it, mostly. Lost count of how many times I've watched this one.

Ripper Street

A flawed yet ultimately kind and loyal hero, crime solving, my favorite era of history, some of the best dialogue on any TV show, interesting and twisty plots, one of my all-time favorite actors, incredible attention to detail, and a very satisfying ending not to mention one of the nicest, kindest, and welcoming fandoms. Did I mention found family and workplace comedy? That's there too. (Edmund Reid, Raylan Givens, and Jim Rockford walk into a bar...wait, I'm only one person, get in line boys) One of my desert island shows, my go-to in times of stress, the thing I always recommend to people looking for something good (so long as they can stomach blood, that is).

Did you get to know me? lol, well maybe you'll watch one of these if you haven't before and find a new favorite.

Tagging a few people (participation only by your choice ofc) or just do it if you feel moved! @lizardsarevcool @hickeywiththegoodhair @valoricky @watchfuldeer @jennykin @quinnfabreys @swankpalanquin

#mash #ripper street #orphan black #parks and rec #twin peaks #justified #the rockford files #tag game #let me know what you think this list says about me #I'm curious #or does it make you feel like you know more about me now?#this was really kind of hard to do #one thing I learned is that I can't count #there are only seven

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amrv-5 · 1 year

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I was hoping you'd play this game! for beejhawk: B, D, I, W

HELLO HELEN yaaay these are all so so so good thank you so much!!!!! and . I went on about them at extremely excessive length SORRY ABOUT THAT. answers below the cut:

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Sighhhh. You got me good with this one. I think they're both so insane about each other it's difficult to narrow down. Re: himself, I think BJ is pretty confident in his legs. (My take on) Beej is a runner, and I think Hawkeye is enough of a leg appreciator it'd make him feel even better about them.

For a favorite part of Hawk, I think BJ'd be hard-pressed to pick. Like, it's Hawk? He's literally Hawk. He's all amazing all over. But shoulders may win out by a very narrow margin--Hawk's awfully broad, and the straight-up breadth of his frame I think is a shorthand for a lot of other things BJ would be into, i.e. his masculinity, contrast with some of the softer/prettier aspects of Hawk, etc.

(My take on) Hawk I think, despite all of his confidence and showboating irt sexual prowess and thinking he's awful cute, might actually be a little uncertain about himself in the looks department. Like, he thinks of himself more as a force of personality and fun and charm and skill than an embodied appearance-having thing. Though he can get vain on occasion, he's complex, he contains multitudes. Anyway that's a lot of meta to say I think he'd probably be partial to, like, his hands or hair: something skill-based and dextrous or something he gets to style and determine for himself. I also think it hits him kind of hard when he starts greying in Korea, because, damn, well, there goes something he liked about and chose for himself spiralling out of his control again.

And for a favorite part of Beej, similar to above it's basically impossible to pick but I do think he's a leg guy. Long, lean, tall BJ--he likes being an inch shorter, too, I think.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Dirty secret for each:

BJ's dirty secret (this is all S2G2 verse I'm realizing, actually, sorry) is, like, he definitely used to get himself off to Hawkeye even before he had any realizations about his sexuality. He was probably weirdly possessive and jealous about Hawkeye going off with nurses. He'd just lie in the Swamp seething because He Had Plans With Hawkeye They Were Going to Play Chess (or something) and then he'd get to thinking and brooding over (as he so often does in canon) what exactly is going on outside his sightline. Sleepless and thinking, like, 'probably Hawkeye is leaning in and kissing her... maybe she's shy so he's pretending like he's a gentlemen (That Hussy) and taking it slow, licking into her mouth, one of those big surgeon's hands running up the back of her thigh' and then he's bringing himself off and he's not sure if he's angry or turned on or who, even, he's thinking about, but then of course he's rationalized it away into nothing by the morning. If he ever tells Hawkeye in the future, Hawkeye would laugh at him and also consider it just shatteringly romantic.

Hawkeye's dirty secret I think might be that for all his sex-positivity, he's got some kinks he's worried about indulging or admitting to. Breeding kink, for one, despite all his jokes about it. That's a whole lot of complex emotionality, intimacy, commitment, etc. to bring into the bedroom all at once. That, or it's something small like he didn't have sex until he was like 22. Bit of a statistically late bloomer, especially for the time and for his canonical levels of preoccupation, but he bloomed enthusiastically. And/or one time in college he had a particularly frustrating week and jacked off so frequently he gave himself a friction burn and had to mope around with salve on. Etc. BJ would find all of these probably embarrassingly hot, even the JO injury (he thinks desperate enthusiasm is appealing). I also think he'd probably be into a first-time roleplay scenario with Hawkeye doing a blushing inexperienced be-gentle-with-me bit. If I'm being real.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect...)

Answered here, but I'll speak a little more on the romance aspect, in that I think once they get together the center of all of their interactions is just that they genuinely really like each other. There's a really tangible fondness, love, respect, comfort in everything they do, and that obviously extends to intimacy. They just really like each other, and that's suffusive through everything! Leads to so much trust and care in the bedroom.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Beejhawk headcanon: switchy as hell in everything. I mean literally as in they're both open to topping/bottoming, if they ever play with dom/sub stuff they'd both like both roles, and I think with only a few exceptions they'd have fun switching off in kink scenarios. They both understand each other well, I think, and that level of intimacy and empathy would go a long ways towards getting the other on board from both points of view. Like, I think (no surprises from any of my work here lol) that BJ has a thing for getting to play a caretaking or providing role. But I think Hawkeye would get off just as much on turning the tables on BJ and letting him be the center of attention.

#ask game #THIS WAS SO FUN FR I LOVE THESE!!!!#THANK YOU!!!!!!

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lobstermatriarch · 6 months

Text

10 Character/10 Fandoms/10 Tags

Maybe minus the tags. Tagged by the lovely @anosrepasi <3

Astarion Ancunin, Baldur's Gate 3: Is this a fucking surprise at this point? I have spent real life time staring at my office walls being haunted by this man. He's charming. He's repulsive. He's vicious and self serving and ancient and immature and so desperate to be safe after centuries of living on adrenaline that he will do anything to get you on his side. He's a meta exercise in manipulation, marketed as a hedonistic sex symbol to project fantasies on, then coming out with this nuanced presentation of cptsd/sexual trauma that makes you genuinely uncomfortable with your initial judgements of him. He's the poster child for imperfect survivors still being deserving of kindness, and for the difference kindness can make in breaking or continuing the cycle of abuse. He contains multitudes. I don't think the disk horse was ever avoidable with a character like him.

Anthy Himemiya, Revolutionary Girl Utena: speaking of exercises in projection!!!! Maybe I have a type, or a theme, or something. She's the receptacle for everyone else's hopes for her and ideas of what she could be, an actual object to be traded as a prize. She's a princess, she's a damsel, she's a witch, she's whatever you need her to be. Does anyone know what she is beyond that, herself included? There's been so much amazing analysis on Anthy over the years that I'm not sure I have anything important to add at this point.

Tidus, Final Fantasy X: Early blorbo! Maybe even the first blorbo, though Sailor Saturn might offer competition. I was eleven when I finished this game and proceeded to lose my mind over pretty much every single character at one point or another. I picked Tidus for being the main but I think I do love him the most, too-- there's something about the privileged hero learning how to be self-sacrificial that I think was kind of formative for me. Plus he's a big dweeb and his laugh scene still makes me giggle.

Will Graham, NBC Hannibal: accepting the monstrous side of you, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, sweaty, gruesome, and nonsensical dream sequences, empathy disorders as a psychic superpower, etc etc etc. I could not ask for anything more out of a guy.

Nona, The Locked Tomb: So Nona is my favorite of the books so far, and it's in large part thanks to Nona's point of view. Her focus on what's going on with the kids while the rest of the narrative is in this horrible war zone was really poignant for me? People die, life goes on, kids grow up thinking everything they see is normal. I've taken a lot of writing influence from her narration lately. Granted I (like so many of us) have a soft spot for unhinged women, so trying to pick just one character from The Locked Tomb was SO hard.

Nell Crain, The Haunting of Hill House: If only people cared about her half as much while she was alive as they did after she died! Also, being haunted by her own inevitable tragedy while still managing to find something beautiful and worthwhile in the end.

Jade Harley, Homestuck: by and large I pretend not to associate myself with Homestuck anymore, but it did get me back into fandom after a pretty long time away and Jade still holds a soft spot in my heart. Little feral garden child.

Akane Kurashiki, Zero Escape Series: taking the single most insufferable anime trope (to me at least) and turning it on it's head. The extent of her manipulation by the end of 999 still gives me chills, even though I know the ending, and despite it all she never stops being sympathetic. I love her so much.

Midna, Zelda: Twilight Princess: I named my kitty after her so she's gotta be on the list. She is now 17 and arthritic and still has a lot to say. I'm sure she's criticizing my adventuring skills and/or teaching me how to jump like a wolf.

Cole, Dragon Age Inquisition: I named my other kitty after him so he also has to be on the list. He knocked his cat tree into my partner's coffee table last month and now we need a new one.

Not tagging anyone because tagging stresses me out a bit, but if you would like to do this I would LOVE to see top tens of the moment!

#tag game

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tseneipgam · 1 year

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“one tenth of the earth's surface has been constantly on fire, through no fault of human beings, for more than two hundred years. A look at a dynamic map of all the fires currently raging on the planet would reveal a multitude of these expanding red zones being carried forth by surface winds, in Africa es- pecially, the continent referred to by experts in the field as the Heart of the Inferno. I found it startling to consid- er that our human modernity had developed side by side with this incandescent presence. Some years ago, a musician friend told me about a long stint he'd once spent in an African jungle. Wanting to make recordings of instances of silence in nature, he had travelled to Lake Tanganyika in Tanzania, the second largest and second deepest lake on the planet. 'So deep, he said, 'that there's no oxygen in the waters at the very bottom. They're fossil waters: A helicopter had dropped him off in a clearing in the surrounding jungle with nothing but a tent, a change of clothes and some survival snacks, plus the necessary gamut of recording equip- ment, all manner of tapes and ambient microphones. He saw no fires burning, or if he did, he didn't mention them to me, but he did say that, after a month and more of wandering those jungles, what struck him most was the utter absence of silence.”

“historically, we only ever keep a record of evil deeds. In fact, we only legislate for that which we consider to be pernicious; it never occurs to anyone to legislate for good or happi- ness. It was as though evil was actually held in higher regard than what's good. By this same logic, what's good, with no one keeping an account of it or checking it in any way, is a kind of echo that resounds to the ends of what is known, and its expansion, like that of the uni- verse, will know no limits. And another consequence to this: it makes it pointless, utterly redundant, to ever dis- cuss good, and that has the effect of making it even more invisible. Hence why, contrary to popular belief, it’s revo lutionary to speak of good things.”

“I picked up the book, Physics at the Residencia de Estudiantes. I tried to read the rest of the 'Stellar Universe' chapter, the talk by Sir Arthur Eddington on the Belgian priest Lemaitre who, as I've said, discovered the fact of the universe's expansion, but I found I couldn't get beyond the phrase, 'There are some stars so dense that a tonne of their mat- ter would fit inside a matchbox.”

“Back in bed again, I watched the snowflakes falling on the palm tree, and thought how no two snowflakes are the same, but all, without exception, have six points distributed symmetrically around a single centre point. I know that in any place where symmetry is lacking, it's because, in that portion of planet Earth, the forces of nature are in conflict; eddying river water and human migration flows are such sites of conflict. Thus a snow- flake can be called an isolated point, a place in which the forces keeping the crystals from flying apart are not in competition with anything. Snowflakes are bunkers, isolation chambers, unreachable bubbles; these were my thoughts as I lay in the bed, staring blankly out at the precipitate of each and every one of those snowflakes. And this thought concerning bunkers and points of isolation brought with it another in turn: the possibil- ily of the existence of a place where, densely packed together, all the memories of a person are contained: a neighbourhood, a city, a room or street bevond which a person would relinquish their memories, and thereby all awareness, of what had gone before; they'd only need to go back across the threshold of that street for all the instability and turbulence that is memory to be activat ed once more.”

“It's like when you gather a group together, saying you want a photo, but then press the button to record video instead - they're expecting a photo, but you press record. Then you watch it back and you fall over laughing, and the people you tricked also find it the funniest thing. An unimaginable number of strange contortions pass over a person's face in the moments before thev're frozen in a photo. I thought I'd have liked to perform that same trick with the photos in Aillados, to have witnessed what the people in them were saying immediately prior to the capture of those images, the looks they gave one another and the tiny fluctuations of expression just before their portrais were taken; that surely wouldn't have been funny.”

“it all boils down to trash, blessed trash. He was a man of about seventy, dressed in an ash-grey suit pinstriped like a diplomat's, with a white shirt and cuff links, brogues, blue eyes, hair to match the suit and a moustache with tips waxed to point straight upwards, a detail that made him look astonishingly like Salvador Dali. He sat down on the bench beside us. I was about to say something, but he started talking before I could: My good men, trash is not a thing that should be re- cycled, the best thing is to leave it where it falls, one day we'll be buried by all the trash, it'll be the end of us, but not because of an excess of it, rather by default, and if we recycle it all, what will become of memory? How will we recognize our past selves if everything's already been radically transformed? Future archaeologists wont have any objects to work with, only files, computer files; oh, you'll have objects, yes, but only the ones we place in museums and other sites intended to transmit the most curated samples of our world to generations to come, and all of this, my good men, will be completely worth- less; bear in mind that everything useful we know about former civilizations is that which they left behind unin- tentionally, that which was accidentally dropped and forgotten about, the things they threw away and never bothered to gather or recycle, that's to say, their trash, it's this kind of random thing that truly tells us what past civilizations were like, and these things, the constants of the universe, are what join us to our forebears, because in the time to come there will be objects that neither change nor are capable of change, or, more precisely, and as paradoxical as it might seem, for a transformation to take place something has to remain the same, for example, in a chemical reaction everything changes, but the overall mass remains constant, and if it doesn't, the change can't take place, or, for example, consider the well-known story of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, where the main character's personality changes, but his social en- vironment, his home and the city he lives in go virtually unaltered, because if that weren't so, if in that story ev- erything changed completely, there couldn't be a story, the narration would simply fizzle out, do you under- stand? Well, the same goes for trash, if we eliminate it or transform it into another thing altogether, recycle it in a Wholesale way, we'll be disconnecting ourselves from history, our history, and that would mean ending up in a kind of reality parallel to the civilizations that went before us, while, paradoxically, remaining linked to them, and I really mean this, my good men, this isn't sci-fi l'm talking about, this is real life”

“Neil Armstrong goes to the moon and takes twenty photographs, the most import- ant event of the twentieth century and there's only twenty photographs of it, but any teenage birthday party in this city, or any other city on the planet, will generate two hundred photographs-plus, is that not grotesque? Where's the sense in it? Where are we going to put all these images? In fact, by transforming them into digital files, files nobody will be able to read in a few years' time, since the programs needed to open them won't exist any more, what we'll actually be doing is obliterat- ing those moments, they'll disappear and never come back, and what this amounts to is a slow but certain ne- gation of material itself, nothing short of a disaster, but that's not even the worst of it, my good men, now we get to the nub, by which I mean the recycling of bodies, how we hate the body, with what furious intensity do we seek to do away with it”

“Come night. I'd get up from my desk and see a man in the building across from mine who, standing there in his underpants, would heat up frozen beans in a pan. America is a very sad place. All there is there is sadness.” “Cities that experience very hot summers and very cold winters seem to me like bags of frozen food, frozen and defrosted over and over again: you need only tear open the plastic to see how inedible the contents have become. And that's precisely what I think my walks amounted to: a way of wearing down the outermost layer of the pave- ments, the skin, eventually to have it rip open of its own accord, so that I could then take a look inside.”

“have you noticed the way people always talk about large numbers of people migrating in terms of migration "flows", them "flooding" an area, "stream" of immigrants, that kind of thing?' 'Pardon?' just mean, the language always tends to be liquit-t lated - "Flows", "streams", "floods" - like it was water light or wind being talked about. I sometimes woris What would happen if we referred to movements of par Ble in terms of what they are, which is to say a sucesil aireal, solid bodies, the sum of a whole lot of parild all independent of one another 'don't you think that would change everything?”

“a few days earlier on the plane from New York City to Montevideo, when I'd sat looking at the emergency instructions they put in the seatbacks. These had a picture of a woman looking out at you from the sea with a flotation device in her hands after an apparent crash-landing. She reminded me of Venus in Botticelli's The Birth of Venus. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, or the way the wind tossed her hair, or her facial features, which were surprisingly similar, or her unsettling calm. As though, instead of having just been in plane crash, she'd that very moment been born out of the waters.”

“January 1889, Nietzsche is known to have left his Turin residence on Via Carlo Alberto, intending to walk into the city centre. He'd gone barely two hundred metres when, coming onto the Piazza Carignano, he pulled up at the sight of a recalcitrant horse being flogged by its driver. Nietzsche approached and, throwing his arms around the beast's neck, whispered something in its ear that to this day remains a conundrum: 'Mother, I am stu- pid.' He immediately went back home, where he lost the power of speech and soon passed out, not coming round until a decade later, a few days before his death in 1900. A period Nietzsche would have no memory of whatsoever.”

“The darkness in that moment was total, the car headlights sweeping across expanses of yellow grass which, with the wind blowing through it, looked like liquid gold. We passed a cowshed, one wall of which was covered in a confused mass of graffiti; I just had time to read a part that said: 'God doesn't fear the news. God is the News. We saw a chapel a little further on with a cemetery: didn't know if the creature lying outside the entrance was a dog or coyote. Driving at night is a question of try- ing to see things before you reach them; by the time you do, the headlights have moved on to something else. This same anticipation, I said to myself, applies in life gener- ally given that life is a journey through darkness at the end of which, in dying, you emerge into the light of day.”

“some years later the city would be filled with the mixed smell of burnt plastic and roast chicken, a smell that lingered for a couple of years in the south of the island. 200,000 tonnes of steel, 325,000 m2 of concrete, 55,000 m2 of glass from 43,600 blown-out windows, 198 elevators, each of which had an average capacity of 55 people, 71 escalators, 930,000 m2 of office interiors, 3,000 hu- mans, all reduced to dust. I was installed in the Home by then, but people say that particles, both organic and inorganic, got into every single corner of the city, into people's lungs and homes, into their food and their mat- tresses. It must be pretty strange knowing you've got particles of people's spleens inside you, particles of pens and hair, of Turkish rugs and asbestos, of the glasses for merly worn by young graduates, of silicon from people's breast implants, of adipose tissue, cockroaches, mosqui los, rats, sirloin steaks and trout from the Great Lakes. Preity strange, truly, to go around in the knowledge that This entire superstore of destruction is inside you, and always will be.”

“To clarify: it's tradition in my father's family for the oldest son in each genera- tion, in the presence of all available adults on the day, to extract a portion of wood from his father's coffin, only a small portion so as not to break the coffin, and then to carve it into a fob, in any shape or motif that should oc- cur to him. The keys to all the houses and properties he went on to own were supposed to be attached to it for the rest of his days. The tradition dates back farther than l know for certain, but I do know it started before the days of political parties as we now think of them. We are our dead past, all the coffins that go before us: so my father said to me one spring afternoon when I was nine years old, as we stood in the kitchen at the ranch, him jangling the keys on his familial fob - a pinewood rectangle the same size and shape as a dollar bill. I remember a cow outside the window stooping to drink from a meltwater stream - the winter ice was melting - and how it licked its lips and lowed as if to make light of my father's words.”

“he sat flicking his cell phone on and off. He wanted, he said, to try to get one over on the phone makers by turn- ing it on and off, and on and off, quicker than the light from the screen could keep up. I told him to quit it, he was going break the thing. 'Did you know that as foetuses we're 72 per cent heart,' Semicolon said, 'and at that point the heart's out- side the actual body?' To which I said: 'Did you know that the brain itself doesn't experience pain, so if someone shoots a bullet into your brain, you feel nothing? You just wind up a dumbass, like you. Know the only creature on earth that never gets can- cer is a shark?' *Know some planets have two suns, meaning it never gets dark there?'”

“I saw the vast and endemic tiredness of a mother”

“we saw some men in uniform pulling a dead body out of the water, somebody said it was an illegal immi- grant, we looked at the body and said nothing, made no comment except to say 'Time to go', and the next day she told me that the thought had occurred to her that the clothes of people who drown are more durable than the flesh of people who drown, this seemed an incredible thought to me, but it left her feeling extremely low, she said, because she was studying textile design, or possi- bly it was dressmaking, I never did get my head around the name of the course, and from that day on every time she went to cut the shoulder section of a jacket or part of a trouser leg the thought would come to her that she was really making a fabric coffin for someone who had drowned, isn't this an incredible thought?”

“we're so proud and arrogant, nothing's ever good enough, and now the cruise ship is so far out I can only just see it, those on board will be sipping martinis on the loungers by the covered pool, gazing up at the sky through the transparent roof cover, fixing their sight on the night clouds in an attempt to find answers to the questions they've been pondering their entire lives, questions they hope to solve in this voyage, and here I am, taking it all in with a single sweeping glance, I am a lasso, I snare objects and then bring them inside myself in miniature, the human gaze is capable of such things, shrinking the entire world so that it fits onto your retina, the sparks flying, pouring now from the let- ter'e, if somebody doesn't unplug that neon sign, I'll say it again, we're going to have us one chargrilled man, maybe even a building fire, but all of this is yet to hap- pen, sometimes nothing happens at all, we always want something to happen, we wait and hope, we don't know what for, only that we've waited in vain. The cruise ship is nothing but a speck in the far distance now, a boat for- merly moored on land, it was built on land and will never reach land again, isn't this the most terrible thing? Like a bird that took to the air and had to stay up there forever, forever beating its wings, never allowed to land. I shut my eyes.”

“Cigarette #18 There's a moment in the day when he's lying in bed and the clocks on display in the homeware section synchro- nize for a second - all the second hands align - and the entire mall shakes, as though the nervous system of the world were making its presence known. And there are moments when he and the birds are awoken by the sound of food cans expanding in the heat, bulging like footballs, or by the bicycles suddenly falling from their complex system of wall mounts, or a huge bang made by a box of snacks, all having rotted and fermented inside their bags and all passing their expiration date and ex- ploding at once. A feeling comes over him as though he's the guardian of a kind of Noah's Ark, like this is a spiritual reservation. a museum for an extinct mode of being. Previously, he thinks, the frenetic consumption of products meant they had to re-fill the shelves constant- ly. Nobody ever got to see what would happen in a mall if you just left it to evolve with no human intervention, like a nervous system unto itself. This is a kind of destruction nobody was ever taught about.”

“it's no coincidence that a mentally deranged animal is inconceivable, as is the idea of the planet ever malfunctioning. Any time we refer to a certain stone as beautiful or ugly, or see a bee buzzing around a flower and say it's working to make honey for our consumption, and even when we speak tenderly to a domestic pet, we're being completely ignorant, given that these flowers and rivers, these auto- mobiles and bees, these books and animals have never needed us and never will; they have their own social structures, so infinitely separate from our own as to be forever invisible to us. Which means there's no way for us to converse with an ant or an automobile, a book or a nation, a river or a pet, and not because they don't un derstand us, but because we don't understand them. All of this I thought on arriving in Honfleur and seeing thal woman petting her small dog. I wished he were with me to share this discovery. He, who was not a bee, or river. automobile, nation or pet, but a man - a male of the spe cies, I mean.”

“it was dawn and the summer's day already warm, but a layer of dew, dazzling white, still covered the grass. Taking two glass jars out of his rucksack and handing me a pipette, he asked me to help him collect drops of the dew one by one, Not that it's medicinal or anything like that.' he said, 'rather it's that our immediate future is concentrated in these drops, each and every one is something akin to the essence of the day to come. And we gathered the dewdrops from the blades of at least a metre-square of grass, which as I found out for myself is a lot of dewdrops. I spent the rest of the day peering into my jar to see if I could discern something in the crystal- line dew, though in reality I didn't even know what I was looking at, whereas he, sitting down to breakfast at the hotel when we got back, took his and simply drank it in one, before closing his eyes and spending the duration of the morning as if asleep - 'as if because, though he kept his eyes shut, he'd still answer when spoken to.”

“as we continued along the Normandy coast, convinced as we were that it's only from the peri- pheries of things, only from their farthest shores, that we have any chance of comprehending their true nature. And this is a universal principle for each and every one of us, such that we have to distance ourselves from our own lives if we want to get a view of its contours and its outline, to work out what kind of beast this life of ours really is, and then, only then, is it possible to call a life 'entire’ “

“The thought I finally fell asleep with was how little interest I had in what the D-Day landings sur- vivors saw, compared to what the dead saw; this, the story of the dead, would be the True Story of the D-Day landings, information we have no access to and that must nonetheless be somewhere, hidden information, the unknown B-side to the fabric of our reality, so un- known that we spend our time creating substitutes for it: the story of the dead is substituted by the story we the living make up about them, and the unfolding of civil- izations is that of an infinite chain of substitutions. Indeed, a painting of a landscape makes no attempt to know what might be hidden in that landscape, rather it seeks to substitute it, and a fire doesn't seek to know what is hidden in a forest fire, it just wants substitute it, and the lift has no interest in trying to understand what the hell these things we call stairs are, it just tries to sub- stitute them, and saccharin doesn't try to find what's hidden in sugar, only to substitute it, and sugar in turn doesn't try to uncover whatever's hidden in other food- stuffs, it just substitutes their calorific potential with a single teaspoon, and, in turn, sugar was invented during the industrial revolution to get more out of the workers, the children who worked in mines especially, a dessert spoon of sugar was as good as two plates heaped full of beans and bacon, which means that the white of sugar is littered with the corpses of children. Yes, coal - not by coincidence black like coffee - and the industrial revo- lution it fired cannot be understood without its opposite, sugar so white.”

“the tide was out, it had left an assortment of different seaweeds, oyster and clam shells on display, as well as these objects that, after you throw them away, you don't know how or why they come back, bottle tops, for instance, bleached and slightly malformed, they seemed almost like pebbles, almost, I would say, no longer arti- licial. Why was it, I wondered, that nature caused things we call 'artificial' to bleach to such an extent, to the point that a bottle top becomes indistinguishable from a peb- ble, and at the same time creates things as colourful and dearly distinguished as flowers, insects and rocks; I couldn't come up with an answer, but I did suppose that it was because of this that houses periodically need re- painting but cliffs and flowers don't.”

“I remember a set of footprints across a snow-covered ath- letics track, a single set of footsteps but, like everything in Switzerland, not in the slightest bit dramatic, and ac- companied by the tyre tracks from a bicycle; it could legitimately have passed for a musical score.”

“I thought of a very black Earth, the planet burned to a crisp, and though it obviously meant losing some time I decided to go down the recently asphalted section of road that led to it, which gave off that smell of fossils brought back to life common in all petrol derivatives, always particularly strong at petrol stations - any time I stop to fill up, I pause and breathe it in, this being the yearning for fire we all of have inside ourselves: a match in my mouth at that moment and the whole place would have gone up in flames.”

“A little while earlier, other, more commonplace layers of geology had started to emerge: granite mainly, seamed with quartz, which would have made life hard for the German sappers tasked with cre- ating bunkers like the ones I soon started to see. These had the air of half-finished Easter Island effigies. The buildings in our cities are supported by a skeleton of pil- lars, vectors plunging vertically into the ground, reaching towards the centre of the earth, while bunkers are a compact, unitary mass, like a loaf of concrete bread baked just once and in a single mould, and, more signif- icant than that, they go in no particular direction, and are apparently unaffected by the earth's movements, if an earthquake hit they'd simply roll over on themselves until they came into a new stability, a new equilibrium: they could soon be re-inhabited again. Bunkers are more like a cork bobbing around on water than some- thing actually built on the ground.”

“I thought how unnecessary we are to flies, rats, scrub and stones, and to the dead as well - none of these things need us, we simply invent connections to them. like or dislike, where no connections in fact exist. Thad seen a few months earlier that 2016 was the year of Aristotle, since it was the 2,400th anniversary of his birth, but is it really possible to talk about the anniversa- ry of a birth that happened so archaeologically long ago? How can the exact year of Aristotle's birth be known? It can't. We make it up. That birth happened so long ago that it now exists outside of time. We're forever anthropologizing. It's a little like the quotations attribut- ed to famous people on the internet: ninety-eight per cent of these are incorrect, and it makes as much sense to attribute them to those women and men as it does to the corpses populating these bunkers or the flies that come buzzing off them and land next to our feet, made-up quotations that only succeed in creating a somewhat co- herent representation of the past, which is the same as saying they project a convincing hologram of the future; we look for certainty, we die in fear, that's all there is. It then seemed very clear to me that war filters through ev- erything, not just through geological layers but botanical, biological and even informational layers; a veritable network of war is spread out below the ground on which we stand.”

“Mount Ararat, the highest peak in Turkev, lies near the borders with Iran and Armenia, and is a dormant volcano whose perpetually snow- capped peaks stand more than 5,000 metres above sea level. It is the symbol of the Armenian people. As Wikipedia puts it: 'It is claimed that a large "anomalous" shape at the summit could be Noah's Ark, according to research carried out by Porcher Taylor on satellite im- ages taken in 1955. The "anomaly" (a structural abnormality not common to a mountain) shown in these images is 309 metres long, which would tally with the 300 x50 cubits the Ark is described as measuring in the Book of Genesis.' Astronauts also claim to have seen these shapes. This kind of thing may be satellites' and astronauts' best-kept secrets, and by this I mean not what they see when they are up in space and look into outer space - the contents of which has no importance except for in novels, films and comics - but what they see when they look down at Earth, at our home, the only thing that actually has any impact on us. The day they feel compelled to say what the Earth is truly like from so far away, we won't even be able to believe it, we'll go higher and higher but only in order to look back down. down into the centre of ourselves.”

“After an update on the Brexit referendum, which was due to take place immi- nently, a live football match came on, one being played on the other side of the planet. The ball went from one end of the pitch to the other and I thought what a terrify- ing and at the same time irremediably magical thing it is for 300 million people to be turning their heads to the left in unison; this perhaps is the last truly communal action left on the face of the Earth.”

“One of those boats was shipwrecked off the coast, it quickly became legend not because of what it was transporting, which in the end was just ground-up bones, bone-dust that's sunk to the bottom of the estuaries around here and nobody's ever going to get out, but because people said the boat was made from these Asian trees inside which diamonds grow; bizarre as it sounds, you get dia- monds spontaneously appearing inside one in ten thousand of that kind of tree; it's generated by an imper- fection in the carbon inside the trunk itself, a little bit like the way pearls are generated inside oysters. People around here have burned every single plank or scrap of wood that's washed up on the shores ever since, hoping to come up with one of those diamonds.”

#book

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