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wormtitty · 4 years

Text

Epiphany, part 2

tim/martin, 3.2k words, E-rating

read on AO3!

Something about Tim’s visit the other day bothered him. It was nagging at the back of his mind, squirming around like the worms that he keeps seeing out of the corner of his eye. Living in the archives was bad enough, Martin didn’t need the extra confusion, the added frustration that Tim’s impromptu drop-in had brought up.

So he had a crush on Jon. It wasn’t going to actually go anywhere; Jon was his boss. That’d be a huge HR violation. Probably. Either way, it wasn’t fair of Tim to just barge in and start interrogating him about who he liked, as if they were still in primary school. Especially not when he opened up a whole can of worms about his insecurities, even though it was kind of nice to affirm that at least one of his colleagues was still his friend.

Still though, he absolutely didn’t need to start throwing out names like he did. And from what he managed to infer from the conversation, Tim and Sasha had some sort of bet on his romantic life. And then he said - that.

“Dance card’s open.”

With a wink.

What was Martin supposed to do with that, exactly? Of course he’d noticed Tim’s flirting. But he flirted with everyone; Sasha, Jon, Kevin, even Rosie! Martin even saw him wink at Elias once, though he received such an intense glare in return that Tim had never tried again. So what were a couple of dirty jokes and glances every now and then between friends?

Oh god. Was Tim actually into him? Martin fretted over this for an admittedly considerable period of time before finally deciding to ask Tim himself. After all, didn’t he do the exact same thing to Martin not even a week ago? He drafted, the redrafted, text after text before finally just asking if Tim wanted to get drinks together that night, since it was Friday and neither of them had to actually work the next day. Although, he supposed, Martin did have to come back to the Institute. Because he lived there now.

Honestly, he wasn’t expecting the near-immediate confirmation text Tim sent. He’d expected the text to go unread until Monday, or for him to politely decline because he had company that evening. And why wouldn’t he? He’s Tim, the man with a body to die for and a personality that immediately drew one in. Okay, so maybe he was a little bit attracted to his friend. It was no big deal, because you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the greater London area that wasn’t at least a little in love with Timothy Stoker.

But Tim had responded, with an enthusiastic “Yes please!” that had Martin’s heart racing for totally normal reasons. With only a minimal amount of fumbling, they’d agreed to a time and place to meet. Martin resolutely did not spend the hours leading up to that fussing over his appearance. Tim knew his living situation, and hopefully wouldn’t be too put off by the outfit Martin put together from his measly selection of clothes he rescued from his flat. Surprisingly, he didn’t think to grab eveningwear in his rush to pack the essentials and get the hell out of there. Besides, it’s not like this was a date .

***

“Martin!” Tim exclaimed from the booth he’d claimed in the bar they’d chosen. He stood to give Martin a one-armed hug in greeting. If that sent him blushing, Tim thankfully didn’t comment on it. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to initiate this little meetup! These days, it’s usually me or Sasha that have to drag you out of the Institute for some fresh air. Or just to see other people that aren’t staff.” Tim said with a pointed look.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not the easiest thing to not freak out in public every time I see a worm. Sometimes they’re real, but most of the time I’m afraid I’m imagining them.” Martin felt relieved at being able to admit that, if a little embarrassed. But Tim wore an expression that conveyed his understanding and blessedly changed the subject by ordering both of them a stiff pint.

“All work talk aside, what prompted you to call on me?” Tim inquired. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

“I actually wanted to, ah - I wanted to talk to you about something you said the other day.” Martin admitted to the table, suddenly fascinated in the grain of the wood. He began tracing a line with a finger.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable, Martin. I was just having a bit of fun, a little curious about what had you so distracted, but that’s all. I’m sorry if it was out of line. I know we work together but you’re still my friend and I’d hate-”

“It’s not that!” Martin cut in. Looking up from his table when their drinks were delivered, he took a breath in attempt to calm his racing heart. “No, Tim, it wasn’t that. Well, it was, but about the other thing.” Tim seemed confused. “After. The second time.”

A look of realization crossed over his face. Martin’s own face seemed to be made of fire, so he busied himself by taking a deep drink from his pint. A slow grin started to unfurl from Tim’s lips.

“Martin, don’t tell me you texted me for a booty call ?” He beamed at Martin with a shit-eating grin.

“No! Tim, god, no!” Oh, he actually seemed a bit disappointed in that. “I mean, not that there’s no interest! Oh, would you please say something else before I embarrass myself even further? I didn’t ask to see you for a booty call, Tim. I just wanted to know what you meant?”

“What I meant by…” Trailing off, Tim took some time to remember what exactly it was that had confused Martin. Across the table, Martin was steadily draining his beer in an attempt to keep his mouth occupied and not talking. “Oh! The dance card thing?” He nodded. “That’s basically what it says on the tin, right? Dance card’s open, I’m open, get it?”

“Uhm,” Martin started again, “So you were, you were being serious?” Before Tim could answer, the waiter stopped by to collect their glasses and Martin mumbled his way through asking for a refill. When he looked back across the table, Tim looked utterly dumbfounded.

“Martin, I thought you knew! Christ, I’ve been dropping hints for what feels like forever. You really weren’t aware I was sincerely hitting on you?”

If it was possible, Martin’s cheeks coloured even deeper. “No? I thought you flirted with everyone! You’re always making eyes at our other colleagues, and two weeks ago you kissed Sasha’s cheek! Also, like, I’m me and you’re you .” He decided it was best to stop talking when Tim’s expression went from amused to vaguely pissed off the longer Martin tried to explain.

“Okay, one: I ‘make eyes’ at people I find attractive. In case you weren’t aware, that includes you too.” Martin tried to shrink into himself. “And two: I kissed Sasha’s cheek because she agreed to take one of my more frustrating cases and couldn’t give her a hug due to the files I was currently carrying. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Tim shrugged, “I just wanted you to know that if it was me you were acting all dreamy about, I’d really like you to act on that because I fancy you , as hard as that is for you to believe.”

Fixing his posture, as well as the no doubt dumbstruck look on his face, Martin cleared his throat. “Well. I, uh, thank you? I guess, same? I mean, ditto. I think I’d like to accept your dance card invitation, if you still have an opening?”

“Of course I do.” After that, they finished their drinks in companionable silence. The air was a little bit charged, a little heavy, and neither quite wanted to break the tension yet. Eventually, Tim called the waiter over and paid their tab. “So, what now?” he asked with a warm smile. “I think we’ve spent what time we want to here, but I don’t think I’m ready to let you go just yet. We could grab a late night bite to eat, or we could actually go dancing at one of the clubs around here? And there’s always my flat. I’m sure I can scrounge up something for a nightcap, if you’d like. Promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

With a groan, Martin politely declined both options of staying out later. Unfortunately, his body just isn’t quite as young as it used to be, and he’d never been much of a clubbing kind of guy.

Which is how the two of them ended up on opposite ends of Tim’s couch, each nursing a cup of tea that Tim insisted on making. Even they both knew Martin’s tea would have been far superior. They’d chatted idly about their childhoods (Tim’s was objectively happier), families, and other idle topics on the walk to the flat, but Martin was still mulling over the conversation that led them here.

“About your advice back in the archives, just out of curiosity, where do you think I stand firm, Tim? Not - not things that I can give people, right?” Tim set his empty mug on the coffee table while he mulled the question over in his head.

“Of course. I mean firstly, I think you’re incredibly brave. I would’ve quit the second that freaky worm lady let me go. But you’re still here, Martin. You’ve not thrown in the towel and found somewhere else to work, instead you stayed and kept researching even when I know you’re scared.” Martin looked as if he was about to interrupt. “I’m not done!” Tim said, shushing him with a finger to his lips.

“You’re also very kind. Now I know that making people tea is technically giving something, but you’re probably the only person I know that can make the perfect cup every time. And we never have to ask! You’ve always been great at conversation, ever since you started working at the institute. It can get pretty dreary in the archives, and I know all of us appreciate you being there to brighten it up a bit.”

By now, Martin was incredibly red-faced. He batted Tim’s hand away. “Are you done?” he asked, with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

“Nah, I also think you’re hot as hell.” Tim declared, smirking. Martin made a noise that was half squeak, half groan and put his head in his hands.

“I’d really like it if you’d shut up now, Tim,” he said, the words slightly muffled by his palms.

“Well, I’d really like it if you came over here and made me.”

Half scandalized and half intrigued, Martin carefully shuffled closer to Tim. They were almost knee to knee. Ever so slowly, Tim reached over and pried the mug from his hands. The gentle clink of ceramic on glass broke whatever spell that’d entranced them, and Martin lurched forward.

The kiss was slightly off center with the force of Martin’s body pressing Tim back against the arm of the couch. He angled his head more and, oh, that was so much better. Every sense of his was heightened with the slick slide of their lips. Tim was kissing back with just enough fervour, if not more. There was a hand in his hair and a fist curled in the front of his shirt, hauling Martin closer, closer, ever closer.

Tim let his legs fall further apart and Martin greedily scooted into the space left for him between his thighs. Tim was one hot line of heat plastered to his front, and he couldn’t get enough. He placed a hand on Tim’s jaw and deepened the kiss. With the first sweep of tongue across his lips, he desperately reined in the moan that threatened to spill out. It’s a good thing that they were already sitting down, because the things Tim did with his tongue made his legs feel like trembling jelly. He felt like a trembling mess, and they were only making out . He hoped Tim didn’t think he was too easy.

Trying to regain his composure and actively participate, Martin slid one hand down Tim’s chest. With a surprised noise, Tim’s hips stuttered upwards and his hand tightened almost painfully in Martin’s curls. This time, Martin couldn’t hold back a moan at the dual sensations. At least now he knew that Tim was just as affected as he was.

Martin leaned down to lave at Tim’s jawline, working his way down his throat and cataloging which spots caused a reaction. After that first bridge was crossed, neither of them could quite stop the slow grinding of their hips against each one another. One particularly sharp circle of his hips had Martin’s head hanging forward, lips brushing an earlobe as he let out a soft “Oh, Tim.”

Tim abruptly stopped his movements and gently pulled Martin up to meet his gaze. “Not that I’m not having an incredible time right now, but would you like to move somewhere a little more comfortable than this couch?” Martin gave an enthusiastic nod and climbed off his lap, gesturing at Tim to lead the way.

They eventually made it across the flat into Tim’s bedroom, making only one short detour so Tim could press Martin up against the wall and kiss him senseless. He wasn’t afraid to beg a little when Tim slid a thigh between his own and pressed up. “Tim, please, if you keep that up..” he trailed off and Tim relented, taking his hand until they made it to the bed and Martin was gently pushed backwards.

Tim took a moment to pull his shirt over his head before climbing after Martin, settling with his knees at either side of his waist, asking, “I’d like to take yours off too, if you’d like?” And God, he should not be allowed to look so debauched and sexy while asking something so politely. With a mumbled “yes, please,” Tim rucked up his shirt, sliding his hands up his chest as he went. Being pressed chest to chest sent a jolt of electricity down his spine, and he returned to Tim’s slightly swollen and shiny red lips.

After a few minutes of messy, heated kissing and aborted thrusts of hips, it became clear to Martin that Tim wasn’t going to be the one to escalate things any further. Reluctantly, Martin pulled away from the heat of his mouth. “I know I said that tonight wasn’t a booty call, but what would happen if I said I might like that?”

Tim smiled wickedly. “I would say something along the lines of ‘finally!’ and then do this.” With that, he slithered down Martin’s torso, stopping at his belt, where he was achingly hard in his pants. “That looks uncomfortable,” he mused, with a devious glint in his eyes. In no time at all Martins trousers were tossed off the side of the bed, and Tim was breathing hotly at the front of his pants. He wasn’t moving.

Martin tried to keep the whine out of his voice as he said “Feel free to continue any time.”

“Hmm. You’ll have to ask politely, Martin.” And oh, Tim was just pushing all the right buttons tonight. When Martin didn’t say anything in response, Tim’s mouth made contact with his briefs, wetting the fabric around his cock and applying a hint of friction.

“Okay, please, Tim, please!” Martin begged.

“Good boy,” Tim murmured as he pulled the pants all the way down and off. Martin tried his very best not to whimper at the praise. “God, look at you,” he breathed, gazing down at the now fully naked Martin in his bed. He squirmed uncomfortably on the sheets before Tim acquiesced and finally took the head of his cock into the wet heat of his mouth. Martin had always been sensitive, and this was no exception. He brought a fist up to his mouth to keep the choked-off sounds of pleasure in, but Tim pulled off with an admonishing look and tugged the hand away. “Come on, I want to hear you. Can’t you see how hot that is, how hard it makes me?”

Glancing down, Martin could see Tim shallowly thrusting his hips into the mattress, as if he was getting off on sucking him off. He let his head fall back and groaned, but kept his hands fisted in the sheets instead of covering his mouth. Satisfied, Tim returned to laving at Martins cock. He ran his lips and tongue all over, getting him wet before sucking his cock into the back of his mouth.

He kept at it, changing up the pressure and speed, all the while Martin was letting an almost constant stream of pleasured noises slip from his throat. He tentatively unfurled one hand from the sheets and placed it on Tim’s head, pulling gently. Tim moaned around his cock, and that was it, it was too much- “Tim, Tim I’m going to come if you don’t stop,” he panted.

With an obscene pop Tim pulled off and crawled back up to kiss Martin after sparing a second to wipe at his mouth. “Yeah, come on, come for me,” he slipped a hand around Martins wet cock and managed only a couple of strokes before he bit down on Tim’s lower lip with a grunt and came harder than he had in months . Tim kept kissing him and stroking him through it before slowing to a stop when his hips twitched away, oversensitive.

He came back to himself and kissed Tim back with renewed vigor. “Fuck, Tim, you’re incredible. Here, let me -” but before he could get his hand around Tim’s cock, he was groaning through his own orgasm and thrusting weakly against Martin’s hip. “Oh, okay. Hah, that works too, I guess.”

Looking not even the tiniest bit bashful, Tim smiled up at him. “Sorry, you were just really hot. Didn’t quite want to wait when I was so close .” He kissed Martin’s cheek, his nose, and finally his lips. “But the night is still young. You could always get me off during round two?” Martin groaned and buried his face in Tim’s messy hair.

“You’re severely underestimating how thoroughly you’ve worn me out.” Tim pulled back and stuck his tongue out at him before settling into a smirk. Martin pulled him down to kiss the smug look off his face. “However, after getting cleaned up a bit and a quick nap, I could be convinced to go again.” Tim hummed softly before pushing off the bed to grab a wet cloth. Martin couldn’t not watch him as he left.

***

Later, when they both were cleaned up and half-spooning on Tim’s large bed, Tim interrupted the sleepy silence by voicing something that had clearly been on his mind all night. “So it was me you were mooning over while we were heroically exterminating worms, then?

“Tim!” Martin slapped his arm. “Go to sleep please.” Muffling his laughter into Martin’s chest, Tim closed his eyes and did just that.

#remember when i begged for anyone to write something like this?#i gave in and did it myself #in the words of awsten knight: this is not g #but it's the most i've ever written #alright it's midnight i'm posting and peacing out #here are the real tags #the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #tim x martin #timmartin #martin/tim #martin x tim #sidney writes

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patricianandclerk · 5 years

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Can I request Hawke/Varric? Thank you!

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

It was dark as the shitting Deep Roads outside, but the sky had cracked open. Rain poured down in veridium sheets, hitting the ground hard and rushing into the gutters, and when it gushed over the stairs it was like there were rivers flowing right here in Kirkwall.

There was a reason Varric was inside.

He could hear the storm outside, but he ignored it, going over some written correspondence - one of the bastards from the Merchants’ Guild breathing down his neck, or trying to; some Coterie turncoat offering info about some business out on the Storm Coast; a letter from the Shaperate in Orzammar, answering a research question, which was big enough in itself, given that he was just a surfacer.

He still had to redraft the chapter on his desk, and when he heard the knock on his door, he was, for just a second, pissed. He had work to do, did nobody understand that, when they came to him with their problems? He was exhausted.

And yet…

They did know.

And he didn’t mind, or he wouldn’t answer, every time.

“It’s open,” he called, sipping at his drink, and Hawke stumbled through the door, half-soaked from the rain. He pushed the door shut behind him, and then half-collapsed, his back against the frame, his knees looking like they might just drop him hard on the ground at any moment. “Shit, Hawke. What happened to you?”

“I had an argument with Fenris in the alienage,” Hawke said. “As I walked home from the alienage, I ran into Anders, who had a few choice words for me about Fenris. Before I could even step into my home, Mother decided it was the ideal time to discuss the latest letter she has received from Bethany, and why it is my fault–” He stopped. He looked exhausted, and Varric couldn’t really get over the painful string it tugged at in his chest. “It doesn’t matter. Just that I am currently everybody’s least favourite hero, except, hopefully, yours.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re only my second least favourite,” Varric allowed. “There’s some pretty bad dwarven heroes.”

Hawke laughed, weakly, and he took a few steps forward. “You mind if I take these clothes off?”

“You mind if I write down exactly what I see if you do?”

“Your sketches aren’t enough?”

“The sketches overexaggerate.”

Hawke laughed again, so quietly Varric couldn’t stand it, and then he watched as Hawke pulled off his clothes, hanging them on the stand next to the fire. Men didn’t really do it for Varric, exactly, but it wasn’t about that with Hawke, really. he looked at the muscles of Hawke’s shoulders, his thighs, his calves. The muscle was built up all over, had been since Varric had known him, and he looked good, like a hero. He looked like a hero.

Hawke hesitated when his fingers got to the waistband of his smalls, still facing away from Varric, and he turned back to look at him. Varric read the hesitation in his face.

“You writing to Bianca?” he asked. Varric was familiar with the look on his face. Guilt, want, uncertainty. The kind of face that was easy to describe, when he was putting it on paper for one of his books, and not so easy when it was right in front of him, looking him in the eye.

“Not tonight,” Varric murmured, and Hawke took his smalls off too.

Varric took up the clipboard he used sometimes for writing in bed, taking up the pages that needed editing, and he let Hawke climb into bed first, felt Hawke curl up against his side. The first time they’d done this, there’d been a gap between them like a trench, Hawke all but hanging over the edge of the bed, like he was scared of facing Varric when they were in the same bed, let alone touching him.

Now, he laid his head under the crook of Varric’s arm, his cheek pressed against Varric’s chest, his arm loosely curled around Varric’s middle, his fingers splayed on Varric’s thigh. For all Hawke worried about it, Varric didn’t think he and Bianca had ever had a peaceful enough few hours to lie like this - intimately, but without urgency.

The thought made him want to sigh, so he played his fingers loosely through Hawke’s hair.

“They really that pissed off at you?” Varric asked.

“Fenris isn’t. Ironically, I think I actually told him what he wanted me to tell him, he just didn’t want to admit it. Anders… Andraste’s tits, Varric, I don’t know what he wants me to tell him, what he wants to say to me. I just know he’s so angry that sometimes I feel like he’s going to…” He shook his head. “And Mother wasn’t that angry. She just wanted to discuss it, and then was upset when I wasn’t in the mood.”

“S’not your fault,” Varric murmured.

“Isn’t it?”

“No. People always see the hero with the world on his shoulders - they never ask who put it there.”

Hawke was quiet, his eyes closing shut. It wasn’t just about Hawke, was the thing. Varric would love to pretend it was, wouldn’t mind pretending it was all about noble Varric, offering a shoulder to cry on to some friends and a chest to sleep on for others, but he found a comfort in it, too, in Hawke’s body warm beside him in the bed, Hawke’s even breathing even though his hair was still wet.

He looked to the chapter in his lap, and then he dropped it aside, blowing out the candle. With just the fire lighting the room, he looked at Hawke’s face, peaceful, fast asleep. He turned toward the Champion, buried his face in his hair, and let his own eyes shut tight too.

#varric tethras #hawke #dragon age #fanfic #Anomymous #as defined by dictionary #answered

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heavens-light-and-hells-ice · 6 years

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Another letter to his lady.

This letter was started, scrapped, and redrafted many times over the past moons, as Rosaire Ledigne sat at his desk, watching the winter approach through the hazy window. As Starlight nears, he tries again, his pen at first direct and confident, gradually becoming uncertain and disjointed. In the end, this attempt peters out as well, the letter left unfinished -- though out upon his desk, open to his lady's discovery, till the next time he decides to try again.

To my dear lady Gwenneth Ledigne.

A very long while ago you asked about my family and my upbringing by my parents. Though the answer I gave at the time was honest, I admit I did not wish to get much into the topic -- for I did not think the story much relevant to our lives, now that a greater part of mine has been spent avoiding House Saincourant than having aught to do with it, and so thought it better to spare you the recounting of that unpleasant history. Yet even though that opinion of mine is not much changed, I do feel it mayhap a disservice to you to avoid the topic -- a topic that I confess I have thought more of in recent moons than I have for decades, mayhap because the subject is not so irrelevant as I once thought, our circumstances being as they are.

I have been told -- and indeed I have even seen evidence -- that in some highborn families there is love, and not just a love of fame and power. This was not the case in mine. My father had tremendous pride in his Fortemps blood and, when he was young, nursed ambitions of valor and glory with which he would distinguish Saincourant among the subsidiary houses of the Unicorn; but he had the misfortune of being born during a time of Nidhogg’s slumber, never to skirmish with aught more fierce than dragonflies, and in his desperation for honor injured himself in a joust, limiting his future pursuits to ballrooms, councils, and at the very most, hunts. Though true glory was lost to him, he was infatuated with the appearance of it, and threw himself into pageantry and politics; he secured for himself a woman of equally good Haillenarte lines and set to breeding pawns for future honors and alliances.

At our most numerous we were eight in total. The firstborn, my brother Aleaume, whom you know as the present Lord Saincourant, was immediately pleasing to our father, who devoted himself to grooming him for prestige and greatness. I was the third son and fourth child and so, initially, not of much concern. I was wet-nursed immediately in a far-off corner of one of our houses; though it be unkind of me, I doubt my mother held me more than once a moon, as by day she was busy with a lady’s engagements and by night was needed to produce the next. In those days it was not at all uncommon to lose young children, and I suppose my parents dealt with that concern by warehousing us till we were of the age of reason -- not without luxury, as I have no memory of ever wanting for food or warmth, but in the hands of servants.

At times I have thought it fortunate that I was born with the temperament that I have, for while I was never without a nursemaid, she was so often changed -- reassigned to one of my siblings, mayhap, or replaced with a more convenient, less costly local girl -- no one face stands out in my memory as that of a beloved substitute mother; a more sensitive child would surely have suffered from neglect, but I cannot remember pining, only existing, quietly and quite contentedly, in mine own solitary thoughts and imagination. At other times I have wondered if the development of an uncaring temperament was such a child’s only recourse. Regardless, while I was not injured by this upbringing, it did not endear my parents to me, and when they did take an interest in me, I did not fawn over them like Aleaume did.

During my ninth winter, I was at our country estate while my younger siblings were in the city with my mother, along with my second brother at boarding school. My father and Aleaume were off on some business, and I suppose my elder sister must have been at the estate as well. That year plague hit, and all my brothers and sisters in the city died. My mother survived, but she was not unaffected by the loss. Though she had not much use for her babes while they lived, losing five of eight at once devastated her, and she began to cling tight to my sister, as I suppose I did not warm sufficiently to her sudden embraces. Then, during my mother’s last pregnancy, my sister died, and so when Victoire was born, she became my mother’s most precious treasure, ever to be coddled and held close.

Mine education was provided and needs met, but my father did not have much to say to me till I was in my first year at the Scholasticate and surpassing the other pupils. By that age I was too canny to be fooled, and it was obvious to me that any protestations of fatherly love were deposits made on the investment of a high-placed son in the clergy, with connections and favors expected as returns. I hated all that business -- the pretended alliances, the bartering of daughters, the exploitation of smallfolk, the politics of power and naught else -- I despised him and my hypocritical, toadying brother, and resolved then that my family would enjoy none of my success. When I graduated, I went to the Tribunal, became Ledigne, and built my career and legacy entirely on mine own. While they lived, my parents loathed me for choosing to stand not for the house but such frivolous things as justice, Halone, and the greater good of the Ishgardian state; after my brother succeeded and ruined Saincourant reputation and finances, he never stopped scheming for a way to get his hands on the fortunes I’d made during my time as an Inquisitor. Victoire is of the same cloth, spoiled and selfish -- but she does what a noblewoman must to survive after her brother marries her strategically to some well-titled boor, and for that I cannot resent her; but I have no wish to introduce her to my wife.

Not all highborn are irredeemably corrupt, I will grant; we know examples enough to know that not all of them end up so. But I admit some of mine antipathy to that class, and to the way of things in Ishgard, comes from the first-hand knowledge of how the demands of politics, money, and reputation warp natural familial affection into something entirely different and unnatural. When blood is mixed with power, it is poisoned, and curdles -- and the husband's feeling for his wife, the mother's for her children, the brother's for his siblings, turn gradually from the benign sentiments designed for us by the Twelve into amoral opportunism, strategy, barter, and greed. It makes us all pieces on the chessboard of the Pillars, and it is a game no highborn can choose not to play.

It disgusts me.

And I do not want her to be raised as I was.

I am not so naive as to think that all lowborn are raised in innocent, carefree love. The pressures on those families are oft just as great, and their straits are far more likely to be dire, with pragmatic choices to be made between love and survival. But those stresses are, in my estimation, nearly all produced by that very highborn society pushing down on them, exploiting them in plays for their own advancement in the game. Nobility -- stratification -- difference -- it truly is a sickness that infects every part of our society, ruining individual happiness, familial harmony, even our ability to follow Halone's commands. As pleasant as the picture of the gentle lord defending his subjects is sometimes painted, in truth its underside -- sometimes its face -- is always ugly.

You know how I feel about the L. & the C., and that is unchanged -- because I do not think it is the right medicine for Ishgard. But, ardently, I pray that our nation is healed, and that the Ishgard of the future -- your Ishgard, my young wife, and that of our child -- is one more equal, and so less sick, more honest, more holy than what my grandparents, my parents, and I have allowed it to be.

And I pray that you my child shall not resent being raised in our strange little family, highborn without a House, with luxuries and privileges fewer than those enjoyed by past generations, and a bloodline not all may at first accept. I pray she shall not be angry with us for the choices we have made and the traditional path we forsook. Certainly, we will make mistakes, and when grown she will look back on them with disapproval --

but, Halone, let her look back on this choice, to raise her as an ordinary child in an ordinary family, and understand it was made in love, and for love.

#ffxiv rp #rosaire ledigne #aleaume de saincourant #house saincourant #papa ledigne #letters #backstory dump #rosaire is fine just fine #100% reasoned and logical #no emotions whatsoever #Ishgardian family values #neglect //#death //#child death //#child loss //#dysfunctional family //#the end of nobility #politically radical inquisitor rosaire ledigne

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kieren-fucking-walker · 6 years

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hello! i really love your writing for dirk gently and I was just wondering if you could give me some advice. I always have so many ideas for fics that I love but my skill set isn't good enough to do them justice. What do you advise i should do?

First off, thank you so much! I really love writing for Dirk Gently so I’m glad you’re enjoying it too!

I’m going to preface this advice by saying you probably won’t like it much, people tend not to, but it’s the only advice I have to give and it’s the only one that works.

Write it anyway.

Even if your writing is the worst writing in the world (I promise it isn’t). Even if you struggle to get the words out, or you can’t get to grips with grammar (god knows I can’t hold a tense to save my life), or you think you’re writing it wrong, or out of character, or that someone else can do better just write it anyway.

Writing isn’t some innate gift that some people have and others don’t. Sure, there’s an element of something like that when it comes to having ideas and such but writing is very much a skill like any other and you have to practice to get better.

I’ll bet you can make up a tune in your head, right? Something simple or whatever, but something you made up. Would you expect to be able to sit down at a piano and play it? No! Of course you wouldn’t! You don’t know how to play piano! You’ve never done it before, or maybe you did a long time ago and you’ve forgotten the ins and outs of it. (If you do play piano, substitute this for an instrument you don’t play. I only have so many comparisons.) That’s okay! But the thing is, you have that tune in your head and you could, with practice, learn how to play it.

And you’re going to be bad at first! You don’t know what you’re doing, you’ll hit the wrong keys and miss chords and all sorts but none of that matters because it means you’ll learn and get better.

I know writing seems like a thing that people can just do, but it really isn’t. It takes practice, and it takes skill, and it takes writing really, really badly, sometimes for a very long time, before you start to feel like maybe it’s okay. I’ve been writing, or at least what I’d consider Writing™ for about ten years now and I’m only just starting to think that my stuff is vaguely okay. There are plenty of people who thought my work was great before that, who still love fics I cringe at now, and those people aren’t wrong! I just couldn’t see it.

If you have ideas and you want them written, you just have to write them anyway. Write it badly, write it terribly, write it so you can’t even bear to look at it but get it down. And the best part? You don’t have to show anyone! I have some terrible writing that has never been read by anyone else but I keep it because I could do something with it some day. Then again, if you do choose to share it, you’re in good hands. Most people won’t say if they don’t like your fic (it’s good etiquette) but when people do they’ll be supportive! And writing isn’t always about who could write it “best”, sometimes it’s just about sharing ideas in the best way you can.

Once you have it down you might find you think it’s okay, or you might still think it’s terrible, but that’s fine! You can either leave it, and celebrate the fact that you wrote something and did something that scares you (go you!), or if you want to you can keep revising and redrafting and going over that first edit until it’s something you’re happier with. I promise, very few people write a first draft of a fic (no matter how good it is) and don’t want to revise it. For a lot of the people you’d consider good (or at least dedicated) writers, a lot goes on behind the scenes before that fic gets posted.

At the end of the day it’s your idea, and the only person who can get your idea out the way you want to is you. Becoming confident at writing takes time, and practice, and lots and lots of very shitty drafts before you get to something you’re happy with. You think your skill set isn’t good enough? Expand your skill set! But the only way to do that is by writing. I can pick apart everything in every piece of writing I’ve ever put out, but that doesn’t even mean it’s bad, it just means I’m my own worst critic. You’ll probably find it’s the same for you.

So yeah, write it anyway. Bullet points, or full drafts nobody ever sees, or revised and revisioned until you’re happy to put it out there, just write it. Get it down. You’ll feel better.

Just one more thing though, “doing something justice” is bullshit. Bad things get professionally written all the time. What one person thinks is done perfectly another will hate. Just write it, okay? You don’t have to show anyone if you don’t want to. Write all of your ideas. And love them, because that came from you, and it’s a thing you thought of, and a thing you did, and a thing you achieved no matter how good or bad it is in somebody else’s eyes. You know that one toy you had as a kid that everyone thought was ugly and your parents tried to talk you into throwing away every other month? That’s your writing. Love it no matter how bad it is, and write the damn thing anyway.

#advice #long post #anon #writing adventures #writing advice #sorry i'm just very passionate about this lmao #ily anon and I hope i get to read some of your stuff some day <3

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kyndaris · 3 years

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Life is Dull, But it Can be Mundane!

If there is one word that can be used to describe me, it would be: predictable. For many of those that live in a first-world country, life is essentially mundane routine. We go to work. We come back home from work. We do a few things for a few hours before going to bed. And then we repeat it all the next day. True, each day might have its own different set of routines, but over the course of a week, a month or a year - nothing much had changed. The cycle continues ad nauseum.

For those familiar with my short stories, it was the very thing I was railing against in one of my first short stories: Gears in the Walls. Of course, in that particular tale, I took it a step further and made my character go insane.

Still, there’s something to be said for having a set schedule. It pays to know the script beforehand so that the actors know their marks and what to say at a particular time. Often, my days involve quite a bit of the same. Every second day, I’ll wash my hair after work. On the days that I don’t, I eat an apple and yoghurt. After those rituals are done, I hunker down and chip away at my lengthy novel-length projects before dinner. My target goal is about 200-300 words each day. Sometimes I’ll be particularly inspired and somehow crank out 500 to 600 words in the short timeframe that I’ve allocated myself.

After dinner, I allocate an hour and a half (sometimes two) to the playing of whichever video game that is on my ‘to-do list.’ At the point of writing this blog post, I’m still trapped in Trails of Cold Steel 3, but I’m eagerly anticipating the release of Biomutant in another week and a few days. Once the clock hits 9pm or 9:15pm, I head back to my computer to watch whatever show on Netflix or Disney+ that I’ve decided warrants my attention.

That way, I can do all the things that I kind of want to do without fearing that I’ve dropped the ball on my hobbies or that I’m tossing my money down the drain when it comes to the subscription streaming services I use. To be perfectly honest, sometimes I ponder whether it might be worth it to pirate all the things I want to watch. As good as the Netflix library is, there are still so many others shows that I want to watch - if only subscriptions didn’t make it feel so prohibitive.

One of these days, I’ll need to invest on a VPN so that I can change my location and get access to everything that’s available on the two subscription services that I do have.

When I told my friend that my life was utterly dull and incredibly routine, she was astounded that I was able to keep it all up. As if setting aside time every day to do a little writing, a little gaming and a little TV show watching was unique.

What? Are you telling me that nobody else does what I do? What in the world do other people do in their spare time? Just watch YouTube until the early hours of the morning? Read FanFiction until late? Get through a decent chunk of gameplay before calling it a night? Look after a small child? I’m sure there are plenty of things that other people do that can help explain where the time goes. This is just me simply being a very time conscious individual and giving myself strict instructions on what I should do at any given time. It’s like working even when I’m not working.

KYNDARIS, GIVE YOURSELF SOME SLACK! YOU AREN’T GETTING PAID FOR ANY OF THIS SO BEING SPONTANEOUS IS OKAY! Say ‘yes’ to going out for dinner once in a while with real life friends! Don’t be annoyed that your perfect evening has been ruined and you’ll never finish your stories within your non-existent deadline.

I think what she thought was amazing (and for me, it was part of the everyday) was that through my organisational skills, I was able to complete a few of my set goals instead of burning out too early or losing interest midway through. But then, of course, how are people expected to finish anything if you don’t chip away at it? And how are you meant to chip away at it if you don’t time manage all of that?

Why was something I thought completely normal so strange or difficult for other people?

But maybe what I perceive as banal is completely different to how others might view my accomplishments. I’m very notorious for underselling my achievements - seeing them as part of the norm. After all, the way I play many video games are the same. You’ll never see me doing too much in the end-game because I’d have already completed all the side quests before the credits rolled. Often, I’d be overlevelled and the final bosses fall to my blade with ease.

It helps, I think, that I’m quite methodical in how I play. Exploration of all the question marks in my surrounding area, talking to every NPC that is worth a damn, and hoarding items that might be of worth. Though progress might initially seem slow, by the time the game has reached its conclusion, most of the trophies are sitting cozy in my cabinet and if I really wanted to be a completionist, there would only be a few things more I need to go out of my way to get.

In any case, routine is very much how I live my life. It’s the bedrock on which I function from day to day. While it can be tedious, it gives me a sense of direction and helps me accomplish the few goals I’ve set for myself. And to be perfectly frank, I never gave much thought on how I lived my life until my friend thought it was the most amazing accomplishment she had ever witnessed in her life.

If there is one thing I’d like to say to any of those that are struggling to do something creative it’s this: take each day as they come. Make sure to give yourself time to do what you want and make good use of it. It might be easy to say that ‘you’re too tired’ or that ‘you don’t feel inspired’ but I’ve found that sometimes by pushing through, you unlock that nexus of creativity that was lurking within you this whole time.

Those in jobs or roles that require you to write or be creative in some form or another should know what I mean. If you’re a graphic designer, you don’t wait until the next bout of inspiration comes along before you do a project you’ve been commissioned for. That’s now how business works. And if you want to get paid, you can’t afford to sit on your arse for an hour, a day, a week because of the general air of malaise you feel.

If you’re a journalist, you spitball ideas until one sticks and then start drafting and redrafting something until it sounds like it’s a great and awesome opinion piece.

So, if you don’t how to start something the easiest thing you can do is just that: Start. Even if it sounds horrendous and it’s not the perfect brush stroke or the perfect sentence, keep going. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day. And, as an amateur writer that constantly wants to delete everything that they’ve written on really bad days, knowing that you can go back and edit makes it better in the end.

#personal blog #i didn't actually watch Wonder Woman 1984

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thrashermaxey · 6 years

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Ramblings: Caps Even Up; Kuznetsov Injured; Habs; Coyle; Anderson; Tatar and More – May 31

Game 2 of the Stanley Cup Final had a lot to live up to following the standard set by Game 1 and it came pretty close to doing so. These two teams are developing a genuine dislike and it’s starting to show.

To kick things off we had a James Neal goal nearing the middle of the first period and it was an absolute beauty:

Framed. #StanleyCup pic.twitter.com/gcXULovKiU

— NHL (@NHL) May 31, 2018

The deft touch to get the puck back to the middle followed by the absolute snipe on Braden Holtby, just pure magic. With all the hubbub surrounding other Golden Knights forwards, it’s easy to forget Neal’s been one of the game’s premier snipers for a decade.

Lars Eller would tie things up later but the big news was injury to Evgeny Kuznetsov. He took a big hit in the neutral zone along the boards from Brayden McNabb – which probably should have been an elbowing call honestly – but seemed to injure his left wrist or shoulder in the process. Kuznetsov left the game and did not return. All the Caps would say is that it was an upper-body injury.

Power-play goals from Alex Ovechkin and Shea Thedore, along with an even-strength goal from Brooks Orpik, had the Caps with the lead heading into the third period.

Holtby would shut the door the rest of the way and Washington would skate out of Vegas with a 3-2 win and an evened series. Just saying he shut the door doesn't really do it justice, though, as he faced 39 shots, and made this absolutely incredible save on Tuch with about two minutes left in the game:

Oh my god Braden Holtby pic.twitter.com/xCR65Itcf7

— Pete Blackburn (@PeteBlackburn) May 31, 2018

Lucky? Maybe a bit, but you have to put yourself in a position to be lucky, and that was incredible. Hats off, Mr. Holtby.

A story in theScore quotes Marc Bergevin, in an interview with Mike Zeisberger, as saying Montreal isn’t likely to deal the third overall pick. It never really made sense in the first place; the Habs need to start stocking the cupboards. This isn’t a team one impact player away from the Cup.

From a fantasy hockey perspective, though, it’s kind of disappointing, I think? For fantasy hockey owners in redraft leagues, we don’t care if the team is going to be good in three years. We need the team to be good now. Fantasy owners need legitimate centres to feed guys like Max Pacioretty, Alex Galchenyuk, Artturi Lehkonen, and Brendan Gallaghe. It’s in the best interest of the team and its fans for the long-term to hold that pick, but the selfish fantasy owner in me wanted to see them trade it in some sort of package for a top-end centre.

Ah well. Maybe they’ll still sign John Tavares.

(editor’s note: they will not sign John Tavares)

A week ago there was a Ramblings posted for new baseline targets in fantasy hockey. They’re based on the increase in scoring across the NHL which are (partly) are a product of the rise in shot rates. The targets for an average forward in a 12-team league with 13 forwards rostered should be 25 goals, 35 assists, and 201 shots on goal. For defencemen, we are looking for 9 goals, 31 assists, and 173 shots on goal. As one can imagine, not every fantasy-relevant player hits each of those targets – Hockey Reference had just 24 forwards and 15 defencemen reach those marks – but it does help set a guideline of what we need from players in order to stay in the hunt for a fantasy title.

It’s worth going over some players who failed to reach each of those different marks, are good bets to get over the hump for 2018-19, and might make good values at the draft table.

We’ll dig into the forwards for today.

Forwards – Goals

Tomas Tatar

It’s been disappointing to see Tatar on the sidelines for most of the playoffs since Vegas acquired him at the trade deadline but sometimes a player doesn’t mesh immediately. It speaks to just one of the issues that can arise post-deadline with acquisitions. Regardless, they acquired Tatar because both James Neal and David Perron are UFAs and it’s not certain both (or either) return. Tatar has posted four straight 20-goal seasons, averaging 24 goals per campaign in that span, playing just over 16 minutes on average a night. He should find himself in the Vegas top-6 next year with power-play time and a return to 25 goals seems possible in those circumstances.

Kevin Fiala

Nashville was a Cup contender so hopefully their second-round exit will mean a bit of a discount on some players at the draft table in September. Fiala managed a 23-goal season in 2017-18 and that was despite playing just 15:09 per game. He put up a shot attempt rate that came in just below what Filip Forsberg’s was in the regular season so even a modest increase in ice time should mean flying past the 200-shot mark. He was very good all year for the team and did nothing to warrant a push down the lineup. He seems primed for a full breakout campaign.

Jake DeBrusk

The concern is that DeBrusk’s playoff performance – 6 goals in 12 games – will inflate his ADP next year but like Fiala, hopefully an early-ish exit doesn’t bring this to fruition. Regardless, DeBrusk was impressive basically from the start of the season, mixing speed and skill to get to the net with regularity and that kind of skillset is useful on the power play. The hope is he gets first crack at the top PP unit should Rick Nash move on, and that, along with a small boost in five-on-five ice time, should be enough to get him to 25 goals.

Forwards – Assists

Pierre-Luc Dubois

It’s hard to see Dubois being undervalued going into drafts next year given that by the end of the year he was on both the top line and the top PP unit for Columbus. My hope is two-fold, though: people are scared of Tortorella’s… let’s call it whims… and that he’s pushed down the list given he’s a centre. But he was a monster down the stretch for the team with 16 assists and 26 points in 33 games post-All Star Game and on the top line there’s no reason not to think he can’t post similar numbers over a larger sample next year. Getting to 35 assists with guys like Panarin, Atkinson, or Anderson on his wing is doable.

Charlie Coyle

I’m going to fully reserve a prediction here until we get more certainty with Minnesota’s future because there might be some big changes coming. There is a new general manager in town while the team hasn’t reached their postseason goals since the signings of Ryan Suter and Zach Parise years ago. All the same, Coyle missed 16 games last year but his 82-game pace still worked out to 32 assists. He also saw a three-year low in shooting percentage. There is enough talent where he won’t be a focal point of the roster but getting back to 15+ goals and 35+ assists is reasonable in a full season.

Jonathan Toews

I like to poke fun at the aggrandization of Toews’ contributions as much as the next person but he should see a bounceback in 2018-19. He still managed 32 assists in 2017-18, meaning he’s cracked 30 assists in every season in which he’s played at least 60 games. He also did that with a revolving door of wingers all season long in conjunction with an underperforming Brandon Saad and a career-low second assist rate. Despite all that, his 82-game pace for assists was 35 (he only played 74 games). Do not be surprised to see him back over the 60-point mark again next season thanks largely due to just a jump in assists.

Forwards – Shots

Kyle Palmieri

Anyone who reads my Ramblings with regularity knows I’m a fan of Palmieri. In 2017-18, he set a career-high with 2.92 shots per game even though he had a three-year low in TOI per game. He cracked 180 shots despite playing just 62 games. A full season with the Devils, hopefully on the top line with Taylor Hall and Nico Hischier, could see career-highs across the board for Palmieri. Even if he were to pull back a bit on the shots per game, just getting a full season in should see him cross 200 shots. He’s a guy I will be targeting in every fantasy draft with the assumption his ADP will be depressed due to low raw totals.

Artturi Lehkonen

Lehkonen is one player whose ADP I’m interested to see in September. I doubt it’s even inside the top-200 given his horrific start to the year depressed his numbers (remember, he had two goals at the All-Star Break, and both goals came in the same game). All the same, his 82-game pace for shots was 203 and to do that as a 22-year old in his second season on this roster is impressive. He doesn’t even need a bigger role to be a fantasy contributor next year but consistent top-six minutes with top power-play time should help.

Josh Anderson

The way Anderson finished the season makes it easy to forget the way he started the season. Up until the All-Star break, he had 15 goals and 25 points with 151 shots in just 47 games. And that was with an offseason contract dispute that didn’t see him signed until October. He was injured at the end of February, though, and by that point he had been pushed down the lineup. Aside from Artemi Panarin, Cam Atkinson, and probably Pierre-Luc Dubois, I’m not sure anyone has a lock on top-six minutes next year and we know what Torts can be like. All the same, all things equal, I’ll put my faith in talent and Anderson oozes it. A healthy season should see him cruise past 200 shots.

from All About Sports https://dobberhockey.com/hockey-rambling/ramblings-caps-even-up-kuznetsov-injured-habs-coyle-anderson-tatar-and-more-may-31/

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tihemme · 7 years

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The Summer My Brilliant Mother Blew Her Own Mind - Part 1

August whatever, the last batch of students graduated Friday, and I’m broke. I’ve hunkered down for a two-week forced vacation, throughout which I intend to stave off next year’s inevitable financial crisis by drafting yet another television series proposal - but then my mother calls. “What the hell is going on?” And now I’m pissed at my brother. I told him yesterday over the phone that I’d had tests, and had failed them, that I needed to redraft my will. Would he be my executor? And no, I wasn’t sure how sick, I wouldn’t know for a few months, and no, I wasn’t planning on dying anytime soon, but as is, my ex-fiance from before my ex-husband would inherit everything, including an old set of vinyl I gave up in my 30s, and a poster collection I left in storage fourteen moves ago. And maybe my youngest daughter, God help him. “Don’t tell Mum or Dad.” “I won’t. But you should.” “I will.” “It’ll be worse if you don’t.” “I know.” “So, when?” “When there’s something to tell, T; I don’t want to worry them.” “I’m going to kill him.” “Kill who?” “T. I told him not to worry you.” “About what?”

Dammit! This is my mother. She always does this.

“T didn’t say anything?” “I haven’t talked to your brother in weeks.” Of course she hasn’t. “So, spill it. What’s wrong?”

Trapped, I tell her. Struggling to keep my shit together, I pace, voice wavering, confused dog at my heels, getting underfoot. I tell her all about it, and how I need her not to worry. And of course, I’m terrified, and she’s not an idiot. Hearing my mother’s voice, I fall to fucking pieces, and she takes over. As she rationalizes about cysts and lumps and all this progress that’s been made in the field of breast cancer research, I bite hard into my knuckles to stifle violent, body-wracking sobs.

“This is ridiculous. You need to be here,” she says. “You need to take a break, and be here.”

I have no one else. This bothers her. My best friends are all colleagues. I doubt I register in the top 20 of any of their friends lists, but this is of no concern to any of us. I love them anyway. To keep things simple, I call them my “best-friend/colleagues.” The slash here acts as a kind of connective tissue; it connects the two concepts for me, while creating a safe barrier for them - like a tissue blocking snot. With it, they can keep calling me “colleague” while I call them “best friends,” and we each know who we’re talking about in the relative safety of our social-slash-work environment.

I can shoot the shit with the best of them (which is all of them) about anything, but this. I can’t tell any of them about this.

One of my best-friend/colleagues lost his wife two years ago, and cannot escape the vortex of grief. I worry for him every day, especially on the anniversary of her passing, which he marks monthly. I did the same when I lost my first true love at 20, followed weeks later by our premature stillborn baby. Twenty-six years on, I still feel that ache, so I think maybe I almost understand. He gets so sad so easily, and I’m honoured he trusts us so openly with his pain, but it’s also worrisome. Sometimes I wonder how he grieves at home, and it’s an unbearable thought. If this best friend found out his colleague was sick with the same thing that robbed him of his wife, I think he might be triggered. I suspect he’d need to insulate, and isolate, and so keep his distance, and that’s also unbearable to imagine.

Also, the one time I offered to do something with him socially - I think it was to see a film - he delicately suggested I look into dating apps. So no, I will not be telling him.

My absolute best-best-friend/colleague doesn’t exactly know he’s my best-best friend, but I don’t mind. He’s always appreciated my weird sense of humour, and doesn’t seem bothered when we happen to be scheduled to work on the same days. When we get the chance, we talk, a lot - well, I do, and he responds - but there’s an awful lot I don’t tell him. Like how he’s the only non-relative I’m leaving anything to in my redrafted will. Or how much I look forward to seeing him each week, and that when I don’t, it occurs to me to miss him. But because I’m still not convinced he hasn’t added me to his Restricted list on Facebook, I worry that if he did know either of these things, he’d shut me down completely, and without saying a word. Like, colleague/friendly ghost me. Or recommend I check out dating apps, too.

So no damn way am I telling him about my boob.

My female best-friend/colleagues are all my age or slightly older, and each of us is going through our own shit right now. I could tell them, I guess, but I don’t. You see, this mid-life gynoshittery is a contest none of us wants to participate in, let alone win. Don’t get me wrong, menopause and endometriosis and the national average pay gap are all over the staff room table when it’s all women present, but not breasts.

If you knew less about me, perhaps you’d suggest I should have more friends, like maybe outside work.

I’ve tried.

I used to ref roller derby. So long as you’re concussion-and-fracture free, a tighter community is hard to find. Before that, I was in the army. Those relationships ended not much differently than derby’s did, if far more violently.

In the intervening years, I had a husband. He didn’t approve of many of my friends, unless they were our friends - by which I mean, his friends - due to his belief that regardless of the age, marital status or gender of any of my own, I had to be sleeping with them. So, to save us all the embarrassment of his persistent public confrontations on the matter, I opted out of having any friends. For twenty years.

So anyway, yeah - my colleague/friends really are all I have.

There is no one else.

Mum’s text reads, “You’br stil craming out, right?” I’ve been thinking about it, for sure, and I miss her, but I’m not sure I can justify it. I have a massive application deadline for the end of the month. Plus, these next two weeks off aren’t exactly voluntary. I’m not getting paid, and money’s tighter than it’s been in a couple of years. And she’s in bloody Saskatchewan.

“There’r b rst beef anf Yorkshire pddinh.”

Okay, just to be clear, no one makes gluten free Yorkshire pudding quite like my stepfather does. Think bannock in a gravy bowl. And I can tell, this last push is from him.

“Oh, well, okay then - I’ll be there Wednesday,” I joke back, still not committed. It’s Sunday morning. “Ok, we br reedy.”

My mother is a PhD. She taught upper-level anthropology courses for twenty years. So she takes proofreading very, very seriously, even with texts. But since her house almost completely burned down this past March, I’ve noticed she’s been letting things slide. And I mean, a lot.

I turn to my youngest, who’s bitched all summer about us not camping, not really taking a holiday, no promised one-on-one time without siblings and bickering.

“Wanna go see Nan?” “What-? When?” “If we pack now, we can leave first thing. Camp a couple of nights on the way, and get there for Wednesday.”

It’s fire season - the worst one yet - and I’m still not feeling well, so I clarify that by “camp,” I mean “sleep in the van and eat take out along the way.” My daughter’s kind of camping, but this isn’t exactly fair notice.

“There’ll be Yorkshire pudding.”

Enough said. We start packing in the late afternoon, and I’m in the middle of drawing up a list of documents I’ll need to pull out of my ass the second I get back to hit that deadline, plus a list of groceries to cut costs for meals for the trip, when I stop suddenly, hit by a strange wave of anxiety. I look at my daughter.

“Hey. Wanna leave tonight?”

Now I’m freaking myself out. My perfectly rational fear of animals darting out onto highways after dark means I have never, ever left for a multi-day drive any later than noon on the first day. So I don’t understand it. But I don’t want to argue with it. I need to leave now, and for once, my daughter shares my sense of urgency.

We’re on the road within the hour, listing off all the shit we’ll need to grab along the way, calling the bank to add up the balances - we seriously can’t afford this right now, it’s ridiculous - realizing this is a mistake, and knowing, somehow, that it’s not.

By the time we hit Merritt, the sun’s down. We pit stop at a gas station in Kamloops, and run into a motorcyclist who’s run into a deer. I text my best-best friend to tell him. His ex rides a bike, and sideswiped a moose last week - only she wasn’t on her bike at the time, but in a compact car that is now slightly more compact, but thankfully not bent in half like this biker was, or his bike.

As soon as I hit Send, I wonder vaguely if my random texts outside work might annoy my bbf/c, and vow to not bother him anymore.

Pulling into Salmon Arm, we see the aftermath of another fresh kill. Whatever it is is large and hairy, and splayed out in the road in many more pieces than nature intended. It’s 11 PM, and I decide to stop for the night at nearby Yard Creek. The kid and I look up through the cracked windscreen at stars we haven’t seen since last year, and zzzzfoooph, spot a meteor. Briefly entertained, we crawl into the back of the motorized tent, and are asleep within moments.

I wake at 6:30 to the lilt of morning birdsong, and a familiar dull throbbing pain deep in my left breast.

The kid wants to sleep in, but I’m getting restless, so fire up the old Dutch oven. She chases me all the way from the van to the outhouse. Now both wide awake, we pee, brush our teeth, and go.

We stop for breakfast at Denny’s in Revelstoke, almost too tired to care about cross-contamination. My daughter orders her usual, and our waitress - trying to be helpful - recommends something from the 55+ menu for me.

Do I really look so much older than I feel?

My daughter assures me the waitress is just saving us money. Build-your-own breakfasts add up fast, and this way, it’s half the price. Fine. Whatever. I pick at my stingy eggs and bacon with wheat-free toast, and call Mum to tell her where we are.

“What’s your ETA, then?” I have no idea. “8:30,” I say. “Will you push through, or camp again?” I just said... “Push through,” I answer. “Call me when you get to the junction at Maple Creek,” she says, “so Grrpa can put the pizza on.”

Grrpa is my stepdad.

We’re on the road again by 7:45, but it feels later. Golden, Banff, Calgary for a pee break and to gas up. Naturally, there’s a BC fruit stand in the parking lot. “Text Nan and tell her 7:30.” Brooks, Medicine Hat, the last exit to Drumheller, the needle locked on 130 all the way. I’ve been highway driving for almost ever, and rarely exceed 120. “Text Nan and tell her 6:30.” We enter Saskatchewan, and I realize that even with the time change, we’ll be there by 5:30 at the latest.

Mum waits until the exact moment we blast through the Maple Creek junction to pull her next magic trick.

“Text Nan and tell her -” The phone rings.

“Where are you now?” “Jesus, Mother, are you fucking psychic?”

It’s complete rhetoric. I expect her to say, “Well, we did just put the pizza on,” or “So, while you’re in Maple Creek,” or “Welcome to Saskatchewan; what’d you do, FLY?”

Except - “… What?”

She doesn’t get it.

“Where are you?”

My daughter and I share a look. Something’s wrong.

“We’re blas - just driving past Maple Creek now. We’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll tell Denis. We’re having pizza. Is that okay?” Denis is my stepdad, but I don’t call him that. I’ve never called him that. He’s Grrpa, even to me.

“Okay.”

Something’s really wrong.

“See you soon.” She hangs up, and my daughter and I don’t say a word as I edge over 140. I can’t say what it is, but it’s urgent, and horrid and heavy and late. For what, I don’t know. But it’s all I can think. We’re late, we’re so late. We’re too late.

We’re too late.

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