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phantomrose96 · 2 years ago

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Savit-e

My host mother is a woman with long twirling hair and more floral-patterned sundresses than I’ve seen in my entire life. She throws open the closet each morning to flick each dress along its hanging rail, sharp squeaks. “What can I even wear?” The dresses sway like summer willows. I sneak in behind her and grab a t-shirt and jeans from my tiny pile at the bottom.

She loves earrings that swing and she loves stain-glass windchimes which clink and muse while she pours me the bitterest cup of tea I’ve ever had in my life. I fill it with sugar and she chides me. I remind her of all the spicy dishes I make that she cannot eat, and she says, “Okay, I’ll let it go this one time.” She sips her tea black. The birds titter at her joke. We’ll have the same conversation tomorrow.

My host mother is Jira and I wonder how closely we might be related every time I catch that glimmer in her eyes like my mothers’. Jira is too tall to be my mother and her hair is not quite dark enough, but I like to believe I see it. I like to believe Jira’s country and mine are related, that maybe her great-great-grandparents and mine were friends before the records were scorched and the lines were redrawn. Or maybe our countries bore no relation to each other. Maybe they were friends anyway. Maybe they were enemies. I’ve heard every opinion.

Jira has a worry-face like my mother, but she uses it for different things, like plum prices at the market and rain clouds blundering through like clumsy creatures. It used to surprise me, since my mother reserved her worry-face for only the dourest things in her mind. I saw more and more of it from my mother before I left. “Baby maybe you should spend the summer home. Maybe you can get your money back.” She said she’d been reading things in the news. I told her not to worry. I would be safe in my travels. I feel stares pressing into my back while Jira leans over the plums. I notice Jira receives the stares too.

She hums a tune and busies herself in the kitchen in a dress I’ve never seen. She’s been in a great mood since her daughter came home this morning. I didn’t get a good look at her daughter at first because Jira swallowed her right up in her arms. But I got to see her better when I helped bring her bags in. Savine is lithe, baby-faced and a head shorter than Jira, and her eyes carry the same arch and slope as Jira’s. She has the same dimples and she moves in the same way, tilted forward, as if to let gravity do the work of carrying her momentum.

Savine is napping from her trip, and Jira seems to have forgotten all the slow and patient syllables she usually saves for me. She speaks in her rapid pace and I jog to keep up. Too many words slip through my grasp. One in particular I hear too many times. Savit-e.

“Savit-e?” I ask.

Jira puckers her lips as if to think. Her eyes rove. Footsteps tap gently closer behind me, and Jira’s eyes light up as she looks past me.

“Savit-e!” she says, motioning forward as Savine rounds the counter and pulls her mom into another hug. Savine is only 10. She’s been away almost 6 months for school, according to Jira.

A nickname, I note. Savine wears earrings like windchimes as well.

…

Jira has offered to charge me no rent if I babysit Savine for the summer and cook dinner in the evenings. Savine’s summer classes are early and short, as are mine, so I pick Savine up every day at noon. “This is Reb. She’s my mom’s friend this summer,” Savine tells her school friends. I gather that Jira does something similar every year, taking in an au pair while she works the summer.

There is a park Savine likes in particular, with the tall slides and the cold water fountains and all her friends. It takes me a few days to realize her friends are new to even her. Any child at the park becomes her friend by nature of needing two to play the teeter-totter. I meet parents and I practice my clumsy language with them. They don’t stare strangely at me like the man in the plum aisle.

Three times over the summer, I hear a parent at the park ask me. “Who is Savit-e?” I point to Savine every time. I don’t think too much about it, because they always like the answer, nodding along. Savine’s friends do not use the nickname, but I experiment with it here and there. Savine lights up when I do. “Savit-e,” I call to her from the school lawn, and she squeals and bounds forward to wrap me in the kind of hug she gives her mother.

I pick up a copy of the newspaper from the corner store every day on my way to pick up Savine, and I read what I can of it at the park. The newspaper is not a person, and it does not stilt its vocabulary to be simple and clear the way people do when they notice me struggling with the tongue, so oftentimes I gather just the concepts from articles. It is my fourth week of doing this when one article stops me. I see the spelling of what Jira says out loud so often.

Savit-e.

The article is hard, but I recognize the word for murder, and the words for three men. Three men murdered, and Savit-e. I would ask Savine, but I’m afraid the article may be something upsetting.

I ask Jira that night, after Savine has gone to bed.

“A man killed three others,” Jira says, brow slightly scrunched as she skims the paper and distills its contents to simpler words I know. Her eye creases are deep by the evening lamplight. “He is not charged with a crime, because he was protecting his Savit-e.”

This sinks in slowly, and a red flush of embarrassment makes itself known on my cheeks.

“Savit-e… as in ‘daughter’?”

I use my own word for it, since I don’t know Jira’s word for daughter. Or at least, I did not know, until now.

Jira’s brow scrunch tightens, which she does whenever I’ve used one of my words she doesn’t know.

“Like Savine is to you. Savine is your daughter.”

At this, Jira nods slowly, then more quickly as she lets the meaning sink in. “Yes… Savine is my Savit-e… my daughter.”

I thank Jira for the explanation. I lie awake that night thinking too much about the parents at the park who think Savine is my Savit-e.

…

I start to dislike the newspaper. I’m not sure if it’s the summer heat sewing aggravation, or some deeper unrest, or maybe my own growing vocabulary, but more and more I notice articles that leave me unsettled. I read about the arrest of a man who looks like the man in the plum aisle. Maybe there’s no resemblance at all. Maybe any man with those piercing eyes in a mug shot feels like the man in the plum aisle. There are still many words I don’t know, but country and nation come up often. And Savit-e. More articles of someone acting in protection of their Savit-e.

My mother isn’t here to protect me. I walk more cautiously when I’m alone at night, as a woman, as a Savit-e with no parents here to protect me.

I’m in the kitchen with a knife shunking through the angled cuts of scallion. The pot for the noodles is boiling and I’ve halved the spices as I do every night for Jira and Savine. I don’t even hear the front door kick open.

I do hear Savine scream.

My heart is in my throat and my blood is cold, and I move, because in the moment I have forgotten I am a Savit-e far away from home. All that matters is Savine’s scream.

And my sockless feet are light as I snake through the dining room and round the corner to the living room, entering from the same door as the two men who now stand there, backs to me, both eagerly teasing the handles of a gun. One has Savine in a chokehold, and the men stare at Jira, pressed flat against the wall. I realize Jira does have a worry-face she reserves for the truly awful things.

And the men with their backs to me are plum-men, in ways I understand without knowing what fast and clipped words they’re shouting at Jira. The one holding Savine presses the barrel of his gun against her ear, and the windchime titter of her earrings is drowned under her scream of fear. The plum man barks a demand at Jira, and she watches with moon-plate eyes.

He barks it again.

Jira raises a trembling hand. And her digits curl, and her palm pulls inward, and her earrings clink with the slow stuttering shake of her head. She points her index finger firmly against her own heart, and she declares ‘Savit-e’.

Jira runs out through the second living room door.

“Mooooom! Savit-e!!” Savine screams, and her words choke, and she wriggles under the hold of the man. And suddenly sense returns to my body at the sound of Savine’s screams.

I am still holding the scallion knife.

I don’t remember what I do next, but the knife does.

…

There is a drawl of radio static that seems to dominate my ears. The sirens and flashing lights are background noise to me now. They’ve taken Savine away with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. They’ve assured me I’ll be able to see her, but later, once she’s been looked at, once she’s calmed down, once I’ve been spoken to.

“You are not in trouble,” the detective tells me in my own tongue with a slight accent rounding her words. She’s the only one who speaks my language. They called her in when it became clear I didn’t know enough of theirs to give a report. “You were protecting your Savit-e.”

I flinch, a little bit, somehow still capable of embarrassment with a mind that’s gone completely numb. “Savine isn’t my Savit-e.”

The woman detective frowns. I remember we’re in my own tongue.

“I mean, she’s not my daughter. She’s Jira’s daughter. She’s Jira’s Savit-e.”

The woman’s frown lessens some. “Your daughter, no. Your Savit-e, yes.”

I hold my hands near my face. They still smell of garlic and scallions. “The pot’s gonna boil over. I have to go turn off the stove,” I say, urgently, and unhelpfully, as the thought suddenly strikes and I push myself standing.

The woman’s hand is on my shoulder, and she presses me down. “The pot is not boil. The stove is off. It is okay. Who is Savit-e?”

And the question sits weird. I realize she asks it like those parents at the park.

I don’t answer. The detective chews her lip, and I see her eyes searching for a word she can’t find. “Who is your… The Most? Who is your The Above? Who is your The Most of All?”

“My most what?”

“Who is your Protect Over Everything?”

And from her face I can tell she is frustrated with her own words. There is more she is saying that I cannot know in my own language.

Protect Over Everything. I think about the scream that pulled me from the kitchen.

“I think… Savine… is my Protect Over Everything.”

And this satisfies the woman. And she nods the way the parents at the park do. “You are not in trouble. You always protect Savit-e. You must always. There is no trouble for what you did. Good job, that you protect your Savit-e. You will have her back soon.”

I go stiff.

“Jira needs her back, not me. I go home in a few weeks. I only started—” I falter. “Savine is Jira’s Savit-e.”

The detective shakes her head. “Jira is Jira’s Savit-e. Jira does not come back.”

…

I postpone my flight home. I tell my mother it’s because my studies are going long. I’ll tell her more, later, when I’m ready.

I pick up Savine every day from school as always. She doesn’t smile, and she pulls me into a hug that is too tight and lasts too long. She doesn’t want to go to the park. She comes grocery shopping with me, because it’s better than being left home alone. I look over my shoulder whenever I grab the plums.

I cook dinner and I eat with Savine, and we do this at the counter because when I sit us at the kitchen table, Savine looks too long at Jira’s empty place. I tried calling Jira once, after Savine went to bed. Her phone rang from the next room. I watched it ring until it cut to voicemail.

There’s an article about me in the paper. I can’t read most of it. Or maybe I just don’t try to. I see Jira’s name. I see the plum man words. I see Savit-e written 14 times.

I don’t know what happens to Savine if I leave. I’ve tried asking and I get too many words I do not know, and no one who can explain them better to me. But their expressions stay with me. Like the looks of plum-men and worry-faces and now this new look, which is rooted in something deeper about a country which I know too little about. It’s a sad look. It’s something I can maybe understand without the words attached. I tell my mom I might like to extend my study through the fall.

Savine has started calling me “Savit-e.”

#writing #original writing #i had a thought and it became a thing

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kremlin · 6 months ago

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I do computer work but it's not very hard and kind of boring. How do I get to do hard computer work? Do I have to go to grad school?

hi i tend to miss these because of slipshod ublock custom filters im too birdbrained to fix.

i worked for a large american technology company which sold business machines internationally for close to a decade until laid off in successful accounting fraud scheme a few years ago. started as developer, erm, pardon me, i started as

junior developer

which is a role similar to routinely-executed court jester and human meatwave conscript meant to soak up enemy bullets to cause exhaustion of enemy bullet supply and finally guy that comes in big gross truck with a pump and a tank and a big hose used to suck the shit+piss out of portable toilet/malfunctioning sewer etc. this is for when you are 20 years old or so and they hit you with this work to calm your ass down a bit. my case was cloud bullshit on ancient rickety php stack. 5% keystrokes/clicks are php, 95% remainder is jira and other members of the axis of evil. LOT of dick sucking and butt fucking. Going into men's bathroom and making eye contact with cubicle neighbor before entering stall and fearlessly making disgusting noises. microwaving fish lunch thrice daily. you get the idea. meager paycheck but six figures takehome technically

next is staff dev, wait, god damn fucking tumblr, you can't adjust fonts mid-paragraph, and Big Text is just another type of font, in case you wanted Big Specific font. fucking fuck hold on. next step is

staff developer

no effective change besides greatly increased workload (click those motherfucking jira buttons!! suffer coworker's asinine bad-faith code review comments that HE AND HE ALONE must manually accept your responses to, on HIS time, before you are allowed to click the jira buttons that start the human meat sausage factory to get your 20 line maximum change into an RC and then release and then push candidate and then prod push!! pay raise one thousand dollars annually (lol). Emails. Now you deal with project manager too. speculate as to what sorts of grievous head injuries that man must suffer daily to describe his logic. his job is like the guy from office space that brings documents from one desk to another but he randomly reorders the words on the page in-flight. make plausibly-deniable wife fucking jokes about his wife in earshot. you're almost at the top of the suffering function. next is, no fucking cute font this time, senior developer, sounds cool right, lol, lmao, "senior" "developer" is like "tallest" "midgit".

no pay increase no workload increase but now manager emails you about extremely, extremely personal issues he's facing and also makes his most difficult problems from his boss your problems. one week will pass and then they will hit you with the "we're considering you for a team lead position". answer:

answer no as this is the prescribed path, you take that role, you are maxxed out in workload, you are dealing with forty employee's worth of bullshit, another one thousand dollarinos a year raise, employer has solved efficiency problem with your sanity and burnout as variables. you're supposed to quit or kill yourself within seconds of hitting 30 y/o. don't fall for tricks. say "NO" in a creative way such as "i have tabulated some data and made it into excel pie chart quantifying diff. departments work output and am considering sending it to whoever Dave is, the guy that is one or two or three report levels over your boss' head, you know, his boss' boss' boss or whatever. or say "you are harassing me sexually, racistly" that kind of shit. make threat clearly.

was worth mentioning before, throughout all of this make as many friends and as much of a splash for yourself as possible as its time to trade on that goodwill, tell your boss you want an open relationship and you're going to fuck and suck other managers, and then find the good one with the good team of old fucking geriatric guys who could never be fooled into working more than a reasonable amount daily and also can kill people with their minds since they have been sitting on the bleeding edge of computing since 1969. their boss will usually be, suspiciously, one report rank higher than everyone else. e.g. their boss has a whole other boss + his reports under him. usually small team. go to their boss, say, hi, look at me, look at my beautiful plumage and captivating mating dance, please hire me, pleassseee. his team will say no, they will say things like "I don't know about that kiddo", "That guy seems like a candy-ass", they will read your papers and look at you in the eyes and say it is not compelling, the boss will kind of hire you anyway. if he doesn't you're fucked. if he does you're now a

STAFF ENGINEER

for fifteen minutes and then

ADVISORY/SENIOR/SPECIAL ENGINEER

and the suffering is over. no code minimal jira + squad of gremlin zerglings under your boss whom you can rank-pull and delegate bullshit to, they will be mostly suckers, take advantage of this. 80% of keystrokes/clicks will be in production of beautiful wonderful lovely .docx and .xlsx's, what a godsend, only in an emergency are you allowed to fuck with your zergling's code, usually in a cool way with bullshit procedure removed.

i worked on high performance computing shit. "what the fuck do you mean 2PB or so in and out a day on flash memory", "what the fuck do you mean special infiniband intel MPI library on CD-R stored in Craig's filing cabinet???". Meetings with company people: webcams off, responses optional, snideness allowed. Meetings with client: you must have your dress shirt starched and white glove the shit out of those motherfuckers. timezones = skill issue. i don't care where germany is, i don't give a shit, wake up at 3am for a 20m meeting i take on the toilet or while eating a boiled lobster complete with cracker + lobster bib. customers countable on one hand, invoices to customers not countable with 32 bits. no fucking mistakes ever allowed except for like whitepaper drafts, you cannot fuck the pumpkin on this one, your actual job relies on your ability to hit a button and suck down a week's worth of compute and millions of dollars, boiling swimming pool's worth of TDP, one mistake that leads result data to being able to be characterized as flawed and your balls are getting ripped off. Quarterly IRL meetings = normiepilled normiemaxxing. Dress sharp. leave at 5pm on the dot, go to bar with Old Fucker coworkers, drink wrecklessly with them, have a blast, let them give you a tour of a lab you are absolutely 100% not allowed to be inside, buildings that have posted weight limits per sq. ft. exceeding 250lbs, such a blast. every paycheck a FORTUNE every dinner a banquet every meeting an email every keystroke life or death. you get to meet /lib/doug mofos too one of whom i wrote a very poor kind of poem thing about. thats about it. hope this helps

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wisteriagoesvroom · 5 months ago

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*gently pokes you with a stick til you write this*

Is there a plot, or just vibes... like what is going on in this universe... okay... *rolls sleeves up* lemme try to headcanon it a little:

Oscar is a rising star in product engineering, and was hired based on a prototype he was developing in his Imperial College dorm room. Barely settled into his new office gig, he is told to present a demo of said product on the mainstage of his tech company employer's next big conference, where they announce their latest product rollouts for the year.

Oscar really hates public speaking, and has never been very good at it. Enter Lando - deputy head of marketing and charmboy extraordinnaire - who is assigned to get him up to scratch.

Other universe details that probably only I care about: Adam Norris is the new CFO who brings his son into the picture. There are definitely two overworked interns on both their teams who have to manage all their weird quirks and Lando's idiosyncratic JIRA board hygiene. Surely there must be an ugly conference t-shirt. No wait– Oscar sleeps with Lando at the conference rehearsal, but the first time is kinda unexpected, and also Oscar spilled red wine on himself the previous night which necessitated him going up to Lando's hotel room for Plot Convenient Reasons (sex). Morning after, Oscar has to borrow one of Lando's t shirts and it ends up being a neon prototype that was manufactured as an error. And Oscar's like "you cannot expect me to walk out like this", and it's like. "Well either that or you walk around the city shirtless sorry mate." (Oscar takes the L, but he really hates green highlighters from that point on and nobody really knows why. Lando thinks it's hilarious and buys him copious amounts of hot chocolate to make up for it even though it was never his fault. He just likes buying hot chocolate for Oscar.)

There is also definitely an icebreaking joint activity that they both do, like indoor rock climbing, in order to get to know each other. Except Lando is like, spectacularly good at it, and Oscar (a) lies about his competency in rock climbing (b) is deathly afraid of heights. But Oscar refuses to be a wimp so doesn't say a single thing until he reaches the top of a really challenging wall and Lando is like: woah you did so amazing! Now let go and come down! and Oscar is like: I can't! Lando: wdym?? Oscar: I hate heights. Like "my sisters used to lure me to the roof with a ladder and then take the ladder away", hate heights. Lando: BRO.....your PRIDE.... (but he's also secretly going insane because Oscar clearly just wanted an excuse to spend the morning with him.)

Their first kiss is after Lando belays Oscar safely to the ground, obviously. Adrenalin, and stuff.

#landoscar #in a tech bro au #don't ask me how i came up with this #wiz.HCs #it just fell out of me #you think my ideas fall out of a coconut tree??#well i exist in the context of all the yaoi in which i live and all the yaoi which came before me !!#<- if you understand this reference you definitely qualify as a member of Chronically Online Anonymous #bless y’all too there were at least a dozen typos in here when I posted it and probably a dozen more #and y’all rolled with it anyway

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catfang12 · 2 months ago

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Today was a good day🩵 It was Jira's first day on the job with me I think she enjoyed herself! It was gloomy today it wasn't too hot which was nice! 💙 I got her a collar today!

#plush #sfw agere #plushies #plushie #plush collection #plush collector #plushcore #plushblr #steiff #tiger plush #jellycat #jellycat dragon

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usuratongaychi · 5 months ago

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fun thing about jiraiya and oro's relationship oro is like, always trying to kill people thats his first thought

when he met yahiko and the other kids his first thought was to kill them

either to put the out of their misery or to get them out of their way

jiraiya volunteered to stay back, with kids he knew probably wouldn't make it to adulthood to train them and give them a proper adult figure in their life

then he left

the compassionate thing would be to never involve himself with them

because he could never stay and raise them but he did it anyways jiraiya gets hurt and orochimaru immediately volunteers to kill him put him out of his misery

maybe thats what he wished happened to him that when his parents died, that he was killed too; now hes stuck, he doesn't want to die ever, so he has to race time to find a way to extend his life, through uchiha bodies, horrific experiments, grooming children for his selfish goal of everlasting life, because no one put him out of his misery.

while jiraiya's main goal was to love tsunade, with no regard to whether she returned his love, romantically or physically

she was hurt and he felt the duty to make sure she was always loved

he never let her make the choice to betray the village, to completely fall off the deep end orochimaru and jiraiya's dynamic is a "is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all"

jiraiya is hedonistic and short sighted, orochimaru makes every choice with the goal of extending his life and cheating death. orochimaru honestly could have killed tsunade after dan and nawaki died, saved her the decades of suffering

or loved and supprted her as jira did, even though her life would never be the same, because good things would still happen. she would meet naruto, train sakura, love and lose again.

(jiraoro) they are the quote "is it better to have loved and have lost than to have never loved at all" because if jiraiya never stayed with the ame orphans, they wouldn't have lived to kill him.

that is the thing that directly led to his downfall; love and compassion

so in conclusion, maybe its ok to die if it means you had good times and gave love to those who needed it

because i dont think if jiraiya knew, he would have made a different choice

im gonna add this vid here bc i think it’s important in context

youtube

#naruto #jiraoro #jiraiya x orochimaru #orojira #jiraiya #jiraiya sensei #orochimaru #Youtube

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moonlightblueandicegrey · 10 months ago

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Jay and Ronin headcanons and personal opinions because of my last post:

Why they could have been good friends:

• Ronin is a thief - Jay is a little bit of a pirate (Jay could have been a great pirate, you can't change my mind).

• Ronin doesn't think that stealing is a bad thing because he is a thief. I believe that Jay thinks the same way:

When the ninja wanted to take the airjitzu papyrus from Ronin's shop in Stiix and Jay became a leader, his first thought was to steal the papyrus. He also tried to make stealing sound like a nice/positive thing in that situation by saying things like: "we are stealing from a thief", "we are stealing something someone stole so we can give it back to the original owner (after using it)".

Stealing is still bad no matter the final result but neither Ronin nor Jay think that way.

Also, Jay had no problem stealing those ninja chips in skybound. He was hungry, yes, but he was still going to steal.

• Both Ronin and Jay value money a lot:

I don't know Ronin's back story so i don't know why he values money so much but he definitely does for some reason. You can see it in many of his lines and through his actions.

Jay on the other hand wanted so much to be rich in skybound. He thought money could impress the girl he loved. He was also sad and embarrassed in general about the fact that he was poor.

• They are both betraying others:

Ronin betrayed the ninja lots of times and Jay did too in Skybound

• They both use fake personalities to get what they want/they are manipulative:

Ronin manipulated the ninja in possession and skybound by acting like a nice guy to get what he wanted and reach his goals.

Jay also uses a fake personality. His 24/7 smile is fake to me. He might use it, to cheer his friends and himself up, to hide his true emotions and feelings, to hide his real and honest thoughts, to keep enemies guessing, to look innocent, weak and even stupid while in reality he isn't and probably, to seem like he doesn't care about anything or anyone (like he doesn't need help). No matter what, he still manipulates others to think he is someone else and hides his actual personality. I can see Jay wearing an invisible mask, that thing being stuck on his face, he got so used to it that now he doesn't even know who he actually is anymore.

• They are both liars:

Ronin lies a lot to everyone in order to reach his goals. I remember that time in Seabound when he made the wooden Wo-Jira.

Jay also lies, during skybound especially, but i think he also lied to the other ninja about his home (he didn't want to say that he lived in a junkyard) and about the skybound events after his last wish. I don't believe he told them the truth about Nadakhan right away. Also, he lied to Nya about the Fangpyre's bite and how he almost became a serpentine on their first date.

• Both Jay and Ronin were probably born poor (I'm talking about Ed and Edna) and abandoned by their parents (Cliff and Libber). I think Ronin was also abandoned by his parents when he was a baby.

............................................................................

So, yeah... in conclusion, i believe that Jay and Ronin could have been good friends if things were different for them and if they had met each other differently.

(Jay is so relatable to me, I'm kinda worried now)

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jirachuuu · 6 months ago

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📻

From my Sara and Ivys playlist🥰💕

#ask #ask meme #jira stop blabbering #i think out of all my ocs sara and ivys playlist is one i listen to the most....#i just have a lot of good songs on there...very much yearning vibes

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 1 year ago

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Year One

Part Two of Three Years

Proposal | Masterlist | Year Two

Pairing: Nathan Bateman x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only.

Length: 3.3K

Notes: ....Hi! It's part two: Nathan Bateman boogaloo

Warnings: Cursing; angst; enemies to enemies who fuck; tech-talk; angst (I know I said it before but really); Nathan being Nathan

Summary: You settle down in one of your usual places, connecting your laptop to the monitor there and settling in. There’s a low level of nerves churning in your stomach as you get started. As you open up your calendar, you find it packed with meetings—for Q4 budgets for both Marketing and IT; for budget allocations for the following year; for marketing strategy for the following year; for a proposed overhaul of JIRA ticket rankings and escalation practices; to find a content management system to transition all of your learning and training content over to—

You slam your laptop shut, embarrassedly ignoring the looks that a few coworkers level you. You draw in a deep breath and push it out again as you rest your head in your hands. This is going to be hell.

You have an office.

Whenever you’ve worked at Sc(ai)le before, you’ve worked among the engineers. The workspace has an open desk policy, so you’ve just taken any open seat you could find. But now you have…An office.

It’s nearly the same size as Jenn’s, with fishtank-like glass walls and a large desk near the back windows. You look around, eyeing the empty desk and the empty shelves. It’s too much space. It’s too much money, it’s too much space, it’s too much mandated time—

You suck in a deep breath, tightening your grip on your bag strap.

Maybe you can ease into this.

You shut your office door, pointedly ignoring where your name and titles are etched into it before heading for one of the work areas further down the hall.

Communication that you would be joining full-time as part of the C-suite had gone out both internally and externally two weeks ago. You haven’t been allowed the typical onboarding period that another in your situation may be permitted. You’ve had one foot in the company for a long time. You don’t need to be brought up to speed. You need to start patching the holes and righting the ship.

You settle down in one of your usual places, connecting your laptop to the monitor there and settling in. There’s a low level of nerves churning in your stomach as you get started. As you open up your calendar, you find it packed with meetings—for Q4 budgets for both Marketing and IT; for budget allocations for the following year; for marketing strategy for the following year; for a proposed overhaul of JIRA ticket rankings and escalation practices; to find a content management system to transition all of your learning and training content over to—

Three years? Right now, you’re not sure you’ll even make it one day.

“Hey! I need you in here,” Jenn waves you toward her from across the hall. You curl your hands around your laptop and nod, glancing around to make sure you’re not cutting anyone off as you join her. It's been almost a full week of being asked to hop on to a call or tugged into meetings that hadn't made their way onto your calendar yet.

“What’s up?”

“Call with Nathan.”

You clench your jaw at the sound of his name. Nathan. Since when is he ‘Nathan’? Why isn’t he ‘Bateman’ or ‘That Asshole Who Coerced You Into a Job’?

“You good?” Jenn asks as she rounds her desk. “How’s your day been? Sorry I didn’t put this on your calendar sooner, it just came up—Hey!” She reaches out, unmuting her phone without waiting for any of your answers. “You’ve got both of us!”

“Hey hey,” Nathan’s voice comes across the phone. “How’s the newest member of the C-Suite?”

Losing my mind, you think.

“I’m great,” You answer as nicely as you can. “What’s up?”

“...I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Comes Bateman’s smart reply. You set your laptop down in a seat and brace your hands against the back of it, glaring down at the phone. Glancing over, you see Jenn waving you toward the phone encouragingly.

“Glad to hear it,” You offer before reiterating, “What’s up?”

“You guys been taking the media temperature on the C-Suite announcement?”

“It’s been mixed,” You answer. “Tipping toward the negative.”

“So you have seen it.”

“I’m CMO now, Bateman. It pays to pay attention.” It’s a fight to keep the irritation out of your voice. You can feel Jenn glancing between you and the phone. It’s another moment before Bateman speaks up:

“I think you ought to lay low for a few months. We’ll keep your name out of the press until the joint summit in September.”

“That sounds reasonable.” You mean it, too. You’re more than happy to just do your job and fly under the radar.

“Good. I’ll loop back with my CMO about coverage as we get closer to the conference.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll give you, uh…Twenty minutes back. Thanks, ladies.”

“Thanks, Nathan!” Jenn chimes as you blandly offer, “Have a good one.”

Jenn reaches out, ending the call. You reach down to take up your laptop, going still as Jenn asks, “Are you alright?”

You glance up to find her watching you closely. You shrug, drawing your laptop up to your chest.

“Fine. Why?”

“You wanna do dinner at mine Saturday? No work talk, just a catch up?”

You smile genuinely, nodding. “Sounds good. Is it eligible to be expensed?”

Jenn’s apartment has upgraded since first opening Sc(ai)le. When she’d started the company, the two of you had shared a tiny, overpriced one bedroom apartment. She had the bedroom; you slept on a lumpy fold-out couch across from the minuscule kitchen. Looking back, the accommodation had been awful, but at the time, you’d just—managed.

You had been working freelance; Jenn had been hocking the idea of Sc(ai)le to anyone that would listen while whittling away at her trust fund. Now, you each have your own spaces. Jenn’s apartment is just a few minutes away from the office; you’re about twenty minutes from the office by car.

Jenn’s apartment is larger than yours, but is decorated so sparsely. You can’t blame her for that. It’s no wonder, considering how much time she spends at work. Her office space is cluttered—there are notes, books, mockups and proofs scattered on every surface. Your own apartment is a different matter. You've taken the time to make it feel homey, and lived in. It's a space that you're happy to return to, and do your best not to drag work into if you possibly can.

“Wine?”

Jenn’s offer knocks you from your consideration. You nod, shoving your hands in your pockets as you drift deeper into Jenn’s kitchen. You wait patiently as she unpacks the takeout that you ordered, fiddling with the wine glass that she fills and passes to you across the kitchen counter.

“How’s your first week been?”

This time, she doesn’t chase the question with two more questions before cutting you off for the sake of Nathan Bateman’s stupid voice.

“It’s been…Alright,” You offer, peering into your glass. “Somehow more and less action than I expected.”

“How so?”

“You know, just more like…Telling people what to do rather than…Doing the doing.” You wince at your clunky answer.

“Everyone has growing pains. You remember how hands-on I was when we started.”

“I mean, you kinda had to be. There were only five people.”

Jenn chuckles, nodding as the two of you settle at her kitchen island.

“Yeah, but you were one of them.” Jenn raises her glass, clinking it lightly against yours. “I know this wasn’t your first plan, but I’m glad you agreed to come on.”

You can’t bring yourself to return the sentiment, and you can’t bring yourself to lie to Jenn just now. So you just smile, and take a full gulp of wine as you turn toward your food.

“...I know we said no work talk tonight,” Jenn hedges after a moment, “But I just wanna bring up one thing.”

“Okay?”

“You don’t seem to…”

When Jenn trails off, you glance over at her. Her expression is pinched; she’s toying with an auburn curl with one hand and pushing her fork into her food with the other.

“...Jenn?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t spare my feelings.”

“Why don’t you like Nathan?”

Because he’s an asshole. Because he twisted and bent your affection and loyalty to Jenn and what she’s built to get what he wanted.

“I dunno,” You shrug, turning back to your food. “He just strikes me as a dick.”

“I mean, I get that, and he kinda was—at first. But…You get used to it.”

“You got used to it. Does it really matter if I like him?” You ask, picking at your food with your fork. “I’ve worked with plenty of people that I couldn’t stand. And I know you sure as shit have, too.”

“Yeah, but this is different. We’re working really closely with Bateman, and we’re all at the top. We need to present a united front to the company. You get that, right?”

You want to play dumb. You want to tell her, no, you don’t get it one bit, and Bateman can ram his impromptu meetings and his bullshit business terms up his pompous, freakishly round ass.

“I thought this was a no-work-chat dinner,” You grumble.

“This isn’t even, like, completely work. We don’t see Nathan that much.”

“Mmm, but we’re all at the top, right?” You remind her bitterly before shoving a forkful of food into your mouth. Jenn huffs moodily, looking down at her plate and stabbing her food. You wince as a prong of her fork scrapes roughly against the plate, emitting a screech that makes your jaw clench. You lean back on your seat a little, resting your chin on your hand. You didn't think the two of you would butt heads so soon—and not over this, of all things.

“For the sake of C-Suite harmony, I will try to be nicer to Nathan,” You offer. “But I’m formally requesting that you let me work at it without too much oversight. This whole thing has been nuts for me, J. I need time to adjust.”

Jenn’s quiet for a moment. You can hear her chew, chase it with a gulp of wine—and then her pinkie is poking into your field of vision as she says, “Deal.”

You raise your pinkie, hooking it around hers and giving it a squeeze, nodding. “Deal.”

Deal or not, you are two minutes from slapping Nathan right across the face right in front of the entire tech community.

Things have gotten better. You’ve reached a point where you don’t flinch at the sight of Bateman’s name in your inbox. You can keep a moderately cordial tone with him on the phone. But all of those things have come with blessed, much-needed physical distance.

Now, in person, you’re not sure you can manage not to slap Nathan Bateman in the middle of the joint BlueBook and Sc(ai)le summit. You just keep your gaze focused on the back wall, your hands clasped in your lap, drawing in and pushing out steady breaths. Sitting between him and Jenn has made the last hour feel interminable. You’ve only been asked a couple of questions, and you’re more than fine with that—but you would take being asked a hundred questions if it meant that you didn't have to hear Bateman's long-winded, self-aggrandizing responses.

Now and again, you can feel him looking in your direction, but it’s entirely possible that he’s looking past you to Jen. You’re not willing to meet his eyes to find out.

“Final question,” The moderator says, knocking their index cards against their thigh to straighten them out. “This partnership is almost a year old. Any regrets, from any of you?”

Your fingers flex in your lap, your expression carefully placid and flat as you wait for the answers around you.

“Not a one,” Jen answers without a thought before peering around you. “Nathan?”

Pointing the question right to him makes the attendees laugh, and you can’t help but smile a touch, yourself.

“Whoa, put on the spot,” Bateman chuckles, too. “Um…You know, I’ll be honest, I was a little rocky going into this partnership.”

Oh, you’re definitely going to slap him—

“I, uh…This is the first time I’ve thrown real funding and time into a company that isn’t BlueBook,” Nathan adds, “Into something that isn’t mine. It was a new experience, being so involved with something that I'm not in control of, but…” Bateman trails off, and you can feel his gaze directed toward you again. Surely it’s pointed at Jenn this time—though you’re still not willing to check. “The partnership is solid, the team is strong…the company’s pushing forward. No regrets here.”

It’s a relief. You have to force yourself not to sink down in your seat, to scrub your hands over your face, to groan out the, Thank fuck, that’s building up behind your lips. You glance toward the moderator as they say your name, slapping on a smile as they wait for your answer.

“Like Mr. Bateman, I was a little apprehensive going into this,” You offer, “But I think we’re all settling in, and I look forward to seeing this company and this partnership grow.”

It’s a safe answer, one that you’ve been practicing since you got the approved list of questions for the panel.

The moderator smiles, thanks you for your time, and disbands the panel to a round of applause as the three of you rise out of your seats. You’re just a couple of steps offstage before you feel Bateman’s hand land on the middle of your back. You glance down toward it, then look around to find his other hand placed on Jen’s back.

“Let’s grab a drink, decompress,” He suggests.

“Absolutely!” Jen chirps, grinning. When you don’t answer right away, you feel the two of you turning to look at you. In another situation, you might be able to decline, to say that it’s been a long day, that you promised someone that you’d catch up with them. You'd managed to get out of it once before, when Bateman had first gotten you in this position. But this is the first time you’ve been around him since you agreed to join the C-Suite—and you know you’ll catch hell from Jen later if you pass on this invite again. So you force on a placid smile, nod, and offer, “A drink sounds great.”

A drink sounds great.

That was what you had said.

A drink. One. Singular.

Any hopes you’d had of pounding back some champagne and exchanging short pleasantries with Nathan before relaxing alone in your hotel room are quickly dropping away. You're three rounds in, and you can’t bring yourself to argue as you all pile into the back of Bateman’s Benz. You give the driver a shaky, apologetic smile as Bateman yells the name of a bar at him before Jenn tugs the door shut.

You raise your hand to buckle yourself in, scrunching up against the door to shove the metal bit into the mechanism, and ignoring the way Bateman watches you with amused derision. You fumble in the dark, your fingers feeling thick with your growing buzz, but you finally manage to buckle in before slouching back against the seat and looking out of the window.

It’s a mistake. Watching Silicon Valley blur together is taking your slight tipsiness and tipping it in the direction of the spins. You close one eye and draw in a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You hone in on the music being piped through the car, and the sound of Jenn’s voice chattering on the other side of the car. It’s curious that Nathan is so silent beside you. It’s odder still that your tipsy brain is hooking into the cool scent of his cologne, and the press of his thigh against yours. Jeez, for a billionaire, you’d think he’d have a roomier backseat.

You prop your head up on your hand, hesitantly peeking both eyes open as the car rolls to a stop at a red light. You lift your head, glancing around and trying to catch sight of anywhere familiar. You recognize a spot or two. You peer around to the other side of the car, squinting at the nearest store on that side. On your way to leaning back and refocusing out of the nearest window, your gaze catches on Nathan’s.

It sends a shock through you, making your stomach flip, and nearly unseating every drink you’ve had so far. You turn to the window again, sinking down in your seat a touch as heat rushes to your face.

“C’mon!” Jenn chatters excitedly, grasping your hand and trying to pull you up out of the booth. “C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon, we’re up next!”

“Uhhh,” You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head. “Nu-uh. This one’s all you, kid. Go flag down Nathan, he’ll join you.”

“Ugh,” Jenn groans, “You’re both so boring—Oh, that’s me!”

Both?

You don’t have a chance to ask. You can’t help but smile, leaning back in the booth as Jenn scrambles toward the ramshackle stage at the front of the karaoke bar. The decor is dated, and sort of tacky. There are Halloween-themed fairy lights that look as if they’ve never been taken down; there are knickknacks all over the fucking place, with no visible theme or cohesion. The vinyl booths are a cool glitter-laden turquoise; the seats make flatulent-like sounds whenever anyone moves on them. You glance back as you see someone walking around the back of the booth before they slide in.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” You mutters, taking the drink from Nathan. You expect him to settle some ways away, but he presses as close as he did when you’d all been in the car. You clear your throat after you take a thick gulp.

“So,” You tip your head toward Nathan, eyes still set carefully on Jenn. “How do you know about this place?”

“You kidding? This was one of my favorite spots when I still lived around here.” A pause. Then, “I own it.”

“What?” You ask, finally stunned enough to turn to look at him. He shrugs nonchalantly.

“It was gonna close,” He excuses. “It’s a good time.”

You blink a couple of times before you turn toward Jenn again. The music is still starting up; the words are populating on the screen behind and in front and in her periphery. You’re not sure what to make of this information. You actually think it’s…Kinda sweet. And then Nathan leans in, adding,

“I have a thing for failing businesses with potential.”

You roll your eyes openly then, using the dimness of the room as cover and tipping your head away from him. You shift in your seat a little, subtly creating space between the two of you. You feel it again—Nathan turning to look at you.

“You gonna fuckin’ pout now?” He leans in to ask it, speaking over Jenn’s opening drunken yells of Ke$ha’s TikTok.

“I’m not pouting.”

“You’re not smiling, either.”

“Usually don’t have a reason to when you’re around.”

It just slips out. You only just manage to stave off a wince, your fingers flexing around your drink. And Bateman, the incorrigible shithead, just chuckles.

“You don't like me very much, do you?” He asks.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” It’s a moment before Nathan leans closer again, speaking into your ear. “I know I spend a lot of time with tech, but the reason I’m so goddamn successful, why my search engine works? I know how to read people.”

“Congratulations.”

“I thought you’d do a little more sucking up, you know?” He adds, “Considering how much my contribution has done to help your company.”

“Jenn’s company.”

“DON’T STOP, MAKE IT POP, DJ TURN THE SPEAKERS UP—”

Your gaze flickers to her as she jumps up and down in time to the beat, pumping up the energy of the otherwise lethargic bar crowd. Nathan’s focus seems to shift there, too, and he nods.

“Certainly didn’t invest with her for singing ability,” He comments. You smile a little.

“No, you didn’t,” You agree, turning to look at him. “You invested because when she wants something, she throws her whole heart and fucking soul into it—”

“Alright,” Bateman waves you off. “You don’t need to sell me when I’m already signing your checks.” He turns, giving you a knowing, shit-eating grin. You turn from him, stomach churning and bubbling with alcohol and annoyance.

“...So what are we singing?” Bateman adds, nudging your arm with his. You scoff a laugh.

“We are not singing.”

“Not at all?”

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“Maybe next time.”

You smile ruefully, shaking your head.

“Probably not,” You offer, meeting his eye. “Time’s ticking, Bateman.”

You don’t have a physical calendar, so you don’t mark it outright, but when a company-wide message goes out from Jenn, congratulating and thanking you for rounding out your first year, you can’t help but grin. You’d been glib just about a month ago when you’d mentioned it to him, but time really was ticking.

One down, two to go.

Next Part: Year Two

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#Nathan Bateman x Reader #Nathan Bateman x YOu #Nathan Bateman/Reader #Nathan Bateman/You #Nathan Bateman fic #Nathan Bateman imagine #Three Years

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