#when someone just reads plain text that i have written they might get the wrong end of the stick and think im being a dick | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

volkswagonblues · 4 years

Text

a lil guide to the Fire Nation for the ATLA fic writers out there

(aka. a no means exhaustive primer on east asia by an asian person)

This is a guide for fic writers want to write a canon-era story set in the Fire Nation, or featuring Fire Nation characters. A quick little primer on the tiny details of everyday life that you might not think about, but certainly stuff that would make me, an asian person, wince if I were to encounter it. BRUSHES, not quills. CHOPSTICKS, not forks.

(note #1: this was partly inspired by a chat with @elilim)

(note: #2: I originally intended it for zukka fic writers before realizing that other writers might find it useful. so apologies for a slight Zuko-bias for that reason)

(note #3: this is all stuff i was thinking about when writing firebender’s guide, in case anyone was wondering)

1. CLOTHING

Okay, I think the most straightforward way to describe what everyone’s wearing most of the time is “tunic”. They’re all just...tunics of different colours and varieties. Later when Zuko’s the Fire Lord he wears robes. The show provides a better visual guide than I could, here are a few notes to keep in mind:

a) Japanese people wear their collars LEFT crossed over RIGHT

I don’t think this would come up in writing as much as it would in art, but it’s considered bad luck to do it the wrong way because that’s only for dead people. Let my boy Zuko demonstrate:

b) There are no buttons

This is picky, but Wikipedia says “Functional buttons with buttonholes for fastening or closing clothes appeared first in Germany in the 13th century.[6] They soon became widespread with the rise of snug-fitting garments in 13th- and 14th-century Europe.” I kinda believe it. If you look closely, characters’ clothes are always tied together or wrapped in some way with a belt. If there are fasteners, they’re braided frog closures that go into a little loop, like the qipao-style dresses women wear in Ba Sing Se, or Zuko’s casual prince’s clothes in the topmost image. Anyways, I don’t think Zuko or Azula or the Gaang would technically button or unbutton anything when they’re changing clothes. Clothing is designed to be tied, not buttoned.

[so much more under cut]

c) This isn’t a real rule, but there’s something called koromogae, or the seasonal changing of clothing in Japan.

This is something I learned when I was writing firebender’s guide, and I just liked the fun detail about there being a strict calendar for when to wear something. I liked the idea of someone like Zuko, who actually spent most of his formative years outside of the Fire Nation, coming home and just suffering mutely through the summer heat because upper class etiquette says no changing into cooler clothes until August 15.

From My Asakusa:

And this website:

Generally, people change from thick, heavy, dark-coloured clothes for winter to thin, lighter, bright-coloured clothes for spring and summer. In traditional Japanese culture, particularly in formal settings such as tea ceremony, it is important to acknowledge the changes of seasons—in such circumstances, not only the patterns and colours of the kimono that are worn but also the utensils and furniture that are used are required to change. By changing their clothing, people notice and appreciate the change of seasons. [Japan Foundation]

Here are some visual guides from the official creators for clothes: (notice how it’s pretty much always left over right)

2.FOOD AND EATING

a) Traditional cuisine

It seems like the most common foods in canon are Fire Flakes and meat, to the point where poor Aang had to eat lettuce out of the garbage at some point.

HOWEVER, the Fire Nation seems to basically a big subtropical archipelago, so I would guess that seafood and rice are common. If you want to write about characters eating, a. quick google for “traditional japanese cuisine” would help you come up with a menu really quickly.

Wikipedia says:

The traditional cuisine of Japan, washoku (和食), lit. "Japanese eating" (or kappō (ja:割烹)), is based on rice with miso soup and other dishes; there is an emphasis on seasonal ingredients. Side dishes often consist of fish, pickled vegetables, and vegetables cooked in broth. Seafood is common, often grilled, but also served raw as sashimi or in sushi.

But before we get too serious, at one point the Gaang eats a “smoked sea slug” (Sokka’s Master)

Oh ATLA, never stop being you.

b) Utensils

One thing to keep in mind is chopstick etiquette. Someone like Zuko or Toph, for instance, would have completely internalized all of these.

Another thing is that there are no glasses. Cups and bowls are made of ceramic or clay. Let the Gaang show you:

And another note: characters won’t eat “bread” in the European sense, ie. a baked lump of dough. Steamed buns, yes. Fried pancakes made from batter, yes. Flatbreads, okay I’ll give it a pass. Rice or noodles should be the most common carbs of choice.

3.ETIQUETTE

“In the homeland, we bow to our elders” - angry schoolmistress in The Headband.

Japan Guide has a list of etiquette rules for visiting Japan, which is interesting but not too necessary to read. In general, based on what The Headband tells us, Fire Nation characters would have been raised with a strong nationalist curriculum that values communal contribution over individualist expression. Even someone like Zuko, who openly rebels against that, probably couldn’t help but be affected by it. In general the Fire Nation seems to have an East Asian-ish set of values. It’s patriarchal, all the positions of authority are filled by men; there seems to be a strong emphasis on patriotism; there’s a sense of diffidence and respect towards one’s elders; and finally, there’s an emphasis on “knowing” one’s place in society and fitting into what’s expected of oneself.

I don’t really know how to describe it, but in China and Japan I sometimes feel like there’s rules for everything, and even people born and raised there acknowledge it could be stifling at times. You could go down a rabbit hole researching points of etiquette (for instance, rules on who has to sit where in group dinners...), but to me the most important thing is acknowledging that Fire Nation has a rigid system of etiquette, and also, they’re an imperialist power who’s pretty prejudiced against foreigners. Poor Aang/Kuzon gets called “mannerless colony slob” just for being slow on the bowing action (!!!)

(in firebender’s guide I had a lot of fun imagining the stupid microaggressions Ambassador Sokka has to face in the Fire Nation, so obviously I’m just biased)

4.WRITING AND DESKS

Characters would probably write on paper, with a calligraphy brush. Not quills or pens -- a brush. Technically, old Japanese and Chinese texts should be written top to bottom, right to left, but the show itself doesn’t do this, so I think you’re fine.

One fun thing about traditional calligraphy is that you don’t use bottled ink. You have something called an ink stone, and then you grind your ink yourself by rubbing the ink stone in a special little dish with a bit of water. In my (very few) encounters with this stuff in the calligraphy lessons of my youth, the ink stones can be plain or have beautiful designs on the side. It looks something like this:

ATLA is an East Asian-ish universe, so characters are likely to be kneeling at a table, not sitting. To demonstrate, here’s my boy Sokka doing his famous rainbow at Piandao’s:

and here’s the war chamber meeting when Zuko speaks out against a general’s plans to sacrifice some soldiers:

THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS: This is Zuko’s cute little setup when he’s writing his goodbye letter to Mai. In this case he’s writing in a chair and table. It’s possible that some furniture items, like a sitting desk and a bed in a bedframe (not a bedroll or futon) are special royal palace features. Normally in a private setting we see characters sitting on the ground or on a slightly elevated platform with a low table. Maybe Caldera is just different? Or rich people are just different: the Bei Fongs also have a sit-down dining table + chair setup.

(That little rectangular box is his ink dish!!)

5.A NOTE ON GENERAL CULTURE

It’s worth talking about a few general points of East Asian culture. I can’t claim to speak for ALL of Asia, and I don’t think I should. But I do think ATLA fic writers who want to set something in the Fire Nation should take a few moments to at least skim the wiki pages for filial piety and Nihonjinron (literally, "theories/discussions about the Japanese"). There’s a certain...vibe to...asianness... that I’m not sure I can explain without like, a doctorate degree in sociology.

It’s a bit like gender, I guess. There’s no definitive checklist to what is a woman and what is a man, and we can argue that gender is performative, that it’s a construct, but at the end of the day gender is still (tragically) real in the sense that it still shapes people and affects how we walk and talk and dress and think. Nationality is the same. Obviously, the Fire Nation is a made up place in a made up show, but out of respect to the cultures that inspired it, I do think it’s worth familiarizing yourself with some of these cultures’ codes and values.

Also, ahem, if I can direct you to war crimes in the Japan’s colonial empire. Again, worth remembering that the Fire Nation was an imperalist colonizer too.

I might do a continuation of this post and talk through my more abstract takes about Fire Nation culture - Is Zuko an example of filial piety gone right or filial piety gone wrong? Why I think Zuko’s flashbacks are like, at least part teenage melodrama bullshit (the reason is son preference), how someone like Sokka might be treated once he’s openly Water Tribe in the Fire Nation (probably with racism...), specific aspects of asian homophobia and racism, etc. We’ll see.

This is not a definitive guide. Comments and critique welcome.

If you think there’s a factual mistake, PLEASE hop in my asks and let me know. I also think there’s a huge blind spot in ATLA for South and Southeast Asian representation, so I acknowledge that I can’t speak for all Asians, and there is no such thing as a “pan-asian” identity.

If there’s something else you’re curious about, I’m not a historian or anything, but I like research. Ask me and I’ll try to answer the best I can.

And oh, one last thing, this is how I do research when I wrote firebender’s guide, in case anyone’s interested in learning more (LINK)

#Avatar The Last Airbender #zukka #atla fic #my fic #fire nation

3K notes · View notes

tododekukiribakux · 3 years

Text

Never Fallen from Quite This High

[PROMPT: one-shot about Can being jealous and Tin dealing with that. From: Maoshi over at Ao3 THANK YOU <3] They were friends, damn near best friends.

At least, to everyone else they were. It wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, but while Can adjusted to the idea of having a boyfriend (though two months in Tin wasn’t sure how much adjusting he needed) and while he adjusted to having something he was terrified Tul would try to harm, they were keeping their relationship quiet. There were only a few people that didn’t seem to believe that was all they were, Pete of course was forever questioning what was going on between them, and with Pete came his Thai Program boyfriend who didn’t seem to like it when Pete questioned it, but he could sense him watching. Protecting. Ridiculous, since he’d ruin anyone who so much as touched a single hair on Can’s head. Unfortunately for everyone else, the threat was not only real, Tin had the means to do it and enough hurt buried in him to do so without remorse. Can was the only thing that kept him together, his life line, the one person who stomped out the raging fires before they could spread, offering calm instead and all he needed was to look at him to find peace.

He hated it being a secret, but there was one benefit that came along with it. Can jealous was just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his life. He had no cause to be jealous, his heart was Can’s, he’d already made it very clear that he was head-over-heels in love with him, much to Can's embarrassment. That had been cute as well, and so he said it whenever he was sure no one was listening, just to see the way Can’s face would heat up, watch him slap his hands over his face… and every now and again announce that he thought he was going to shit over it.

The jealousy came in different forms, it came whenever a girl was a bit too persistent in trying to get his number. Somehow the news always reached Can’s ears, and he most certainly didn’t find a way to make sure it did. He’d later find his boyfriend waiting for him, a pout already formed on his lips, his arms crossed in frustration.

It sometimes came simply because his little sister seemed to think there was something going on between him and Pete. Can hated the way she shipped them, even when Tin tried to point out that it was actually kind of funny that while she was shipping him with Pete, he was making out with her older brother just outside of her notice. After being denied so many kisses, after Can tried so hard to fight against them… they could hardly keep their lips off of each other now. It made hiding the relationship difficult, but he got a thrill out of seeing just how far they could push it before they got caught. He had a suspicion that Can did too. That or he was just far too jealous to stop it. Which was exactly how they’d ended up kissing just under the football stands, around the corner from where she was talking about how cute Pete was. Can had initiated that kiss, he’d practically attacked his mouth, and thus far it was one of Tin’s top five favorites that they’d shared.

Thanks to Ley, the jealousy even came when he talked to Pete. Did Tin talk to him perhaps just a bit more to get a rise out of Can? Certainly not. Of course not. He wouldn’t ever. It benefited Pete as well, at least, because as they stood talking, and in truth they were only talking about a project they had to work on together, he could see both Can and Ae out of the corner of his eyes, both with clenched fists, both pointedly staring and not discussing what they were angry about. Can because he couldn’t, Ae because well… who knew, he didn’t try to understand Pete’s little boyfriend.

“When you finish your portion of the information gathering, can you email it to me? I’ll put it together with mine and then we can figure it out from there?” Pete’s voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he offered an indifferent nod of his head.

“I’m almost done, I’ll get it to you tomorrow,” he shrugged, checking his phone as he glanced towards Can, who was now facing away, his hand pointing towards the field as he spoke with Pete’s boyfriend. Pete himself cheerfully agreed that getting his part of the assignment the next day worked, but something else had his attention, his hand over his mouth as he stifled the laughter that was shaking his shoulders. “What is it, now?” He questioned, his voice bored - he didn’t actually care, in truth, but he figured Pete was probably going to tell him anyway. Whatever was making him laugh was on his phone, Pete’s eyes were locked on it.

“Are you very sure you and Can aren’t… you know… together?” The words were giggled, an actual damn giggle. His eyes roamed back over to where the guy that actually was his boyfriend stood, his back was still facing away. But he noted that Can also had his phone in hand. Tin slowly looked back to Pete’s phone as his curiosity piqued. What did Can’s crazy ass do now?

“Last I checked we were not, as I’ve told you before. He’s a good friend.” That didn’t seem to put a stop to the flow of giggles, they only increased as Pete handed his phone over for Tin to look at, instagram already pulled up on it’s screen.

“Scroll back up a bit, Can… find Can,” it didn’t take long, it never did, he had his profile picture, his account name committed to memory. It was Tin now biting back a laugh, a picture of him and Can that they’d taken just after one of his games showing as his latest update. There wasn’t anything about it that screamed that they were dating, his arm was around Can, and he was actually smiling for a change while Can positively beamed. What did make it seem like something was going on was the caption, and the fact that Lemon had not only been tagged but had commented demanding an explanation that Can argued against.

The caption said nothing more than MY friend, the word my in all caps as though he was trying to prove a point. Lemon tagged just beside it. The comments below were a small sibling argument that had Tin stuck biting the side of his hand as he read it, both to stop the smile and to keep himself grounded.

“Something wrong, Cantaloupe?” He questioned as they made their way into his bedroom, his boyfriend immediately dropping his bag unceremoniously on the floor and flopping himself dramatically on his bed. He knew what was wrong, he’d known earlier in the day from his actions, from the picture he’d posted where Ley had demanded to know why he cared who she shipped him with. The pout hadn’t left his lips since, and Tin only saw one real solution. As far as he was concerned, Tul could go straight to hell, it wasn’t like he’d ever allow him near Can anyway. Therefore, the metaphorical ball was left with Can, he could either send it towards the goal - the goal that let everyone know they were together, that they were in love even if Can had yet to utter the words, or he could keep dribbling the ball and allowing his jealousy to grow.

Tin, for his part, was very much hoping he’d be the strong football player he knew he was and kick that ball as hard as he could towards the net.

“You’re MY boyfriend! Not Ai’Pete’s! Or anyone else's, it makes me so mad,” he could see that, and though he tried to sympathize with the man laying on his bed, he couldn’t help but smile as he kicked his legs wildly in frustration, the loud oiiiiii sounding through the air.

“All yours, forever, so what’s the problem?” He was egging it on just slightly, pretending he didn’t know the problem, but of course he did. Still, Tin sat down beside where Can lay, raising his eyebrows as he was glared at.

“No one knows! Ley has people thinking you might be with Pete! Then there’s that girl that’s always talking to you. I heard someone ask someone else if you were dating her and they said they thought you might be! But you aren’t!” Tin reached a hand out, gently cupping Can’s face as he leaned down, brushing his lips over his.

“So tell the world. Correct your post, I’m not your friend Can.” Can lay in silence, Tin’s face staying quite close as he watched his expression shift. Wide eyes turned to determination, and though Can never said the words, he wore his emotions clearly on his face. He wanted to hear those three words so badly, but seeing the love written there plain as day was enough. For now.

“Will you take a picture with me, Tin?”

“You don’t even have to ask. You just have to send it to me.” Can’s phone was in his hand the moment he said he would, the camera opened. What Tin had expected was the typical picture they so often took, side by side, eyes turned towards the camera (though admittedly, more often than not, his own eyes ended up on Can), one of them with a wide smile and the other with the smallest of smiles. Tin started to sit up for that very picture, surprised as he was pulled back down, Can’s lips crashing into his, his fingers immediately tangling in his hair. The picture was forgotten, his eyes falling shut as he eagerly returned the kiss, as he breathed him in. The shutter sound as a picture was taken was what caused him to break away, his eyes on Can’s phone as he saw a picture of them kissing up on the screen.

Before anything else, Can pulled up his texts, sending the picture to Tin before he pulled up instagram. Not only did he feel complete shock, but a wave of relief watching his boyfriend post a picture of them kissing, a caption this time in all caps that only said MY BOYFRIEND with not only Ley tagged, but him this time. He felt a surge of pride, of love, as he watched the smile that spread over Can’s face. Tin moved to lay beside him, his own phone in his hand as he saved the picture, and before Can could stop him, posted it to his own instagram.

Except his caption was a bit more.

I love you, Cantaloupe.

#tincan #tincanbl #lovebychance #plantaloupe #plantaloupewrites #boylove #achancetolove #fluffy #fanfiction

11 notes · View notes

solarishashernoseinabook · 3 years

Note

Hi! Sorry to bother you. I’ve seen you do image descriptions and I was wondering if there was a specific way to do them? I’m on a discord server with someone who is blind and someone had the idea of learning how to make image descriptions for when we send photos.

Not a bother at all, Nonnie! I mainly figured it out by trial and error but I hope I can help ^-^

So there’s two things I try to keep in mind when doing image descriptions: one, is the description easy to understand, and two, if I only read the image description, would I be able to recognise the image if I saw it without the description?

Easy to understand is a HUGE thing. Image IDs should always be written in plain language! If your image ID includes slang, you’ve done it wrong. One reason is obviously that slang isn’t universally understood. I saw a video description where a woman from an old black and white movie threw a man over her shoulder onto the floor, and the video description said something like “she fucking yeets him over her shoulder”. It was sort of funny...IF you could see the video (like I could) and IF you knew what “yeet” meant. But in a few years when we’re not using “yeet” anymore (it’s already declining in use), would anyone understand the description? Also avoid long words or specialised terminology. Not everyone has a large vocabulary or familiarity with what you’re describing. So for example, I could describe a photo of a kid in a doctor’s office by saying “a pediatrician looks at a child’s dermal abrasion”, but it would be understandable to more people if I said “a doctor looks at a child’s scraped knee”.

Recognisability varies depending on what exactly you’re describing. If it’s just text, that’s easy - just transcribe what the words are. But if it’s art of a character, a simple description like ��An image of Katara from Avatar: The Last Airbender” doesn’t narrow it down at all. Is it a screencap from the show? Official box art for the DVD sets? A drawing from one of the comics? Fan art? If it’s fan art, is it in a more realistic style, or cartoonish? Is she wearing her standard outfit? What’s she doing in the picture - just standing still, or waterbending, or what?

Image IDs do get a bit tricky with art tbh, because you can’t pass value judgments on the art. I can’t say “a really well done picture of Katara” because it’s not up for me to decide if other people are going to like it. I can say “a drawing of Katara in a realistic style” or “a simple line art drawing of Katara”, but if I think the drawing is really cute I just confine that to the tags so the artist knows what I thought of their work.

(And yes, do image descriptions for art! Blind people or people with low/partial vision might not be able to see it, but at least that way they know what it is instead of not being sure if it’s a photo or screenshots of text or what. And hey, maybe they’ll appreciate the description of it and think it’s a cool concept!)

When describing videos, always transcribe the audio (even if it has closed captions like many tiktoks do - if the person using a screen reader has, say, dyslexia and can’t listen to the audio, the captions won’t help them much) as well as do a description of the video - I see SO MANY descriptions that just do one or the other or do both but only half way and it’s so frustrating!

Finally, some minor points to keep in mind:

Screen readers can’t always interpret colourful text or text in special fonts, so a description of those is always good

A picture is worth a thousand words, but most image descriptions can be less than 100. Going on too long can just get really boring to listen to and make it harder to interpret the image because the person listening has to remember a lot of details

Don’t put image descriptions under a cut, even if they’re long! It’s an accessibility aid, it shouldn’t be harder to access

Screen readers can’t always read misspelled words, so it may be necessary to change these for clarity

Stick to the point of the description. I post a lot of funny screenshots from Duolingo, but when I do, I don’t describe things like how many lives I have left or how far I am through the lesson because that’s not important, and describing what the program actually looks like doesn’t help anyone either. I just list the sentence and its translation and mention its from Duolingo - context and joke is all that’s needed

Finally, it’s okay if you’re too tired to do an image description! That happens to me a lot. Look through the notes for one that’s already been done or like the post to describe it later

Hope that helps! ^-^

#asks #image IDs #transcription #accessibility #Anonymous

16 notes · View notes

raevenlywrites · 3 years

Text

Dasi High 2 of ?

All day long, all I wanted was my book. My book. I thrilled at the way the thought seemed to pulse in my head, heavy with the weight of destiny or something. It had to be some kind of strangeness at work, to put this exact book into my exact hands with my exact little name on it. Kiesha... It wasn’t exactly a sorceress’s name, but still, it wasn’t that common. Not for books that looked like they’d been buried under the sea for the last thousand years or whatever. “This should be in a museum,” ala Indiana Jones and all that. My book. It filled my chest with warmth just thinking about it.

But I kept it in my bag all through school, even during lunch. No Coke, greasy pizza, or nosy teachers were going to threaten my ancient tome. I wasn’t an idiot. I was going to keep it safe until I got home.

Safely ensconced in my beautiful window seat, the envy of all book lovers and cat nappers everywhere, I savored the moment, feeling the heft of the book in my lap, breathing deep of its good, good book smell. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a technophobe, but books man--nothing compares to the feel of thick pages beneath your hands, the crinkle, the earthy smell. Yeah. There was a reason Brass thought I might be into it, namesake notwithstanding.

The cover was plain, well-worn, shiny and slick to the touch with the press of so many hands before. The finish had worn off the lettering and embellishments, but fingers could trace the rise and indents of them. I suddenly wondered if I should be handling something so hold, then realized I had no idea how old it even was. Oh well. Brass’s mom wouldn’t have let him have it if it was priceless, right? With a steadying breath, I cracked the cover.

The glue had long since stopped holding the pages in, but the binding was still sound. Maybe I’d ask Donte or Nalini later if either of them knew anything about repairing old bindings. They were both always doing handsy stuff, Donnie with his computers, and Nani with eir soaps and stuff. Surely one of them would know something, or be able to point me in the right direction. For now, I gingerly laid the cover open in my lap and turned the pages with a reverence I almost never felt for anything. I hadn’t been this careful with a book since my Sandman hardcover omnibus I got for my last birthday.

Enough stalling. It was time to read.

I was surprised to note my own reluctance. I’m not usually one for drama, but this... it just felt heavy. Important. Like it mattered.

The front endpaper had a yellowed bookplate pasted in, painted with an elegant symbol or crest or something I didn’t recognize. It looked almost like a stick figure of someone dancing, arms reaching up and stance wide--except there were weird branches coming off, like cursive flourishes. Maybe it was a signature? If so it wasn’t in any language I could read. I suddenly panicked at the thought that I wouldn’t be able to read any of it, aside from my name, and eagerly turned the page, anticipation mixing with dread.

But instead of a title page, or anything even printed, it was another handwritten page, like a dedication, or maybe a poem or something. It was written in the same kind of cursivey, wavy letters as the bookplate, and with growing anxiety I turned to the next page.

The family tree.

Thin, spidery hand writing covered the pages, faded, but definitely in the familiar English characters. Arabic? Or was the for numbers? Whatever. I could read it, that was what mattered. It was hard to parse, just as it had been at school, but I found the letters of my name quickly, and my finger hovered over the page, tracing the line down. Don...Donovan? Sisal... Salem... It was almost impossible to make out, save for the ever-clear Kiesha. Almost like that was the only part I was meant to read. I stared at the whole page, trying to let my eyes go soft focused, to see if anything else jumped out at me, but the longer I looked, the harder to read it became. I gave up and turned the page.

A list of names and dates followed, like you’d expect from an almanac. But instead of useful things like “March 3rd” or “Spring Equinox” it said things like, “the fourth night of cheres” or “the eve of Namir-da”. It was English, but just barely. I skimmed the page but quickly moved past it, eager for something that made sense.

It was hard not to let my disappoint take hold. This book had felt so special--it was special, just... not what I’d been expecting. Recipes, as Brass had said, and almanacy things, lie when to plant, but nothing that gave me any sense of wonder, or importance. I was just about to give up when I finally came across a section written in plain English.

They say the time has come. I have been given the family book, and told its mine to keep. But what I am expected to do with it, I cannot say. I have nothing of my own to add. I am not even the oldest of the family line. But I feel I should write something, to mark the occasion if nothing else. So here I do write, on this, the first of August, in the year seventeen hundred and seventy-one, that I, Kiera Cortana, am now in charge of the family book, for better or for worse.

Whoa. Now that was seriously cool. I flipped back to the family tree, to see if I could find Kiera. There, near the bottom, Kiera Cortana, 1753. Neat. That made her... seventeen, eighteen when she wrote her entry? Wow. Barely any older than me. That warm tingle started again, that sense of connection, and I just let my hand rest on the page, fingers just below her name. There wasn’t any more after hers, though there was room for more. Hope for the future that never came.

The warmth turned to sadness, a kind of longing I couldn’t really put my finger on. I got that way sometimes, just out of the blue. Homesick for a place that didn't’ exist. At least here I kind of got it, sad for a girl who may or may not have ever grown up. There was more after her first journal entry, but it was just more recipes and things, and more of that squiggle script I had no idea how to read. On an impulse, I got out a notebook and copied down what letters I could make out, including the symbol on the front book plate. I wanted to look at it more later, when I was stuck at school, but I didn’t want to risk bringing the actual book there. It was so old, at least three hundred. Man, Brass totally shouldn’t have let me have this. I decided to call him and give him a hard time about it.

“Hey, Ki, is everything okay?”

I frowned at the concern in his voice. “Yes, Dad, I’m fine. I’m not always in mortal danger or whatever you seem to think.”

Brass snorted. “Well I assumed you had to be in trouble since you’re calling. Normally you just text.”

Oh. Right.

“Just wanted to chat,” I said, too casually, but he'd caught me off guard. I used to call Brass all the time. It was weird to realized I’d stopped. “I’ve been looking through that book you gave me.” When in doubt, change the subject.

“Yeah? Anything good?”

I heard the sound of a sliding glass door in the background, the tell-tale sign of Brass going out to sit on the back deck. He used to do it to be near the TV antenna, hoping it would give him better cell signal. Now it was just habit. I smiled, picturing him there, long and lanky and lean, back against the side of the house as he balanced on the deck railing, one long leg trailing down...

“Kiesha?”

“Hm?”

I made a startled little noise as I came back to myself. “Oh, right. Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Did you know it was so old? There’s an entry from the 1700’s in it.”

“Oh man, really?” He sounded equal parts excited and embarrassed. “I didn’t know that. Maybe I should let Mom look at it again...”

“No way,” I teased, “It’s mine now. Has my name in it and everything.”

“It has mine too.”

His voice was so soft I almost missed it. But I scanned the page and sure enough, Brassal was on a similar line as Kiesha.

“Weird... Almost as weird as your stupid name.”

I laughed to take the edge of, both from my words and from the creeping feeling working its way up my spine. Brass had always gone by the nickname, with Brassal being reserved for his father. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me to see it in an old timey book like this; it had probably been handed down a long line of people, like Maeve’s super grandma name. But still. It freaked me, and when I got freaked, I teased. Make everyone else feel off balance and it was an even playing field again.

“Yeah, yeah, Cobriana. Tell me all about weird names.”

I stuck my tongue out, even though he couldn’t see. Still, it made me feel better. Sky blue, grass green, Brass and I teased. I had missed this. It was good to be getting it back.

“You wanna come over for pizza and movies Friday?”

It was out of my mouth before I’d really thought about it. But his hesitation made me wish I’d just kept railing on his stupid name.

“Uh, how ‘bout Saturday. I have... plans. For Friday.”

No way. No freakin way. “Don’t tell me you gave in to Izzy,” I said with a disinterest I didn’t quite feel. “You know she’s only sharpening her claws on you for a real takedown.”

“Don’t be like that, Ki. Isadora can do what she wants, with who she wants.”

I mocked “Isadora,” in as childish a tone as I could manage. No one called her that, not even Izzy herself. Except Landon. But Landon was cyborg and completely incapable of using contractions or imprecise grammar, like ever.

“And what she wants is apparently to play kissy face with Serv, for all the good that’ll do her.”

“Serv?!” I could not keep the surprise out of my voice. Serv was like, canonically asexual. Or at the very least, not interested in someone as bubblegum pop as Izzy.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Brass said. “I didn’t ask, not that that stopped her from volunteering. Apparently they’re driving into the city to see a show or something.”

“Okay....” Izzy on a date with Servos. What an odd couple. I couldn’t fathom what sort of attraction would hold interest for both of them. But then, if such a thing existed, it would be in the city, not in this whole in the wall town. We didn’t even have a mall. “Well, good for them, I guess. So what about your mysterious plans?”

Brass groaned. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten. ”

“Nope. Spill it.”

He sighed. “I’m going to the movies... with Syfka.”

I gaped. “You’re joking. You’re joking! Why on earth would you want to go to the movies with her--xem?”

I was normally better with Syfka’s pronouns than this, but it was hard not to think of anyone out on date with Brass as anything but a her--a her he might want to kiss. Trying to apply that mental box to Syfka, of all people--

“Because--” Brass cut through my thoughts, “we have a project due, and it was either write a paper on a French film, or try to speed read through a work of French literature that I have zero hope of understanding because its kind of my worst subject.”

Oh. Right. School stuff. A perfectly reasonable reason to go to the movies with someone.

“Right. Okay. Yeah. So, does that mean you need to stay in and write it on Saturday.”

Brass laughed, and I couldn’t help but feel like it was at my expense.

“Nah. Come Saturday night, I’ll either be done, or I’ll be failed. Either way, pizza and a movie sounds great.”

“Okay...”

I couldn’t shake the little tight feeling in my chest. This call had thrown me. Everything about Brass seemed to throw me lately.

“Why don’t you invite Nikki over too? Or maybe Maeve?”

My toes curled under at that last. Maeve may or may not have been the reason Brass and I finally broke up. I hadn’t decided yet. Either way, I couldn’t imagine him volunteering to hang out with her.

“I wouldn’t subject you to that....”

“Ki, I told you I’m alright with it. Have her over, see if you still feel all tingly.”

I laughed, but it was hardly humorous. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging me to get my flirt on in front of you.”

I could feel him shrug through the line, that careless raise of a shoulder that meant everything and nothing.

“You’re too shy to do it yourself. I’m just gonna keep inventing reasons to get you two together until you get over yourself. Or she asks you.”

“Brass!”

But now I was really laughing, and his goal was achieved. I felt better, so he felt better. Stupid big brother mother hen. I smiled through the rest of the phone call, chatting about everything and nothing, and feeling more like myself than I had in a long time.

Raev’s general tag list: As always, let me know if you want to be added or removed or whatevs (especially since this is kind of a far cry from what I usually do)

List is currently: @lordkingsmith @writinglyra @drbibliophile @mperialscribe @adie-dee @lexiklecksi @theramwrites @writinginslowmotion @faithfire @apollon-arium @thehellinsideyourhead @raenawrites @adventuresofacreesty @anika-writes.

#dasi high #kiesha'ra fanfic #kiesha cobriana #I've been threatening this hawksong fanfic for years #raev does fanfic

8 notes · View notes

sabraeal · 4 years

Text

In Plain Sight, Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Written for @k-itsmaywriting‘s birthday! I hope that, despite how weird the world is right now, you have an amazing day!

Shirayuki understands how this is supposed to work. She’s seem movies after all-- Witness, of course; Sister Act 1 & 2, if only because Opa thought Whoopie Goldberg was a national treasure and Oma thought she was too young to be watching Ghost; and Our Lips Are Sealed about eight times on video cassette, since she’s old enough (and Opa resisted DVD long enough) have both VCRs and wholesome Olsen twins content as a part of her childhood.

(Her favorite formative twins were Annie and Hallie from The Parent Trap; they were red-headed, just like her, and one of them had a British accent. She’d been devastated to find out that not only were both of them American, but they were also only one girl. She’d watched Double Trouble to console herself)

In any case, she knows how this goes, at least narratively. She lays down in this amazingly comfortable bed, stares up at the ceiling in a tense yet melancholy fashion for hours, and dreams in plot-relevant flashbacks. Extra points if they reference the crime she witnessed.

The problem is: she didn’t. She’s just the unfortunate collateral to her father’s personal redemption. All the life ruining without ever being part of the A plot.

There’s an upside though: the second she hits that firm cloud of a mattress, she’s out like a light.

Absolutely nothing wakes her, but Shirayuki jolts into consciousness anyway, as unpleasant as any false start. She expects to be confused; she’s not a graceful riser to begin with, and every morning in temporary housing, she’d bounce off three walls at minimum trying to find a bathroom that didn’t exist.

(Well, the bathroom did exist, it just didn’t exist where it should, which was down the hall to the right, and was compounded by the door being in exactly the wrong place too.)

Instead, she knows exactly where she is. Knowledge which is quickly followed by the low-key, seething resentment for the man who put her here.

She groans, lifting her head from the pillow. It’s fine. She’s fine. It’s just--

7:00, her alarm clock says. Tuesday, her brain provides after a long moment.

She should be getting up, habit told her. Getting her morning fix of avocado toast and orange juice with Paul Newman’s face stamped on it.

There’s worse ways to start your day than having a fine pair of eyes smiling at you, Oma would say.

What can I say? Opa’d grumble back, flipping through the paper. It’s impossible to compete with Butch Cassidy.

Her fingers curl into the sheets. There’d be none of that today. Agent Jiang-- Obi’s assistant had gotten her Simply Orange instead. A small mercy. It’s hard enough to be someone else when there’s still so much her clinging to the edges.

It’s tempting to linger in bed; she’s always been a morning person, up with the birds, but maybe Claire isn’t. Maybe Claire likes to stay up late and sleep in, sleeping past the three alarms she sets for herself. Maybe she likes to have waffles for breakfast, straight from a box, and drinks pomegranate juice. Maybe she doesn’t bike into the lab at eight because--

She groans. Because Claire doesn’t have a job. A thing that will have to change soon, since Claire has to pay for this house.

There’s a great deal of compromise that happens between bedside and bathroom; habit insists she needs to be fully dressed, ready to greet the day, but everything else--

Well, she’s not going anywhere is she? There’s no reason she couldn’t wallow in her pj’s all day

Standards, habit insists. But those belonged to Shirayuki, not Claire. Claire has no job, no friends, and nothing to do on a Tuesday morning besides--

Oh no, the recycling.

The bin is nearly two-thirds her height, but with only one day under her belt, it’s already overflowing. Good thing she’d looked at that brochure when it slipped out from between the takeout menus.

She shrugs her hoodie a little tighter, pulling it down over her leggings-- habit and hedonism settled on exercise wear as a happy medium-- and grips the handle, tugging it out the opening garage door, right into the fresh Texas morning--

And promptly throws her hoodie back into the garage. She might need that with the downright frosty temperature the house is set to, but oh, she was not going to cover her skin out here any more than necessary. Even now, she’s starting to sweat in impossible places beneath her leggings.

Hooking her palm back around the handle, she tugs the bin down the drive. Her gaze fixes to the pavement-- the last thing she needs is to trip right over herself on her own driveway taking out the trash-- and she doesn’t look up until she hits the sidewalk. It’s a struggle to get it to sit right-- these are proper curbs, white poured cement with squared edges meant to puncture cheeky tires; one of the wheels catches in a gap and refuses to budge until she hip checks it out onto the next slab.

She’s damp at this point, skin dewing with giant drops of sweat she’s tempted to shake off like a dog, but--

But Martha Kino has an arm slung along their fence, holding a tall glass of iced tea that makes her mouth water just to look at.

“Oh, um, good morning!” she calls out with a weak wave. “I didn’t, um, see you there.”

It’s only when Martha slides her gaze to her that she realizes her neighbor hadn’t been looking at her at all. Her mouth curves into a knowing smile at the sight of her. “Good morning, honey. You here for the show?”

Shirayuki blinks. “The show?”

“Mm-hm.” Martha takes a long drag from her straw, ice clinking against the glass. “Here it comes now.”

Shirayuki tracks her line of sight right across the cul-de-sac, squinting at half acre of immaculately trimmed, completely invasive Bermuda grass. Their front garden is well-kept, as well; thickly mulched with giant hibiscus blooming blood red against pristine stone facade.

Oh, and there’s a man as well. That’s probably what Mrs Kino is looking at.

He’s tall. No, tall is an understatement; he’s a giant, six foot four at least with shoulders to match. He’s trimmed with the same military precision as his lawn, clean shaven with an undercut that could scratch glass. Heavy brows draw sharply over his nose, forehead rumpling as he tears a box right down the fold--

Ah, well, all right. It’s not doing much of anything for her, but the Vitruvian man’s more ideal cousin ripping up boxes definitely counts as a show. Halfway through, he grabs the hem of his shirt, mopping his brow, and ah, hm, he could definitely have made money as an anatomical model. His rectus abdominis are, ah...very defined.

“Is he--” Shirayuki searches for the words-- “from around here?”

“Oh, him?” Martha’s gaze doesn’t stray for a second, not even as she sips at her tea. “That’s Scott. Aspen’s husband. They just moved in a few weeks ago.”

Shirayuki glances around the neighborhood. Seems like more than a few of her neighbors hope they’ll never leave either.

“Quite the pair, those two,” Martha hums. “She’ll be at the luncheon. I know you two will just get on like houses.”

More like houses on fire if she mentions she’s seen her husband’s floor show. “Oh, right. The um, luncheon.”

Mrs Kino grins as Scott hops back inside, out of this heat, just like she’s dying to do. “By the way, he mows the lawn on Sunday, just before lunch.”

“Oh, um, great.” She’ll be sure to miss it. “Can’t wait.”

It’s too early to bake cookies.

There’s not a baked good on earth that tastes as good two days later as it does fresh out of the oven; Shirayuki knows that down to her toes and bones, but still--

Stress baking. It’s a thing. And she doesn’t have to make anything right now. She could get all the ingredients together, just to make sure she has them. And then...just not do anything.

She can. Definitely. Absolutely. She’s Claire now. Claire probably doesn’t even like chocolate chip cookies.

Oh gosh, who is she kidding? Only monsters don’t like chocolate chip cookies. What next, Claire doesn’t like brownies? Apple pie? Snickerdoodles?

It’s a slippery slope, not liking things. Best to just keep it simple and eat everything, that’s what Opa always said at the church potluck.

The morsels and brown sugar already sit out on the counter when her phone lets out a piercing ting. She’s half tempted to ignore it; she’s having a contentious battle with the ten pounds of King Arthur flour that’s tucked away in her cabinet-- what was she thinking?-- and she refuses to show any fear in the face of baking supplies but--

Ting. No one knows her number. Well, no one except the government.She settles back on her heels with a sneeze. The government probably doesn’t take kindly to being left on read.

Her hands clap against her thighs, flour misting into the air as she leaves two partial prints right over the helical print. She frowns, plucking at the fabric, nose wrinkling as more powder burst into the air. Ting.

“I’m coming,” she mutters, stumbling over to the island. “I’m coming.”

Sugar Daddy i got just what u need pumpkin check ur email

The corners of her mouth dig furrows into her cheeks as she clicks on the notification. It’s the only message in her inbox, aside from the ubiquitous Welcome to Gmail spam and a few coupons for Banana Republic and a couple of other retailers. They’d taught her about this at orientation; they couldn’t do much about an empty inbox, but everyone had at least a few mailing lists they’d either forgotten to opt out of or regularly used.

Still...what about her said Banana Republic? She glances down at her spandex-clad legs. If they were going to go for a too-expensive clothing line, they could have at least sprung for Lululemon.

Ah, but that wasn’t the point. Marshal Jiang-- Obi hadn’t texted all...that...to show off some spam. Sitting at the very top of her inbox is a Cornell email address-- Cornell-- with an attachment.

Dear Claire, the message reads, We’re so sorry to see you go, but I’m glad we’re able to keep in touch. Of course we kept the copy of your old CV. Good luck to you in all your endeavors.

It’s signed by some professor; not high profile enough for her to have heard of, but she doesn’t doubt that he’s real, someone a curious party could look up on Cornell’s directory. Well, at least for the next six months.

The Columbia alumna inside her writhes in agony. Cornell. She doubts it’s a coincidence.

Me Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me?

Not that she’s very, um, up on the specifics of such a relationship, but she’d been under the impression that sugar...children?...were supposed to be fully reliant on their sugar parent. Her mouth pulls thin. Already she’s thinking about this far more than she’d ever hope to.

Sugar Daddy a good daddy makes sure his baby can take care of herself ;)

This declaration is followed by a stream of emojis, ending with an eggplant and a peach, and she just-- doesn’t need to know. She wipes away the sweat that beads at her hairline-- from embarrassment, of course-- and downloads the attachment.

Me I’ll take a look. Thank you.

She sets the phone back on the island, face down, and glares. He can’t possibly be like this to everyone. People would complain. They wouldn’t just let him insinuate that he-- that they--

Ting.

Sugar Daddy good girl

All right. Maybe they would.

Shirayuki doesn't get homesick.

She’d been the first brownie to leap out of her car at summer camp; Opa barely had time to lurch into park before she was traipsing across the field, backpack slung over her shoulder and duffel bag dragging on the grass. Freshman year, she moved into the dorm by herself, pressing kisses to wrinkled cheeks as she lugged her suitcases onto the train; she’d almost forgotten to wave from the window.

But as soon as she lays down in bed, the lights snuffed out and the world still, it hits her. Just a soft roll of her stomach at first, the barest itch on her skin, like wearing a wool sweater on a spring afternoon. It’s fine; too much to ignore but nothing that would keep her up too long.

It doesn’t stay that way.

Her stomach clenches, tears pricking at her eyes, and it’s everything she can do to just roll onto her side, letting the chills wrack through her body. She shivers so hard her teeth chatter, and this-- this isn’t the gentle ache of nostalgia her books prepared her for. This is an illness, plain and simple, like when she caught norovirus in eighth grade can could hardly do anything but lay on the bathroom floor and wait for the next wave to begin.

This isn’t her, she isn’t like this, she doesn’t get like this, but-- but--

Before she always knew her home was waiting for her; she could leave but Oma and Opa would always keep the front lamp on, waiting for weary travelers and last minute bookings.

It’s different now that there’s no home to come back to.

7:00, her alarm clock says. She watches it tick over, like she has for every hour before it.

She must have slept at some point; it’s impossible that she’s lain awake, staring at the clock for eight hours. But that doesn’t make her any less tired, and so when her alarm starts up, beeps cutting through the quiet white noise of the air conditioner, she reaches out and slaps it off.

Shirayuki may not sleep in, but Claire is certainly warming to the idea.

Her notebook sits open on the island; neat, looping script stretches across the page, straining the boundaries of the blue lines that contains it. She’d done her homework yesterday, combing through job sites to find the most likely candidates. There’s five on her list right now, ranked according to preference, and oh, is Shirayuki glad she had the gumption to do this before, because this morning she feels like roadkill being scraped off the blacktop.

Still, she worries at her lip as her laptop boots up, peering over her list. In the cold light of the morning, five seems too few, but...desperation hasn’t set in yet. She’s allowed to still have standards.

Wrapping her hands around her mug, she glances at the next page: another list. No, a set of instructions. Edit CV. Write cover letters.

Shirayuki groans. Even with the bullet points she left for herself, composing cover letters is a circle of hell all its own. With only three hours of solid sleep under her belt, it’s an insurmountable hurdle to getting hired.

“Right,” she murmurs, hooking an ankle around a stool and pulling it under her. “Editing it is.”

She clicks on the pdf Obi sent her, scrolling down and--

“Oh no.” She rears back from the screen, heart pounding. “No, no. There’s got to be a mistake...”

“Hey, baby,” Obi’s voice rumbles through her speaker. It’s thick and warm and would be utterly distracting if she were in any less of a crisis. “A little early for a b--?”

“What happened to my papers?”

“Uh.” All the suggestion in his tone evaporates. “What?”

“My papers.” Her hand grips the phone so tight it creaks. “They’re gone.”

His end goes silent. Silent enough to make that weird click, like the line’s cut out, and she pulls back to check--

“Someone stole your passport?” He laughs, incredulous. “Some sort of luck you have, Miss. Barely had it for a day and already you’ve gotten your identity stolen.”

She blinks into the barren air of her kitchen. “What?”

“You know,” he hums, too amused, “I picked out a cute house in the suburbs for safety, and here you are, getting robbed. Did you leave them in your car? Or did you just go out--”

“N-no!” She’s honestly half tempted to say what car, until she remembers the tasteful mid-sized SUV in the driveway, the one she’s still been calling the girlfriend car in her head, and realizes-- it’s hers. She’s the girlfriend.

Except she’s not. At all. Which is fine! She doesn’t even want that! If she’s still thinking about what his mouth feels like as he wraps them around his words, then--

She really can’t be thinking about this right now. “I mean my papers! I just looked at my CV and it’s a page!”

He hesitates, though not enough for the line to click again. “Isn’t that long enough?”

“CVs aren’t resumes,” she informs him patiently, pen twisting between her fingers. “They’re dick measuring contests--”

Her teeth snap around the words, but oh, it’s too late. They’re already out there in the aether, and he’s laughing.

“Now there’s something I didn’t think I’d hear out of you, Miss.” He doesn’t need to sound so pleased about it.

“It’s something my old PI used to say,” she mutters. Oh, Garak would be so proud of herself if she knew. “It’s not very polite, but she’s not, um, wrong.”

“I’m sorry the US government made you under endowed.” His words practically rattle as he says them. “It’s not the size that matters, Miss, but how you use it.”

“Obi,” she huffs. “All the work I’ve done for the past ten years of my life now is attributed to my birth name and my birth name only! According to this CV I have the same level of experience, but less papers than an undergrad! And you can’t tell me that any of these are searchable on PubMed.”

And none of them are first authors, is what she doesn’t say. It’s a petty thing to worry about when her entire academic career is functionally extinct.

“Hm.” His fingers drum quickly on a table. Desk? It’s strange not knowing anything about the man who is her only lifeline. “I’ll look into it.”

“I don’t want to be, um, alarmist, but I can’t get a job with this.” Her hand shakes as she scrolls down her screen. “No one is going to hire a post-doc with a one page CV.”

“Don’t worry, Miss. There’s a plan for this, somewhere.” She can feel his grin when he says, “You can’t be the first academic who’s had to go into hiding.”

She smiles, despite herself. “Considering some of the conferences I’ve been to, I can believe it.”

“Besides, you could always apply to pharmaceuticals.” The very word is like a donkey kick to her gut. “The pay’s supposed to be better--”

“I can’t work for Big Pharma.”

He hesitates. “You...can’t?”

“Obi, they make little old grandmas pay eight hundred dollars for insulin!” She presses a hand to her chest. “Banting and Best didn’t sell the patent for one dollar so that people could get gouged by--”

“I get it, I get it,” he assured her. “Preaching to the choir. But as a safety, I’m sure you could find one that isn’t stealing candy from babies.”

She huffs. “I doubt it.”

He rasps out a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. As I said, can’t be the first PhD on the lam.”

Her mouth twitches. “Just yours?”

“You are certainly some kind of education, Miss.” He hums. “Give me a day. See what I can turn up.”

“You have two,” she informs him magnanimously. “I have the luncheon tomorrow.”

“Oh, right.” She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s lounging, smug like a cat post-canary. “Looking forward to joining the neighborhood’s Ladies’ Committee?”

“Ha ha,” she drawls flatly. “Very funny.”

He is unnervingly silent on the other end.

“You’re kidding, right?” Her voice certainly does not fill with a nervous quaver. “You guys don’t have things like that around here.”

Obi hums, humoring her.

“W-what would they even do?” She picks nervously at the sticker on her laptop, prying up part of NVIDIA. “Plan potlucks? Organize the Neighborhood Watch? Cotillions?”

She doesn’t know how he makes his grin so palpable over 4G. “Looking forward to your debut, Miss?”

Shirayuki scowls down at her screen. “I think I’m firmly up on the shelf, thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I have cookies to make.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #witness protection au #ans #i wanted SO BADLY to get to the ladies lunch this chapter #but a lot of the lead up in here got too long #and in the interest in cutting it at a place that made sense #it all got moved one chapter over #BUT it is almost to where the true conceit of this fic arrives #always a nice place to be

22 notes · View notes

notveryglittery · 5 years

Text

kiss me

summary: a series of kisses. words: 1,820 / ship: romantic royality notes: @hawthornshadow said “kiss me” by sixpence none the richer and royality and this happened? i wrote it on discord so it’s kinda plotless and messy but it’s cute, imo!! shout out to @sleepless-in-starbucks for encouraging me along the way <3

please listen to “kiss me” while you read!! read on ao3 | @fandersfic-royality

— — — — — — — — —

If this godforsaken town has one thing going for it, it’s Patton Hart. He is sweet, and handsome, and mesmerizing. From the light floppy sun hats to the pastel spaghetti strap dresses; from his strawberry blond curls to the sharp emerald green of his eyes; from the sure swift grace he moves with and the mischievous smile he hides behind his hand. There is confidence in Patton that makes Roman wonder if he really isn’t from the city, if he truly has been born and raised out here in wheat fields and sunflower plains.

They meet when Roman is sixteen. He and his mother have only just moved to Iowa and don't get him wrong, he'd go to the ends of the Earth for his mom, but did her job really have to transfer her to the middle of nowhere? Roman isn’t sure this tiny little town even knows what Starbucks was. There’s one grocery store, one gas station, a library that also doubles as the cinema which makes absolutely no sense, and an ice cream parlor. They have an ice cream parlor but they don’t have stable WiFi and what was the gosh darn ding dang point of a cute, aesthetic ice cream parlor if he can’t post on Instagram about it?

Roman had been hoping it'd take some time to explore his new home, to get to know the lay of the land, but it really only takes him a day and a half, and that is only because they arrived late in the evening. It isn’t until after Roman has the streets memorized (which isn’t difficult given that there are about nine of them) that he stops in at Scoops 'n Smiles. He thinks it a stupid name but then again, most of this town is still stupid to him, because he’s still bitter about living in it.

It all gets a whole less stupid when a greeting rings out to him as he steps inside.

Roman might not know anything about the cute employee behind the counter but the cute employee behind the counter certainly knows plenty about Roman. It is such a small town, after all, and word spreads fast. He’s a city boy, out here with his mama, and so far he’s been nothing but polite, if not a little grumpy. Neither of them would admit it until they’d been engaged for five months, eight days, and thirteen hours - but the love at first sight is entirely mutual.

Roman approaches the counter with a spring in his step and stars in his eyes. Patton had smiled coyly at him.

“Hiya, welcome to Scoops ’n Smiles,” Patton would say sweetly.

Roman would choke (“your accent,” he’d explain later, “god, you were so cute.”) and Patton would find his stammering endearing. They’re only sixteen but Patton has never been so sure of something in his life. He’d marry this boy, if the fates would allow it.

Maybe Patton hands Roman a napkin with his ice cream, despite there being a dispenser at the counter beside the spoons. Maybe it has Patton’s phone number written on it. Maybe Patton winks at Roman as he leaves, gripping his cone so tightly it is close to crumbling. Maybe Patton screams into a dish towel the moment the parlor is empty again.

Their first date is, not to put it loosely, magical. Roman learns quickly that anything is magical where Patton was involved. They go out to the lake. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and bright and warm. Patton is wearing a sundress in a shade of blue that matches the sky. Roman wears the wrong pair of shoes and they are caked in mud by the end of the day, but that’s alright.

The stars are sparkling brighter than Roman has ever seen, laying in the bed of Patton’s truck beside the barley fields and green pastures. Lightning bugs flit in and out of view, the air is cool on his skin, and Patton is telling him all about the constellations.

“How d’you know so much?” Roman asks.

“My cousin taught me when he visited last year,” Patton answers, turning to look at Roman, and smiling, smiling so sparkling and pretty that the stars no longer compare. “I’m pretty sure he used it to do the same thing I’m doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Trying to impress a boy he liked.”

Patton tastes like strawberry ice cream and vanilla chapstick. Roman doesn’t see it, given he’s so very focused on kissing Patton (kissing Patton!), but a shooting star streaks across the sky, and it really all might as well be made for movies.

Let it be known that Patton is never one to be outdone. He throws himself into his projects and his friendships and his work. His pa tells him to be careful about giving and giving and giving, that he has to slow down sometimes. Patton thinks that silly; how could he ever do that when he has so much love and energy bottled up inside, so much that he feels like he might burst with it? Roman matches him here and it is exhilarating. City boy is outgoing and adventurous and go go go. It feels so good to finally have someone that can keep up.

What could possibly go wrong when Patton has someone as wonderful and sincere and bright as Roman at his side?

Winter is approaching and so the town is celebrating its autumn harvest. They do this at the end of every season and it’s Roman's first time attending one. There are games and prizes, treats and cider, and when the cleared space for a dance floor is glowing with moonlight, and the band is at full swing, Roman takes Patton by the hands, swinging and spinning him around.

By the end of the night, the fireflies dancing and the silver moon sparkling, Roman will press a kiss to Patton's lips and murmur breathlessly "I love you."

Never one to be outdone, Patton will return it, and he'll continue with hushed compliments, and light pecks anywhere he can reach, and by the end, Roman will be as red as the changing leaves.

If Roman had known he'd only have two years, he'd have done more with his time. He'd have confessed his love sooner, he'd have made sure to take more photos, he'd have done better.

It’s at the broken treehouse and working tire swing that they've taken to spending their free mornings at. Patton is wearing his favorite sun hat, the one with the flowers. Roman’s pushing him on the swing, soaking in the sound of his laughter and the warm unfiltered sunlight. He doesn’t want to go.

They sit down for a picnic, looking at an old map Patton's dad had given them, one marked with trails and clearings and lakes. The idea of spending his summer with Patton exploring and hiking sounds so much better than going back to concrete skyscrapers and smog. He doesn’t want to go.

"I have to go."

Patton looks at him curiously.

"Home, I mean."

"You are home," Patton assures him.

"I -" and it's all Roman can say before tears are stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Patton's expression crumbles and he hurries to pull Roman into his arms, shushing him, and pressing kisses to the top of his head, and running a hand up and down his back. Somehow, it doesn’t help.

The following three years are dreadful. They are boring and slow and lonely and Patton finally understands what his pa meant by taking it easy. He can’t work at Smiles ’n Scoops without remembering this is where he met the love of his life, he can’t attend harvest festivals without recalling the way Roman had blushed so prettily after their first I love you, he can’t look at the broken treehouse in the park without remembering the way it had felt to hold a crying, trembling Roman in his arms.

Sure, there are letters and texts and video calls. They don’t compare to the way Roman’s hand fits perfectly in his. The freckles Roman had earned from all his time in the sun fade the longer he is back in the city. His hair is darker and there are bags under his eyes and Patton wonders if it is because it’s so noisy there; he can hear it through the phone sometimes.

Roman does get better, over time. He gets used to the noise and the monotone colors and it is almost like he was never in Iowa to begin with. That doesn’t mean anything, though, because three years and eight months and two weeks later, he’s packed everything he owns, and he moves back home.

Home is where the heart is after all. More accurately, home is where the Hart is.

Maybe he keeps it a secret. Maybe he meets up with Patton's father and asks for his blessing. Maybe the entire town is on the same page for once and doesn’t spread the word. Maybe Patton doesn’t see Roman sneaking up on him at the autumn harvest festival.

Maybe when Patton turns around, Roman is behind him on one knee. Maybe when they kiss this time, it is with shaking hands and tears of joy and a ring that sparkles like the silver moon.

Five months, eight days, and thirteen hours into being engaged and Roman is still as hopelessly smitten as he has been since day one. He’s helping Patton to figure out his new phone. Somehow, Patton’s had the same iPhone 5 for over seven years, and it was still in perfect working condition. There wasn’t a scratch or dent on it, not once had it needed to be factory reset. When Roman asks how Patton does it (because Roman has gone through at least four phones), Patton says sweetly, like the way he does the day they met:

“I take care of the things I love.”

And it should just be something Patton says but nothing Patton ever says is just something and someone might as well be crowing “one hit KO” because Roman is down for the count.

“I loved you at first sight,” Patton sighs, as if Roman isn’t already dead. “I said to the fates, I’m going to marry that boy.”

Roman falls over, swooning onto Patton’s lap. The harvest festivals see them on the moonlit dance floor less often, too busy staying curled up beside each other. “Dearheart, please have mercy.”

Patton grins mischievously and leans over to press a kiss to Roman's lips. There are fireflies dancing around him and his strawberry blond curls look like they're glowing. "Now why ever would I do that?"

And if Roman confesses beneath the milky twilight to Patton, too, that he'd fallen in love at first sight, hoping to fluster his fiancé (his fiancé!) in return, well... Patton is never one to be outdone.

#sanders sides fan fiction #royality #royality fan fiction #roman sanders #patton sanders #romantic royality #dani writes #y'all idk how to write in one tense lol

539 notes · View notes

gemsofgreece · 4 years

Link

Ancient Greek, the language of the future

by Eugenia Manolidou, conductor.

“I read with interest Mr Dimos’s article that was published in the “Opinions” column on October 17th 2020. Please allow me some comments regarding it.”

[GEMSOFGREECE NOTE: I have read both articles and many things stated by Mr Dimos had me disagreeing or straight out displeased. Eugenia Manolidou responded with an article of her own, apparently motivated by similar feelings. I think her article is an enjoyable read and I agree on many levels while on others I can’t have an opinion due to lack of sufficient knowledge. I thought some of you would be interested in it, so I am translating the article in English. The article is informative for both Greek speakers and people interested in the Greek language and culture as well as the pronunciation of Ancient Greek. In the link, you can find the sources she used at the end of the text. I must now add that I did not necessarily expect to enjoy an article written by Mrs Manolidou (she’s well known in Greece and married to a politician) but that’s a personal impression that perhaps shouldn’t influence you. Going on with the article under the cut.]

I’ll begin with its title, “Can a dead language live again?”, which clearly refers to our language, Ancient Greek. I call it “ours” because even though we don’t comprehend it very well when reading ancient texts, we however use it in our everyday speech, even without realizing it.

For example, we might not know that the word αὐδή (avdí) means voice but we say very often “έμεινα άναυδος” (émina ánavdos = I was left speechless / voiceless). We might not know the phrase «ξύλου ἅπτεσθαι» (= knock on wood) but we always search for wood to knock when trying to avoid a bad omen.

Of course, I should not even start with the vocabulary in sciences, arts and literature because the list is endless. The Greek language is a living language that has survived not because we say so but because it remains in the international vocabulary by enriching most European languages.

Every year, students of the Classical Studies abroad rush to acquire books, teaching methods for Ancient Greek from Oxford, Cambridge and the rest acclaimed publishing companies. I will refer to the publications POLIS Institute Press of the Jerusalem Institute of Languages and Humanities with the title «Λαλεῖν τῇ κοινῇ διαλέκτῷ τῇ ζῶσῃ» (=Speaking the common living dialect). Meaning, the Common Greek, the living.

It is known that almost all schools in Europe kindle interest and enthusiasm in kids to learn the Classical Languages - and not “dead” so as to condemn them in advance - Latin and Greek. And yes in most countries they are taught with the Erasmian pronunciation because it helps them understand the dictation. Just for that. Not because they think it’s the correct pronunciation. Not anymore.

The Erasmian being an accurate description of how the ancients talked is an outdated thesis which many of the intellectuals and professors in Europe have now understood and explained. I will try to add some arguments in favor of this statement in short.

For those who don’t know, Desiderius Erasmus Roterdamus (1466 – 1536) was a Dutch monk who invented a method that would help those who learned Ancient Greek to write it down correctly. So, where someone would say “Χαίρε” (hére) and write it as «χέρε» (because that’s how it sounds), Erasmus explained that they should think of it as “háire” in order to write it correctly. But he never urged people to pronounce it like that.

Besides, in his book Colloquia Familiaria in the chapter “Echo”, he explains how to pronounce the diphthongs -onis, ονοις / -kopi, κόποι / -lici, λύκοι / -logi λόγοι/ and so on. Erasmus never said this is how Ancient Greeks talked, he just urged his students to memorize the correct dictation by ear. No European language is spoken exactly as it’s written.

We all think of such tricks to write words correctly. For instance, we think “extra-ordinary” but no fluent speaker of English pronounces it like that. Unfortunately, during the Renaissance in Europe, when the arts and literature were greatly inspired by the Greek mythology, history and philosophy, Greece under the centuries-long Turkish occupation couldn’t be a match for the rest of Europe. So when the French, German and Italian aristocrats spoke Ancient Greek to each other, we spoke a mix of Greek, Turkish and Italian, a blended language that we would hardly comprehend nowadays. And thankfully, our language survived thanks to the Church and the Scripts, which are written in Ancient Greek.

Therefore we did not know the way Ancient Greek was spoken in Europe. Here in Greece, we didn’t know. There were Greeks who didn’t live in Greece during the Ottoman rule though who knew. One of them was the priest Konstantinos Economou of Economon (1780-1857) who in his work «Περὶ τῆς Γνησίας Προφορᾶς τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς Γλώσσης» (=Regarding the Authentic Pronunciation of the Greek Language), Saint Petersburg 1829, explains why there’s no way the Ancient Greeks separated the diphthongs.

First of all, they were called “diphthongs” which means “two sounds in one”. If they don’t mean that, then why call them this way? Just like Andrea Marcolongo says in her book «La lingua geniale» , which translates to “the genius language” and not “the wonderful language”, with the subtitle «9 ragioni per amare il Greco», meaning, “9 reasons to love Greek” (Ancient Greek clearly, that’s what they always mean by “Greek” in Europe), there is no language more rich, precise and well-studied than Greek. Otherwise we wouldn’t have diphthongs, let alone a need for a diacritic mark( mark used to indicate a vowel forms its own syllable). We say «αρχαιολογία» and in English it’s archaeology, «παλαιοντολογία» and it’s «paleontology». But we say «αρχαϊκό» (note the diacritic) and in English it’s «archaic».

Let’s examine some more words: We say «ατμόσφαιρα» which in Latin is atmosfera. We say αίνιγμα, in latin it’s enigma. We say ενέργεια, in latin “energia” / αιθήρ, in Latin etere / Aίγυπτος, Egitto / μυστήριο, mistero / φαινόμενο, phenomenon / εγκυκλοπαίδεια, enciclopedia. The list is long and if we get ourselves into the scientific vocabulary (ginecologo, ematologo, pediatro), we will never end with this. In short, Latin, a “sister” language to Greek, saved through itself the pronunciation of Ancient Greek.

One more argument: the Greek words can be stressed exclusively in three syllables: the ultimate, the penultimate or the antepenultimate. If we separate the diphthongs, the punctuation gets out of hand. So instead of “hérete”, we would say “háirete” which is obviously wrong. With the separation of the diphthongs, the Dactylic Hexameter (the rhythmic scheme of Ancient Greek epic poetry) would collapse. Perhaps you’ve heard the attempts of the Europeans to recite the Iliad or the Odyssey.

Homer’s poetic epic has a completely different sound due to the loss of the Hexameter. Besides, just like Erasmus said and Economou quotes in his book: «Conducendus aliquis, natione Graecus, licet alioquin parvum eruditus, propter nativum illum ac patrium sonum, ut castigate graeca sonari dicantur.» Meaning, “Call someone, Greek in nation, even with little or no education, for that native sound, so that you learn the exact and natural pronunciation of Greek.”

What’s truly pitiful in this situation is not how foreigners learn to speak Ancient Greek. The true shame is that such a beautiful, rich and living language, our language, is more appreciated, loved and respected abroad than in Greece. I admire the people who try so hard to learn a language for which they don’t even know the alphabet. And yet they try, they learn it, they speak it, they teach it and that’s why the big publishing companies still publish teaching methods for Ancient Greek.

In the foreign universities, most professors teaching Ancient Greek are foreign. Foreign professors tutoring foreign students. It’s them who come to Greece for vacation and crowd our monuments and museums, which are right on our feet and yet we consider a visit there as a nuisance. If we truly want to love our language, our history and culture, we should be taught Ancient Greek from a young age, as a living language, like they do abroad.

With simple, comprehensible texts, from the mythology, from Aesop, from simple sayings and delphic orders, our language is full of them. So instead of occupying ourselves with whether Homer’s sheep cried “vee” or “beh” and instead of trying to decode why the Greek rooster says kokoriko while the English rooster says Cock-a-doodle-doo - he does neither - let’s try to make our children understand the importance, the meaning and the symbolism of the Naval Battle of Salamís instead of a plain «ὦ παῖδες Ἑλλήνων, ἴτε» (= O children of the Greeks, arise), dry and withered.

#αρχαία ελληνικά #greece #europe #greek #ancient greek #erasmus #languages #greek language #langblr #greek culture

13 notes · View notes

mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

Text

Song for Autumn: Home || Morgan & Deirdre (pt.1)

TIMING: A few days ago

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan’s ritual needs a very specific conduit. Deirdre knows exactly what she’s looking for.

CONTAINS: Brief discussions of past physical and emotional abuse

One a single minute had passed between the last time Deirdre glanced over at Morgan and tried to stir her attention with a pout, and the horrific realization that Morgan was too entrenched in her reading to even notice Deirdre’s piteous gaze. She’d finished sharpening the knives she sat down with minutes ago, now bored with reveling in the warm silence that filled these afternoons shared with Morgan. It was one singular, burning, terrible, minute from the last time she tried to stir Morgan’s attention, and another two minutes from the time she tried before then. And she knew it would be more agonizing minutes before Morgan remembered she was there at all, and that the sound of scraping against whetstone no longer claimed the air. Sometimes, action needed to be taken into her own hands. With the grace of a cat, she pounced on Morgan’s legs--careful of her files and folders--and crawled up until she could put her face in front of whatever decidedly less attractive text she was reading. Her eyes sparked with curiosity, but her mouth twitched with the tell-tale mark of a fae that wanted attention. “I know you physically can’t get wrinkles, but---” Deirdre offered a wide smile, raising her thumb to wipe away the concentration that fraught between Morgan’s brows. “You’ve been very interested in your papers lately.” The and not so much in me, your adoring and very attractive girlfriend hung unsaid in the air, having been said enough times before to be an echo in the way she pouted. “What are you up to? Anything I can steal you from?” She eyed the cup of once boiling tea---brewed as strong as tea could be---now lukewarm and staining the inside of one of several mugs Deirdre had bought for Morgan. It was a trait that persisted even through death, but Morgan always touched her tea more when it was grading or lesson plans on her mind. “This is Constance stuff, isn’t it?”

The books Morgan and Cece had stolen from the professor’s house were more of a gold mine than she had wanted to believe. She was so used to the world falling around her or promising doors slamming in her face. But this--? Whatever retribution game the original owner of this book had been playing at was, it had been thorough. The one Morgan was settling on was particularly insidious, calling for extra sources of energy, for objects to stabilize and direct the energy safely, for even wielding the pain brought on with precision, ramping it up more as the ritual progressed. Finding someone with the stamina for an hours-long ordeal, and the nerve to go through with this kind of harm, wouldn’t be easy. But Morgan had money, and she could front her own materials. It was only right that she invest herself in her ritual, even if she could do nothing in its execution. The ingredients ran the gamut from easy to forage herbs to...the obscure. Some of the terms were things Morgan hadn’t even heard of…

Deirdre’s voice shocked her out of her stupor. She hadn’t even heard her climb onto the couch. Morgan squealed, then deflated with relief and leaned over to kiss away her pout. “If you want to cuddle, you just have to ask, my love,” she said sweetly. “But yes, it’s Constance. This book has everything I need and then some, but as I’m trying to get my lists together, what I need, where and how am I going to get it, who is going to help and/or bodyguard me from more ghost attacks...I’m not actually sure what all of this stuff is?” She shifted the papers she wasn’t using to the coffee table and guided Deirdre to lay against her so they could look together. “Now, thanks to Evelyn’s help, I’m getting through this weird blend of Latin and French way better that I would have on my own. But this--” she pointed. “Translates to a comb of iron? Iron comb? Is that like...a hair comb?” She laughed, self deprecating at her own confusion and stroked Deirdre’s hair, bringing her in for another kiss.

Deirdre continued to crawl her way between the couch and Morgan, resting her head on the woman’s chest as she’d so often done to her. It, admittedly, was not as comfortable as they would be on more forgiving furniture, but it was better than being sat in her separate chair, sharing longing looks with the side of her girlfriend’s head. “I have been asking, you just hadn’t looked up a single time to see it,” she tried to sound hurt, but her grumble couldn’t last under the delight of finally being able to hold Morgan. She draped her arms around Morgan’s stomach and pressed tight, tilting her head down to see what Morgan was talking about. She stared at the words under her girlfriend’s finger. Blinked. Closed her eyes and kissed Morgan eagerly, imagining the words would shift when she opened them again. But there they were. Peigne de fer. La carde. A jumble of French she didn’t understand, but the English Morgan translated, she did. Her body tensed by reflex, then shivered. “It’s for sheep.” She explained plainly. “Or for the wool, more specifically.” Her hand tightened around Morgan, gripping the fabric of her clothing tightly. “You card the wool to straighten the fibers and pull out any clumps so you can begin spinning it.” She slumped against Morgan and closed her eyes. Memories she would have done well to forget drifted back to her. Her mother held one such Warden designed iron carder in her hands, and spoke something or another about the old fashioned ones and the torture they enjoyed. Somewhere, beyond their bodies, a pig squealed. “The more modern hand carders look just like combs, that’s all they really are, anyway. But the older ones are…” She swallowed and opened her eyes. “That’s what I think your passages are talking about, at least. They aren’t used for much else.”

Laying sprawled together like this delighted Morgan to no end. Toes curling, legs tangling, she folded herself around her girlfriend and showered her head in yet more kisses. “Mmm, I’m sorry, babe,” she murmured, gathering Deirdre’s hair so it would be easier to play with. “I suppose I’ll have to make it up to you, or else be severely punished.” She giggled and tilted Deirdre’s chin up to steal another kiss, a proper lingering one that left cotton tingles on her cheek and lips and reminded her of what touch had once been. The memory grew harder to find each month, but warmth of feeling beneath it never faltered.

Morgan’s pleasure didn’t last for long. Deirdre tensed in her arms, trembling, and looked away from the text. Morgan couldn’t connect her girlfriend’s explanation about the comb to her distress, but she knew something was wrong. “Hey…” she cooed, leaning down to give more kisses. “What is it, my love?” Was it the iron? The sheep? Morgan looked at the text again, putting the image of a plain farm tool in place of the words. “It is a weird choice for a conduit, I guess,” she mumbled, “Are the kind of combs this is probably referring to kind of big or bulky?” The ritual had been written during the French Revolution, after all, when a band of exorcists and casters determined the guillotine had been too good for some aristocrats, and destroying their ghosts was their second chance. Whatever they determined would suit their purpose probably wasn’t subtle, which suited Morgan just fine, in theory. “The uh...the sheep aren’t still attached to the wool, right?” She asked, still trying to make sense of Deirdre’s reaction. “I don’t have to bring it into the house, you know. It can stay in the garage, or a lock box in the shed if we ever get it back. Somewhere you won’t touch it by accident?” Morgan set aside her book altogether and wrapped Deirdre up in her arms. “Talk to me,” she said in a whisper. “Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

“And I’m not known to be merciful, my love.” Deirdre hummed, and then her voice spilled into laughter. Of course, if anyone would pick up on what she was feeling, even before she processed it herself, it would be Morgan. By some miracle, her love knew her exceptionally well, and Deirdre was thankful for it. If it wasn’t for her gentle assurances and nudges, Deirdre never would summon the strength to bear honesty with such ease. She laughed again, and shifted to bury her head into Morgan’s neck. There, enveloped in Morgan--surrounded by her scent and the gentle tugging of her undeadness--she imagined that there was a world without iron combs. Without their truth. Without pain. A world that they deserved, and could have. A happy, gentle world, where Deirdre might just have been the bright and brilliant person Morgan seemed to think she was. A good world. A kind world. Their world. Deirdre was stirred to reality by the rustling of paper, pulled back and opened her eyes to their house--filled with their things. It wasn’t too far off from some magical land where terror couldn’t find them; most days, it felt like that. Her eyes moved to the papers, books, notes and folders scattered around them. The scene looked eerily like the one in the Haven Hotel, months ago, when there was a heartbeat pressed against Deirdre’s cheek. Back then, there had been a lump in her stomach, a gnawing fear that Morgan would be lost to fate. She’d been right, and left to wonder if her fear was premonition or simple anxiety. When the same lump settled inside of her again, she didn’t know what to think. “I don’t know how someone touches a pointy comb by accident,” Deirdre laughed, pressing a firm kiss to Morgan’s cheek. “And the sheep aren’t attracted, no. Wool processing is long; you have to shear it and then prepare and wash it. Then it dries and---” Deirdre reddened, coughing as she remembered that yarn production was not Morgan’s concern now. Anything, perhaps, to save a few seconds before the truth. “Torture,” she said after a moment. “It’s probably an effective conduit because it was used for torture. You rake it across someone’s flesh. The iron must be effective for ghosts.” Just as it was for fae, and just as Deirdre knew how such devices worked against her kind. Not that it mattered. “Hm, the hand carders aren’t so big. There are, obviously, bigger ones out there. What do the books say you need?”

Morgan knew from Deirdre’s hesitation that what followed would be anything but good. She even knew from the deliberate plainness her girlfriend spoke with that she hadn’t gotten the knowledge out of a book. There had been enough references to the extracurricular torture Sibohan had put Deirdre through, but the image of a comb bristling with iron points had never crossed Morgan’s mind. She brushed her knuckles down her soft, freckled skin, trying to imagine someone tearing and burning it at once. Was that something Wardens did for fun that Sibohan thought she needed to impart? Or was it just another barbaric lesson. “Oh, Deirdre…” she whispered. “I had...no idea…” She tucked them closer together, curled up and all but locked in place, as if that could do anything for how she’d been thoughtfully tortured and broken from the outside in years ago. “You know we…” she grimaced and buried her face in her hair. “I know what we said before, but you don’t have to do this with me. I can…” her stomach turned at the thought of trying to find something like this, holding it in her hand, knowing what it was really for and how it had been used to hurt Deirdre. “I can figure this one out on my own. I can...I don’t know. But I don’t want you to have to relive anything like that because of me.” She didn’t know how to say it, but she feared Deirdre conflating her with that torture just as much. But Constance was different, and so was Morgan. She wouldn’t do something so monstrous for no reason, and never to anyone she wasn’t certain deserved it. But hurt did funny things to people, and trauma haunted in ways that didn’t always make sense.

“What?” If Deirdre had the strength to sit up and ruin the tight, tangled hold the two of them had perfected, she might have from the shock. “No, no,” she calmed her voice. “I’m not reliving anything, I’m not--I wouldn’t be. It doesn’t---” She sighed, and lifted her head up, trying to catch Morgan’s to pepper with reassurance and affection where she could. “The things that I’ve seen, and been through...they exist everywhere. In iron combs, spoons, mugs--” Deirdre gestured around their house. “At one point, one of these things has been bad for me in some way. By what was done with them, by them having been witnesses. With what I’ve seen, what I’ve been made to see. I don’t look at a mug and always think about each that my mother threw at a wall anymore than you must look at a lock and imagine the one of your bedroom. I’d much rather see a cup as being something you hold, something I get to pour your boiling tea into. I’d rather see it as good. And that’s exactly what I think about when I look at it.” She pressed into Morgan, holding her tighter. “And if I can help you, if a tool like that can be used to deliver justice, then it gets to be good. And I get to see it that way. The rest doesn’t matter to me. You are good, and you will use whatever tool you see fit, however you want to, and I will love you all the same.” Deirdre smiled softly, twisting her body up so she could kiss her girlfriend with as much love as she could muster. And again. And again, and again until she was sure her point was clear. She raked her teeth along Morgan’s lip as she drew back, thinking nothing of the iron and the way it could tear at her own flesh. “Thank you, my love. But it’s okay. The torture done to my kind is never a pleasant thing to think about, but it’s not new to me, and it’s not so terrible a thought that I won’t help you. I want to. I know it will serve you better than it would anyone else. I trust you, Morgan, and I love you. More than anything else. Now, what does your research say about the comb? Is there a specific kind you need?”

Morgan threw herself into Deirdre’s kisses, returning them with her own, firm and earnest and bursting with an affection she couldn’t put into words. She couldn’t say, ‘you dodged your mother’s mugs, too?’ and ‘I love your resilience and your courage and how much you love me,’ and ‘you are the wisest and most wonderful woman I know’ at the same time, much less in the seconds it took to take her lip between her teeth. And even these thoughts, swimming around her head as they slipped deeper into the couch cushions, didn’t quite get to the heart of the recognition that cut through her, or how it mixed with horror, sympathy, pride, affection, gratitude. She hoped that the alchemy between them would translate and Deridre would understand what even she couldn’t. Morgan didn’t bother with words at all until she felt Deirdre’s breathing grow strained against her.

“You’re incredible,” Morgan whispered. “I am so very proud to know you, Deirdre.” Another kiss, chased and sweet. “And, about that, I’m sticking hard to the original to minimize surprises, and I don’t want some stodgy exorcist to turn me down for not being through enough, so…”

#wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #abuse tw #physical abuse tw #//it's actually really short!#song for autumn #wickedswriting

9 notes · View notes

web-of-fics · 4 years

Text

Notes - Part 2

Starring: Peter Parker x reader (female)

Fandom: MCU

Words: 1674

Click here to read part 1!

Summary: After befriending the person he shares his desk with, Peter tries to find a way to meet them.

✎_____________________________________________________________________

“Mr. Parker. What were you thinking!” coming from their principal, it wasn’t a question as much as an exclamation.

“I-- uh, I’m sorry sir I--”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

Peter sank further into the office chair. It wasn’t until he had been called in that he had realized he probably could have volunteered to monitor the detention room or something. That option had not occurred to him while he was flooding the east hallway to make it a slip-n-slide during lunch hour. He wanted a fast ticket to detention without actually doing anyone harm. But according to the school administration, the floors and walls had suffered enough damage to warrant suspension.

“Look, it was just supposed to be a prank. It was a stupid prank, I promise I’ll pay for any damages. It might take me a while but I’ll even pay to repaint the lockers or something too. Just please please don’t suspend me, I’ll lose my internship for sure...” Peter babbled.

The principal stiffened, recalling that Peter worked for Tony Stark. The Tony Stark, who had so kindly funded the school’s science and technology programming for the past few months. Surely those donations would cease if they were no longer benefitting his own intern.

“Mr. Parker,” he sighed heavily.

Peter stared, wide-eyed.

“You raise some good points. I am going to let you go this time with a warning,” he said through his teeth. “And if I ever catch wind of you being involved with something like this again in any way, I will have no choice but to suspend you, if not expel...”

Peter’s mouth was dry. Hermione had been right: just thinking about expulsion sent Peter into a panic worse than when he had faced death through his Spidey adventures. Hopefully this would all be worth it when he got to finally see you in detention.

“I understand, thank you sir,” Peter said breathlessly. “I suppose I should just march myself down to detention, huh?” he said willingly.

“Ab-solutely not! I want you off school grounds by the time I count to ten and I don’t want to see you here for the rest of the day Mr. Parker. Go home and study.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, breathing steadily to manage his fury.

“But shouldn’t I be punish--” Peter started. The principal began counting and Peter darted out of the room, almost slipping on the still-wet hallway.

He didn’t take the ten-second countdown seriously, but Peter knew he had to stay out of sight. Still, he took the long way around to the front exit so he could pass the detention room.

Peter approached the door, glancing up and down the hallway as he did to make sure he was still alone. He angled himself so he could peek through the slotted window in the doorway without being in plain view of anyone inside. He craned his neck. He could see that someone was sitting in his seat, but he couldn’t see their face. He pressed his hands to the door and leaned sideways, craning further, trying to catch a glimpse...

Peter’s shoe squeaked as his foot slipped sideways, forcing him to reach out instinctively for support. His hand caught the door handle, pushing it down and opening the door as he regained his balance.

He froze, staring at the room full of delinquents as they stared back. The attending teacher looked up lazily from his desk. “Ah, late for detention, eh? May I assume tardiness is what brought you here to begin with?” he smiled knowingly, although he could not have been more wrong. “Grab a seat please. We have about twenty minutes left.”

Everyone else in the room turned back to their own thoughts as Peter’s feet propelled him forward and into the open seat next to the girl he was certain was his desk friend. He glanced at you sideways, unable to tear his eyes away as he tried to learn as much as he could about you now that he was seeing you in person. Loose hair, soft jaw, pursed lips.

You were were focused on your Chem homework, hoping to finish it by the time you were dismissed. Other than the social faux pas of being a kid in detention, it was just like another study hall. The quiet in this room sure beat the chaos at home. You scribbled a few more calculations and closed the last page of the packet, glancing again to the bottom corner of the desk where you had written your answer to your mysterious friend’s question last night. The “yes” had been erased with no replacement question for you to answer. You weren’t sure what it meant.

The kid who had come in late and sat next to you cleared his throat loudly. You ignored him. You flipped your packet over and started to doodle on the backside, watching the clock count down the remaining five minutes before you were free.

Peter cleared his throat again, accidentally aspirating this time and launching himself into a coughing fit.

You inched your chair away self-consciously, not sure if this kid was sick on top of being tardy. You hated tardy kids. As if they had more important places to be than school! You got that school wasn’t for everyone, but some of your classmates could at least make more of an effort than showing up an hour late with their extravagant and unnecessary lattes.

“Alright everybody, that does it for today. Scram.” The teacher unbuckled his briefcase and slipped a folder into it as the room emptied.

You stuffed your supplies into your backpack and stood.

“Um,” the kid who had been sitting next to you caught your attention. You looked down just as he erased something he had written on his desk. Had he been coughing to try and get you to look over? Suddenly everything clicked into place. But you were too nervous that you might be wrong. Better to hear what this guy had to say first. His warm eyes and floppy hair didn’t seem threatening. But how humiliating would it be to have the wrong guy.

“Uh, yeah?” you said cautiously.

He stood awkwardly to meet your gaze. “Um, hi.”

The teacher didn’t so much as look back at the pair of you as he vacated the room.

Now the two of you stood alone. At this point you weren’t positive if you were speaking to a friend or a total stranger.

“Weird question,” he laughed nervously. “But, um, do you sit there every day?” he pointed at the desk.

Heat rushed into your face. “Yes,” your tongue dried up as you answered.

“Oh, good. I mean me too. During first period.”

“Oh! Wow so that means... you get my notes?” you said boldly.

“Yeah,” he laughed nervously. You felt the same way. Excited to finally meet your mysterious new friend but terrified of messing it up now that you were standing face-to-face.

“So, um, this is sort of awkward, but you didn’t answer my last question...” you said.

“I did! And I asked you--something, but when I sat there today it was all erased. I wasn’t sure if it was, you know, someone who works here or maybe you didn’t want to answer me or something,” Peter said quickly.

“Oh,” you said, taking a moment to process this. You had spend the beginning of detention thinking your question about his favorite birthday had scared him off. “Yeah, well I didn’t erase it,” you laughed. “I guess things turned out okay though!”

“What do you mean?”

“My answer was yes. Yes, I would very much like to meet in person someday,” you beamed.

Now it was Peter’s turn to process things. “Um... cool.”

“What, am I not all you hoped I would be?” you said half-jokingly.

“No--not that! Sorry! You seem just as cool as I imagined. Cooler. But I was just thinking that meeting in detention is kind of lame,” Peter said with an uncertain smile.

“Oh, yeah,” you felt heat rise in your face even more. What must he be thinking about you right now? “I’m only here because I let my friend copy my homework. She’s not doing great in Chem but she needs to keep her GPA so she can stay on the volleyball team,” you shrugged, hoping it was better to sound like a nerd than a prankster or something.

“Oh,” a genuine, relieved smile spread across Peter’s face. You both turned for the door and continued talking into the hallway. “You know, I’m not even supposed to be in detention.” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Peter was about to say more when you both turned down the water-soaked hallway. Whoever had attempted to clean this up earlier had really not been thorough.

“What--” you started.

Peter burst into laughter. “Um, I could explain this if you want. It’s a whole thing.”

“You did this?” you said with wide eyes as you picked your way carefully towards the exit.

“Like I said, it’s a long story. Um, if you’re free we could stop for a milkshake somewhere and I could tell you about it? We could pretend that’s our first time meeting instead.”

“That sounds awesome. I have to stop home for like two seconds but give me an address and I’ll meet you there.”

“Maybe this is a good time to exchange numbers?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” you said, handing your phone over and typing your name and number into his. You switched back and read his name, finally having a name for the mysterious note buddy you’d had for the past three weeks.

Peter Parker.

Your phone buzzed with a text from him: the promised milkshake address.

“Got it. See you in a few, then, Peter Parker.”

You both waved as you parted, grinning wildly to yourselves with excitement at the realization that your beloved note friend turned out to be an equally cool nerd in person.

_______________________________________________________________________

Just one more before bed? Click here for a masterlist of my fics!

🕸

Tag List: @juliebean247 @herondalism

39 notes · View notes

cat-brodsky · 4 years

Text

richard pipen is the worst pre-med student ever: death caps in the secret history

"Judy, what would you do if you had a hundred and three degrees of fever?” “I would go to the fucking doctor,” she said without looking away from the TV.

must i say anything else

This post may contain errors, and anyone is welcome to point them out.

@sadbabywltch gets a thanks for the inspiration

some context

"You studied medicine for a while, didn't you?” [Henry] said.

I knew this to be a prelude to some health-related inquiry. My one year of pre-med had provided scanty knowledge at best...

I’m going to cite some parts of The Secret History, but I cannot copy the entire text of the scene in question. If you haven’t read it, this scene won’t make as much sense.

This post contains extensive discussion of mushroom poisoning as a murder method, so consider yourself warned. This post also contains math and biology, so people allergic to either should turn back.

Richard Pipen knows absolutely nothing about medicine. And I intend to prove that.

on amanita phalloides

Aka, death cap. The most poisonous out of all known mushrooms - half a mushroom (30 grams) is enough to kill a grown human. If Henry had really done extensive research, he should know that - and he said that he has.

“You have no idea how much thought I've put into this. Even to the strain of poison. It's said to make the throat swell, do you know that? Victims are said to be struck dumb, unable to name their poisoner.”

He should also know that the throat swelling is a myth. A.phalloides cause gradual organ failure. Symptoms of poisoning occur twelve hours later, too late to seek treatment, and death generally occurs six to sixteen days after the poisoning.

He should also know that there are less toxic species of Amanita. For instance, Amanita muscaria (fly agaric) is a hallucinogen, and symptoms take only thirty to ninety minutes to appear. Considering that the entire friend group has already been taking drugs regularly, Henry could offer Bunny a lethal dose, ingest a small one, and seek treatment.

There is also Coprinopsis atramentaria - the common ink cap, or tippler’s bane. This mushroom is poisonous, even lethally so, if combined with alcohol. I don’t need to spell the murder method out.

But, of course, Henry is high Intelligence low Wisdom and obsessed with ancient history; if Claudius allegedly died via death caps getting mixed with Caesar’s mushrooms, then it must clearly be the best way to poison someone.

on advanced calculus

“Let's say we know, for instance, that x amount of the drug in question is enough to affect a seventy pound animal and another, slightly larger amount is sufficient to kill it. I've figured out a rough formula, but still we are talking about a very fine distinction. So, knowing this much, how do I go about calculating the rest?”

Quick reminder that Henry killed one dog and poisoned another.

I’m not going to do calculations on A.muscaria or any other method of murder - A.phalloides is what the characters were poring over. I’m going to explain the calculations as simply as I can, and then provide some references for those of you who are interested in biology.

The characters don’t have the internet available, but they have the whole college library, a virtually unlimited amount of money, and a town where everyone takes illegal substances at their disposal. What they need is a pharmacology textbook (to look up the necessary equations), a reference on poisonous mushrooms (to look up death caps), and perhaps a handbook on toxins.

LD50 is what Henry is after - that is, “the dose required to kill half the members of a tested population after a specified test duration.” (I hope that the readers can already see that two dogs are not a large enough sample size.) LD50 is conveniently measured in mg/kg. We have the characters’ exact weights: Bunny is 86 kg, Henry is 97.5 kg.

Amatoxins are a group of toxins contained in A.phalloides, and the one that causes symptoms of death cap poisoning. LD50 of amatoxins in humans is estimated to be 0.1 mg/kg. Thus, Bunny would need to ingest 0.1*86 = 8.6 mg amatoxins, perhaps less, preferrably more, to be stone dead. Here I make an assumption that 0.05 mg/kg is not lethal; with Henry’s poor health, it might be. Henry would need to ingest under 0.05*97.5 = 4.87 mg to not be dead.

Oral LD50 for amatoxins in dogs is 0.5 mg/kg. Finding out the amatoxin content should be an easy calculation: X grams divided by 31 kg contains 0.5 mg. We know that X grams minus one gram failed to kill the other dog, so we can assume this is not low-balling the dose.

For the sake of ease, let’s say X = 31 -> 0.5 mg amatoxins in one gram of locally harvested, organic death cap. This looks close to reality. Per Yilmaz et al (2015) a death cap ingested by a patient contained 0.426 mg amatoxins per gram, and you can calculate that yourself.

And now a simple proportion:

0.5 mg (per gram) / N mg (lethal dose) = 1 gram / X grams (of mushroom)

Bunny: 8.6/0.5 = 17.2 grams (ingest more than that)

Henry: 4.87/0.5 = 9.74 grams (ingest less than that)

partway disclaimer

Of course, I wouldn’t stake my life, or anyone’s, on those calculations.

The toxin content of the A.phalloides can vary drastically depending on geographical location, season, maturity, etc. This could be remedied, I guess, by gathering a large amount of them, mixing them and chopping them into paste, then testing some of the mixture to determine LD50 and the amatoxin content.

From the data at hand, the exact content of amatoxins cannot be precisely determined. But, hey, Henry only needs to poison more dogs to find out!

and now for some more science

A.phalloides contains two main groups of toxins: amatoxins and phallotoxins, and also phallolysin. Phallolysin is not toxic if taken orally, so that’s out. Phallotoxins were found to have little contribution to death cap toxicity, perhaps because they are not absorbed through the gut. (Though it’s not certain whether the characters would have this information in 1982.) This leaves us with amatoxins.

Yilmaz et al (2015) describe a patient who recovered after ingesting approximately 0.32 mg/kg amatoxins (but after developing liver failure). This is why I’m assuming 0.05 mg/kg is non-lethal.

LD50 for amatoxins in dogs has been calculated for α-amanitin and methyl-γ-amanitin.

Garcia et al (2015) gives the amount of a-amanitin in different tissues of A.phalloides as follows (mg/gram dry weight): 0.67 to 0.78 in caps, 0.30 to 0.32 in stipes and 0.07 to 0.10 in volvas.

why richard is an idiot sandwich

Look, perhaps I’m misunderstanding what Donna Tartt has written, but Richard comes across as right for the wrong reasons. He’s right in that trying to non-lethally poison yourself with something so deadly as A.phalloides is a monumentally stupid affair. He’s wrong about everything else.

Faced with a simple calculation like the above, how does Richard go about it?

Equations about chemical concentration were never my strong point in chemistry, and they are difficult enough when you are trying to figure a fixed concentration in a suspension of distilled water; but this, dealing as it did with varying concentrations in irregularly shaped objects, was virtually impossible. He had probably used all the elementary algebra he knew in figuring this, and as far as I could follow him he hadn't done a bad job; but this wasn't a problem that could be worked with algebra, if it could be worked at all. Someone with three or four years of college calculus might have been able to come up with something that at least looked more convincing; by tinkering, I was able to narrow his ratio slightly but I had forgotten most of the little calculus I knew and the answer I wound up with, though probably closer than his own, was far from correct.

I didn’t know proportions required three or four years of college calculus. If the mushrooms are irregularly shaped, why not weigh them?

“It's a good try, but just by looking at it I can tell that it's insolvable without chemical tables and a good working knowledge of calculus and chemistry proper. There's no way to figure it otherwise. I mean, chemical concentrations aren't even measured in terms of grams and milligrams but in something called moles.”

There are different kinds of chemical concentration, and molar concentration is just one of them. “Something called moles”? A mole is, simply, an amount of substance that contains 6.02214076×1023 molecules (Avogadro number). This is sixth-grade chemistry. It’s also completely irrelevant here.

It’s a miracle Richard ever got into pre-med.

Henry, paraphrased: Oh, well, if I overdose - which I can totally figure out despite the fact that the symptoms take twelve hours to show when the damage is already done - I can just have some atropine. Atropine will totally counteract amatoxins.

...Never mind, Henry is also an idiot - though, at least, that is highlighted in-story. What does he plan on doing, drinking a whole bunch of atropine without knowing the precise dose he ingested?

“They are exactly opposite in effect. Atropine speeds the nervous system, rapid heartbeat and so forth. Amatoxins slow it down.”

No, they are not. To put it in plain English, amatoxins cause cell death - nothing about nervous system. Atropine basically counters the parasympathetic system, kicks your organism into fight or flight mode.

Do you know what atropine is an antidote to? Muscarine. It’s a compound found in certain mushrooms - such as A.muscaria, though only in trace amounts. Atropine and muscarine both bind to muscarinic acetylcholine receptors. Muscarine is not found in A.phalloides. Confusing amatoxins with muscarine is... I imagine it’s excusable if ancient Persian texts are your most recent source.

Oh, and one more thing while I’m at it.

“The Persians? I didn't know you read Arabic.”

In Persia (modern Iran), they speak Farsi, not Arabic. Oh, Richard. I imagine Henry took pity on him and didn’t correct the poor fool.

conclusion

There are two ways to engage with canon - from an in-story perspective (Watsonian) or an outside perspective (Doylist). I’ll leave you to discover what the third (Forsythian) perspective is.

From an in-story perspective, I am drawing the conclusion that both Richard and Henry are utterly inept at math, biology, medicine, and common sense; heaven only knows what “algebraic equations” they spent a good half hour going over.

From an outside perspective... well, if Tartt wrote all those errors purposefully, then it’s a nice bonus for any reader who knows basic medicine. If she didn’t, then I can fault her for not doing enough research. A middle ground is more likely: I’m certain that the 103F episode was intentional, but the Arabic in Persia wasn’t, since Henry of all people would lambast Richard for this error mercilessly.

half-assed references

Garcia, J et al. Determination of amatoxins and phallotoxins in Amanita phalloides mushrooms from northeastern Portugal by HPLC-DAD-MS. Mycologia, 107(4): 679-687. 2015.

Hooser, S.; Khan, S. Common Toxicologic Issues in Small Animals: An Update, An Issue of Veterinary Clinics of North America: Small Animal Practice: Ebook. Elsevier Health Sciences. 2018.

Tu, A.; ed. Handbook of Natural Toxins: Food Poisoning (1st edition). CRC Press.1992.

Wieland, T. Peptides of poisonous Amanita mushrooms. Springer-Verlag.1986.

Yilmaz, I et al. A Case Study: What Doses of Amanita phalloides and Amatoxins Are Lethal to Humans? Wilderness Environ Med. 26(4): 491–496. 2015.

#dark academia #the secret history #henry winter #richard papen #donna tartt #poisonous mushrooms #amanita phalloides #biology #studyblr #book analysis

44 notes · View notes

excusemyobsessions · 4 years

Text

“I’m here to love you, even when you don’t love yourself.” (x Woosung)

The Rose’s Woosung

Hi! Before you proceed please, please read this.

This text involves themes like self-deprecation. It talks specifically about not feeling well about how you look and about who and how you are.

Although it may be comforting, it may also be triggering. Please, please don’t force yourself to read this if you think it’ll make you uncomfortable.

Also, I’m a little iffy about posting this because this request seems to have struck something inside and I might have written too much. Although it also turned out very sweet. If it makes anyone uncomfortable, please let me know immediately and I will take it down.

Word count: 1580 words

Scenario: From anonymous: “I want to request a Sammy fluffy oneshot, when you are feeling really insecure about your face and body, and never take of your clothes or makeup in front of him and he comforts you and makes you feel loved and appreciated.”

Genre: One shot, Angst, Soft, Fluff, Gender neutral (tagging this as gender neutral because come on, let’s not even)

(couldn’t find a better gif)

There it was again, that time of the day. It was time to settle down, remove your mask and your worries, remove your makeup and change your clothes.

It was time to get comfortable, only you couldn't settle down that day. Woosung had insisted you'd stay over and you had eventually agreed. Thoughtlessly so.

The truth was you had a big secret you'd been keeping from him. It had nothing to do with him, nothing at all. It was all on you and your head.

For a while now you'd been feeling uncomfortable with the sole thought of going bare, going raw anywhere near him. It made you uncomfortable being stripped of makeup and carefully thought outfits and just being plain you near him. You knew it was all in your head. You knew it very well. But you just couldn't shake it off. You just kept thinking about how you were definitely not good enough to be by his side, how he could find so much better, how he'd probably just get bored of you very soon. You had no idea how those thoughts had developed in your head but they were so deeply rooted that even if you kept digging down to rip them off, it just felt like you kept digging yourself deeper and deeper in them.

So, you were standing in his room, staring at the pile of freshly washed clothes he had given you to wear for the night and you just couldn't get yourself to move and change into them. You just kept thinking what was wrong with you, why couldn't you just act normal. That's when he entered the room again, in his cute pajamas and holding two mugs of hot chocolate, which he was most likely going to regret later if he hadn't taken his meds properly.

"What's wrong?" He asked, watching you just standing there.

You turned towards him, trying to think of a coherent answer to his question but nothing came out. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

"Babe? You know you can talk to me, right?" He insisted in a gentle tone, stepping towards you.

He left the mugs on his desk on the way so when he was standing right in front of you, he placed his hands on your shoulders.

"Babe?" He insisted once more, tilting his head to the side to look at your face better.

"I'm uncomfortable." You suddenly blurted out, surprising him and yourself.

Instantly, you wanted to take those words back.

"Uncomfortable with what?" He asked, in a soft tone, visibly concerned.

You looked at his concerned face and suddenly felt your walls crumble down. Tears started streaming down your cheeks as you slowly started explaining how you hadn't been feeling good about yourself at all for a while now. How you felt insecure about your body, your face, your whole being. How he could probably find better any day.

Woosung was so visibly taken aback by your words that his mouth hung slightly open as he just stood there, staring at you as you spoke.

"You don't have to say anything." You sobbed out, wiping away your tears although they kept being replaced by new ones.

Your face was probably a complete and absolute mess now. How lovely.

For a moment, you just wanted to get away from him and so you tried to step away from him but he reached out for your arms before you could.

"Wait." He told you. "How can you even say all of that?" He mumbled, shaking his head.

He made you step back onto the place where you'd been before, right in front of him, keeping a gentle but firm hold on your arms. He cleared his throat before he started speaking.

"Babe." He started in a soft tone. "You are who you are. You're no better or worse than anyone else. You are you and that's what makes you just perfect. Because you've always been you. With or without makeup, with or without fancy clothes." He moved his hands from your arms onto your cheeks, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. "You're just you. And that's enough."

“But you could find so much better… Someone who’s so much more confident…” You mumbled, looking at him through the tears, watching this blurred expression.

“There’s no one better for me than you.” He said without a single drop of hesitation in his voice. “Remember that song the boys and I wrote that said, “when I look at beautiful you, time pauses”? That’s how I really feel about you.” He continued, wiping away some more of your tears. “I wish you’d told me you were feeling this way before, love.”

“How could I tell you?” You sighed out, lowering your gaze.

“You can tell me everything. I’m here to listen to you. I’m here to love you, even when you don’t love yourself.” He told you in a soft tone, making you look back up at him.

He had the most earnest look in his dark eyes, his lips slowly curving into a soft, crooked smile. He kept wiping away your tears and when you sobbed, he dropped his hands to wrap you up in a warm hug, cozily holding you against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and let you stay in his arms for a while, until you had stopped sobbing.

“How about we take you for a warm bath? How does that sound?” He suggested, tilting his upper body in an awkward way to be able to see your face.

You moved away from him a little bit, taking your hands to your face to wipe any remaining tears, just resting your cold fingers against your warm skin before you agreed to his suggestion with a nod and a little “okay”. He also nodded and reached for one of your hands, leading you to the bathroom.

He sat you down on a stool in the middle of the bathroom and shut the door. It was just you and him in the house that day and you couldn't be more thankful. He took out makeup wipes and asked you to close your eyes for him, which you did. He took off your makeup carefully, pressing kisses to each area he'd uncover. Your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your chin, your eyelids.

When he was done, he helped you get off your clothes, in the gentlest way. The touch of his hands, the look in his eyes, it showed nothing but tenderness. He helped you get in the bathtub and washed your hair for you, his touch oh so delicate. When you were done, he grabbed a big fluffy towel and wrapped you up in it and in his arms, pulling you close up against his chest. With your hands in between you two, you could feel his steady heartbeat against your palm. When he pulled back, he lifted his hand to pet your head through the towel.

"Can you put on your clothes?" He asked softly and you nodded in response. "I'll warm up the hot chocolate." He told you before he pressed his lips to your forehead and stepped out of the bathroom right after.

You felt like you were in a daze, peeking at yourself in the mirror, eyes swollen from the earlier tears. You could feel dumb but you didn't. You were so wrapped up in his tenderness that you felt like you had finally come out of the hole you had dug yourself into. He had pulled you out.

You got dressed and dried your hair and then stepped out into his bedroom, straight to where he sat, under the bunk bed. He was wrapped up in a blanket that he opened to let you in and wrapped around you right after. Before you could even do anything, he tucked a finger under your chin and a strand of your hair behind your ear when he lifted your head up to look at him.

"Are you feeling better now?" He asked.

The look in his eyes was a mixture of tenderness, mostly tenderness but also a hint of sadness. You knew you'd hurt him too with those thoughts. You were ready to let go of them now though, as best as you could.

"You made me feel better." You answered, reaching up for his hand that was under your chin.

Holding his hand between both of yours, you pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"Thank you. I'm ready to let go of those thoughts now. Or at least try to. I don't know what got into me." You confessed, staring at his hand that soon slipped out of yours to rest against your cheek.

You looked up at him.

"I don't know what got into you either but I hope you really know that I love all of you for who you are." He told you, eyes sparkling with determination.

"I know." You answered him with a nod, pulling out a smile. A genuine smile. "I love you." You told him.

It took him a second to react, probably just letting your words sink in. Once they did, his eyes softened.

"I love you." He told you.

He leaned closer and pressed a kiss to your lips, a kiss as tender as it could be. And you knew, right there and then, you'd never hide your doubts from him ever again.

Blog guide

#woosung #kim woosung #sammy kim #the rose #the rose woosung #the rose sammy #the rose scenarios #woosung scenarios #request #excusemyobsessions

105 notes · View notes

foxtophat · 4 years

Link

hey i said i was gonna get this up today!!!!

so with this chapter's conclusion i can safely say that i've officially written everything that i set out to write with mercy! this chapter was literally a skeleton that shaped eighty percent of the entire story, so i'm glad i could finally flesh it out and put it out there!!

there's still one more chapter to go, which will be more or less an epilogue for the main story. after that, i think i'll try to get a couple of other fandom fics going (ones that are ACTUALLY nearly done, not half-ass done like mercy was when i decided to start posting lmao) and then i can set up a schedule to write some more for this universe

anyway, for now i just want you to read and enjoy. this chapter is all about john's ptsd, and it made me sad, so i hope it makes you sad too heheh

as usual, any likes, comments, reblogs, kudos, casual mentions in meatspace or idle daydreaming about different ways this chapter could go are ALL super welcome and adored. i love you guys, you've been so kind to me <3 i hope you enjoy this chapter!!!

the usual: below the cut is the full chapter text if you don't wanna go to ao3, but you should, ao3 is way easier to read on

Things around the Rye homestead have been pretty good as of late. Eight, nine months ago, Nick never would have expected to see the living room floor again, much less finish even half of the tedious repair work that he's managed to check off his list. The planters are already sprouting with what's going to be an early summer harvest, Carmina's hen-house is ready to go, and they've already bartered off some scrap for moonshine and extra ammunition for Carmina's blooming sharpshooter hobby. The house itself only creaks and groans in heavy winds, and a few additional supports outside have secured the second floor from crashing down in the middle of the night. For an old, blown-out house that's been through nuclear winter, the place is coming back together pretty well. Hell, another couple of years and they might be able to reconnect the septic system, and then they'd really be cooking.

Other people have noticed their good luck, too. Mostly friends, like Grace and Jerome, but the word's spread a bit now about the Rye's generosity, and they've gotten a few good trades out of it, although a lot of them are I-O-U's that maybe won't come to fruition. That's fine by Nick — they don't need the old fencing or the scrap plywood, and there are still two mostly-buried garages out back that could be broken down for some really prime salvage. If people want to give him free use of their future smokehouses or promise to help him find more gas for his truck, then that's more than enough payment. Anyway, that's what Nick tells people when they don't have anything to offer — it isn't like he's going to turn somebody away when they need help.

Of course, not all of their generosity is appreciated equally. John being around doesn't sit well with many of the people who come by, although it's never enough to deter them from doing business with Kim or Nick. There aren't many confrontations, even when John helps Nick load wood into a truck or remains lingering in plain view, although somebody usually has something to say about it. Unless they get really vulgar or violent, Nick usually lets them blow off steam in his and John's direction, and he doesn't take it personally when somebody takes a cheap shot at him for being such a soft-hearted bastard.

Their vitriol usually ends after a few minutes. Most of the time, John can handle it by himself, apologizing genuinely to each person who tries to curse him out. Nick hasn't heard the same regret twice, and even if John doesn't recognize every hateful face, he seems to remember his part in their trauma. It might not be what they want to hear, but John's serious, specific remorse usually puts the fire out of their fight. So far, there's only been two instances where Nick had to call Jerome out to mediate, and neither time resulted in anyone getting shot or knocked out. Sure, John might come out of an altercation with a couple of bruises, but that's usually it.

It stands to reason that something was bound to go wrong at some point. Nick's prepared for all sorts of catastrophes; he's got contingency plans for flooding, wild animals, and even ornery neighbors upset that he let John off so easy. There are a million little things that could go wrong out here, and Nick can only do so much to prepare for every eventuality, but he thinks he's got a pretty good handle on it.

That is, until the radio breaks. It's one thing that Nick hadn't even considered a possibility — they'd left the thing in its box until the apocalypse, and until they left the bunker, it'd barely seen any use at all. And yet, one day Nick tries to confirm a trade and the radio fails to catch anything more than static.

Cheap goddamn made-in-China crap, that's what it is, and that's what Nick tells everyone within earshot as he fiddles uselessly with the knobs. When he turns the radio around to get a look at the connectors, he ignores the stamped metal that reads "MADE IN GERMANY" in favor of hunting down the problem — but that's going to involve unscrewing the back and, well, Nick isn't exactly an electrician. He's not sure the best option here is to dig into the guts of his only radio willy-nilly like. He could go get the user's manual, but it's in a pile of boxes down in the bunker, and Nick really doesn't want to go rooting through trash for it.

Heaving a frustrated sigh that takes all the fight out of him, Nick grabs the flashlight and goes out back to let Kim know what's up. She and John are working in the garden, which used to be something John would avoid at all costs. Now, he doesn't even seem phased to be working in the dirt, barely acknowledging Nick's irritated venting about the broken radio as he pulls weeds. It's only when Nick mentions going into the bunker that he seems to take notice; he tries to be subtle about it, but Nick doesn't miss his head swiveling to stare briefly.

Of course, Nick is so used to John's cagey weirdness about bunkers that he barely notices, too busy

Kim looks sympathetic, but she doesn't sound it as she reminds him, "Nick, complaining to his ever-patient wife. "I'm just gonna grab the manual, maybe see if there were any spare parts in the box we missed. It's not like the thing gets used enough to break!" the radio is ten years old. Even expensive equipment can't last forever."

"If I don't get to sit down and give up whenever I want, then neither does the radio. It's not like we got any choice , here. If we don't have a working radio, we're going to have a bitch of a time reconnecting with everybody. And we've actually started to build something, you know?"

"At least you'll have a diagram to work with, I guess." Kim sighs. "John, have you... do you know where our bunker is?"

John smiles wryly. "I do," he replies.

"Oh, right," Nick sighs. "You probably know where everything is on the property, huh."

"Knew," John points out. "But yes, that was my job. I was as thorough as I could be." He chews his lip, standing after a thoughtful second. "I know where a lot of bunkers are. If you can't repair the radio... We could look for another one."

"Okay, of course you do." Nick waves for John to follow him, which he does, keeping pace as they head away from the wash, towards the opposite side of the hangar from their normal route. "What makes you think I wanna take a radio from somebody else ?"

"Not many of the structures put together out here were by any means safe ." John probably shouldn't sound so blase about it, but the guy's got a point. Doubly so when he continues, "I was suggesting we take one from someone who won't be needing it anymore."

Nick clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Well, it's something to think about," he agrees reluctantly. It sounds a lot like grave-robbing to him, but John's right. It's the smartest option, and somebody's going to have to do it eventually. It might be better for everyone if it's them, and not some opportunistic drifter who won't put the resources back into the community.

That's a problem for another day. Right now, Nick leads John around thick tumbleweeds that have gotten caught in the long grass, bringing them up just short of the bunker door. Covered with about two years' worth of dirt but not yet overgrown, the white hatch is only a marginal pain in the ass to pry out of the ground. John waits for Nick to ask for help, only to realize that isn't happening anytime soon, and wordlessly assists in coaxing the rusted hinges to work.

The bunker is dark and smells like a root cellar. Nick sure hopes nothing important molded. They'll have to get down here and clean up soon, before the mildew takes hold and ruins everything.

"Okay," he says, "You just wait here and make sure that thing doesn't close on me."

Nick half-expects some kind of joke about locking him inside, but John only nods obediently, standing a few feet from the opening with his arms folded across his chest. Nick rolls his eyes but does his best to ignore John's unease as he descends into the bunker.

He decides against testing the power — even if the generator down here still has some juice in it, they haven't operated anything in a while and Nick does not want to be engulfed in flames right now. Instead, he clicks on the flashlight and wanders through the narrow space. He doesn't linger on the drawings Carmina left on the wall or the unmade cots, passing by a pile of laundry that'll never get done and heading to the small utility closet in the back.

He finds the box intact, one corner suffering water damage from what looks like a cup of water that nobody ever picked up. Deciding against rooting around for anything else that might be useful, he takes the whole box back out to the ladder, chucking it up out of the hole once he's tackled the lower rungs.

John is trying hard not to show his nerves as Nick pops back up, shoving his hands into his pockets before changing his mind and folding them again over his chest. Bunkers are a tender spot for him, and Nick knows it, so for now he decides not to make a big deal about it. John's too fragile for Nick to be teasing him, even if he refuses to admit it himself.

Pulling the box apart, Nick scavenges the manual and a couple of accessories that he hadn't needed a decade ago and probably doesn't need now. The cardboard is mostly good, so Nick breaks down the box, chucking the useless packaging back into the bunker before foisting the supplies onto John.

Nick gets up and shoves the bunker door until it falls shut on its own weight. "Well, now I gotta spend the rest of my day reading that crap," he says, gesturing to the chunky owner's manual.

"Give it to Carmina," John suggests, "She's desperate for new reading material."

"And give her the chance to become more technologically savvy than me? I'll pass."

Nick spends the next few hours troubleshooting his way through the manual, vengefully ignoring the support hotline numbers plastered on every other page. Even if the service center hadn't been annihilated in a nuclear apocalypse, fat chance Nick would ever lower himself to call.

By dinnertime, Nick is frustrated but satisfied that he knows where the trouble area is. One of two pieces has given out, both designed to be replaced occasionally. On one hand, that's a good thing — it's supposed to be done by novices, which means the manual is painfully clear on the method. On the other hand, there are only going to be so many matching radios out there, and who knows how many will have the same issue?

"It'll be okay," Kim reassures him that night. "Plenty of people get by without a radio, you know."

"That doesn't mean I wanna be one of them," Nick grouses, turning to pin his hopes selfishly on John. "You said there were bunkers around, right? And maybe one of them has a radio we can use?"

"I didn't promise anything," John clarifies, "But that would be my suspicion."

"Maybe it'd be worth it to look. Who knows, we could get lucky."

Kim doesn't look sure about Nick's optimism, but he ignores her skepticism. If nothing else, it'll be good to use John's old cult knowledge to benefit them for once, and that alone puts Nick firmly in the "in favor" group. Even if it turns out to be a waste of time — well, at least they'll have tried everything. For now, Nick can let Kim think up a contingency plan for a no-radio life — Nick is going to rest all of his hopes firmly on the repair plan and hope that it works out.

Nick wakes up last the next morning, sleeping in an extra half-hour or so before finally peeling his eyelids apart to face the sun. Even as he gets dressed, he feels groggy and slow, dragged down by a long night of forgotten stress dreams. His brain probably spent all night running through every possible outcome of bunker-hunting with John — not that it does any good now, when Nick can't remember any of it.

He isn't the only one who looks like they could use more sleep. Carmina is yawning over her breakfast, eating like a sloth as she processes being awake. The bags under Kim's eyes are darker than normal, too, but she's bright-eyed and dressed for the day.

John is the only one who looks like he's coping with the morning at all, but that's probably because he's been up for a while now. Ever since he's been given free rein, John's sleep schedule has put him as the last one to sleep and the first one to wake. Nick doesn't mind too much, though, since he usually brews up some coffee right before anyone else comes down. He's been arguing with Kim for the last few mornings about going by himself to pull water from the river for the house, but Kim is holding tight to her buddy-system, and John isn't going to convince her to give it up that easily.

From the way Kim looks at Nick as he descends the stairs, they might be arguing about it already today. "What?" Nick asks, "What'd I do?"

"It's not you," Kim says. She gestures across the table at John, who looks like he's been waiting for Nick to come to his defense. "Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"The radio is the same make as mine," John tells Nick, clearly expecting Nick to understand what he's talking about. Fat chance there, though, because Nick has no idea what he means. "It might not be the same model, but it's worth a try."

"Uh... which radio are you talking about, exactly?"

John tries hard to not look like he's suffering at the hands of fools. He fails, but at least he directs his exasperated look towards the ceiling at the last moment. "In my bunker," he explains slowly. "I had a radio of the same make."

"You said yourself it broke," Kim points out, clearly repeating an argument from before Nick's arrival.

"All the more reason to not worry about scrapping it," John replies. "The bunker is closer than any other structure, and it's guaranteed to be there. That is as much of a blessing as you'll get these days."

Nick wonders at first why Kim is so dead-set against going back to John's bunker. Sure, the guy refuses to talk about it, and sure, bunkers in general seem to fill him with unshakable anxiety, but it's still just a bunker. A bunker with a radio that could save their asses, where they won't be stealing from someone who might need it just as much. And hell, John doesn't even have to go inside!

Kim sighs and says gently, "I just don't know if it's... the greatest idea." She looks sideways at Nick, who knows from experience that she's holding back her opinion for John's benefit. She probably doesn't want to be the one telling him he's too fragile to handle it.

"I'm not asking for your permission," John says. "If neither of you want to come with me, I'll go by myself."

"Oh, come on," Kim huffs, "Not this again —"

"If I want to go somewhere, I have the right to do so," John exclaims. "We've established that I'm not a prisoner, and I certainly am not a child."

Carmina huffs loudly, but John pointedly ignores her.

"Okay, okay," Nick says, holding out his hands in a poor attempt to placate all parties. "Look, if you're really dead-set on this, and you really think that the radio's gonna help, well..." He sighs. "Then maybe it's worth going to check out."

Kim looks mildly offended that he's taking John's side, but Nick knows how to reassure her, at least a little. "But there are some ground rules," he says. "You can come with me, but I call the shots. No acting like you know better than me, or deciding to run off and forcing me to follow you. You get it?"

"Of course," John says.

"I mean it. If I decide it's not worth it when we get there, you're gonna have to respect that. I mean, there could be snakes living in there now. I don't even remember if I closed the hatch, it could be flooded from the rain earlier this year."

John nods, so quickly that Nick wonders if he's really listening. "Yes," he says. "That's fair."

"I can't believe this," Kim sighs, relenting at last as she rubs her forehead. "Okay. But you both need to be careful." She looks at John. "Especially you."

"I don't..." John cuts himself off, reluctantly changing tactics. "Okay. Fine." He stands up, leaving his chair wide open for Nick to take as he says, "I need to get ready," and excuses himself. What he needs to get ready for when he's already dressed, Nick has no idea, but that's not exactly Nick's problem. If John needs to go talk himself through the decision he forced on Nick, then it's a good thing he's not involving Nick in any of it!

Nick's real problem right now is the way Kim is staring at him. "What?" he asks, sinking into the abandoned seat. She doesn't respond, and Carmina glances skeptically at her dad from across the table. "What was I supposed to do?" he asks, exasperated. "It's not like he was gonna let it go."

"You could have put your foot down," Kim says. She sounds downright disappointed, and that stings more than Nick wants to admit. "You could have taken my side," she adds, aiming her heavy frown at the coffee cup in front of her.

"We've been waiting for him to want to talk about it," Nick points out. "And anyway, we need a radio. If he can help, we should encourage it. Right?"

Kim isn't keen on getting into a fight right in front of Carmina, so she only nods her head in response. It's enough, though, because Nick does wind up feeling guilty for siding with John. Right or not, he probably should have negotiated that better.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says. "You're right. I've got tunnel-vision with this radio problem, is all."

"I know," Kim sighs. "I just... worry."

"Well, don't. I'll be fine."

Kim rolls her eyes. "It isn't you I'm worried about, Nick." She looks towards the stairs, listening to John pacing up in his room, then reluctantly turns back to her husband. "Just... promise me that you'll keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Nick replies. Kim doesn't look too reassured, so Nick reaches over and wraps her hand in his. "Really, I will." He glances at Carmina and tells her, "You'll keep an eye on mom so she doesn't worry all day, right?"

"Sure," Carmina says. Nick knows from the Kim-like tone in her voice that she thinks he's being an ass, but at least she's young enough to not call him out directly yet. All he has to do now is make sure that neither of his girls can rub his rash decision-making in his face when he gets back.

John is quiet as he and Nick make their way through the woods. The walk itself isn't too bad, less than a mile out from the edge of what Nick used to consider his property, but John is having a lot of trouble hiding how jittery it is, and it makes for a tense hike. He keeps speeding up and falling behind, as though he can't decide whether or not he wants to lead the way.

"You sure you're ready for this?" Nick asks eventually, unable to help himself. John answers with such a dirty look that Nick immediately goes on the defensive. "Hey, don't give me that. I just don't want you to, you know... start having nightmares about it or Joseph or whatever all over again. You're the one who's always been weird about it."

John scoffs but doesn't respond. From the way he glares at the ground, Nick figures he probably hasn't stopped having nightmares yet. That's... probably a good reason to keep him from climbing all the way down into the hole. Of course, Nick isn't sure that he'll really be able to stop John, never mind what John promised back at the house.

"What were you doing out here?" John asks after the silence grows out again. "When you found me."

"Oh. Well, I was sorta looking for places to put more traps, after I made them. And, you know, if there was anything left to salvage out here." Neither of those ideas had gone anywhere, although maybe now would be a good time to revisit them. "There's not much out here, though. There's that herd of deer to the north, and the river... we really haven't needed to expand so much."

John hums agreeably in response, although he doesn't have much to add to the conversation. Nick doesn't know how to keep it afloat by himself, so he doesn't, letting them sink back into silence until they finally reach their destination. Nick recognizes the spot by the shock of parachute fabric hanging in the trees, just a flash of artificial color behind the browns and greens of the trees.

Now that he has time to look around, Nick can sort of see where the land had been cleared for installation. Of course, the only remnant of the open circle now is the thinner layer of weeds over what looks like a thirty-foot rectangle. He doesn't remember anybody building out here, and he can't even fathom when they could have done it, but somebody came through here right before the apocalypse and made themselves a hidey-hole.

Nick doesn't wait to approach the closed bunker door, but John lingers at the imagined edge of the space as though facing a barbed-wire fence. He seems pensive and lost in thought, and Nick lets him adjust while he sweeps away dirt and scraggly tumbleweeds that have just started to cover the hatch. Just a bunker or not, it's got to be a lot to deal with, although Nick can't imagine why. No matter how terrible being alone had been, it couldn't have gotten worse than intense boredom. Hell, Nick's met two different people who had clearly let the cabin fever get to them, and neither of them could shut up about their damn bunkers.

Reaching down, Nick braces his legs on either side of the bunker door and pulls at the hatch. John is clearly holding his breath, even this far away, tension coiled in his shoulders and forcing his spine ramrod-straight. He doesn't offer to help, stuck in place like he is.

"Maybe you should stay up here," Nick offers.

Of course, John only scowls at the thought. "You won't know where to look. It would be faster if I went in alone."

"Yeah, Kim would love it if I let you do that. Don't be an asshole."

Nick heaves the door upwards. The rusted hinges scream in protest, as if they hadn't moved in years, but the door swings open after a few hard tugs on the handle.

John hesitates a second longer, then approaches the hatch. Nick goes over to the edge, crouching down so that he doesn't fall, and shines the flashlight down the ladder. The air is stale, smelling like rot and mold, and Nick can see a puddle drying at the base of the ladder. Well, that makes sense — there's no way the seal is still airtight. So much for closing the door from the elements.

"You ready?" Nick asks. John nods mutely in response, standing some feet away from the hole. "Really, John. You don't have anything to prove. Kim would probably be happy if you stayed up top."

John grimaces. "I'll go first," he says, his voice clipped.

This is a bad idea, and Nick knows it. A month or two ago, he'd probably have figured John was about to pull a fast one on him, but now he's more concerned that John is trying to pull something on himself. Confronting your fears is one thing, but as John climbs down the ladder and Nick gets a good look at his pale face and tight jaw, he worries that this is too much, too fast. Not that John seems to understand the concept of pacing himself — he seems more like the kind of guy to throw himself mindlessly at a problem until it shatters under the sheer force of his determination.

Nick hands John the flashlight before he gets out of reach, following him down the rungs as quickly as he can. They knock into each other as he reaches the bottom rung, and Nick turns to find John aiming the flashlight uselessly at their feet. Staring down the murky darkness that turns the bunker into a cave of unknown depths, John looks as though he might hear floodwaters in the distance.

Maybe he's just taken aback by how bad things look, even with only a little light to see by. The looming piles of garbage and years of refuse have turned the twenty-by-ten foot box into a narrow, craggy cavern. Nick can see a door at the far end of the gloom, cracked in the middle and left ajar in its frame, surrounded by a pile of overturned furniture. He spends a second or two trying to calculate the dark tally marks he can see covering the wall next to him, but there are too many and he can't keep track.

John takes a shuddering deep breath that turns Nick's attention back to him. "Hey," he calls, "You okay?"

"Yes," John replies, spitting the word out. He shakes his head heavily from side to side, just in case Nick missed the baldfaced lie for what it is, and takes a hesitating step away from the ladder. The breath he takes doesn't seem to give him enough air, and no amount of gasping can draw more in. He has a white-knuckled grip on the ladder, and it seems for a second to be the only thing holding him up as he visibly reels.

Nick hasn't been on the opposite end of a panic attack in a long time, but he's been through enough on his own to see that John is veering wildly in that direction. He's searching the walls, rapid-fire counting the lines, confusion breaking out on his sweaty, gray face.

"Hey," Nick says quickly, lifting his hands placatingly as he comes closer, "Hey, it's gonna be okay."

John shakes his head again, rapidly this time, abandoning any pretense of control. "No," he gasps, "No, I don't think it is!"

Goddamn it. Nick should have known better, he never should have agreed to this, he never should have let John come down here. He just — he hadn't thought it would be like this. He didn't know it could be this bad.

Nick puts off berating himself, at least until John's panic passes. For now, he focuses on damage control, guiding John's free hand to grab hold of the ladder, which is at least haloed in enough light to keep the worst of it from immediate view.

"It is gonna be okay," he insists. "Here, let's — let's get back up top. Get you some fresh air, okay?"

For a moment, it looks like John doesn't understand the concept, but his fingers eventually curl together on one rung. "I didn't know," he says unhelpfully, but at least he doesn't resist as Nick ushers him slowly up the ladder. He moves so slowly, paralyzed by each step, but Nick's only concern is making sure he doesn't fall on his way out.

The sun is right overhead as John slides out of the bunker, crawling on his hands and knees and collapsing several feet away from the opening. Nick hesitates on the last rung, knowing full well that they can't just leave now that they're here, but he has to deal with John first. The radio has waited this long — it can wait a little while longer.

John gasps for air a few more times, barely catching his breath. He doesn't look at Nick, but he offers him a miserable apology, mumbling, "Sorry," halfway into the dirt.

Nick crouches beside John, awkwardly shifting his weight on his feet. He's not sure what he's supposed to do here — he isn't used to being on this side of things, and Kim is so much better at calming people down than he is. The worst of the attack has passed, but Nick's not good at damage control.

"Hey," he says at last, "It's okay. Take your time."

There's not a patient bone in John's body, so it's a small miracle when he listens obediently, struggling until his breath evens out enough to ease the panic.

"I thought I could handle it," he sighs at last, his voice heavy with resignation. "I handled it for seven years, I thought..."

Nick doesn't think what he saw down there counts as handling it by any means, but he's not about to say as much. Truthfully, he doesn't know what to say.

"We should go," Nick says. "This isn't worth it."

John looks offended at the mere suggestion. "We came all the way here," he rasps. "Give me a minute. I'll — I'll go back —"

"Like hell you will," Nick snaps. He doesn't mean to, but damn, is John really such a masochist? "Look, just — let me go find it. You keep watch up here."

There's barely any hesitation before John nods miserably in agreement. He tries not to let it get to him, but he's already shaken by the underground and he's in a suspiciously fragile state himself. He hopes to God that he can find the radio on his own, and that it works enough to make this trip worth the trauma. If this doesn't work out, Nick is going to feel even worse about it than he already does.

It's not the best idea to leave John alone, but Nick forces himself to go through with it anyway. Armed only with his flashlight and empty backpack, Nick descends as quickly as he can, taking one last breath of fresh air before disappearing into the bunker.

God, there is blood everywhere. Nick's not sure how many of the streaks on the walls are meant to be counted with the rest of the tallies, scratched into the walls with what Nick hopes to God was anything other than John's fingernails. Everywhere Nick shines the light, he finds another smear of crumbling red blood, each one painting a different image of John's scars and scabbed over tattoos. The garbage is honestly overwhelming, with a decade of waste piled up openly on top of sealed trash bags, cans spilling across the floor, dirty clothes and ripped fabrics clumped together in haphazard nests that have molded and mildewed into an inseparable mess...

There's more room to walk than Nick originally thought, although there aren't many places entirely free of trash. Still, he hesitates to step outside of the ring of natural light above. After all, nothing about this bunker is safe. Looking past the garbage and the wreckage that John has left behind, Nick sees rust starting to form along the seams, and his first step feels uneven, as if they hadn't leveled the ground properly before installing and just couldn't be assed to fix it.

Jesus Christ. It's a miracle that John didn't die down here. It's surprising enough that it circulated enough air for him to survive. How the hell did he make it as long as he did in this death trap?

It's not a question Nick can answer, and quite frankly he doesn't think it's safe to spend much time down here ruminating. As a matter of fact, the less time he spends down here, the better. It's hard not to take note of the damage, though, especially as he searches for wherever John might've kept his radio. Lord, with the way everything seems to have been torn apart, who knows if it's even going to be in one piece? Or even somewhere accessible? Nick really doesn't want to go poking through the destroyed couch or the bags of trash heaped in confusing piles across the bunker.

He heads all the way to the back of the space, circling around an overturned table and seeing at last a small desk wedged into the corner, facing the ladder. The radio microphone hangs from its cord over the edge, and Nick has to repress a delighted shout when he sees that it's still in one piece. There's a crack along the plastic case, but other than that, Nick can see that it's a model very similar to the one back home — older by a couple of years, maybe, but hopefully not so old that it's no longer compatible.

He struggles to be careful as he loads the radio into his bag, but all he wants to do is get the hell out of here. It's only once he's pulled the heavy backpack back onto his shoulders that Nick takes stock of the position that he's in. Standing here, facing the ladder, Nick can see a definite barrier that John must've formed at some point — the table, the desk, even the broken down automatic washer, all of it has been set up as though John were planning to hunker down against an enemy attack.

On the ground, behind the table, Nick sees a book with a white leather cover. The gilded Eden's Gate emblem has been mostly rubbed clean off, but Nick has seen that book too many times not to recognize it for what it is. It's bloated with water damage and stuffed with ripped addenda that have filled the binding to burst, lying on the cement like an undetonated grenade.

Nick grabs it before he can think better about it. He immediately regrets it, mostly because the bottom cover has become slimy and the whole thing feels like it's going to come apart in his hands. Not knowing what else to do, he drops it onto the empty desk, wrinkling his nose at the squelching slap of wet paper on wood. He goes so far as to pinch the first few pages under his finger, ready to flip it open to some random verse — but even touching the cover leaves Nick feeling uneasy and watched. Honestly, just looking at it fills Nick with a sense of distant dread, the same hazy fear that came along with the first time he got a face-full of Bliss.

Fuck that, he decides. Whatever John's left in the book, it's not for Nick to look at. He already got what they came for, and it's been about five minutes; Nick can't leave John waiting much longer, and frankly he doesn't want to. With one last grimace in the book's direction, Nick beelines for the ladder. He stops trying to tabulate how many days John kept track of, stops wondering when or if he ever lost count, and focuses entirely on getting the hell out of the goddamn deathtrap.

It's probably just his imagination, but Nick can smell floral sweetness in the air as he finally escapes the bunker. He takes a deep breath once he's out, tipping his face back to gratefully meet the blue Montana sky.

John waits until Nick looks at him to ask uneasily, "Did you find it?"

"Yeah," Nick replies, shifting the backpack so that he can pat it reassuringly. "I think it'll work. I didn't check for the parts — I figure we can do that back home."

John nods a few times. "Good," he mutters, "Good," as if maybe he doesn't think it's such a good thing at all. He falls silent, and Nick realizes he's waiting for Nick to say something about what he saw down there.

Nick wants to say something. He doesn't know what, though. His own thoughts are scattered and confused. "Uh... you mind if I close it up?" he asks.

John shakes his head mutely in response; the clang of the door rises up through the air like a stricken bell, scattering some birds that had been resting in the treetops.

"So... uh..." Nick rubs the back of his head, trying to decide what to say before deciding lamely to go with, "Do you... wanna talk about it?"

The fact that John doesn't immediately reply tells Nick all he needs to know. When John finally says, "No," Nick knows it's a lie, even if he's not sure what to do about it. Nick's positive that they do need to talk about it. But he doesn't know how he can force the issue, and he's sure he's not the man to do it. John needs a licensed psychologist, or a goddamn priest, someone who can absolve him of whatever the fuck that all was down there, not a hick aviator who can hardly handle his own trauma.

"Are you sure?" he presses. "I mean..."

John stares at the dirt, his hands curling into tense fists. Nick moves immediately to rescind the question, but John beats him to the punch. "I didn't know it would look like that," he tells the weeds matted under his boots. "I didn't think it would... be like that."

Nick wants to ask how John avoided noticing the mess spiraling out of control around him, but there had been plenty of evidence down there that proved John hadn't been in a clear state of mind.

"There... were issues with the power early on," John admits, clearing his throat roughly. "I would have to... prioritize. Switch on the lights, switch off the ventilation system. Switch off the lights, switch on the ventilation. Eventually, I stopped switching on the lights."

He swallows a few times and tries to bring his eyes to Nick's, but he can't seem to manage it. "Really," he mutters. "We don't have to talk about it." But before Nick can agree, because he suddenly wants to hear as little of the story as possible, John continues briefly onward, staggering the words as though he's throwing them off a cliff. "I've been locked in the dark before," he says. "I thought I could handle it. But I... I couldn't."

Nick doesn't know what to say. He stares helplessly at John, waiting for Kim to materialize out of the wood and point out the obvious emotional cue for him to take, but there's nothing but John's uncomfortable expression and a quiet forest all around them. He should reach out, maybe. Offer him a sympathetic hand, or something.

"That's all I want to say about it," John says at last.

"Uh. Okay." Nick clears his throat, tries to think up a good joke to lighten the mood, and fails completely. He tries to come up with something to say that would share his sentiment but nothing comes.

"Kim will start to worry," John mutters.

Kim's gonna worry no matter what, but Nick doesn't bother to tell John that. If he thinks he can hide his emotional distress from Nick's wife, then he is welcome to try. At least that'll be more fun to watch than the slow implosion happening in front of him now.

Nick waits until the silence between them on the way back doesn't feel so thick, then tries to distract from John's deeply pensive mood. "I'm not looking forward to reading more of that manual," he says as they trace the path back towards the house. "But I also don't wanna screw up our only chance at replacing it. It's a real tough situation."

"I assume the pictures aren't clear enough for you," John replies. It's a joke insult that stings mostly because of John's brisk delivery, and he ducks away as soon as the words leave his mouth. Nick considers taking it personally for a second, until John wearily mutters a sincere apology into the air between them. "I didn't mean that," he admits roughly.

"It's fine," Nick shrugs. After all, Nick's used to being a self-defensive dickhead; he can't exactly take offense.

Casually brushing it off seems to be the wrong thing to do. John comes to an abrupt halt behind Nick, thick tears gathering and spilling over his closed eyelids. At first, when Nick turns, he can't comprehend the sight in front of him, watching John's face slowly turn red. John sucks in a wet, heaving breath, which only makes things worse as it turns into a sob midway. It seems to mortify John, but he can't stop, and all at once he's just — crying, and Nick is left standing there while John covers his face in humiliation and sucks in deep, horrified breaths. Words try to form between the sobs, but all Nick hears is desperate wailing.

"Shit," Nick says, setting down the backpack, "Okay, hold on —"

"—Didn't know what to do," John's saying, the words tearing from his throat. "I got trapped, I didn't —"

"Hey," Nick tries, "Just — take a breath."

John sobs, dropping to his knees in the mulch. "I lost track of it," he gasps, "I don't know what's real, Nick. How much of this is happening — I keep thinking I'm not — I'm not ever getting out of here, and I —"

Oh, Nick knows he fucked up real bad now. John's cries tear through the scar overlaying his heart, as though twisting a knife that's rusted over in his chest. Nick thinks back to the muttering, the distant looks, the unsettling nightmares, and now he kind of sees them for what they are. Deep, visible wounds on John's psyche that he should have caught sooner. Signs of a collapse much bigger than the one that put them in this world to begin with. Clear indications that John wasn't ready to go back.

"Please," John gasps. He doesn't ask for anything, so Nick doesn't know what he wants, but he repeats the word like it's the only one he knows. "Please."

"God damn," Nick sighs, coming to John's side. "You are a real piece of work."

He can't help but try to deflect, even as he reaches out to grasp the dented curves of John's shoulders. He knows there are deep, claw-mark scars under his hands, even if he can't feel them through the flannel of John's shirt. He thinks he understands where they came from now, although the concept is more horrifying than Nick is willing to consider; all he can do is be better than John had been to himself, and hope that's enough.

Nick barely pulls John in before he's being grabbed, desperate claws sinking into Nick's back as John scrabbles for a secure grip. He's shaking so badly that Nick feels it rattling his own bones. There's nothing for Nick to do but hold on while John desperately tries not to fall apart at the seams, struggling to form coherent words. Nick only catches some of them, as John tries to explain the barriers, the tallies, the scarred over spaces where he used to have tattoos, but he doesn't need to understand the words to see the wounds that are being uncovered.

"Alone," John cries into Nick's chest, "I was alone, the whole time, he said I wouldn't be alone —"

"Okay," Nick consoles, "It's okay."

John eventually calms down, although it's anybody's guess how long it takes for him to finally catch his breath. Even when he does, his gasps finally leveling out, he keeps a tight grip on the back of Nick's shirt. Not even Carmina has clung to Nick so terribly, and despite the fact that John has a couple of years on him, Nick manages to feel desperately protective in the moment. He can't help it. John keeps talking like he can't tell up from down, and he'd been trapped down in that hole for who knows how long without power, and from the chaos he'd seen, it's clear John has been trying to protect himself for a long time.

"I've got ya," Nick says after John lets out a heavy sigh, finally losing the strength to hold on so tightly.

John's sweaty face is pressed into Nick's shoulder, but the words are still clear. "I need this to be real," he admits quietly. "I can't go back there."

"You don't have to," Nick says. He's rubbing John's back now and he doesn't know when he started, but the guy seems so desperate for the contact that he can't bring himself to stop. "You're not making me up, you know?"

John huffs. There might be a laugh somewhere in there, or Nick might be imagining it. "I know," he rasps. "I wouldn't be so kind to myself."

Oh, man. Nick sighs, patting his back gently. "Gotta work on that, I guess," he says. "We'll get you there."

John's fingers curl briefly against Nicks back. "Thank you," he mutters. "God, thank you."

Nick lets the situation lie like that for a minute or so. John is the first one to let go, his arms falling away from Nick's sides as he leans back and takes a deep, steady breath of air. Nick lets him go with a heavy pat on the shoulder, relieved to have the space if only because it means John isn't about to collapse again.

"Kim was right," John admits, saying aloud the thought that's been repeating nonstop in Nick's mind. "I should have listened to her."

Nick gets to his feet. "Yeah, probably. Thank God she isn't the type to say 'I told you so,' huh?"

John sits back, scrubbing at his face with the back of his sleeve. "I hope so," he says.

"I think I know my wife pretty well by now," Nick chuckles, holding his hand out for John. "C'mon, let's get home before she comes looking for us."

For an awful second, Nick thinks John is going to cry again, but he only grits his teeth and takes Nick's help to climb to his own feet. He dusts off his pants as though his face isn't warped by drying tear tracks, wiping belatedly at the wet skin under his eyes as they start onward again. Nick doesn't let him trail behind too far, but he doesn't force John to keep pace either, leaving enough space so that John doesn't feel self-conscious when he starts sniffling again.

They haven't been gone that long, but Kim is still waiting for them outside when they get back. She and Carmina are reading on the porch, but as soon as Nick and John reach the driveway, Kim drops the pretense entirely. Nick hears John take a deep breath behind him; he looks back, but John's expression is too troubled to get a good read. At least he doesn't seem likely to bolt.

"We got it!" Nick shouts as they walk across the drive, lifting the backpack up triumphantly.

"Oh, thank God," Kim sighs, relief flooding her expression. "Nobody got hurt?"

Nick looks back at John, then shrugs. "Nothing we can't fix," he suggests.

John takes a breath. He looks like he wants to spill everything right then and there, but he boils it all down into a simple admission. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

Stunned, Kim asks, "Are you okay?"

"No," he quietly replies. "You were right."

Kim shakes her head, glancing briefly at Nick before putting a gentle hand on John's arm. He sighs shakily at the contact, but thankfully he doesn't collapse into another crying wreck. Kim looks like she's expecting something like that, but John manages to surprise them both.

"We can talk about it later, if you want," Kim tells him, patting his shoulder.

There's relief in John's voice as he suggests, "I'll need a strong drink before I accept that offer."

Kim shakes her head, laughing a little. "It's as good a place to start as any," she tells him.

Carmina, who's been standing on the porch looking increasingly bored, finally gives up waiting for attention. "Hey, dad," she calls, lifting the radio's manual up in the air, "Can I help with the radio?"

"So much for my technological superiority," Nick sighs, raising his voice to tell Carmina, "Sure!"

"I couldn't help it," Kim replies. She has a smug expression that tells Nick a different story, but he can easily forgive her for deciding to make their kid smarter out of spite. It's better than trying to poison him or running off with Hurk and his raider gang. "I cleared off the table for you," she adds, "And I brought out the radio so you could get a better look at it."

"I guess there's no better time to start than now," Nick says. He offers John a lopsided grin and asks, "So, uh, how much do you know about electronic repair?"

"About as much as you," John replies. He gestures his arm towards the house, saying, "It can be a learning experience for us all."

As if this whole year so far hasn't been one big learning curve. Nick shakes his head, leading the three adults up to the porch. Carmina disappears inside, triumphantly waving the manual in the air, leaving Nick to chase playfully after her inside the house. He catches sight of Kim talking to John on the porch, but Carmina is squealing delightedly in his arms so he can't quite make out the conversation. Later on, he can tell Kim about what happened, but for now, she seems content with whatever John is saying, patting him again on the arm before leading him inside. She shuts the door behind her, and for the first time in almost a year, Nick feels as though he's finally home, surrounded by people on the same page as him for once. This, he thinks, could very well be his new normal, and that's not so bad at all.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #fcnd #new dawn #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #far cry fanfic #my fic

5 notes · View notes

reylo-trash-4ever · 4 years

Text

HELLO LOVELIES!!!

Here is part 4 of my fic! Jesus it took me so long... but it’s here now and Happy Valentine’s day! As always - shout out to @scav-eng-er and @mojona1999 for being the BEST humans out there! Y’all mean the world to me. I HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR V-DAY GIFT! 😘

!!! Fair warning: some of this gets a bit steamy !!!

The Game: Chapter 4

“Computers have passwords on them for just these scenarios, Rey,” Rose said from across the table, “The chances of him getting into yours is very slim. Especially because he doesn’t know the first thing about you.”

Rey made an unrecognizable noise from inside her arms that were crossed over the table where she hid her face from her friends. Poe, Finn, and Rose were all trying to console her at their favorite coffee shop after the “incident”. She had texted them furiously saying it was an emergency, and their ‘drop everything attitude’ almost made her feel better about the whole situation… almost.

“He’s such a dick!” She hissed suddenly, throwing her head up from the table and smacking her fist against the wood. Poe gasped in surprise and Rose sighed. Finn reached across from his seat next to Rose and placed his hand on her arm.

“Try to stay calm, Rey,” he said, trying to comfort her, but his eyes begged her to keep quiet and she remembered she was in a public place. She glanced around the room and felt her cheeks heat as she noticed a few people staring apprehensively at her.

“Have you tried getting into the laptop yet?” Poe suggested, taking a sip of his latte.

“No, because I won’t play into his sick little fantasties,” Rey retorted, still unable to completely suppress the anger inside of her.

“Well, if he’s going to make it so easily accessible, you should at least try. I, for one, would love to know what’s on the personal laptop of the rich boy jerk.” Finn released her arm back to her, and Rey felt herself becoming a little more curious with each word he said.

“I bet there’s some real shady shit on there,” Poe said, glancing down at Rey’s bag that was in between their two chairs. She recognized the look in his eyes, but before she could do anything to stop him, he had snatched the laptop from her, despite her protests. She tried to take it away from him, but he kept her back with one arm and passed the computer to Finn and Rose who were infamous with techie things like this.

“Let’s see how hard this proves to be,” Rose chuckled, cracking her knuckles. She had an evil sparkle in her dark eyes as she looked down at her quarry.

Finn slowly opened the laptop with everyone’s attention on him. Rey groaned and sunk back into her seat, but she couldn’t hide the curiosity she secretly felt.

“That’s… unnerving,” Finn finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen on the four friends. Rey felt her stomach flip and she knew she had to do something before she got them into a legal mess they couldn’t get out of.

“Look, if it’s too difficult, we can just ignore it because it’s not that big of a deal-”

“No,” Finn cut her off, “it’s just that there’s no password at all.”

“That’s super suspicious,” Poe mused, “you’d think someone as prominent as ‘his majesty himself’ wouldn’t want just anyone getting into her personal things.”

“Do you think he knew this would happen?” Rose asked, looking between the group with suspicion written all over her face.

“That’s impossible,” Rey said quickly, trying to reassure herself more than anyone else.

“I don’t know,” Finn mumbled, scratching his chin absentmindedly, something he only did when thinking hard, “it’s possible he had this planned from before the moment he met you. If he wanted to figure out who he was working with, maybe he intended to steal their belongings anyway, no matter who they were.”

“You just might have made his job a lot easier when you forgot your bag in Holdo’s office,” Rose agreed. Those two were always like that though. From the moment they met each other, being introduced through Rey, Finn and Rose loved to swap conspiracy theories and tech questions and over all crazy nonsense. They were both huge nerds, and she loved them for it, but sometimes they fed off of each other in ridiculous ways that made her roll her eyes, as she did now.

“You guys, there’s no way he’s that conniving, or that smart.”

“Weren’t you the one who said he’s like a ‘lawyering protégée’, or something?” Poe asked, taking another sip of his coffee. He loved to do that so conveniently whenever he said something he thought was poignant or important.

“First of all, ‘lawyering’ is not a word,” Rey retorted, watching him with the sides of her eyes, “and secondly, I guess you could call him a protégée, but I’ve never actually seen him do anything, so I don’t know if it’s even true. In my opinion, I think that’s just what people say to puff up his pride so he’ll like them better. Rich people get opportunities simply handed to them just because they were born to the right parents. He probably only has his privilege to thank for the reputation he has.”

“Yikes,” Finn muttered from the corner of his mouth in the silence that followed. They all knew how Rey felt about these kinds of things, but even she knew she could be a bit harsh because of what she had to go through to get to where she was. She couldn’t help it though! It was unfair that she had to do so much work to be noticed, and now this ‘high and mighty’ rich boy was going to take all of that away from her? She was just going to have to make sure she proved him, and everyone else who didn’t believe in her, wrong.

“Give me the laptop,” Rey said, making up her mind. She reached across the table and grabbed the device, her fingers easily wrapping around the sides. Finn made a noise as she pulled it away from him, and he stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

“You can have your ‘toy’ back when I’m finished,” she teased, turning the screen so she could see it better. It had a simplistic, default background which Rey found oddly too plain. All that was on the desktop was a folder labeled ‘work’. She scrolled over and opened it, revealing file after file of apparently old cases. Each one was labeled neatly with the name of the case followed by the date. Rey was shocked by how many there were, and a quick look at only a few of them showed her how organized Ben Solo actually was. The work looked legit and she found her spirits dropping with each case she reviewed. She had to swallow her pride before she could admit to herself that for all intents and purposes, he really did seem good…

The thought felt bitter in her mind and she almost felt it clawing up her throat. Could this all really be true? There was something in her that was excited to work with someone so experienced, but it fought with her sense of previously shamed honor. This arrogant son of a bitch was proving to be more and more difficult by the second.

“What’s wrong?” Poe whispered. He must have seen her face fall as she researched, but she found she couldn’t say anything. The cases seemed to jump out at her to prove her wrong at every turn. It was infuriating.

“If this is any indicator, he might actually be-”

Rey was about to say “good”, but the rest of the sentence got caught before it could escape her lips. She pulled open the start menu and found something that disturbed her beyond words. In the ‘recently opened’ tab was a file named ‘the kid’. Something in her knew that it was talking about her, especially with the memory of how Ben Solo would hurl that word at her like an insult. She felt numb as she hovered over the file before finally gaining the courage to double click it.

Her heart was beating hard against her chest as she scanned the pages. She discovered that it was a bunch of compiled information on her. Where she grew up, where she went to school, to college. Somehow he even got a hold of her grades and past presentations. There were things in there that she didn’t know could be found, such as pictures of her at parties, newspaper clippings from when her school projects collected her prizes at fairs, and even certain hospital records. Rey wondered how much money and power you had to have to get this kind of personal information on someone.

She kept speed reading and suddenly, the worst part of all was popping out of the screen and practically punching her in the face. A complete list of all the cases she had ever worked on, and all the clients she helped, stared back at her. Details only she was ever supposed to know about how she worked, things she didn’t even share with her friends, were all listed in annoyingly neat little sections. Her hard work and dedication so perfectly singled out in one file on a stranger's computer for him to see right through and judge.

Rey slammed the laptop shut, almost catching Poe’s fingers as he was inching closer to turn the screen towards him. He wrenched his hand back, a wide eyed look of shock on his face that quickly turned to worry when he met her fiery gaze.

“Rey, what’s going on?” He asked, but she ignored him once again and jumped out of her seat, sliding the laptop into her bag and slinging the whole thing over her shoulder in one swift movement.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, “I just remembered a project that I have to be working on right now.”

“Isn’t this the only project you have today?” Finn asked, obviously not believing her as she threw on her coat and haphazardly slung her scarf twice around her shoulders.

“It’s definitely not so shut up, Finn!” She called back to her friends, walking away before any of them could call out for her to stop. It was a talent that she actually liked about herself, her ability to blend. Her friends told her it was just another aspect of the ‘Black Cat’ nickname that fit her so well. She could melt into any crowd and become practically unseen.

Rey raced through the snowy streets of the city, not really sure where she was going. All she knew was that she had to escape. She had to be anywhere but there with all of those prying eyes. Everywhere she looked it felt as if every person could see right through her the way Ben Solo had done. Were her secrets so plainly written on her forehead for all the world to see?!

She felt naked as she ran at almost a full on sprint now. She tried to focus on the streets in front of and below her feet, forcing her gaze down as to avoid any and all possible interactions with other humans. All Rey could feel was the overwhelming urge to crawl into a hole and be alone for the rest of her life. How could one person make her feel this way? As if she were completely see through and like he knew everything about her?

It was entirely unfair since she apparently knew nothing about him. At least, nothing that wasn’t just a rumor or a connection she had no proof was real. How could she ever compete with someone she knew so little about, who apparently knew all he needed to about her? He knew how she worked, how she seemed to think, and what her skill sets were. He would shoot her down at every turn, take advantage of her naivety and make himself out to be the boss of her every decision and thought.

But there was no way in hell she was going to let that happen. This was supposed to be her time to prove herself worthy of becoming jr. partner and she wasn’t going to let that dark and brooding monster of a man get in her way any more than he already had.

Something in her stomach seemed to ignite, and she suddenly felt a fire burning beneath her fingertips. It was a tingling she hadn’t felt in a while, the fierce resolve of a woman on a mission and when Rey set her mind to something, it got done. It didn’t matter that Ben Solo knew how or why she did what she did, all that mattered was that she did it.

Suddenly, an idea began to form in her brain. It was crazy and idiotic, but Poe had always told her those were the best kinds. Rey slipped into the nearest Starbucks, which wasn’t hard to find since there seemed to be one on every corner in New York City, and ran to a window with a counter protruding out just far enough for her set the computer down on.

It didn’t take long for her to find what she was looking for. For someone as seemingly elusive as Ben Solo was, he wasn’t very good at covering his tracks when he made them. Rey smiled at the newfound discovery and once again snapped the laptop shut. She was happy with what she found and it was all she needed at the moment. She would show that asshole just who he was dealing with.

***

There was a rustling of satin sheets as the woman beside him moved in her sleep. He didn’t look over at her. Instead, he kept his focus on the book he was reading and decided not to give her the time of day. She was just another body next to him, nothing more. He met her on his way home from work earlier that morning. It had been another ‘tense’ encounter with her obviously knowing who he was, or at least that he was made of money. Women loved men with the means to buy them out of their insecurities.

“Good evening,” she whispered into his ear, apparently awake and a lot closer than he had realized. He didn’t say or do anything in response, still decidedly cold and not caring. The woman seductively bit his ear and peppered kisses onto his neck. Sure, they felt good in the way any human contact did, but when Ben was focused, nothing could tear his attention away. Most people thought his intensity was unnerving, but it was just another circumstance of people’s behavior that he couldn’t care less about. No one else’s feelings about him mattered.

Which is how he normally felt, but today, he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl from before. His new ‘partner’. Sure, he had done his research on her, like he always did for anyone he was being forced to work with, but nothing compared to how she actually behaved. He was slightly taken aback by her abrasiveness. The girl he looked into was supposed to be shy and awkward, not fierce or a spitfire. Her stubborn and hateful eyes seemed to seer into his mind and he just couldn’t shake her own intensity.

Ah well, sometimes people surprised him, but more often they didn’t. He was sure she would turn out to be boring just like all the rest. It wasn’t anything to dwell on seeing as he was sure she would be like all the other girls he had ever known.

The woman, who was so desperate to get his attention, was now practically lying her whole naked body on top of his. He turned his head to avoid her lips while he read the last sentence of the chapter, letting her caress his chest and run her hands greedily through his hair.

In one motion, he shut the book and threw it on the desk beside his bed, swooping up the woman in his arms and kissing her passionately on the lips. She squealed as he grabbed her and pulled her fully on top of him so that she now straddled his hips with her knees. He hungrily touched her skin, running his hands all over her back and squeezing her ass, causing her to let out another sound, this time lower and more animalistic.

But just when they were getting to the point of no return, Ben felt the pang in his chest again and he instantly saw those eyes. Her eyes.

It took him out of the moment so quickly that he practically shoved the woman off him. She yelled her surprise and fell back onto the bed, but he didn’t even hear or care. He quickly stood up from the bed, the blankets sliding off of his bare body.

“Get out,” he hissed, running a hand angrily through his hair. How dare she interfere with something like this. How dare she invade his personal thoughts at a moment as pivotal as that was. It was disgusting.

“Did I do something wrong?” The blonde pleaded, crawling to the edge of the bed and reaching for Ben. He slapped her hand away and turned to glare at her.

“I said, get out!”

It was a yell this time, and the woman did as she was told. Without another word, she hastily slipped on the green dress she was wearing only hours before and stuffed the rest of her clothing into her purse. Ben didn’t give her another glance as she left the apartment, the door slamming shut behind her.

Once he was alone, he let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his face with both his hands. This was not the way he intended the day to go. He had woken up that morning with a nonchalant attitude towards the whole ordeal. He knew he wasn’t going to like what Amylin had planned for him, he had laughed in her face the first time she proposed it, but he also knew it was what he had to do. His mother had made it very clear that this was the last chance she was ever going to give him.

It’s not like he asked for her her approval, he hadn’t wanted or needed that since he was sixteen and her and his father made it very clear that they cared more about their company than they did their own child, but he didn’t want to lose the cash flow she regularly sent to his bank account. He was a talented lawyer and genius prodigy who didn’t need his mommy’s help to make it in the world, but the fact of the matter was that it was easy. He would much rather have his lavish and debauchery filled lifestyle be paid for than have to work for it himself. It would just be so boring and meaningless that way.

Ben pulled on a pair of fresh boxers and went to clean his face in the bathroom. A few splashes of ice cold water would do well to wash away the thoughts of that obnoxious young woman who thought she could get the better of him. He resisted the urge to smile at the “adorable” notion. Let her try, he could squash that little girl like a bug. She would be nothing but a nuisance and a thorn in his side if he didn’t make it abundantly clear who was in charge. The stunt with laptops was just a random opportunity that he couldn’t resist playing with. There was no way in hell she was smart enough to get into it, and he quite honestly couldn’t care less about what was on hers. He already knew all he needed to about her, he had just stolen the device to show her that he could.

She was probably like all the other women he had ever met, climbing the social and political ladder with her vivacious body and little brains. It would be easy to manipulate someone like her and he wasn’t fully against getting a little fun out of it along the way.

Ben finished dressing and was getting ready to spend the rest of the evening with his book and bottle of wine, when there was a sudden rapping on the door. His eyebrows scrunched together as he looked over at it, convinced he was hearing things. There was no way the footmen would let a stranger up to his penthouse without his knowing. He wasn’t expecting anyone either, not that he had any friends to expect in the first place. Who the hell would disturb his peace?

Another rapid and furious knock erupted the silence and Ben almost snapped a ‘who is it’, but he thought better at the last second. A thought crossed his mind that it could have been the random woman who left only moments before, but he thought he had scared her enough not to come crawling back.

With a groan, he slowly lifted himself from his armchair and walked to the door. He didn’t look through the peephole before wrapping his fingers around the handle and pulled it back towards him.

The last person he expected to see was standing in the doorway, her arm raised and her fist tightly closed as if she were about to bang on his door a third time. She looked as startled as he felt and for a moment, they stared at each other in disbelief.

It ended quickly, Ben realizing he didn’t want her to see his shock, and he broke the sudden deafening silence that swirled around them.

“Rey, what are you doing here?”

14 notes · View notes