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strangersmunsons · 9 months

Text

read 'em and weep

you and Eddie meet at the library. he’s smitten.

Contains: Eddie x Reader, bookworm!reader, lovesick!Eddie, reader gives Eddie book recommendations. No mention of reader’s physical appearance, no use of y/n. Warnings: brief mention of loneliness & negligence in Eddie’s childhood. Word Count: ~2.2k it's my hope to make this a little series! i think eddie is def a bookish guy - no lord of the rings quoting, metal head dungeon master hates reading. he would certainly be open to any fantasy/horror recs you had for him! <3

Indiana. 1989.

Hawkins Library sees a lot of action in the summer.

They offer a wide variety of youth programs to keep the local kids busy and the parents sane while school is out. One of the main events is Saturday Story Time, a beloved weekly staple that you have recently been tasked with putting on.

It’s simple. You gather a number of books, usually with a common theme, and then read a select few to the children who had signed up for the day. Most of the kids in attendance are no older than six or so, with some parents even pulling up chairs to the back so they can sit with infants cradled in their arms. The older ones sit criss-cross-applesauce on carpet squares in front of you, their chubby faces alight with giggles as you recount each silly, fantastical story with all the spirit you can muster.

And then there’s always an accompanying arts and crafts project, of course. If you read The Very Hungry Caterpillar then, naturally, you have to make little googly-eyed caterpillars out of popsicle sticks and colorful pom-poms. You don’t make the rules.

If trouble occurs during Story Time, it’s usually in this phase. (Giving paste to toddlers is always a gamble – you never know what they’re gonna do with that.)

And on this particular morning, it’s been chaos from start to finish. A whopping eighteen kids had signed up, and you stretched yourself pretty thin trying to attend to everyone.

One of the babies spit up directly onto the little girl sitting in front of him and his mother. Someone slipped on their carpet square and fell harshly to the floor, earning a bruised elbow that you gently fussed over. You wrangled a pair of twins who fought bitterly over a bottle of Elmer’s glue. There were three individual running-with-scissors-scares and, finally, you spent a good ten minutes soothing one sobbing child with whom there was nothing apparently wrong with, and that you suspected was just in need of a good cry.

So yeah, it was basically pandemonium.

But eventually, to your great relief, things wound down. The audience dispersed, with their handmade goods clutched in sticky fists, and went to peruse the glossy line of picture books you put out for display. Within the next hour or two, everyone traded the cool darkness of the library for buttery sunshine, and all was quiet again. You waved cheerfully to the last parent-child duo as they made their exit, promising them that there’d be a fun activity next weekend too.

You love these storytime sessions, you really do, but sheesh. Sometimes they run you ragged. With the havoc of the morning finally over, and the promise of lunch in your near future, you try to shake off the weariness, and instead take it upon yourself to clean up the disorganized mess someone’s made of the horror section.

You’re going about your work, tongue poking out in concentration as you strain to reach the really high shelves, when you notice someone standing in your peripheral vision. You turn and glance at him, or at least, what you can see of him. He’s half-hidden by the shelf behind you, but you catch sight of brown hair and denim.

A pale face appears on a craned neck from around the corner. His dark eyes meet yours, widen slightly when he sees that you’ve caught him lurking, and he abruptly disappears again.

You purse your lips to hide your smile. This isn’t uncommon; such moments often occur when you’re cleaning up a section of books someone is hoping to sift through. In a small act of kindness, you move over to the neighboring shelf and look for something to busy yourself with; trying to give the guy a chance to browse without having to ask you to step aside.

He doesn’t emerge. You wait, expecting to sense him passing by you, but no dice. It’s amusing to think that someone might be frightened to approach you (You? Really?) but you can’t help feeling sorry that you were in his way.

The rest of your shift is rather uneventful. At the end of the day, you punch out and head home, the stranger behind the shelf forgotten.

When you come back to work on Monday, it’s much quieter than the last morning you’d been in. You greet your coworkers and set up shop at the front desk, opening up a book of your own to pass the time until someone needed assistance.

You’ve been reading for about half an hour when the big double doors open up for the day’s first visitor, the sound echoing loudly in the silent, spacious room. You look up in interest, ready to greet the person with a warm smile.

“Good morning!” you softly call out as he comes into view. He walks slowly towards you, shoes scuffing the checkered tile with each step. As he comes nearer, you can see that he’s biting his lip, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture oozing self-consciousness. He only makes eye contact with you for a second before his gaze flits away again.

He’s pretty conspicuous-looking to be approaching the desk with such hesitance, you think. He has dark hair that hangs in slightly-scraggly curls down to his chest, and huge dark eyes. The pale skin of his arms, sticking out from within a denim vest/Judas Priest t-shirt combo, are littered with tattoos.

He pauses a few feet away from you, like he’s debating whether he wants to stop and chat, or to simply veer off towards the bookshelves and start browsing. Ultimately he decides to shuffle forward, closing the distance between the two of you.

“Hi there. What can I do for you?” you ask, voice gentle but encouraging.

He looks down and rests a hand on the desk, absentmindedly tracing the wood pattern with his thumb. “Um, yes.” He doesn’t offer anything else.

There’s a pregnant pause, both of you digesting the fact that what you had asked was not a yes or no question.

He tries again. “I…am in need…of some new reading material.”

You nod gravely, expression serious. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Did you have anything specific in mind?”

He begins to rock lightly back and forth on his feet, contemplating. “I like fantasy, especially Tolkien. I read a lot of horror, too, and sometimes sci-fi. If you had any suggestions for me, that’d be great.”

“Oh, we can certainly find you something,” you reassure him, already flipping through a mental rolodex of your favorite books in those genres. “Here, come with me.”

You stand and move around the desk to meet him, beckoning for him to follow.

Eddie watches you run a delicate hand over the spines of the books, keenly aware of the clammy sweat that’s flooding his own palms. Be cool, Munson.

“So,” you begin, a gleam of excitement in your eyes, “you like fantasy. Do you read Le Guin?”

Eddie nods eagerly, hair bouncing slightly with the movement. “Oh yeah, I’ve read the Earthsea trilogy.”

“Have you read any of The Hainish Cycle books?”

“I haven’t read those ones, no.”

You pull out two slim paperbacks from the row, holding each one out for him so he can study the covers. “These ones are science fiction, and they’re pretty good. You might like Rocannon’s World since it’s similar to a fantasy novel, but personally I think Left Hand of Darkness is the best.” You suddenly pause, and look around furtively, like you were checking to make sure that you two are really alone. You even put a hand up to the side of your mouth, as though shielding the conversation from eavesdroppers.

“Honestly,” you lower your voice like you’re admitting something scandalous, “I even liked it better than Earthsea.”

“No!” Eddie immediately matches your whispered, gossipy tone and lets his jaw drop, pretending to be aghast.

“Yes!” you insist, seemingly delighted by his willingness to play along. Eddie’s heart soars.

“I guess I can’t refute that until I read it, huh? What’s it about?” he asked, taking it from your hand.

“An envoy is visiting this frozen alien planet, and he’s trying to convince them to join this intergalactic coalition that he represents, but they’re making it like, really difficult for him. Also, gender doesn’t exist, and there’s political turmoil stemming from border disputes.”

“...oh. Cool.”

The next half-hour passes in this fashion. Your soft, mild demeanor is aglow with enthusiasm as you pull out book after book, giving him an off-the-cuff elevator pitch for each. Eddie can practically feel the cartoon hearts swirling around his head, bright pink and red bubbles that are almost certainly going to appear out of thin air and give him away.

He can’t put his finger on what it is, precisely, that’s pulling him in so deeply, drawing him towards you like a magnet with an opposite pole. Maybe it’s the tender way you talk about each book, the love and care that’s so tangible in your sweet voice, the way you speak about them as though they’re your old friends. Perhaps they are.

It’s not an unfamiliar concept to Eddie. A childhood steeped in loneliness and poverty, instability and dysfunction, neglect from his volatile and unreliable parents…yeah, he gets it. The wanting, the longing, the dire need to escape to someplace that doesn’t exist, some place where things were better and didn’t hurt, a dreamworld that would be kinder to a scrawny little boy with unwashed hair and a mean father.

The closest he ever came to it was when he lost himself between the yellowed and dog-eared pages of the few, precious books he owned.

So he listens to you chatter away with chest-aching tenderness, already thinking that he could listen to you like this for hours and be glad for it.

“You love fantasy, but you’ve never read The Last Unicorn?”

Eddie gives you an apologetic half-shrug, no longer able to keep the goofy, besotted grin from unfurling across his face. “Never got around to it, I guess.”

“It makes me cry. You have to take it,” you tell him with pleading eyes, adding it to the top of the growing pile in his arms before he can refuse. Not that he ever would. How could he, when you look at him like that?

“You cry at this one, really?” He looks curiously at the artwork on the front, an innocent picture of the pale horned creature. “But it’s so unassuming…”

“Don’t be fooled, it’ll get you. Take it,” you repeat.

Eddie shifts the stack of books to cradle it in one arm, so he can raise the other at you in a salute. “Yes, ma’am. And when I’m finished with it, I’ll give you a full report on the emotional damage it caused me.”

This makes you giggle, lips turned up in a gorgeous smile, and Eddie knows he’s a goner.

Back at the front, you resume your previous positions at the desk. Him in front and you behind, this time separated by a short pile of books.

You hold your hand out. “Card, please, sir.” Polite and professional, but with a little sparkle in your eye that lets Eddie hope for a moment that his time with you this morning was more pleasure than business.

He fumbles with his wallet, slipping out his library card and slotting it between his index and middle fingers, extending it for you to take. His chunky silver rings catch the light.

You accept the offering. “Thank you” – you quickly read the messy signature at the bottom – “Edward.” You look back at him with a grin.

He cringes, face scrunching in embarrassment. “Oh God. Call me Eddie, please.”

The scanner gives a little chirp! as you begin the checkout process, nodding. “Will do, Eddie.” His name sounds like a song when you say it, one he never wants to stop listening to.

You finish scanning his books, and slide a receipt into the jacket of the novel on top (which just so happens to be Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love). Instead of sliding the stack towards him, you keep both hands clasped on the cover, hesitating. You bite your lip, an unconscious imitation of himself earlier. “Listen….”

Eddie straightens up a little, stomach flipping like a coin. “Yeah?”

You bow your head. “I��m sorry if I talked too much. It’s just – most people who come in don’t actually ask me for recommendations, and I got excited,” you admit quietly, looking sheepish.

“Don’t apologize,” Eddie says without missing a beat. “I appreciate it. I really enjoyed it, actually,” he adds, eager to quell your anxiety. “I liked talking with you.” More than you know.

“O-oh,” you stutter, taken aback. “I liked talking with you, too.”

Eddie nods, smiling slightly. “Would you like to…talk again?” He flushes scarlet and coughs. Smooth. “I just mean, when I finish these” – he motions towards the day’s finds – “we have to discuss them, right? You helped me pick ‘em out, after all.”

“Of course. You have to let me know what you think.”

His smile gets bigger. “So we’ll reconvene?”

“We’ll reconvene,” you chuckle.

“Awesome. Looking forward to it.” He sweeps up his books, and gives you a little wave. “Thanks again, sweetheart. I’ll see you soon.”

And he can hardly wait. It looks like he’s got a lot of reading to do…

thanks for reading!!! <3 edit: this is now a series! Read Ch. 2-> Here!

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x bookworm!reader #stranger things fanfiction

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shurisneakers · 3 months

Text

unsolved (i)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky at his little shit supreme, Very Loud reader, images and memes that all have alt texts.

A/N: yes this is literally harmless in a different font. do not ask me if anything doesn't make sense. i cannot explain. i resurface every 3 years to present you with ideas born from menty b's. ANYWAY shout out to my beloved ryan and shane. pls enjoy <3

Bucky doesn’t appeal to the youths.

Apparently.

On God, he cannot fathom why.

He had definitely left the house in the last six months, maybe. Smiled in at least two pictures that existed on the internet. He even knew what Discord was. Sort of.

By all accounts, he should be treated as the modern day icon that he was.

“The youths?” he repeats, the word so foreign on his tongue it felt odd to even say it.

“Your numbers are the lowest of the whole team.” The latest tech-dude, with a tablet twelve models ahead of the one Bucky had in his room, tells him monotonously. “Wilson, Romanoff and Barton score the highest. Everyone else lies around the middle. You are dead-last.”

Bucky has the audacity to look offended.

“Anything to say?” Their PR head, Maya, asks him, amused.

He stares, formulating the wittiest one liner he could in three seconds.

“I don’ care,” he mumbles.

Maya sighs. “Look, the team took the decision together. As far as I’m aware, you are still a member. You need some PR if you guys want to stay in the public’s good books.”

“No one’s gonna listen to me.” Bucky wasn’t exactly the poster child for American values. He couldn’t even vote until three years ago, and that came only after the full wrath of a Steve Rogers descended on the email inbox of the DMV.

“That’s why it’s important to get them to like you,” Maya emphasizes. “Or the idea of you at least. A very sanitized, corporate friendly version.”

His eyebrow twitches unintentionally.

“And also you signed the contract.”

Well. Shit.

Truth be told– and he has openly and rather loudly stated this on numerous occasions even especially when no one asked– he doesn’t understand why they need a PR team. The world has calmed down significantly over the last few years. Bucky hadn’t really been out crime-fighting as much as he was people-watching. There hasn’t been an earth-shatteringly dystopian-level event in the longest time, and there seemed to be a group of spandex-clad teenagers who seemed to do a good job at taking care of them when they did threaten to occur. Go kids.

Even if they needed PR, he could arguably understand the appeal of Sam and Nat and why the people would want to see more of them. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he crawled onto Earth most days of the week.

“What do I have to do?” he asks ultimately, knowing there was no way to get out of this. “Interviews?”

The intern shares a look with Maya. Bucky shares a look with the ceiling.

“The team agreed to do a series of videos, each focusing on a different niche,” she begins, “Crash courses on science, pointing out mistakes in spy movies. Once a week.”

Bucky nods along. He can pinpoint Bruce and Nat for those.

Maya stares at him.

Bucky stares back.

“So,” she says slowly, like he’s a moron, “you would–”

“No.”

The intern sighs heavily like they discussed that this was going to happen. Bucky was getting predictable. This annoys him even further, for some reason.

“Only once a week, and it doesn’t have to be anything crazy–”

“I’m not doing videos,” he interjects. “I’ll tweet a few times. I’ll even go outside. But ’m not doin’ videos.”

A big step was to get the Avengers off Twitter after the regular shit-storm that occurs every time they’d quote-tweet another politician calling them shitheads. Getting them back on seems counterproductive.

“Fine,” Maya relents, looking at the intern. “We'll work something out.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, and meditating on ways he can weasel his way out of those too.

So they stick him in a couple of interviews.

Bucky, as the recluse extraordinaire that he was, does unsurprisingly terrible at them.

Variety does a piece on him that was supposed to take up 2 pages. They send back half a page worth of usable material and Bucky gets a lecture on how monosyllables don't count as answers.

He grunts in return. Maya’s itch to smack his shoulder with the rolled up draft increases.

They set him up for pap walks. Just him getting fast food for the team, or sitting in the park.

They don’t take into account that Bucky was trained professionally for years on how to hide, sneak in and out of places without a soul knowing he was ever there.

The paparazzi spend three hours waiting for him outside the pizza place, while he’s been home for two hours with two demolished pepperonis and an order of mozzarella sticks.

They give him access to his Twitter.

He tweets some dumb shit and gets shadow banned by that evening.

Maya is sick and tired, and the interns have shifted three times since the whole ordeal started. Bucky honestly feels a little bad. Maybe he should try to be like Scott, who not only wrote a book, finger-gunned at photographers, did an interview a week, but also agreed to a podcast and a video series about literally anything they suggested.

“Play nice,” Sam tells Bucky one evening.

It’s an off-hand comment, not even really looking at him while he says it.

Bucky doesn’t need to ask what he’s referring to, but he thinks that maybe he has gone too far.

He begrudgingly agrees.

Therefore, it begins.

They stick him in the background of a few videos. Just to interact, add his commentary on what was going on, suggestions.

Then the jokes really start.

“I just don’t got anything to add,” Bucky tries, in a failure of an attempt to justify his lack of contribution.

Maya only stares at him, but Bucky swears he can hear her curse quietly, even though her lips don’t move even a millimeter.

He is not put in another video.

And so he finds himself here.

In a meeting room that he’s convinced is barricaded from the outside so he can’t slither out the door again. Another intern with pink-tinted glasses that took up half their face.

Maya’s in the midst of explaining to him that sure, his numbers had gone up by a decimal, but that was because people had started editing him into the backgrounds of other pictures for other users to find in a perplexing take on Where’s Waldo.

“Videos seem to be working,” she ties it together. “But we need more than you just standing silently behind Captain Rogers.”

“But it’s working,” Bucky objects. “I don’t see why it has to change.”

Maya sends him a glare. Bucky decides then it’s good to shut up.

“Are you on the internet a significant amount?” the intern asks. The glasses on their face have changed colours to green. Bucky’s eyebrow furrows.

“No.”

For the next thirty minutes, he is subjected to a pop quiz about too many words ending with ‘core’, ‘coded’ and ‘eras’. He’s surprised that he knows what cottagecore is. He definitely doesn’t fucking know what a tomatogirl, nor does he want to.

“What do you like doing?” the intern enunciates, pulling up a spreadsheet of niches that had built a dedicated community around themselves over the years. “Makeup? Cleaning? Parkour?”

Bucky wonders if they’d really create a montage of him just micro cleaning the kitchen every week. It doesn’t sound half bad.

Beyond that, the only thing he can think of is woodworking, which Sam introduced him to. While he spends time creating little figures, he wouldn’t say it was–

“You really are dead silent,” the intern breaks his train of thought, tone almost that of wonder. “Guess the whole ‘ghost story for seventy years’ is more true than I thought.”

Bucky throws him a weary look, and works on unclenching the fist that tightened involuntarily.

“Was that necessary?” Maya’s voice comes coldly. “Take fifteen. Go find the other one we were supposed to meet.”

While sheepish and somewhat apologetic, the kid still looks relieved to be out of there. To be honest, Bucky isn’t really offended– he’s grown a thick skin over the years. But he also thought the guy was a little shit now.

Maya turns back to him, but Bucky finds that the table contains wonders far more interesting than the conversation at hand.

“Back to what we were talking about.” She ruffles through something on her laptop. “Puppets? History?”

He wordlessly shakes his head.

Been the former, seen too much of the latter.

Maya’s head tilts abruptly. “You like ghosts?”

He wonders if the prior conversation had anything to do with this insightful question.

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t exist.”

“Really,” Maya deadpans. “Aliens and multiversal baboons are fine, but no ghosts.”

“I’ve seen aliens and multiversal baboons. Never seen a ghost in my life,” Bucky argues right back.

“Other people have seen ghosts.”

“Good for other people.”

The door swings open right as Maya’s eyes narrow at him. Guess it wasn’t padlocked.

“Whatever it is you think I did, Maya, I didn’t. I think,” you announce in a volume too much for a closed room, stopping when you see Bucky sitting cross-armed and looking delightfully disgruntled. “Oh hey, Barnes. Fancy seeing you here.”

Bucky had met you. The newest addition to the team that had made a grand entrance a couple of weeks ago. He thinks you stay on the floor below him, but he has nothing backing this hypothesis other than the disco funk music that had started appearing at odd hours of the night.

“Please sit,” Maya cracks a smile at you that Bucky had yet to earn. “Sorry, I know our meeting is scheduled for later, but I figured we could kill two birds with one stone.”

You look between her and Bucky, who hasn’t moved an inch since you got here, much less even said hello.

“You must be really bad if Maya had to call me in,” you tell him outright. “I’m usually like, her last option.”

“Thanks,” Bucky replies dryly.

“Look, here’s my final pitch.” Maya sighs, before turning to you. “You’re new, and we need something to introduce you slowly to the public.”

“Oh, am I finally getting hard launched?” You grin, and Bucky doesn’t know what that means. “Just imagine me kicking my feet, giggling or whatever.”

“And he needs… an upgrade.” Maya’s thumb juts out towards Bucky who simply rolls his eyes.

“Right.” Your sight lands on him from across the table. “I’ve seen the memes.”

“What memes?” he grunts, because while the team had definitely seen them, it didn't occur to anyone they should show it to him. He loves them. Really. So much. Die for them.

You only look too happy to pull out your phone and start typing.

“Do you know what skinwalkers are?”

“No.”

“That’s what they say you look like, lurking in the back of all your friends’ videos,” you continue, swerving around your phone to show him.

Bucky doesn’t look impressed. He can’t say he blames them either, which makes him inexplicably maddens him.

“At least they’re calling you their boyfriend,” you add, entirely unhelpfully. “That’s gotta count.”

“Right.” Maya clears her throat. “The both of you–”

“Are getting paired together, I suppose,” you hum.

Bucky’s eyebrows pull together.

He barely knows you. Just a little bit on how you ended up here, that you enjoyed hanging out with the team, figuring out your place in the compound, and were seemingly doing a great job at it.

You were… loud. And open.

Bucky feels the compulsive need to compensate for that by doubling down on how silent he could get, as if the two of you couldn’t co-exist in the same space in equilibrium.

Maya pointedly raises a finger at you. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“For the right price, I will believe in whatever you tell me to.”

Her face lights up brighter than Bucky's ever seen.

“Great.” Maya slams her laptop closed. “See you later.”

Bucky’s left staring as she exits, not even throwing the both of you another look.

“That was quick,” your voice cuts through the silence. “What was that all about?”

“Don’ ask me,” he grumbles, with a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what was about to follow.

“Ghost hunting?” Bucky echoes a week later, as expected.

“Yes,” Maya tells him simply. “Two of you. A series based on paranormal activity.”

“I don’t even believe in them,” he reiterates.

“That’s the point,” she emphasises. “Skeptic and believer. It makes for a good contrast.”

“Why us both?” He hopes it doesn’t come off as offensive. He just doesn’t see why he can’t do this with Sam. Even Clint, if a gun was really pressed to his head.

“I’m new, no one gives a shit about me,” you say brightly and full of promise. “Yet.”

“Exactly. It’ll be low key. Not an overwhelming number of viewers, no expectations. It’s perfect for launching one Avenger and re-launching another.”

“Sounds rad.” You grin, leaning back as your feet rest on the chair in front of you.

Maya looks relieved for a moment that at least one of you was on board. “No promises on anything. We shoot one video, and if it does well, we stick with it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Bucky argues.

“Then you have until tomorrow morning to give us another feasible idea,” Maya dishes back.

Bucky retreats into his seat, arms crossed over his chest.

Truth be told, he considered himself to be the most boring person in the team and though he had made his peace with that, he was sure thar bringing that up now would entail Maya shooting him in the foot.

“Fine,” he agrees and the sighs around the room are loud.

He scoffs. So fucking dramatic and for what.

“Put her there, partner.” You stretch ungracefully over the large table, sticking out your hand.

Bucky eyes your hand. “Do you even believe in ghosts?”

“I do now, yeah.” You nod seriously. “Love ‘em. Can’t get enough of them.”

“One video,” Maya reminds him as a balm. “And if it doesn’t work, you’re off the hook forever.”

Off the hook? Forever? For Bucky?

Yay.

“One video,” he reiterates.

You roll your eyes before smiling when he leans forward to grab it. You yank it up and down clunkily. He blinks at you, letting go slowly.

“Thank fuck,” Maya groans, head dropping onto the table.

Your smile is wild. “Guess we’re doing this shit together.”

He doesn’t even have to look very deep in his soul. He already knows he’s going to suffer.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to keep up with updates for this fic and others, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications!

also i'd absolutely love to make this a community led fic like how harmless was! if you have memes or any paranormal ideas or just any prompts in general, please please send them my way <3

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #unsolved fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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anonymousewrites · 1 month

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Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1) Chapter Fourteen

Platonic! Hazbin Hotel x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Alastor x Teen! Reader

Chapter Fourteen: Show Goes On

Summary: The Hotel rebuilds and moves on from the fight.

Mouse Note: Thank you for reading Nature of the Human Soul (Book 1)! I hope you all enjoyed because I loved writing this. I'm so excited for Hazbin Hotel to return because I have a lot of ideas for this series, and I'm excited to continue. But for now, thank you for everything! If you like my writing, please check out my other Father Figure series!

“Noooo!” screamed Lute as Adam fell. She ran to Adam’s side, and (Y/N) backed off, narrowing their eyes in case she tried anything. “Sir! Stay with me, sir! Adam!” He was gone.

“It’s over,” said Charlie, holding Vaggie to her side protectively.

Lucifer loomed over Lute, and her eyes widened in fright. “Take your little friends and go home! Please.”

Lute narrowed her eyes and picked up Adam’s halo. Furious at having no other choice, she glared at the demons before calling out to the exorcists. “Retreat. All exorcists fall back.”

The angels rose into the air, fleeing back through the portal to heaven.

Lucifer, pleased, turned to the hotel group. “So…who’s up for pancakes?”

Everyone, bloody and tired, stared at him.

“Good evening, I’m Katie Killjoy,” said the news report later that night.

“And I’m—”

“No one gives a shit who you are, Tom,” said Katie. “Breaking news: extermination day is canceled! Charlie Morningstar managed to fend off the angelic attack with more than just nice words. In an unseen turn of events, our demonic head honcho Lucifer stepped in to save his daughter’s ass in the last moment. We’re also hearing reports that Adam, leader of the Angelic Legions, first man, and totally fuckable bad boy, has been slain by a filthy gardening demon or some shit like that. The kid said, quote, ‘I hate cameras, and TV here sucks, go away’ before threatening our crew! What an asshole! Anyway, congrats to Charlie and her crew for not being totally fucking useless for once.”

Charlie held Keekee as she looked over the rubble that used to be the Hazbin Hotel. They’d lost so much, so many people. “Oh, there, there, it’s…” She sighed. “It’s okay.” She tried to believe it herself, but it was difficult.

Angel smiled at her as he held Fat Nuggets. Charlie managed to smile back and took a step towards him. She found herself in front of the “Happy First Week!” sign she’d made for Pentious. Her heart ached at his loss. Vaggie put her hands on Charlie’s shoulders comfortingly.

(Charlie) “He did it for us, The ultimate sacrifice. He gave me his trust, And look how we pay the prince.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. She had failed her friends. Because she hadn’t been strong enough, they had gotten hurt, killed.

(Charlie) “This bloodshed could have been avoided, If I convinced heaven to work together. I took a hotel, and I destroyed it, I know I could have done better, better, Instead of letting you down.”

Lucifer put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and smiled at her.

(Lucifer) “Come on little lady, why the frown? In the last ten thousand years, you’re the first one to change this town, You can do this, Now I know it, For your story has just begun, You can’t quit now, Hell, you owe it, There’s still damage to be undone, You’ve changed my mind, You’ve touched their hearts.”

Charlie looked around as her friends approached with a smile.

(Lucifer) “Found the good in souls gone bad, The stage is wrecked, the crowd is gone, But by God Charlie, The show it must go on!”

Her friends gathered around Charlie.

(Vaggie, Cherri, (Y/N), Angel, Husk, Niffty) “We can do this, We can build it! Best hotel that you’ve ever seen! Twice the bedrooms, We can fill it!” (Lucifer) “With more sinners than you can dream!” (Lucifer and Vaggie) “It starts with you!” (Vaggie, Cherri, (Y/N), Lucifer, Angel, Husk, Niffty) “You know it’s true, Fulfill your destiny!”

They reached out their hands. Wiping her tears and smiling, Charlie stood and took her father’s hand as the group came together for a hug.

(Charlie) “So long as I’ve got all of you with me!”

And so, the cleanup and work began. It was tough going, but everyone pitched in, and the hotel began to come together better than before.

(Niffty) “To build a hotel, I think we need some brick and lumber!” (Lucifer) “Good thing we’re in Hell, check out this little magic number.”

He snapped his fingers, and the supplies appeared.

(Angel) “Start with foundation.” (Lucifer) “A remedial creation for me.”

The foundation came together in a single spell.

(Niffty, Angel, Lucifer) “It’s as easy as can be!”

Soon, the hotel was getting decorated, rooms ready to be stayed in.

(Charlie) “No time for cryin’, We got a lot of work to do and, We gotta try and make the best of what’s in ruins.” (Vaggie) “New coat of paint!” (Husk) “New lights across the marquee!” ((Y/N)) “With a little sorcery!”

They waved a hand, and plants grew up around the hotel, decorating it with nature amongst the barren city that Pride usually was.

Finally, the hotel was put back together, with a statue of Dazzle outside. Charlie smiled at the painting of Pentious and the Egg Bois going up in the foyer to honor his memory. The memories of who they lost would never be forgotten as a new era of the Hazbin Hotel approached.

(All) “We can do this!” (Charlie) “We can do this!” (All) “We’ll be better!” (Charlie) “We’ll be better!” (All) “Though redemption may take a while.” (Charlie) “Though it may take a while.” (All) “Wayward sinners, clear their ledger!”

They came together for a hug, and a familiar face popped out of the shadows.

(Alastor) “And we’re doing it with a smile!”

(Y/N) grinned. He was healed and back with them. He had survived, too.

(Charlie) “We’ll make a difference, wait and see.” (Charlie and Vaggie) “We’re gonna do this, you and me.” (All) “And then tomorrow it will be, A fuckin’ happy day in Hell!”

The Hazbin Hotel was open for business.

(Y/N) walked through the hotel to the new wing dedicated to Alastor’s broadcasts. Obviously, it was placed on the opposite side from Lucifer’s apple-themed wing. They paused at the door of the radio and knocked.

“Alastor?” they called out.

The door was opened by a shadow, and (Y/N) stepped inside. Alastor was standing over the controls of the new radio, examining everything.

“Do you like it?” asked (Y/N), slightly nervous.

Yes, they had faced Adam, but this was…different. It was a different type of encounter. With a fight, (Y/N) knew what it felt like to suffer, to go through pain, so they could handle that. With friendship, (Y/N) had very little experience, so they weren’t sure how to deal with it.

Alastor turned to face them. “It seems Charlie did a good job ensuring this was up to my standards. My broadcasts will be quality, as usual.”

“Charlie didn’t make it. Well, she helped, but I, uh, I did it,” said (Y/N).

Alastor paused, and his grin, unbidden, widened. “You did?”

(Y/N) nodded. “I saw your tower was affected when Adam hurt you, so when we rebuilt the hotel, I made sure there was something for you to come back to.”

“I hadn’t expected to have a broadcast tower at the hotel,” said Alastor.

“Do you like it?” asked (Y/N).

“I do,” said Alastor honestly.

(Y/N) brightened. “I’m glad! And I’m glad you’re alright. Adam did a lot of damage to the hotel, killed Pentious, and hurt you pretty badly.”

“It will take more than that to kill the Radio Demon,” said Alastor, but the unfortunate truth was that he had nearly died.

“I faced him,” said (Y/N) suddenly.

Alastor paused. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I fought Adam. It didn’t go that well for me, either.” They grinned at him. “But I killed him. In the end, I killed him.” They stood proud in their strength and determination. Yes, (Y/N) had nearly fallen to Adam and Lucifer had really defeated him, but dealing the killing blow had given (Y/N) so much satisfaction.

Alastor looked at (Y/N), and he cursed every part of him that still had some humanity since he felt something as they smiled at him. It wasn’t what he felt when Rosie laughed alongside him and teased him, but it held a familiar warmth. Although he had begun by seeing something in (Y/N) that reminded him of himself from oh-so long ago, Alastor couldn’t help but look at (Y/N) and just see them, now. It wasn’t them being like him, even if it still began there, but it was more.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of my protégé,” said Alastor, unable to keep the fondness completely out of his voice.

Alastor was falling victim to all of the weaknesses he wanted to eliminate within himself.

And (Y/N)? Well, the Nature Demon stood tall. They were growing into all the strength they had ever wished for.

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fortheloveofwonderland · 11 months

Text

My Reply | S.R

This one was a request from the lovely @reidsaurora-replies for my milestone celebration which got wildly out of hand. I think I damn near used every lyric of the song in this one. Also, Maeve does not exist in this universe. I felt like his phone calls with her were too similar to the letters with reader and not needed

Summary - Spencer writes his deepest tragedies down on paper for his pen pal. After ten years of exchanging letters and some divine intervention from JJ, the two of you finally come face to face.

CW - this one covers most of Spencer’s canon storylines including Tobis Hankel and his drug addiction, his moms illness, his fathers abandonment, getting shot in the knee, his headaches, Emily’s “death”, prison arc, Mr Scratch and Emily’s kidnapping, angst, interfering friends, lots of literary quotes.

WC - 6.3k

Making friends was always something Spencer Reid had been inherently bad at. He was always too young or too smart which always seemed to put people off of forming friendships with him.

When he joined the BAU, his team called themselves his friends. But Spencer knew if he’d met any of them outside of work he would have nothing in common with them.

They were simply friends by proximity, which admittedly was better than having no friends at all. But he couldn’t talk to them about everything, afraid to scare them away with talk of his mothers illness or his fathers abandonment.

And sometimes he just needed to talk to someone.

It was Garcia’s idea that he sign up for a pen pal. When she found out about his mom during the course of the fisher king case, he’d confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable talking to the team about such things.

At first she’d actually suggested talking to someone online, she had many online friends who she talked to in various chat rooms. But after almost an hour of trying to explain that to the technophobe doctor and getting little more than a deep frown in response, she changed tact.

A pen pal appealed to Spencer greatly. He already wrote daily letters to his mom and found it somewhat cathartic, getting his thoughts down on the page, but he never bothered her with the darker stuff.

The idea of a faceless person he’d never meet reading his deepest, darkest thoughts was actually intriguing to him. And so with the help of Penelope he found himself a pen pal.

In his first letter he’d just introduced the basics, his name and age, what he did for a living and that he lived in DC.

He went on to explain how hard he found it to make friends and the difficulties of talking to his already established friends about the darker parts of his life. He ended the letter with a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” - Harper Lee.

He received a reply little over a week later.

Your name was Y/N and you were twenty two, three years younger than him and a grad student at Columbia University. You told him you would be happy to read whatever he sent you, that you were more than willing for him to write to you about the things he didn’t tell his friends.

You signed off with a quote of your own quote from the book Infinite Jest.

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realise how seldom they do.” - David Foster Wallace.

And so he did just as you said and he wrote another letter.

His second letter to you was five pages long. He went into great detail about his mothers illness, how he’d been left to deal with it alone at ten years old. He wrote about how he’d made the decision at eighteen years old to have her committed to a sanitarium.

He told you about growing up as a child prodigy in Las Vegas and how hard that was. You were the first person he ever told about Alexa Lisbon and being tied naked to a flagpole.

He spoke about the events surrounding Elle leaving the team and how it didn’t feel complete without her.

He ended the letter by apologising profusely that he’d wasted your time with his long winded rambles and said he hoped to hear from you soon and scrawled a quote from The Great Gatsby.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald.

He said he would understand if you didn’t reply. But you did.

The letter took two weeks to arrive and you explained that it was because you wanted to really process his words and give each and every one of them the time they deserved. He read the last few lines of your letter over and over again in a loop even though they were etched into his memory after only one glance.

I wish there was something I could say, to erase each and every page you've been through,

even though it's not my place to save you.

“When I get lonely these days, I think: so be lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” - Elizabeth Gilbert - Eat, Pray, Love.

He wasn’t familiar with the book and so he’d gone out and brought it and read it cover to cover within an hour.

Reading your letter made Spencer feel understood for the first time in his young life. You didn’t pass judgement on him. Spencer found that between the pages of your letters he found a kindred spirit.

The letters continued back and forth for several months until one day you didn’t receive a reply. His last letter had been penned to you on route to a case in Atlanta, which you’d responded to the day you received it. But there was radio silence from Spencer.

You shouldn’t have been as worried as you were, but you couldn’t help yourself. His letters had become such a huge part of your world, often rereading them hundreds of times just to make sure you didn’t miss any little nuance on the page.

His handwriting was ingrained within you, his scrawly, sometimes barely legible penmanship danced behind your eyelids every time you closed your eyes. His letters had rapidly become the best part of any day. And for over a year you didn’t receive a reply.

After a while you’d stopped holding out hope every time you collected your mail. Eventually you gave up ever expecting to hear from him again. Maybe he didn’t need you anymore. Perhaps he’d made a real life friend, maybe even a girlfriend and you’d been rendered ineffective.

But then little over a year after you sent your last letter, you found an envelope in your mail slot with the familiar handwriting you adored so much and the DC postmark.

Y/N,

I don’t really have any excuses, all I can say is I’m sorry. I have written you fifty three letters over the course of the last year but never mailed a single one. They are piled up on my desk, addressed and even stamped, but I couldn’t bring myself to mail them.

I’ve been struggling, I can’t lie to you. I can’t even lie to you through a letter and tell you I’ve been fine because I haven’t. I think you would see through my prose, know that I wasn’t being truthful. And you’ve never given me a reason to be anything but honest with you.

The case in Atlanta was one of the hardest I’ve ever worked. I’m not going to beat around the bush, I’m just going to tell what happened and hopefully this letter will end up with you and not in the pile on my desk.

I was kidnapped by the man we were hunting down. I spent two days tied to a chair being beaten within an inch of my life but a man with multiple personalities. In fact, that’s not strictly true. I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life; one of the personas killed me.

I’m not entirely sure how long I was technically dead before he revived me but obviously not long enough to cause permanent neurological damage. Irreversible brain damage occurs after four minutes without oxygen so it stands to reason it was less than four minutes.

But during that time, my life flashed before my eyes, including every single word of every single one of your letters.

One of the alter’s drugged me in his own way of trying to save me. Drugging me was supposed to help with the pain, both mental and physical. I fought it at first, desperate for him not to stick that needle in my vein. But after that first hit, I stopped resisting.

I think you can probably already see where this is going. You’re incredibly smart and you seem to know me so well. After I shot Tobias Hankel dead I took three vials of dilaudid from his corpse.

I should have prefaced this by saying I am now ten months sober, and offered up the good news first. But there were several months that I continued using the drug in secret, hoping it would aid in erasing the memories of it all.

It took a case in New Orleans in which I met up with an old friend Ethan and ended up almost destroying my career for me to decide to get sober. I’ve had a lot of difficulties in my life, as you know, but getting clean is the hardest thing I have ever done.

And now for the first time in months I’m craving again. Maybe that’s why I’m writing to you, determined to send this letter this time. I need to know that everything is going to be ok and you are the only one that I will believe it from.

My team tries. Now it's all out in the open, they try to help. But you don’t even need to try. Your help is so effortless, so easy and I’m in real need of that right now.

His letter went on in this vein for another six pages. He also included several pages of handwritten poetry which he had copied out of a book to send you. With each word you consumed you felt your heart breaking for him a piece at a time.

And he signed off with a surprising choice of quote from The Lorax.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” - Dr Seuss.

You spent the next month or so trying to cultivate the perfect reply, but for the first time in your life, words failed you.

It was three days after Spencer received his one year sober chip that your letter arrived.

I got your letter and the poetry you sent me, postmarked in December of last year. I really hope you’re doing better, all your friends close by your side, one step closer to recovery.

I hope by the time you receive this you are close to one year sober, but if you didn’t make it you need to know that’s ok too. Life is full of ups and downs Spencer. If you didn’t make it this time you will the next time. Or the one after that.

If you relapsed I need you to not beat yourself up over it. You will be ok, Spencer Reid, for that I am certain.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” Maya Angelou - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

***

When he got shot in the knee, he wrote to you from the hospital. He told you how hard it was for him to turn down pain medication when he was in so much agony. But he was over two years sober now and he wouldn’t do anything to risk a relapse.

Your reply spoke of how proud of him you were and how you knew it couldn’t have been easy for him but you hoped the fact you were proud went some way to aid him.

He told you it meant more to him than you would ever know.

Then he started having headaches and the letters became sporadic. When he did write he told you how painful it was for him to try to focus on the words in front of him.

I’ve seen so many doctors and no one can tell me what’s wrong with me. It’s like they think I’m making it up, like this pain isn’t real.

On my good days it’s a dull throb but on the bad days it’s nearly paralysing. I’m so scared that this is a precursor for schizophrenia. I'm still young enough for my first break, and it is a genetic illness.

I love my mom but I can’t turn out like her, Y/N, I just can’t. I'm so, so scared.

But your letters are the greatest comfort to me. I don’t think there are words to describe how much they mean - I will try to surmise it with a quote from Charlotte's Web -

"'Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.'" - E.B White.

You could feel his fear through the pages. His handwriting was somehow even harder to read than usual and sentences often tapered off with no ending. There were whole passages scribbled out so violently his pen had ripped the paper in places. There were crude drawings of brains and dark rain clouds in the margins.

Spencer,

I am so sorry you are going through this and that no one can give you the answers you seek. But this isn’t the end for you, even if it is schizophrenia, you can still live a full and normal life.

If you'll just hold on for one more second, if you just hold on to what you have, you will wake up tomorrow. Behind every rain cloud lies the sun. As Victor Hugo said in Les Miserables -

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”

In his next few letters he seemed to be getting better, his headaches slowly dissipating until they only hassled him every once in a while. Things seemed to be looking up for him.

But then one of his best friends died.

His detailed letter told you all about Ian Doyle and Emily’s history with him and went on to conclude how she died on the operating table.

I’ve been through a lot of trauma in my life, lost a lot of people close to me but never like this. I’ve never had to bury someone I love and honestly I don’t know how to move past this.

My initial reaction has been dilaudid. It's the only thing I can think of to take the pain away.

Tell me not to do it, Y/N, please. Please tell me that this grief will get better and that using drugs again is not the answer. Please help me stay clean.

"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time — the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.” John Irving - A Prayer for Owen Meany

It took you longer than it should have done to formulate a reply. You felt pressured, like his sobriety hung in your hands. You hated that his friend had died but you didn’t think it was fair of him to put this on you. And you told him such.

Spencer,

I am sorry to hear about Emily, I know how close the two of you were. I’m no expert on grief, I can’t tell you how to deal with this.

You know full well that using dilaudid again is a bad idea, you really don’t need me to tell you that. Honestly, I’m a little frustrated at you for putting this on my shoulders.

I am always here to help Spencer, in any way I can but sometimes I think you expect too much from me. We’ve been trading letters back and forth for the better part of five years and I don’t think you’ve ever really asked me about myself aside from those first initial letters.

And it’s fine, you needed this friendship more than I did. But over time this has started to feel so one sided and I don’t always look forward to your letters as much as I once did.

I realise this is not the best time for me to be saying these things but I can’t hold back any longer. I’m glad I can be someone you can turn to but I have my own life, my own issues and I have no one to talk to about them.

You put too much pressure on me Spencer and it’s a lot to take. I’ve tried to help shoulder your misery all these years but it’s starting to bring me down. All I can say is you need to wake up, you've gotta believe; you can't give up. Time keeps going on without us, long after we're dead and gone.

And you finished it with a simple quote from After You by Jojo Moyes.

“No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.”

It was no surprise to you that you didn’t receive a reply.

***

Y/N,

It’s been two years and I’m sorry for that. Two years, one month and eleven days. The truth is your last letter was hard for me to read as you can probably understand.

The hardest part of reading it was the fact that I knew you were right. I’ve been selfish all these years. I’ve treated you like a sounding board for my problems and never once asked how you were.

It's taken me time to write this because I wanted to get to a better place before I responded. I was angry at first, I felt like I was being abandoned again and my anger would not have been conducive.

Then I was hurt, hurt that the one person I thought would always be there for me had turned their back on me. I displaced my grief over Emily’s death onto you and anything I would have written in that time would have only been the rage fuelled epitaph of a grieving man.

And then once I dealt with those emotions, life simply got away from me. Emily was alive and well, her death was faked to get Doyle off of her back. Again I was angry about being lied to by my friends but eventually I was just happy she was alive.

Then I turned thirty and had a crisis of faith I suppose. I guess with my intellect I always assumed I would be doing something more with my life and turning thirty kind of threw me through a loop.

We had some changes to the team, new agents coming and going. All in all things have been somewhat hectic.

But that’s not why I’m writing.

I am writing because I really do want to know everything about you. I want you to be able to open up to me the way I always have to you. I want to be your shoulder, your repreve. I really hope I haven’t completely blown our friendship and I hope to be the kind of person who you can talk to.

These arms remain stretched out to you and maybe someday you'll accept them. Maybe it's too late to save a young girl's heart that's long stopped beating. But I hope that it isn’t.

“You have been in every way all that anyone could be…if anybody could have saved me it would have been you.” Jennifer Niven - All the Bright Places.

You wanted to tell him it was too little too late, that after two years of silence you weren’t interested anymore.

You wanted to simply not reply, ignore him entirely like he’d done to you.

But you couldn’t. And so you replied.

It was your longest letter to date, depicting in great detail how he’d made you feel over the years and all the hardships you’d faced without having someone to vent to.

But getting to write it all down had been purifying, and by the time you were finished you weren’t mad anymore.

I am willing to give this another shot, but things have to be different. If we’re to continue this friendship then it has to be a two way street.

But I can’t pretend that I haven’t missed your letters because I have. I see pieces of you between the words, parts of yourself I’m not sure you realise you leave on the page.

I’ve painted a picture of you in my mind's eye and even after two years with no letters, I’ve carried that picture with me wherever I go.

I feel like I somehow know you better than I know myself and I hope going forward you can start to know me the same way. Charlotte Bronte once said -

“Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.” - Jane Eyre.

***

Spencer didn’t know how it happened, he only knew that it had happened. Over the course of all the years writing to you it was almost a surprise it hadn’t happened sooner. Or maybe it had and he just didn’t realise until now.

Spencer Reid had fallen in love with the woman who wrote her prose to him.

It had been ten years of letters, every single one of which he kept in their envelopes in date order in the bottom drawer of his desk at home.

Those letters were his lifelines on bad days, the one thing that kept him tethered. He didn’t even know what you looked like, even what you sounded like but he loved you. He loved you with every fibre of his being.

And he couldn’t stop himself from telling you exactly what you meant to him. Even if it inevitably destroyed what the two of you had, he couldn’t stop the words from flying across the page.

So that’s pretty much everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Mom’s doing ok but obviously it's a huge adjustment for her and I’m not entirely sure how long I can keep her living with me but for now it works.

How did the interview go? I have absolutely no doubts that you blew them all away with your presentation, you’re a hard person not to fall in love with.

Your presence in my life has brightened my every waking minute. You once told me that behind every rain cloud lies the sun; you are the sun behind my clouds. Your letters bring me back to life, your handwriting penned onto my soul.

Is it foolish of me to be in love with someone I have never laid eyes on? William Makepeace Thackery said in Vanity Fair -

“It is better to have loved wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.”

I suppose that’s as good of an answer as any.

***

Five days after he penned his love confession, he was arrested in Mexico. Once all the drugs had left his system, only after he was extradited and arraigned and placed at Milburn was he able to dwell on the fact he never received your reply.

And being trapped in a cell gave him way too much time to think about that.

It was possible you had replied, maybe even just to tell him he was crazy to even think he could be in love with someone he had never met. But he was sure you wouldn’t have even bothered to respond, thinking him a lunatic you needed to cut ties with.

After a month in prison on one of JJ’s visits she brought a letter with her which she had found in his apartment. She recognised the handwriting on the envelope from several she’d seen him reading over the years.

She wasn’t allowed to give him the letter but she offered to read it to him. At first he’d declined because he had no idea what to expect from your reply but after several long minutes he’d decided to let JJ read it to him.

Spencer,

I am pleased to hear your mom is doing well but I do think you know that this solution won’t work in the long run. You say you live in a one bedroom apartment? You and I both know that you can’t sustain having your mother live there permanently. But I know you and I know you will figure out what’s best for you both.

The interview was amazing and they offered me the job on the spot. If it wasn’t for all your help with the presentation there is no way I would have gotten it, so thank you so much for that.

As for the other thing…

For some time now I have been wondering about feelings I didn’t understand. You’ve been such a large part of my life for so long and even though we’ve never met I feel like we have, if that makes sense? I feel like in my heart I know you. My heart knows your heart.

Falling for you was as inevitable as the sun rising each morning. Perhaps it is foolish but I believe Thackeray knew what he was talking about. And I also believe Emily Bronte was talking about me and you when she said, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Spencer had interrupted JJ then, when she was smiling from ear to ear as she read your words out loud.

“That’s enough.” He cut her off, burying his head in his hands.

“Wow, Spence, I had no idea you’d met someone.”

“I haven’t met anyone. She is simply a woman at the other end of a series of letters.”

“How long?” JJ placed the pages down in front of her.

Spencer looked up at her, a small blush on his cheeks. He didn't want to be talking about this, least of all on the other side of a plexiglass screen with his other inmates nearby but he responded all the same.

“Ten years.” He shrugged.

“Ten years?” JJ sounded incredulous. “Ten years of letters and you’ve never met? Why?”

“I, uh, it never really came up.” It wasn’t a lie, you’d never once discussed meeting in all those years.

“Is it like a distance thing? Does she live far away?”

“No,” He sighed with a shake of his head. “She’s in New York.”

“New York!” She huffed. “New York is a five hour train journey, Spence!”

“Jennifer, now is really not the time for this.” He lowered his voice as JJ’s had garnered eyes in their direction. “There is really no point in discussing this as we have no idea when or even if I’m going to get out of here.”

“Don’t say that.” She shook her head.

“It’s true.” He shrugged sadly. “I really can’t think about all this right now, ok? Just take the letter back to my apartment and pretend you didn’t see it. Please?”

If it weren’t for the desperation in his eyes she might have argued it. But she didn’t want to waste what little time she got to spend with Spencer fighting.

“Ok.” She relented with a small roll of her eyes.

“Thank you, JJ.” He offered a tight lipped smile. “How are the boys?”

JJ filled him in but she wasn’t really focused anymore. In her head, she was already penning a letter of her own…

Y/N,

My name is Jennifer Jareau, JJ, and I work with Spencer at the BAU. I’m not sure if he’s mentioned me to you or not. He hasn’t really told me too much about you if I’m honest. But I have learned that he has strong feelings for you and you for him. I’m wondering if I can make a suggestion…

***

When you received the strange letter from Spencer’s friend JJ in response to yours, you’d been initially extremely confused as to why he was letting his teammates read your secret correspondence.

But when she’d gone on to tell you that Spencer had been arrested along with all the details surrounding his incarceration and how she’d read your letter to him during their visitation, you started to understand.

But then a few days later, before you had a chance to reply to her, you received another letter from Spencer with a postmark from Milburn Correctional Facility.

Y/N,

Maybe Thackeray and Bronte were right or maybe they were wrong, I can’t say for sure. What I can say with certainty is that I can’t carry on like this a moment longer.

Something has happened to me, it won’t be hard for you to figure out what as soon as you see the postmark. I am not willing to get into it or explain how I ended up here. But I have no idea how long I am going to be inside and I don’t want the rest of our communication to be sent through a string of guards who will pick apart each tormented sentence.

I ask you not to write me back. This has to be the end of the road my dear. This letter has to be our last. I don’t know how much longer I will continue to be able to live like this. Each day my hope dies a little more and I’m sure I won’t make it out of here alive.

I am writing simply to say thank you. Thank you for all your years of listening, for all your patience and kind words and your hopeful prose. In my darkest hours you have shown me the light, dragged me out of the shadows of my own creation.

I love you for all that you are and all that you have done but even you can’t save me this time. This really might be the end for me and I don’t want you to blame yourself. You are the only reason I made it this far in this treacherous game we call life.

Take care of yourself, continue to live your absolute best life. And in time I pray that you forget me and are able to love someone far more tangible.

All that is left to say can be summed up by a quote from The Miniaturist -

“You are the sunlight through a window, which I stand in, warmed. My darling.” Jessie Burton.

You replied firstly to Spencer, his heartbreaking words more pressing than JJ’s letter. You kept it short and to the point, knowing that various other prison guards would read it before it even made it to his hands.

I appreciate but can't accept this thank you note that's sealed with your last breath and I won't stand aside and listen to you give up.

You are stronger than that Spencer Reid and if I know anything about your team from all the years of hearing you speak of them it’s that they are the best at what they do and they will prove your innocence.

Just remember what Ernest Hemmingway said in A Farewell to Arms -

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.”

You will be stronger at those broken places, Spencer, I have no doubt about it.

And besides, if you don’t make it out of there, how do you propose to ever meet me?

Whilst on a role, you grabbed a clean sheet of paper and started scrawling again.

Jennifer,

Thank you for your letter. I have spent some time musing on your suggestion and I think you might be right.

I think it's time for me to take a trip to DC…

***

Spencer never opened your last letter because he had no intention of replying to it. If he didn’t read it, he could pretend you had never sent it and he wouldn’t be tempted to write a response.

Instead he stuffed it between the pages of his book and tried not to think about it.

After two and half months his team proved his innocence and he was released but he was thrown into the deep end of trying to find his mother.

And even once he found her unscathed, he was rapidly thrust right into Scratch’s web after he kidnapped Emily.

Taking the elevator back up to the BAU alongside JJ after they’d escorted Emily to the hospital it already felt like a lifetime had passed since he left prison. And all he wanted to do was chronicle all of it to you.

Maybe once the dust settled, once he’d wrapped his head around everything that happened he would open your letter and send you a reply.

But for the first time in ten years, Spencer didn’t want to drag you into his mess.

JJ was strangely quiet as the elevator made its ascent. He didn’t even want to be here, he’d planned on going straight home after leaving the hospital. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for two and a half months and he couldn’t wait to collapse into it.

But JJ had insisted that instead of him getting the metro home, if he popped back to the BAU with her to collect some paperwork, she would drive him home.

And honestly he was just too exhausted to decline.

JJ’s eyes were hyper focused on the digital floor numbers as they got higher. A few seconds after it displayed number five, one floor below the BAU, she turned and looked at him.

“Don’t hate me for this.” She blurted out.

“Excuse me?” Spencer frowned, too tired to try to understand what she meant.

“I couldn’t just let it go.” She shrugged, a guilty smile on her lips.

“Let what go?” His frown deepened.

Her eyes flicked back upwards as the number five rolled into the number six and the elevator started to judder as it prepared to stop.

“Just remember I love you and that’s the only reason I interfered.” She shrugged as the elevator stopped entirely and soon the doors were peeling open.

Spencer looked away from her and out of the open doors to where someone was standing just a few feet back.

Spencer’s eyes landed on the stranger only it wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew exactly who this person was standing on the BAU floor.

He remembered the way JJ had read him your letter and how you’d told him your heart knows his heart.

Well his heart knew yours too. And he knew the heart beating a few feet away from him was yours.

“Y/N?” He croaked, slowly stepping out of the elevator but not too close to you.

“Spencer?” You smiled at him, the kind that reached all the way to your eyes.

Neither of you noticed JJ slipping quietly away, wanting to give you some privacy.

“What are you doing here?” His brows were furrowed and he was rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re friend JJ wrote to me. She told me everything that happened to you. And she made me realise that ten years is too long to wait for a first meeting.” Your voice was like honey to Spencer’s ears.

Your prose was beautiful, but hearing the words from your lips as you stood in front of him in all your ethereal glory was more than any letter could convey.

“I…I am actually speechless.” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“You? Speechless?” You giggled and Spencer felt the sound all the way to his heart.

“You’ll come to learn I am much more of a wordsmith on paper. In person I am incredibly awkward and often trip over my words. I ramble when I’m nervous or clam up entirely, no in between. I spout facts and statistics rather than have a meaningful conversation. I am much more comfortable writing my words down on paper than speaking them out loud.” He let the words spill out of his mouth, proving his point entirely.

“I’ve waited ten years to hear your voice. Please never stop talking.” You smiled so brightly at him he felt like he was floating.

You were here in front of him, not just hidden between pages of letters. You were real, tangible; within his reach.

And suddenly the last thing Spencer wanted to do was talk.

He took a few tentative steps towards you and cautiously raised a hand to your cheek. You sighed in content when he cupped your face and nuzzled against his palm.

“I could talk to you about anything and everything all day long, my love.” He smiled, inching his face closer to yours. “But at this moment in time I have one slightly more pressing desire to do with my mouth rather than speak.”

“Oh yeah?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer.

The warmth of your body and your smile encompassed him. As he looked into your eyes, finally looked into your eyes, every bad thing that had ever happened to him slipped away.

“Love starts as a feeling, but to continue is a choice. And I find myself choosing you, more and more every day.” He quoted Justin Wetch’s Bending the Universe.

“Spence?”

“Yes Y/N?”

“As sweet as that is, I thought there were more pressing desires to use your mouth for?”

“If you insist.” He smiled and quickly closed the small space between you.

When his lips finally met yours it felt like all the pieces of the universe were falling into place.

For ten long years you’d communicated in the pages of letters, constructing replies to what felt like one sided conversations that were confined to only live on paper.

As the kiss deepened every single one of those words seemed to float in the air around you, spiralling like a tornado made of a decade worth of missives.

He swore he could hear each and every word whispered to him in the voice he’d longed to hear all these years as he kissed you like you were the most important being on the face of the earth.

And when he pulled back and mumbled I love you against your lips, it was the easiest reply you’d ever given.

#milestone celebration #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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nanowrimo · 2 months

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When Is a Small Press a Good Fit?

When it comes to publishing, many writers will think about big publishers first. However, there are a lot of different publishing options out there to explore. NaNo participant and author, Clara Ward, talks about their experience publishing with a small press and gives you questions to consider while you think through your publishing options!

NaNoWriMo inspired me to write. Signing with a small press gave me the support I needed to publish a book I love.

I’d published books before—starting with NaNoWriMo sponsor deals in the early days of online publishing—but I never had the right skill set to promote those books. As a result, they never truly found their audience.

In November of 2020, I poured my heart into a genre-blurring near-future tale of sailing across the Pacific and building a neurodiverse, queer, and possibly magical chosen family. In 2021, I titled it Be the Sea and asked myself: What am I going to do with that?

1. Are you looking for fame or family?

Small presses are as varied as the people who form them. If you read widely, you may already have a treasured book on your shelf from your publisher-to-be. Try asking NaNoWriMo friends who share your interests if they’ve discovered any surprising or emerging sources for great reads. (At the very least, you may find books you’ll love in unexpected places!)

Admittedly, a small press doesn’t have a fortune to spend on paving your path to fame. But I have never felt as seen as when my soon-to-be publisher, E.D.E. Bell at Atthis Arts, wrote back, “I’m really in love with what you are doing and would like to talk about it.”

2. Do you have the bandwidth for working with others?

Even with the most supportive small press, you may have to push outside your comfort zone. I know authors who love the absolute control and freedom of self-publishing. For a time, I felt very comfortable just posting my NaNoWriMo fanfiction novels on Archive of Our Own. At most, I had one or two beta readers to offer feedback on those works. Whereas E.D.E. told me in one of our earliest conversations that in addition to our three rounds of editing we’d need “a good number of betas” to cover the range of topics we were working on together.

I was delighted! I knew what I’d written was ambitious, and I welcomed all the feedback I could get. But it turns out, each extra person in a process adds new challenges and delays. I had to stretch my empathy as well as my publishing timeline because, to quote E.D.E. again: “It’s a lot of emotion (as well as brain cycles) to go through...” Outside perspectives will only improve your writing if you are willing to work with them, to truly listen and learn.

3. Can you handle the two-way commitment?

No form of publishing is easy. The myth that authors write while others handle business and promotion is not true at the top, and certainly not with small presses. In my experience, working with Atthis Arts was like joining a team or chosen family. Beyond certain paid tasks, such as editing and sensitivity reading, I discovered a community of authors who freely offered coaching before my first public reading, social media boosting, tips for author webpages, and an extra pair of eyes on letters requesting bookshop readings or other events. While not all small presses work the same way, this supportive culture proved to be an excellent fit for me. Naturally, I wanted to give back whenever possible.

Small presses can only succeed with community. This month, as I promote the launch of Be the Sea at bookshops in Mountain View, Davis, and Sacramento, I will be introducing many Californians to my Michigan-based small publisher, Atthis Arts. When I stand up as a panelist at Norwescon in Washington state or at various science, library, or Pride events later in the year, I’ll be promoting more than Be the Sea by Clara Ward. I’ll give back by sharing my appreciation for small presses, the supportive and inclusive practices they can normalize, and the opportunities they open up for future writers and readers.

Clara Ward lives in Silicon Valley on the border between reality and speculative fiction. Their latest novel, Be the Sea, features a near-future ocean voyage, chosen family, and sea creature perspectives, while delving into our oceans, our selves, and how all futures intertwine. Their short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Decoded Pride, Small Wonders, and as a postcard from Thinking Ink Press. When not using words to teach or tell stories, Clara uses wood, fiber, and glass to make practical or completely impractical objects. More of their words along with crafted creations can be found at: https://clarawardauthor.wordpress.com

Photo by Hümâ H. Yardım on Unsplash

#nanowrimo #now what #writing #publishing #small press publishing #by nano guest #clara ward

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moonlit-midnight · 5 months

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Part Two: Imagine Lilia as your fellow avid reader boyfriend! Part One (click here)

Warnings:

GN!Reader, self indulgent, slight crack.

Some are inspired by real experience.

Dressing up as your favorite couple(s) when Lilia takes you to fan-sign events and bookstore dates.

Buying each other matching bookmarks and pretty merch from the fandoms you love the most.

Getting thrifted books because gifts doesn’t necessarily have to be expensive. It’s the affectionate thought that counts.

Sending memes and giggling together over romantic quotes that remind you of your relationship.

Comforting you when you feel sad over a devastating ending.

Doing little challenges. (e.g., finishing a short book collection in a span of three days). “Loser will cook dinner for a week.” “Don’t you dare lose on purpose, Lilia.”

Geeking out together over your book crushes and rambling excitedly about plot twists during lunch break. (The Diasomnia fam would just listen, and stare fondly at you and Lilia even though they don’t understand what the two of you are gushing about).

Snuggling up with a cozy blanket while Lilia reads to you on a rainy night.

Spending a weekend afternoon or evening exploring a bookshop, hand in hand.

When someone tells you that reading is a boring hobby, Lilia would remind you that your interests are for you. As long as it makes you happy, then that’s all that matters.

Getting excited when a favorite author hosts a Live Q&A session on social media. “Oh my God!!! They replied to me!!!” *Lilia shaking the entire dorm with his fanboy screams* “THEY REPLIED TO ME TOO!!!”

Lilia re-reading the very first series that you recommended to him. He would discover new things to like, and fall in love all over again with the characters just like the first time.

#🌸hannah’s musings #twst #twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst fluff #lilia vanrouge #lilia x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #twst lilia #lilia vanrouge fluff #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #diasomnia x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #twst headcanons

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rrylies · 5 months

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altan isn't a violent person at his core it was just what other people have always seen him as because he's speerly, and for some reason the speerlies have a savage connotation when we have no proof that they were actually animals in the sense that other people keep describing them as. im sure that we only get the savage speerly stereotype because as a people, they were fundamentally different from the nikara and the mugenese. and since they were all (mostly) dead at the start of book one, who was going to negate all of these stereotypes? no one. (i could go on about how altan was slapped with the "last speerly" moniker when in reality he probably remembers very little about his culture and what speer was like before all of the war and the death but that's for another time <3)

even back in his days of sinegard altan isnt depicted as a particularly violent person, though he's placed in violent events. like in the fighting pits at night altan is pitted up against his peers who want to fight him at a chance at victory, to prove that they've won a battle against the last speerly and we have no idea if altan actually wants to fight them or if he's forced to (iirc it's highly suggested that irjah baits him into fighting by promising him opium if he wins, and he will, because he always does) (although that could've just been nezha being a dick) and even though altan shows no signs of violence or aggression (he's always depicted as calm, stoic, etc) he's always painted as something less than human, an animal simply because ??? he wins their fights? as if that's not something he's expected to do in the first place. ("how did he do that? isn't he human?" "he isn't, he's speerly" this quote. ARGHARAGH RABAN ILY BUT SHUT UPPP)

and back to the stereotypes of speerlies and why they're painted as rabid animals even though there's no proof that they are. the main thing i can think of rn is how the federation (+ the mugenese) think of them simultaneously as something divine and to be studied but also as these rabid beasts at the same time. like the federation soldiers are clearly afraid of fire / the speerlies (i have a separate hc that their culture has something to do with this but that is also for another time <3) shiro mentions how precious and important the speerlies are (and yet his people bombed altan's? ://) while taking every opportunity he can to pick altan apart. then people wonder why altan's vicious towards the federation and hates them with every fiber of his being and why he has so much pent-up anger within him and it's like, hello?? they took him captive when he was a child, and sent him to the laboratory with shiro where he would spend half of his life being cut open and dissected, injected with opium time and time again, forced to watch his people die off one by one without the knowledge that he was the last until after he'd been rescued. (this still gets me btw no im not in tears) and then even when he's out, his suffering isn't over, (it's never over lets be real) because he's shipped off to sinegard academy where he'll be surrounded by so many different conflicting stereotypes (the nikara think he's an animal because he's speerly but shiro thought he was amazing because he was speerly, because of his connection to the phoenix) and really, he's not violent, not at his core, but i cant imagine the inner turmoil altan went through his first few years out of the lab + his first year at sinegard where he was the only one who was different (and also fighting an opium addiction at the same time and people belittle him over this when it literally wasn't his fault)

like altan was not violent. he was calm and he had his moments of peace, but ultimately because of everything that had happened to him (cough. shiro u motherfucker), the violence was forced out of him and became all he knew ("chaghan said they trained you like a dog at the academy" ://) and he literally didn't know any better, he was failed by every single person who should have helped him. (never getting over this btw)

yin riga, a man who he trusted, sent him away to shiro. (will never not think of how much little five year old altan trusted riga and then. well.) jiang, who was supposed to help him with his connection to the phoenix, shunned him. irjah, who was his supposed caretaker, who only fed his opium addiction in order to control him, just like how shiro did, just like how the nikara did to the speerlies (parallels. yaaay.)

in the end altan trengsin wasn't a violent person, but it was all anyone wanted to see. it was all anyone would remember him by.

#wow i thought this was long on discord but it looks even longer here #this was spurred on by someone saying that he's the violent dog trend on tiktok #yes this was incoherent #yes i rambled #probably went off-track like a million times but who cares #can u blame me its about ALTAN TRENGSIN #anyways #probably cried like twice writing this the first time and another time revising it for tumblr #ignore any inconsistencies pls <3 #barely fact-checked this is all just from my memory of the books #the poppy war #altan trengsin

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meraki-yao · 26 days

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Ok I got four asks in my inbox about the new Nick interview and I'm actually mad. I'm actually livid and exasperated because I've been getting and answering similar asks over and over again, and yet people still come to me with the same statement and the same conviction EVEN AFTER I POINTED OUT EVERY FUCKING FACT THAT CONTRADICTS IT.

Do you really need a 19-year-old to teach you reading comprehension and media literacy?

Ok, fine.

Statement One: Nick doesn't appreciate RWRB, he's brushing it aside, which is why it wasn't mentioned in the New York Times

One: Editorials don't always portray the actual thoughts or agenda of the interviewee.

Unlike a video interview or a podcast interview where we can hear the whole conversation directly from Nick with his voice, and even if there are cuts and edits we can pick it up via visual or audio continuity, in a written editorial the only thing we can rely on is the writer's words, or in other words, the writer's paraphrase or quotation of what Nick said to him. This gives much bigger room for any changes or manipulation in content because we have nothing else to reference.

It is clear that in the past three editorials, the writer or the magazine itself has deliberately demeaning and devaluing RWRB. In NY Magazine, it was only mentioned in one line and degraded to "a queer take on a common straight trope" (see the choice of word "president's daughter"), with the implication being at its core, it's a straight story/ reliant on past straight stories to be interesting; Hunger Magazine calls it fujoshi-pleasing (fujoshi: Japanese slang, denoting how a straight woman who enjoys fictional gay content is "rotten", too ruined to be married, an insult to both the audience/fans and the movie itself ); and this time New York Magazine didn't even mention RWRB, when let's be honest, it's Nick's biggest breakout role.

"Once Is Chance, Twice is Coincidence, Third Time's A Pattern" this is deliberate. I can't say what the agenda is, my guess is some extent of latent homophobia, but it's clear that this is a fucking pattern. In fact, besides the hidden agenda of devaluing RWRB, these editorials show another hidden agenda, but that's something for a later day. PM me id you want to now, I won't discuss that one on my public platform yet.

Again, there is so much more room for twisting and hiding words in a written editorial. In all the video interviews Nick did, especially in the UK, when has he ever avoided a question about RWRB? When has he ever not shown gratitude towards the project?

Two: In all video evidence that can't be manipulated, that clearly shows Nick's own thoughts which not influenced by any other party, he has made it clear that he adores RWRB.

Why else would he sign books during the M&G London premiere, going as far as to stay behind after the event just to sign books? Same with the LA M&G premiere and TIOY premiere: those were promotions for other projects, he had a valid reason to refuse to sign the RWRB books and posters, but he didn't, always signing with a big smile on his face, even playfully signing on Taylor's face. He said it himself in his Instagram post, and I quote: "The love that Henry has received has been one of the most heartwarming things to watch. It's been difficult to not talk about him. So thank you for seeing him for all he is. He was a joy to bring to life." There's your proof, directly from the man himself.

Statement Two: Nick's not interested in doing a sequel, he said he's done playing princes and he's done playing romantic leads

One: "Done playing princes" doesn't mean literally done playing princes, it means he wants to try more roles and not be stuck with only being known as the "prince" guy. (even though he's literally a prince lol)

Plus, he said that after Robert, but then Henry came along and he was attracted to Henry as a character with his scared but loving heart. He doesn't just view Henry as a prince, he views Henry as a complex, delicate person who so happens to be a prince. Him saying he's done playing princes means in the future, he doesn't really want another royal on his filmography, but this doesn't mean he doesn't want to continue Henry's story. With the given context, namely asking him about future projects he wants to take up, "he's done playing princes" and "he doesn't want to play Henry anymore" are not mutually inclusive.

Two: "Done playing romantic leads" means he wants to try new things and take up new projects that aren't romance films.

This doesn't include the continuation of already established characters i.e. sequels, this just means if he were to take up brand new projects, he wants to try something else. Sequels are inherently different from new projects because again, sequels are based on already established characters.

Three: He said several times ON VIDEO that he'd be in for a sequel

In this one, when asked if he'd be up for a sequel, he said, and I quote "Look, I think with any opportunity of doing a sequel, I think, you know, the script has to be right. But obviously, it was so lovely to see how many people it touched and having that resonance is incredibly important to me, so, yeah. Of course."

In this one, when asked if they have had conservation on a potential sequel, he said, and again I quote: "Yeah, I mean definitely had conversations. I think we're all on the same page in the sense that, you know, the script needs to be right, and sort of all the different components need to be right because we made something that has such a positive effect and I think the last thing you'd wanna do is ruin that or take that in a way, so, you know, the conversations are definitely being had."

And there are more videos from red carpet interviews that I can't be bothered to find right now but he says more or less the same thing.

(look I even transcribed it)

Not only is he on board with a sequel, he's also being careful about it to make sure once they do get to making it, it's something good. He's on board, and he values it. And again, that's directly from him.

We have a phrase in Chinese: 斷章取義, meaning "breaking off a small part of an article and deriving the meaning from that single part" That's what so many of you, in particular, the people who come to my inbox with the sentiments of the above-mentioned statement are doing. Please, use critical thinking and look at the whole picture. Stop making judgments from the surface of one source.

Tagging my friends @alittlefrenchtree and @myteavsricochet because it looks like they've been getting the same things I got

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #rwrb movie #nicholas galitzine #henry fox mountchristen windsor #henry hanover stuart fox #rwrb thoughts #meraki essay #i'm not someone who gets mad easily but I've had enough of this #nick galitzine

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blazingstar400 · 1 month

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Incorrect Scarlet and Violet Quotes Part 2

Hey everyone!! Guess what time it is? Yeah, you guessed it. More incorrect quotes!!!

Rika: This cookie is… spicy? It’s supposed to be sweet. It’s not even fully baked. If I had to rate this I would give it two—

Poppy: I baked it myself! :)

Rika: —out of two stars, best cookie I’ve ever had!

Carmine: *is unconscious*

Juliana, worried: Carmine’s not breathing! What do we do?!?

Drayton: I’ll give her mouth to mouth!

Carmine: *wakes up* Don’t you dare!!

Juliana: Hey bestie—

Kieran: Die.

Juliana: What did I do to you—

*sometime during the events of the Teal Mask*

Kieran: You know, I never had a friend before…

Juliana: I can be your friend! :D

Kieran:

Kieran: I never had a girlfriend either—

Penny: *is sick*

Nemona: *rushes in and dumps a stack of papers in front of her*

Penny: …Homework?

Nemona: It’s my way of saying ‘get well soon’.

Penny, groaning: You know, chocolate says that even better.

Nemona: I did all your assignments for you! All you have to do is sign your name.

Penny: …Chocolate means nothing to me.

Kieran: Why are you smiling?

Drayton: I’m reading something.

Kieran: Oh, is it good?

Drayton: It’s perfect! This boy is so in love!

Kieran: What is the name of the book?

Drayton, smirking: Your diary!

Kieran, now furiously blushing: W-wait, what?! Drayton, NO! Give it back—

Penny: So, what is Black to you?

Juliana: The reason I wake up every morning.

Penny: Aw, that’s adorable.

Black earlier that morning, barging into Juliana’s room, and literally using the move tackle on her: COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, COME ON, *starts biting her ear and pulling her hair* WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP, WAKE UP!!!!

Crispin: Please, don’t do this. You’ll break my heart.

Drayton: I’m gonna do it!

Crispin: I’ll never forgive you.

Drayton: …

Crispin: …

Drayton: …

Drayton: *throws the last Oreo into his mouth*

Crispin: You’re dead to me.

Florian, giving advice to a new trainer: First rule of battle, don’t ever let them know where you are.

Nemona, shooting out of frame: WHOOO-HOO! I’M RIGHT HERE! I’M RIGHT HERE! YOU WANT SOME OF ME?! YEAH YOU DO! COME ON! COME AND FACE ME! WHOOOOOO!!!

Florian:

Florian: ‘Course, there are other schools of thought…

Kieran, borrowing a Rotom phone: Hello?

Drayton, also on the phone: Hey, what’s up?

Kieran: This is Kieran. I need your help, can you come over?

Drayton: Uh I can’t, I’m buying clothes.

Kieran: Alright, well hurry up and come over here.

Drayton: I can’t find them.

Kieran: What do you mean you can’t find them?

Drayton: I can’t find them, there’s only ice cream.

Kieran: …What do you mean there’s only ice cream?

Drayton: It means there’s only ice cream!

Kieran: WELL THEN GET OUT OF THE ICE CREAM ISLE!

Drayton: ALRIGHT YOU DON’T HAVE TO SHOUT AT ME! JEEZ!

*Drayton walks to the next isle* Drayton: There’s more ice cream!

Kieran: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE’S MORE ICE CREAM?!

Drayton: THERE’S JUST MORE ICE CREAM!

Kieran: GO INTO THE NEXT ISLE!

Drayton: THERE’S STILL ICE CREAM!

Kieran: WHERE ARE YOU RIGHT NOW?!

Drayton: I’M AT ICE CREAM!

Kieran: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUR ‘AT ICE CREAM’?!?!

Drayton: I MEAN I’M AT ICE CREAM!

Kieran: WHAT SHOP ARE YOU IN?!?!

Drayton: I’M AT THE ICE CREAM SHOP!!

Kieran: WHY ARE YOU BUYING CLOTHES AT THE ICE CREAM SHOP, YOU IDIOT?!?!

Drayton: I DON’T KNOW!!

Kieran: ARUGH!!!

*Florian sneezes*

Carmine: …

Florian, annoyed: Really? Not even a bless you?

Carmine: Your friends with me. Your clearly blessed.

Kieran: Given the circumstances, I will let you hug me for four to five seconds.

Juliana, excitedly: Forty five seconds?!

Kieran: What? No! I said four TO five seconds! ///

Juliana, already hugging Kieran: Too late!!!

Florian: We just ate. Why are you making pancakes?

Arven: For the dogs.

Florian: Why are you making pancakes for the dogs?

Arven: They don’t know how.

Drayton: Why should I make my bed, when I’m just gonna unmake it to sleep in it anyways?

Carmine, annoyed: Why should we feed you if your just gonna die anyways?

Drayton:

Drayton: I’ll go make my bed—

I hoped you guys liked these!! I still have a ton of quotes in my document so there might be a part 3. Also, so you’re aware Black is the eevee Penny traded Juliana in the league club. I like to think he’s pretty sassy, defiant, and a huge troublemaker. Juliana really has a difficult time with him lol.

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mariacallous · 4 months

Text

When you think of Eastern European Jewish cuisine, which words come to mind? Light? Healthy? Plant based? Probably not. Heavy, homey and meat-centric are more like it.

Fania Lewando died during the Holocaust, but had she been given the full length of her years, Ashkenazi Jewish cuisine may have taken a turn to the vegetarian side and we might all be eating vegetarian kishke and spinach cutlets in place of brisket.

Lewando is not a household name. In fact, she would have been lost to history had it not been for an unlikely turn of events. Thanks to a serendipitous find, her 1937 work, “The Vilna Vegetarian Cookbook” (“Vegetarish-Dietisher Kokhbukh”in Yiddish), was saved from oblivion and introduced to the 21st century.

Vilna in the 1930s, where Lewando and her husband Lazar made their home, was a cosmopolitan city with a large Jewish population. Today, it is the capital of Lithuania but it was then part of Poland. Lewando opened a vegetarian eatery called The Vegetarian Dietetic Restaurant on the edge of the city’s Jewish quarter. It was a popular spot among both Jews and non-Jews, as well as luminaries of the Yiddish-speaking world. (Even renowned artist Marc Chagall signed the restaurant’s guest book.)

Lewando was a staunch believer in the health benefits of vegetarianism and devoted her professional life to promoting these beliefs. She wrote: “It has long been established by the highest medical authorities that food made from fruit and vegetables is far healthier and more suitable for the human organism than food made from meat.” Plus, she wrote, vegetarianism satisfies the Jewish precept of not killing living creatures.

We know little about her life other than she was born Fania Fiszlewicz in the late 1880s to a Jewish family in northern Poland. She married Lazar Lewando, an egg merchant from what is today Belarus and they eventually made their way to Vilna. They did not have children.

Lewando, to quote Jeffrey Yoskowitz, author of “The Gefilte Manifesto” was “a woman who challenged convention;” a successful entrepreneur, which was a rarity among women of the time. She supervised a kosher vegetarian kitchen on an ocean liner that traveled between Poland and the United States, and gave classes on nutrition to Jewish women in her culinary school.

“The Vilna Vegetarian Cookbook” was sold in Europe and the U.S. in Lewando’s day, but most of the copies were lost or destroyed during the Second World War. In 1995, a couple found a copy of the cookbook at a second-hand book fair in England. They understood the importance of a pre-war, Yiddish-language, vegetarian cookbook written by a woman, so purchased it and sent it to the YIVO Institute’s offices in New York. There, it joined the millions of books, periodicals and photos in YIVO’s archives.

It was discovered again by two women who visited YIVO and were captivated by the book’s contents and colorful artwork. They had it translated from Yiddish to English so it could be enjoyed by a wider audience.

Like many Ashkenazi cooks, salt was Lewando’s spice, butter her flavor and dill her herb. The book is filled with dishes you’d expect: kugels and blintzes and latkes; borscht and many ways to use cabbage. There’s imitation gefilte fish and kishke made from vegetables, breadcrumbs, eggs and butter. Her cholent (a slow-cooked Sabbath stew) recipes are meat-free, including one made with prune, apple, potatoes and butter that is a cross between a stew and a tzimmes.

There are also some surprises.

Did you know it was possible to access tomatoes, eggplants, asparagus, lemons, cranberries, olive oil, Jerusalem artichokes, blueberries and candied orange peel in pre-war Vilna? There’s a French influence, too, such as recipes for mayonnaise Provencal and iles flottante, a meringue-based dessert, and a salad of marinated cornichons with marinated mushrooms.

“It’s hard to know who the target audience was for this cookbook,” said Eve Jochnowitz, its English-language translator. “We know from contemporary memoirs that people in Vilna did not have access to these amazing amounts of butter, cream and eggs,” she said. “Lewando was writing from a somewhat privileged and bourgeois position.” While many of these recipes may have been aspirational given the poverty of the Jews at the time, the cookbook demonstrates that it was possible to obtain these ingredients in Vilna, should one have the resources to do so.

While the cookbook is filled with expensive ingredients, there is also, said Jochnowitz, “a great attention to husbanding one’s resources. She was ahead of her time in the zero-waste movement.” Lewando admonishes her readers to waste nothing. Use the cooking water in which you cooked your vegetables for soup stock. Use the vegetables from the soup stock in other dishes. “Throw nothing out,” she writes in the cookbook’s opening essay. “Everything can be made into food.” Including the liquid from fresh vegetables; Lewando instructed her readers on the art of vitamin drinks and juices, with recipes for Vitamin-Rich Beet Juice and Vitamin-Rich Carrot Juice. “This was very heroic of her,” said Jochnowitz. “There were no juice machines! You make the juice by grating the vegetables and then squeezing the juice out by hand.”

Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, a Jewish scholar and Jewish cookbook collector, describes Lewando as “witty.” “She is showing us,” she said, “that once you eliminate meat and fish, you still have an enormous range of foods you can prepare.” Lewando is about “being creative, imaginative and innovative both with traditional dishes and with what she is introducing that is remote from the traditional repertoire.” She does that in unexpected ways. Her milchig (dairy) matzah balls, for example, have an elegance and lightness to them. She instructs the reader to make a meringue with egg whites, fold in the yolks, then combine with matzah meal, melted butter and hot water. Her sauerkraut salad includes porcini mushrooms. One of her kugels combines cauliflower, apples, sliced almonds and candied orange peel.

There is much that, through contemporary eyes, is missing in “The Vilna Vegetarian Cookbook.” The recipes do not give step-by-step instructions; rather you will find general directions. Heating instructions are vague, ranging from a “not-too-hot-oven” to a “warm oven” to a “hot oven.” Lewando assumes the reader’s familiarity with the kitchen that today’s cookbook writer would not.

Lewando and her husband were listed in the 1941 census of the Vilna Ghetto but not in the census of 1942. It is believed that they both died or were killed while attempting to escape. “She really was a visionary,” said Jochnowitz. “It is an unbearable tragedy that she did not live to see the future that she predicted and helped to bring about.”But in cooking her recipes, said Yoskowitz, as dated and incomplete as some of them may be, the conversation between then and now continues.

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amyriadofleaves · 2 months

Text

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter three

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader ⌗ warnings : not rly ⌗ word count: 4.4k

You arrive at the Palais a little shy before sunrise. Every step you take is light as your thoughts are consumed with the necessity of signing paperwork before your meeting with Clorinde, and your fatigue suddenly becomes the least of your worries. Your steps speed in a flurry of excitement of the events of today (you are so excited, even, that the whole marriage debacle flies over your head — but you are acutely aware of the uneasiness that brews at the very pit of your stomach).

Oh, you haven’t felt so happy since you were a meek, frail little excuse of a lawyer, excited for your first day at work. You even wave at everyone present in Palais Mermonia, and smile widely upon seeing Sedene, to which she regards with a questioning look. She scratches her head while she’s at it, almost calculating what she should, and should not say. She decides she will be in your good graces today.

“Why aren’t you early today!”

You sniff, wiping your eyes. “Well, it’s not like I could get any sleep, really — I was as awake as an owl the whole night!” Before Sedene can get a word out, you interject enthusiastically, before taking a sip of your coffee: “You know what they say: early bird catches the worm!”

The Melusine’s expression turns stoic, and almost playful. “Are you merely saying this to hide the reality that you're having trouble sleeping because of the marital arrangement?”

Gracelessly (like there was any graceful alternative), you spit out your drink. Ah, so that was what all the uneasiness was about. The events of last night were a blur, but you briefly recall the bitter taste of alcohol on your tongue and a creeping headache blooming — but what was fun without its consequences? A few painkillers and your day would go on without a hitch. Instead of wallowing in self-pity for too long, you beg a question: “Erm, Sedene? Who told you this?”

To your dismay, her face lights up. “Oh. My. God. So it is true! You are to be my aunt! You are marrying the Chief Justice of Fontaine—” Before she is given the opportunity to say another word, you kneel down to muffle her words with the palm of your hand, hastily looking around to see if anyone had heard her.

“I repeat myself, who told you that?”

She replies in earnest, and you cannot help but feel your heart thawing again. Melusines are infuriatingly adorable, and in turn they are your weakness; You cannot, no matter how hard you try, feel even the slightest bit of resentment for their gullible behaviour. In response to your question, she points to the other Melusine, her head in a book, at the end of the hallway. “Kiara told me so — says that she and Liath were hiding behind the Chief Justice’s couch listening in to the ‘arrangement’.” Sedene brings both of her hands to her shoulders and air quotes the word ‘arrangement'. How cute.

So that accounted for the strange movement behind one of the couches. You crack a smile at the notion that Sedene wouldn't have heard the end of it for so readily spilling such a secret if this was some parallel universe where she and the others were simply humans instead.

Another one’s elation is another’s despair, however, and you lament ever choosing to stay in this hell of a place. “If you keep going on like this I’m going to have to find another post to work at before all my secrets get exposed, Sedene. Well — if you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend to.” You give her a pained smile, and ignore the crack of your knees as you begin to stand up. How unfit I am, you curse.

___

Letting your forehead thud against the desk, you bear the weight of boredom and exhaustion settling in the dull ache echoing through your office. You tell yourself that there is only an hour before you can leave to meet your soulmate from a land far, far, away. Clorinde, what a girl she is, so hard headed yet so sensitive all the same. Laughing at this sentiment, you shake your head before dipping your quill in the pot of ink before signing more papers.

“Pipe leakage… recent case solved…” you read to yourself, humming lightly in the chill of your office. You smirk at the lack of any papers regarding the marriage and wish deeply that what she said was just, purely in jest.

You eye the two stacks that sit on both sides of your desk with pride: the proportion of signed and to-be-signed papers were in your favour, and you flick through the unfinished stack and find your fingers coming empty handed faster than usual.

The dread you felt this morning settles in once again, and you scrunch your nose in distaste. You pray that Lady Furina has forgotten about the whole proposal, and instead has thought of a better, more rational method of addressing her defamation. Though you find her indisputably repulsive, you clasp your hands together in prayer that she would pity a mere mortal like you and save you the trouble. You omit Monsieur Neuvillette out of the equation since you doubt he quite fits into the bill of a ‘mere mortal’. People were of the general opinion that he was not quite human. After all, what kind of person is able to live that long? You set the thought aside, and realise your work here is done. Early weekend it is!

You stand from your seat and make your way to the door to leave — but your pace hiccups at the sound of distinct metal clad boots echoing through the Palais. Who it is is unmistakable. This, you know absolutely. Back to the door, you anticipate the dulling of his steps with great anxiety. You hold your satchel tightly to your chest like a lifeline, not daring to breathe.

It feels like centuries before the footsteps cease, and you take this as your call to leave before anyone can question your early departure. You gulp nervously gingerly twist the knob to your door.

The worst time your intuition can fail you is now, and it does, matter of factly, fail you.

There the Chief Justice stands, just right outside your office, fist hovering where it would’ve knocked on the door had you not opened it mere seconds before he decided to do so. It would be a lie to say you aren’t stunned, and you hope to god he doesn’t notice the surprise that comes to flicker over your face.

He brings his arm down to rest right by his hip, and gives you a tightlipped smile. “Here I was thinking you left already.”

You take in the neater braid he now wears as opposed to the hairdo he sported yesterday, and you do not know what to do but gesture to it lamely. “I presume the Melusines made short work of… whatever style you’re rocking today.” In an awkward attempt to make yourself loosen up, you lean stiffly on the doorframe. What is wrong with me? Who in the hell says ‘rocking’? Am I stupid or am I stupid?

“Why yes, I am very proud of the final product indeed. What ever shall I do without them?” He seems to think deeply at the possibility, and his expression sours a little, like that of a dejected puppy.

You titter slightly. How dense can this man be? “Surely, you’re aware that I'm joking?”

Neuvillette, in fact, is not aware of this. Quite frankly, he is confused at your change in mood, the what seemed to be a perpetual frown on your face turned upside down for once. “Yes, I am aware. Do not worry.” He is confused at himself, too. Since when was he one for white lies?

Clearing your throat, you look him in the eye. “So… what brings you to my office?”

“I presume it would be best to bring this matter inside, if that is alright with you?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

You notice that he is as tense as ever, and so you offer him a seat.

As he settles into the cosy confines of your office, he finds himself surprisingly at ease. Surveying the artwork adorning the walls and the cherished photographs adorning the shelves, he detects a distinctly human touch. One image, in particular, catches his eye: a photograph featuring you and your mother. He eyes it for a while, picking out the features that he finds similar between your mother and yourself. What a striking resemblance, he thinks.

Crossing your arms, you shake your head a little. “I am sorry monsieur, but my schedule is kind of tight today so I’m gonna need you to jump straight to the point.” You slightly wince at the sharpness of your tone, but the man sat in front of you does not seem to acknowledge this whatsoever.

“Ah, yes — I am sorry. And please, just call me Neuvillette. We are to be wed after all.”

If you still had any of the coffee you drank earlier in your mouth, you would have soiled the Chief Justice's robe! You thank yourself that it happened with Sedene instead of Neuvillette. Not that it was any better with Sedene, but...

You try your very best to hide your clammy hands underneath the desk. “And… where’s the confirmation? I haven’t heard from Lady Furina since…”

Neuvillette itches the back of his neck with a sort of expression you associate with the likes of something unpleasant. This is certainly a first. A flustered Neuvillette? “You see, that was what I was to discuss with you.”

You gulp as he hands you a stapled contract and ignore the flutter in your chest when your hands graze for a second. Despite his previous affirmation to your suspicions, you still persist to deny that this has nothing to do with the proposal.

You are terribly wrong. Lady Furina hasn’t forgotten. Before taking a look at the paper, you brace yourself for the inevitable.

Matrimonial Accord: This contract is entered into on this by [13/09/XX] and between [17/09/XX]:

Party A: [Chief Justice Neuvillette] and Party B: [(Name)]

Whereas, both parties agree to enter into a simulated matrimonial union for mutual benefit;

Now, therefore, in consideration of the covenants and promises contained herein, the parties agree as follows:

I will definitely find a way to rectify the mistakes of Poisson, so you sly woman — you know who you are — do not berate me so!

You quirk a brow. Peering closer at the paper, you notice that this sentence was penned in between the lines; you come to realise that there is a jarring difference in the handwriting, and realise that it is Furina’s doing.

Terms and Conditions:

Duration: The ‘marriage’ shall be in effect for a period of six months from the effective date unless terminated earlier by mutual agreement.

Public Appearances: Both parties shall make appearances as a newlywed couple at designated events, including but not limited to diplomatic receptions, state dinners, The Opera Epiclese, and similar functions.

Acts of Public Affection: The parties agree to engage in acts of public affection as deemed necessary and encouraged to maintain the appearance of a genuine marital relationship.

Proposal: A grand and dramatic proposal event shall be staged, adhering to agreed-upon guidelines.

Publicity: Parties acknowledge and accept that the faux marriage is intended for public perception, and both parties shall cooperate in presenting a united front to the public.

Termination:

Either party may terminate this agreement with written notice to the other party if there is a breach of any provision herein or for any reason mutually agreed upon.

Governing Law:

This Agreement shall be governed by and construed in accordance with the laws of Fontaine.

In witness whereof, the two parties hereto have executed this Matrimonial Accord as of the Effective Date. Remember to not be surprised at the publicity; it is the whole point after all — my name shall be cleared!

SIGNED

[Chief Justice Neuvillette] [Date]

_________________________

[(Name)] [Date]

Abruptly, you look up at the Iudex and notice him staring at you with intent. You hold it unwaveringly, and note that it is as if he’s looking through you rather than at you. “She barely contributed to writing this, did she?”

Neuvillette straightens his frame, seemingly rehearsing what he ought to say, lest something were to come off wrongly and this whole contract be damned. He coughs into his fist. “The first and original copy was… something of no merit, demoiselle. This was the most I could do to mitigate the foolishness of her terms, forgive me if they are still not in your favour.”

You shut your eyes in denial, pinching your wrist to hang onto one sliver of hope, that maybe ─ just maybe — this was a dream.

You toss the contract curtly onto the desk that separates the two of you. “In my favour it is not, monsieur. I do not wish to sign this.” You flat out decline, dispelling any arguments you know are to be posed if you had elaborated any further.

Neuvillette’s look wavers, and he slightly wilts at your adamance to keep formalities — but he chooses to make no fuss of this just yet. “But you must. Please, this is for your sake.” He fully expected this, yes, but to be flat out rejected with no room for discussion shook him greatly.

You shoot a hand up in the air in exasperation. “Is this for my sake or Furina’s sake? Hm? I just — I can’t do it. I know, I know six months is not long. But to keep up an act — let alone pretend like I’m in love — it’s just too taxing and I know I won’t be able to do it.” You shoot a hand up in the air in exasperation.

The Iudex prepares himself to say what he never expected to in all the years he’s been alive. Do not fret, madame, for it is not your solitary responsibility. I must admit, it's a situation I hadn't anticipated, and I, too, am thrust into it. There's an undeniable obligation on my part, and, well, it's an unexpected predicament for both of us.

This does not do much to shake your resolve.

His eyes plead for you to listen, and you swear on your life that this is the most distressed you've ever seen him. “Lady Furina will surely see to it that you face some semblance of punishment. And madame, I clarify that I have, indeed, tried to convince her otherwise — but she has not relented —”

The steeling glare you shoot him is enough to cease his tangent — but defeated as he is, he still manages one last plea. “Please, kindly take it into consideration.”

Biting your lip, you weigh the infinite possibilities that lie in the palms of your hands. It is strictly only six months, the marriage isn’t even real, you advise yourself, ignoring the other gnawing voice that is screaming at you to say no. But there has to be a catch! another voice insists, and you are stuck in a limbo of yeses and noes for what seemed a little too long for comfort.

This is a pivotal moment for yourself and your career. It will undoubtedly either embarrass you or elevate your status in the eyes of those who are waiting with bated breath for any error to take advantage of. Not that this is anything new; you recall vividly the expressions of scepticism from those who sat before you at the Opera Epiclese, questioning the veracity of your judgement — your privileged, yet tainted background a harbinger for disaster.

Dragging the contract back to your end of the desk, you give it a brief once-over. This time, your eyes catch onto the lack of conditions set by Lady Furina. How incompetent, whether you are scolding her or yourself, you are unsure.

You draw in a long inhale, and level your eyes to his. “I’ll do it.”

His eyes widen in surprise, and he lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you’ve come to agree with the terms.” You are slightly irked at the breaking of his character, but nod your head nonetheless. You reach for your quill, and your hand hesitates before the ink soaks through the paper. Your heart is practically in your throat at how spontaneous all of this is.

You hand the contract to Neuvillette, but the paper is suspended in your grasp for a few moments. “However — I have a request to make.”

Neuvillette’s eyes glint in the blooming sunlight peeking through the blinds. “Anything.”

You retract your arm, and now are in full possession of the contract again. You present the first page, the page offered to Neuvillette, poised in your hands. “This contract mentions nothing of the lines we can, and cannot cross. And I’d just like to input my ideas before you return this to Lady Furina.”

“That is a reasonable request. Do continue.” Offering him a quill, he takes it gingerly along with the contract. He flips the page, writing something along the lines of ‘additions to…’ under the signatures. You fully expect him to be calm and collected, but a wrinkle forms between your brows when you notice that his fingers exhibit a subtle quiver, akin to the gentle tremor of a leaf in a soft breeze. A faint falter anyone could miss, yet you find it to be the most profound aspect of his character, peculiarly intimate in its nature.

“Are you alright? You’re a touch too pale.”

What? Were you really as ghastly as he said you were? You clear your throat, tearing your focus off his gloved hands. “I am quite alright. So… onto the terms. First and foremost, each party isn’t obliged to the whereabouts of the opposite party, unless consented to. Sounds good?”

He nods his head, not sparing a glance at you lest he loses focus.

You take the ceasing of him writing as a sign for you to continue. “Next, I’d like to request that any advancements behind closed doors are to be prohibited, alongside any insinuation of consummation — or having one’s way with the other. Might I add that —” you pause at the silence that came with the lack of the intent scribbling of a quill pen from the man in front of you. Were you talking too fast? He is all red in the face.

“I — uh, did I say something sensitive?”

He lets out a little cough, before he breaks out into a fit. You are clueless in what you must do. Is he choking? Is he sick? Should you offer him freshly acquired water from Chenyu Vale? Your panic only ensues when it dawns on you that you have no solutions for all the possibilities that echo through your head. A teacup is sat solitary on one of your books. Oh, right. You have a crazy collection of Fonta.

You reach for it, before reluctantly offering it to him. “Would you like some Fonta? Though, it might be a few days old, I’m afraid.” He frantically waves his free hand, and you think he means no. Gosh, does he not like Fonta? That is very unlike the Fontainian character. Retracting yourself back into your seat, you can only wait until he stops his fit. To your luck, he stops before he actually stops breathing.

“I,” he starts, “do not think the consummation part is at all —” he sputters again. “— necessary.”

You smile a little, and look away to save him the embarrassment. “I repeat that I did say ‘insinuation’: this pertains to all external parties involved; for example, Lady Furina.”

Oh. My apologies for the oversight. Just — spare me a moment. After clearing his throat into his forearm, he continues to scrawl on the paper.

Taking pity on him, you decide to help and extend your hand to finish the last conditions. The look on his face tells you he is rather bewildered at the action, and he waves a hand (calmly this time) to refuse your help. “It is quite alright.”

To keep yourself from disclosing the full extent of your reason, you make the decision to tell a lie. “Do not take this into offence — it’s not that you’re a slow writer, monsieur. I just have a meeting with Miss Clorinde in about half an hour and I think it’d be best if I write the conditions to quicken the pace a little.” While the ‘truth’ isn’t necessarily a lie, it is nonetheless effective, so why not utilise it?

He quietly relents, handing you the slightly crumpled piece of paper. You scan his words, and to your astonishment, his penmanship is still precise and tidy, a stark contrast to the fit he showed just seconds ago.

Except for the last few words he wrote, of course. You strike through the whole sentence and rewrite it properly.

Additional Terms to the Contract that all parties (including external ones) are expected to adhere to:

Romantic advancements behind closed doors are prohibited — and this includes:

Any insinuation of consummation.

Covert displays of affection beyond reasonable social boundaries.

Innuendos or suggestive remarks.

Excessive or prolonged physical contact behind closed doors.

Each party isn’t obliged to the whereabouts of the opposite party, unless consented to.

These guidelines are to be strictly followed for the duration of the agreed-upon contract.

Placing the contract onto the table, you push it slightly forwards. Your heart beats in a crescendo, and you almost berate yourself for selling your life away. Six months! it said; but the silence that hangs between the both of you is knowing. No one is going to forget. You are, for lack of a better word: imprisoned. Every solution is an illusion of sanctuary and this is the one that grants the most mercy.

You are parched. The words that come out of your mouth are awfully feeble, and you can only manage to croak out whatever dignity you have left.“Now, monsieur, if you’ll excuse me. I have something I need to attend to.”

He nods his head and stands from his seat. “But of course.”

You both exit your office in unpleasant silence.

Finally, after all that back and forth, Neuvillette finally accepts the contract, and bows before returning to his own office. In his absence, you swear you feel your eyes water a little. What exactly have you just gotten yourself into? This sends you reeling to when you were a child, thrown into fencing classes with people twice your age — except the intensity of it all is multiplied tenfold.

It is times like this where you want to reach for your mother. You miss her terribly, and you wish to do anything to feel her warm embrace and to hear her whisper words of reassurance to convince you that everything was alright.

“And of what of Father’s tenderness? Is that not proof that he loves you?”

“But my dearest, tenderness is the very proof you have been ruined.”

You blink, and the tear that had pooled falls and is caught by the apple of your cheek. You chew on your lip to prevent a quiver from it. Not here, you chastise yourself.

Hearing someone approach, you hasten your stride while wiping the tear with such aggression you feel your makeup smear and linger on the base of your wrist. The Gardes that stand by the doors regard you with indifference, and for the first time, you appreciate that they pay you no mind. One step outside and you curse under your breath at how today is awfully gloomy, a pitiful beam of light peeking through the clouds. A gust of wind curls through your hair, painting your cheeks with the cool droplets of imminent rain. Blasted Hydro Dragon.

You decide to steal a glance at whomever it is that is behind you and almost let out a whine. Why is it always him? Whether it is a figment of your imagination, he seems to slow when he sees you slightly turn to him. You, however, feign ignorance, turning your head away, yet a small part of you harbours a minute hope – the hope that he might choose to fall into step beside you. And indeed, he does.

His next move is abrupt, albeit a bit awkward. “Allow me to accompany you to your destination. My schedule for today is quite unoccupied, and, well, I was thinking it might be an opportune moment for us to engage in some conversation. If that is fine with you, of course.” The offer lingers in the air, awaiting your response.

His request blurs into the backdrop as you catch the glare of multiple cameras gleaming at the both of you outside the Palais. Foolish you are not, and you come to the grim understanding that they are waiting here for you. Of course, the Chief Justice is the primary priority; you are simply his paramour .

How convoluted could all of this be? You've seen a plethora of operas. This is not any more different. You take a glance at Neuvillette, but he is gazing ahead, his expression inscrutable.

A contemplative look floods through your eyes, and you are given an instant to make a spontaneous decision. The intricate dance of human emotions, the thirst for scandal, the insatiable appetite for drama — they claw at anything if it means it will quench their foolish desires. They're looking for bravado. Drama. With everything in them, they yearn for it. It is merely human hubris, an inexorable sin. Lady Furina wants an act? You’ll have her beg for more.

You whirl around to properly face him and smile. “Why, I’d be most delighted, mon chéri.” You relish in his widened eyes as your hands shakily reach for the hem of his collar, and you adjust it just enough to ruffle the fabric of his blouse. Looking at him with all the tenderness you can muster, you place a palm to his chest and another to your side, and still, he is nothing short of hopeless. So, you decide to help him a little; would it hurt to give them a little more of a show?

Guiding him further into the act, the heels of your feet are lifted off the ground, and you wrap your arms around his neck to gently press your lips to his ear. “Act,” is the single word you whisper to him; a command — a curse — before you pull away, grinning cruelly as the cameras flare.

a/n : TEEHEE I wanna kiss him sb its not funny anymroewse

taglist : @sek0ya

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillette #genshin impact #neuvillette fanfic #enemies to lovers #marriage of convenience #neuvillette genshin #lolololofwl I WANt him

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cazzyf1 · 2 months

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Quotes about the 1982 Drivers Strike that I found funny/interesting (from a pdf of a book I accidentally downloaded)

So, if you haven't seen from my Twitter stream this morning when trying to research something about Niki Lauda for a friend, I came across a pdf link. Thinking it would just be a small article potentially with the answer I was looking for, I downloaded it. I did not notice the fact that it was 154 pages... to my surprise; it turned out to be a whole book about the 1982 season, specifically focusing on Keke Rosberg.

I've read through the chapter about the driver's strike and taken down some quotes that I found interesting. There isn't a lot of detail into what they all got up to that isn't already known, but there is a lot of useful information. Hope you enjoy :)

'You might imagine all this was just like every season, but 1982 was already very different. The Rat, you see, had smelt a rat.'

'Herr Andres Nikolaus Lauda of Vienna had furtive eyes which didn't miss much and a suspicious mind. On 24th December 1981, he sniffed the form from Paris the postman had just delivered and didn't like it at all.'

'The form was the product of events in 1981 when Prost, making his debut in Grand Prix racing with Mclaren, became convinced the car was not safe and refused to drive for the team again regardless of the fact he had a contract to do so. Prost told Teddy Mayer that, if necessary, he would simply walk away from motor sport altogether. Renault approached Prost, he joined them, and Mayer (by training a lawyer) discovered how problematic the law was if you tried to prevent someone from gaining their livelihood. The super licence form represented an attempt to prevent such situation recurring.'

'Lauda claims Pironi made phone calls and was able to prevent 'most of the other drivers' from signing, but in fact 24 did, leaving six refuseniks: Pironi himself, Lauda of course, Villeneuve - who had seen something similar in Canadian ice hockey and didn't like it - Arnoux, Giacomelli, and de Cesaris'

'I was just listening because Didier Pironi did all the talking,' Lauda would say. 'Didier completely unemotional. The important thing was to keep on talking.'

'At 7:00 on the Thursday morning a bus, arranged by GPDA secretary Trevor Rowe, drew up not far from the paddock entrance with Pironi and Lauda in it. Most of the drivers stayed at the nearby Kyalami Ranch Hotel and they'd be arriving early for a GPDA meeting before the hour-long practice session at 10:20. As each arrived they were invited to park their cars and get onto the bus. Mass didn't show up (He's always late' someone said) and Ickx refused. In fact, Mass had been staying with friends of his South African-born wife and so had been out of touch. He knew nothing about the bus but it wouldn't have made any difference.'

'The drivers were, as Lauda recounts is, going for a drive. With Lauda hanging out of the back waving, the bus set off, but as it left the bottom gate of the circuit John McDonald of the March team tried to block it. Laffite and some other drivers got out and pushed McDonald's car clear. Then the bus proceeded to the scenic route to Johannesburg some 15 miles away pursued by 'a whole convoy' of TV cameras, journalists and photographers. The bus went to the Sunnyside Park Hotel in the suburbs. It offered full amenities including a swimming pool.'

'At 10:19 the track opened for practice. The race organisers threatened to impound the cars if the race didn't happen and Ecclestone threatened the drivers that they would be sued for recompense if the cars were impounded. Throughout, Ecclestone adopted a hard line and at one point, in a remarkable interview questioned the value of drivers, "Nobody came up to me at Kyalami and asked where Jones or Andretti were. Already they're not missed. Why should any of the rest of them be missed? If it had suited Carlos not to come back, he wouldn't have given a stuff about F1 now, or whether the crowds came now or didn't. He couldn't give a dam if it suited him not to turn up. In the same way it suited Niki to walk out in the middle of a race. I think he said at the time 'I'm leaving because of policies, I just want to be a racing driver.' If you analyse it, the drivers just don't make any sense."'

'Pironi arrived from the circuit and explained that if they didn't return and drive immediately, they faced life bans. There seems to have been a distinctive mood at the hotel with very real concerns about what they were doing 'camouflaged by high jinks and laughter.' Lauda knew that the older drivers understood what the consequences might be. Ecclestone had already fired Piquet and Patrese. Lauda realised how difficult it was for the young drivers, facing the reaction of their sponsors. Lauda concluded that maintaining solidarity was crucial. Each driver had a great deal to lose.'

'At the Kyalami Ranch, during dinner, drivers' wives and girlfriends threw bread rolls and plates at Balestre.'

'The drivers in Hannesburg inhabited the conference room. "We ended up barricaded in it" Warwick says, "You know what was fantastic? I got to know my colleagues for the first time because, being a non-qualifier at the back of the grid, you don't get a chance to speak to the guys at the front. That was good. The other things that were massive when we were in that compound - we were there for 24 hours - was Bruno Giacomelli standing with a chart and dissecting an AK47 machine gun. He drew these magnificent drawings of how to take the gun to bits and so on. It was very, very funny because in the normal Bruno Giacomelli way he was very, very funny anyway. I think it was a big shock for everybody in authority because they thought they could control the drivers but, to be quite honest, I don't know that half of them in the room knew what we were striking for." Lauda kept their spirits up by telling jokes and, a piano brought, Villeneuve played light music and de Angelis classical pieces. "What really blew me away," Warwick says, "was that we had a piano in the room and Elio de Angelis started playing it. Apparently, he could have been a concert pianist and it astonished me - the other talents that some of these guys had. Then Gilles played Scott Joplin.'

'Many remember the performance by de Angelis. "Believe it or not," Derek Daly says, "the most vivid memory I have of being stuck in the hotel was Elio de Angelis playing the piano like a concert pianist. Remarkable. Definitely, definitely that was a gift, a talent of his.' Jarier points out that "it was a big room and Elio de Angelis played classical music and Gilles played. Very sympa. In that era virtually all the drivers stayed in the same hotels - Kyalami Ranch in South America, the Glen Motorhome in Watkins Glen and so on. A formula one team was 15, 20 people. There were far few journalists, far fewer television people and everybody knew each other." In other words, many of the drivers in the big room were not strangers to each other, however much those at the back of the grid had to be. Alex Hawkridge arrived to try and reach Fabi and Warwick. Fabi was easy to reach because, as it seems, he was already staying in the hotel and had his own room. "Teo we didn't threaten as such, we told him he was contracted to drive. He came out and I was able to speak to him. We reminded him he had signed a contract to drive, and the idea of solidarity wouldn't help him if he was without a drive and think where his best interest lay. Elio was playing the piano - astonishing - and I could hear him. He was a proper concert pianist.'

'The room was barricaded. An associate of mine pushed the door open and shouted their names, "Come and talk to us and we'll resolve this" Of course, as happens when you do that, someone pushed the other way and there was a bit of a pushing and shoving session - by a friend of mine called Douglas Norden, who is known to be a little aggressive when challenged. He was nothing to do with the team, just a friend along trying to help and it turned into a bit of a scuffle, the the door shut." Niki and the others saw it as a further restriction on the drivers' power and they wanted to stop it, and that is always the difficulty with change, isn't it? We were to have another example at Imola when the FOCA went on strike against the FIA. Through the history of human struggle there have been instances involving union. Lauda made sure the piano blocked the door so there would be no further scuffles, giving the police reason to enter. Mo Nunn at the Ensign tried to get Guerrero to come out by taking his girlfriend. When they saw each other they dissolved into tears and Lauda allowed him out to see her providing he - Lauda - came too. Jean Sage of Renault tried to get Prost and Arnoux but was beaten off.'

'The drivers ordered a room big enough to put 30 mattresses onto the carpet - that provoked prolonged ribaldry. At 11:00 pm they moved from the conference room to this dormitory and settled down for the night, having worked out an elaborate way of getting to the toilet across the hallway. It was conducted on the honour system with a key on a plate in the middle of the room. Lauda would remember, "I was sharing a bed with Patrese, someone next to Rosberg was snoring until Villeneuve put a blanket over him in the middle of the night, but all the time we stood together." Warwick would remember, "The drivers spent time with me and we spent a lot of time together - I was sleeping with them, exactly, yes! I haven't slept on the same mattress as Carlos Reutemann ever since, mind you..." To which Derek Daly says, "The funny thing is think I was on the other side because I have a picture of me beside Reutemann. I don't know if he snored. I do think he was still dressed in his driver's suit." Pironi said at the time, "We will see it through, FISA had too much to lose to let the Grand Prix be called off. I'm confident they will relent." "We'd had a lot of pressure because you had people like Jackie Oliver and Alex Hawkridge coming to the hotel," Warwick says, "We were threatened with our jobs if you don't get back there and that, of course, if why Fabi crawled out of the toilet window. He was the only one who broke ranks. He did the dirty on me. Everybody said they understood if I had to go back, I was explaining to people like Lauda, 'It's okay for you guys, you're going to have a job , you're some of the best drivers around but I'm the new kid on the block, my team mate's just jumped ship and I am very vulnerable' and every one of them said, 'We guarantee you will not be fired' In other words, if one is fired everyone goes. That gave me a little bit more confidence to stay there."'

'"It wasn't the strike which made me say, I don't want Formula One," Tambay says, "I enjoyed the strike! It was the best time I ever had with all my friends, although it was a very costly reunion with them. WHat I didn't like was Teo Fabi sneaking out behind our backs to try and get back into the car, and what I didn't like was that I knew we had been screwed - they (Balestre & co) had said "Come back out to the circuit and everything's going to be all right" and I knew we were all screwed"'

'And there, grinning broadly (he usually did), stood the strong, square figure of Brian Henton - available for selection as of this second, Jackie Oliver gave Henton the Tambay drive, but that morning, Henton became embroiled in a tug-of-war between the arrows management and Herr Lauda. Arrows 'were bollocking me saying "Get in the car" and all the rest of it' Henton remembers, 'And I am just about to go out for practice and they needed my signature on their petition. I'd got the team shouting in one ear "Get in that car and get out there" and, just as I am sitting Niki Lauda - who been massaging me all the time and I'd been saying "No, no, no" - rushes up with this petition, he 'hit' me at the right time, "Just sign this, sign it, sign it" I thought I only want to get out onto the track.'

'Lauda records how, throughout the weekend, there had been rumours that once the drivers reached the airport to fly home they would be arrested, although on what grounds it is difficult to say, what happened was quite different. During the race the stewards issued a statement given to each team, saying the drivers Super Licences were being suspended. Three drivers, Fabi, Mass and Henton - were spared: Fabi because he'd gone to the track prepared to drive, Mass because he had driven, and Henton because he got the Arrows drive after Tambay withdrew following the strike. Francis Tucker, steward of the South African Grand Prix, said, "For the purpose of running a race, a temporary truce, was called in the disagreement between the drivers and the officials. The truce lasted until the end of the race. At the end of the race, the truce agreement position was terminated. This means that the position which existed prior to the agreement is effectively reinstated.' The drivers were suspended immediately and each paid 300 Rand to appeal the decision. Fisa said they supported the suspensions and Executive Committee would meet in Paris on the following Thursday, January 27.'

And that is all that I took down about the Driver's Strike of 1982. I hope that it was an enjoyable read for everyone!

I feel a bit bad that I accidentally got a free copy of this book, given that the author I've read other books from and it one that I like a lot, and that when looking the book up, it is rather expensive. But these things accidentally happen, and anyone could accidentally look up this exact search on google: Niki Lauda "snored" - and then see the first link that is a pdf of 154 pages titled 1982, which then they could click and get the full copy of the book. These accidents happen. And it is always good to have a virus scanner to check any file you download just in case, my phone seems safe but it's better safe than sorry.

Enjoy :)

#classic f1 #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #vintage f1 #1982 drivers strike

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astralis-is-typing · 10 months

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"... and they were camp-mates." (더 가까이~)

⚝fic type: romance, young love

⚝genre/contains: han jisung x fem reader, summer camp!au, fluff, comfort, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pinning, both reader and jisung are over 18

⚝warnings: slightly suggestive

⚝word count: 5.8k

⚝inspo: mixtape:oh by stray kids

⚝A/N: this is my entry for the may/june blossoming love event (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠) happy pride month & an even happier 2 year anniversary of mixtape oh!! (the korean title is from han's verse in the song's bridge)

“너와 두 눈을 맞추고서, 한 걸음 더 네게로...

계획을 세워봐도, 여전히 네 앞에 서면 나는 애야”

The great oak doors opened with a familiar creak as you stepped into the reception of your long-time summer camp. Nothing had changed. Nothing really ever changed here. Year in, year out and this lodge remained tried and true. You had attended this camp almost every summer for the past six years. Both your parents had incredibly demanding jobs. Since they couldn’t keep you entertained for your entire holiday themselves, they had figured camp was a good alternative to leaving you at home to your own devices all day. You hadn’t liked the idea at first, but this place gradually grew on you… its carefree and youthful aura was something you’d always reminisce on. It was out of the city, away from all the noise and rush. The camp was bordered by a forest on one side and a lake on the other; the fresh air was always so soothing to your lungs, particularly on the first week back here. Whether a kid liked being outdoors or not, this place had a way of expanding one’s perspective on what fun could look like.

You ran a finger along the smooth brown reception desk as you took in your surroundings. The familiarity of the place made you sigh; the tension you didn’t know you were holding slowly easing off your shoulders. Cheesy motivational quotes and colourful posters about camp activities were tacked onto the notice board beside the desk.

On the counter, a jar of sweets glinted invitingly in the soft sunlight seeping through the room’s large open windows. They came in handy especially in the first few weeks of camp, when the receptionist needed to calm down the kids who ran in demanding to phone their parents and have them pick them up. It was a regular occurrence with the younger campers, you had behaved that way too on your first summer. Some of the best– and worst– moments of your childhood had happened at this camp. You’d broken limbs, learned how to swim, cycle and bake here… As well as more unconventional feats, such as learning how to pick a lock with a hair pin.

The reception had received a fresh coat of paint since you were last here, the beige tint no longer chipping to reveal the dulling white beneath it. You dinged the tiny bell on the table top and took a seat at the orange couch beside the door as you waited for the receptionist to come in. You came back this summer as a junior Counsellor to earn a little extra cash before you joined college. Familiar as the place was, you were sure this summer would be a relatively different experience considering your new position and the fact that you wouldn’t be spending it with the friends you had made here. It would be rather boring without them all, you thought, as you knew most of the other junior Counsellors would be unfamiliar faces.

The receptionist walked in through a side door after a few minutes and beckoned you forward with a warm greeting so you could register your name in the counter book and receive your pass. You can’t help but smile as you take in the photographs still stuck to the wall behind the desk. They were from three years ago, when your camp’s rowing team had competed in a tournament and won. Under the generic congratulatory banner, you could see your own toothy grin (and pimpled forehead) staring back at you. Right next to it was one particular chubby cheeked boy who was smiling triumphantly as he held his hand up in a peace sign. You let out a small laugh at the memory of the cheesecake-loving boy who’d simultaneously annoyed the hell out of you and elevated your stays here to astronomical levels of fun.

“Hey baby!” Came his unmistakable voice from behind you. It made you spin around in shock. The Han Jisung was leaning against the door frame, a crossbody bag slung across his broad chest and a large box cradled in his arms.

The nickname 'baby' had always fallen so easily from his lips, in the same manner one would casually use ‘bro’ or ‘mate’. He hadn’t changed all that much… still had those insanely chubby cheeks and annoyingly perfect waist. His sense of fashion had improved tremendously, yet still looked very Jisung-esque; comfort had always been the most important element to his dressing.

“Jisung? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he countered with a wink, walking in and setting the box down on the counter. “Can’t deny I’m not happy to see you, though.”

He turned to the receptionist then. “These are books I’d, uhm, borrowed from the camp’s library… over the years… and forgotten to return.” He explained with his signature grin, hoping to charm the older man into letting him off the hook. Soon enough he'd check the 'return by' dates and realize that some of the box’s contents had been under Han Jisung's bed at home for about four years now. If it wasn’t for his pestering mother they’d still be there, honestly.

You scoffed, trying to ignore the swell of his bicep as he leaned an arm on the counter. “You read?”

Jisung stuck his tongue out at you. You rolled your eyes when the receptionist opened the box to reveal dozens of comics. “These don’t count as books, Jisung.”

“They do, too.” He challenged back indignantly.

“You don’t read.” You stated with finality as the receptionist went back through the side door he came in from.

“Yes I do.” Jisung countered adamantly as he leaned towards you and tapped your nose with his finger. You groaned and leaned back, stifling the laugh that was climbing up your throat.

“So what’s your deal?” he asked, changing the subject with a teasing pout of his lips as he poked your side. “Missed this place that much?”

“I’m here as a Counsellor.” You explained shortly, paying no mind to his antics. Jisung had a habit of trying to rile you up for no apparent reason. He seemed to find great fun in it.

“Well look at that, baby!” He said with exaggerated glee, showing you his pearly white teeth as he smiled wide. You narrowed your eyes at him, fighting back the smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“We’ll be spending one last summer together,” he gushed, emphasizing each word with an affectionate pat on your shoulder.

—

You watched Jisung scribble his name just below yours in the worn out counter book. You couldn’t believe your luck, this had to be some kind of joke.

The two of you had a history.

You remember the summer Han Jisung had serenaded you by the campfire, all in the name of having you lend an ear for his new song. The dark haired boy had sung his heart out while dutifully strumming his guitar. You recall the way he hadn't broken eye contact for a second, the crackling fire illuminating his determined face. The performance had ended with him shyly confessing that you had inspired the ballad.

That had also been the summer you’d had to untangle him from his mosquito net. Yeah, not Jisung’s finest moment.

None of his roommates had managed to free him and you had for some reason been deemed an expert in such cabin room catastrophes. He’d snuck a kiss to your cheek as you finally freed his fragile legs from the net. (A kiss you’d immediately wiped off as the other campers began to holler and croon sickly sweet love songs.)

—

When he’d walked in, Jisung’s stomach had done a funny flip at the sight of you. After all this time…

The effect you had on him was as strong as when he’d last seen you. He started teasing you out of habit, the urge near instinctual after all these years. What else was he supposed to do? That was his only way of masking the true nature of his feelings. You absolutely captivated Han Jisung, in just about every way possible. Unknown to you, he had been under your spell for years now. Sure, you’d probably caught on at one point or another that he had a crush on you, but it ran deeper than that. Jisung was enthralled by the way your brain worked, and the unique solutions you found to problems. Though a bit of a genius in his own right– especially musically– Jisung was rather scatter-brained and your efficiency and structure was something he’d always admire. In addition to that you had the prettiest eyes he’d ever had the pleasure of looking into.

As you walked side by side, Jisung grappled with how he was going to keep things light and friendly between you two. Internally, he knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

—

The two of you made your way to the centre of the camp where the senior Counsellors were dividing duties. Nayeon, your favourite Counsellor from your time at camp, handed you your own schedule. It turns out you would be working with the younger kids. Not a bad deal considering you’d been on babysitting duty for most of your life, being the oldest sibling and all.

Jisung, who was seated next to you on the sturdy log, grinned as he read his own sheet and nudged you with his elbow when he reached the end of the slip.

“Looks like we’ll be cabin-mates, baby.” He declared. Your eyes widened at that, scanning through your own paper to confirm his statement. Indeed, you would be holed up with Han Jisung for a whole month.

You sputtered, blaming the sudden heat creeping up your face on the sun overhead, and looked up at Nayeon with your mouth slightly agape.

“You’re the same age,” she pointed out, shrugging. “And you know each other. I figured it would be more comfortable than rooming you with strangers.”

Your heart was beating wildly in your chest as your mind ran a mile a minute, providing you with scenarios of how this could possibly turn out. You struggled not to give any outward indication of the thoughts clouding your brain.

“Unless you want me to change it…” Nayeon offered kindly, noticing the panic dancing in your eyes despite your efforts to conceal it.

You looked over at Jisung, who’s heart-shaped mouth had formed a slight pout at Nayeon’s suggestion. He quickly dropped it when he noticed your gaze.

“Uh… no, no. This will be fine.”

“Are you sure, sweetie?” She double-checked.

“Yeah, sure. Positive.” You cleared your throat that suddenly felt very dry. You quickly racked your brain for a reason to excuse how flustered you were. “I was just- Jisung’s really messy so I was a little-”

“Am not.” He countered childishly, looking slightly offended. Unfortunately for him, the slight upwards quirk of his mouth betrayed the charade.

“I’ve heard the horror stories.” You teased with a raised brow, referring to the tales you’d heard from his previous cabin-mates.

“Well,” Nayeon cut in, shaking her head in amusement. “If the arrangement is alright with the both of you then I’ll leave you to it.”

She smiled good-naturedly before moving on to her other colleagues who had queries.

—

Rooming with Jisung wasn’t all that bad. Both of you were shy at first and kept to your respective sides of the small cabin. The room had two bunk beds and Jisung kept his mess to his top bunk. Sleep had evaded you on the first night and he’d actually offered to sing you to sleep. It had worked wonders and over the next two weeks it became somewhat of a routine.

The only time you got in each other’s way was rushed mornings when you needed the bathroom at the same time. You didn’t spend much time in there anyways, already swept up in the flurry of activities that camp provided. In truth, you just wanted to avoid the blush that graced your cheeks whenever he walked in all sleepy to brush his teeth, muttering a ‘hey, baby’ with his gravely morning voice. The domesticity of going about your morning routines together got to your head faster than you expected it to. Perhaps what made it worse was when he had to lean over or behind you to grab something on your end of the sink.

One morning he’d full-on wrapped an arm around your waist as he reached over and snagged your scented lotion. Jisung thought he was being all slick but the proximity ended up flustering him even more than it did you. You’d feigned annoyance at his seemingly endless antics, scolding him and trying to pry the bottle from his hand. Jisung, stubborn as ever, wasn’t giving it up that easily and cheekily brought his face closer to yours with puckered lips. You’d recoiled immediately with wide eyes and he laughed in delight, savouring his victory as you narrowed your eyes at him and stormed out of the bathroom before he got to see the smile you couldn’t seem to fight off.

—

It felt like the kids wanted to try out everything at once. On days you seriously needed some down time, you’d get one of them to start up a game of hide and seek. That kept them busy for a good hour, sometimes more depending on the number of participants.

Hide and seek had always been a popular game at camp. The game’s rules were different here– and a seeker finding you didn’t automatically mean you had lost. Once found, you and the seeker had to race to where they’d been counting; whoever got there first won. If you lost, you had to join the seeker in their quest to find the rest of the campers.

Three summers ago, you’d hidden in one of the camp’s two treehouses with Jisung during a game. When it began you had quickly dashed up there, expecting to find the space empty. You had nearly tripped over Jisung who was crouched near the door. He’d managed to steady you and put a finger to his lips conspiratorially. You wanted to whine and tell him to find another spot but at that moment the seeker announced they were done counting.

Jisung had clamped a hand over your mouth and pulled you in before you could protest… adrenaline running high as you both pressed against the wooden inner wall. He was closer to the door, so you curled around him– placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as you peeped at the scene below you two. The sky was quickly darkening outside, darker shades of blue streaked with hues of violet creating a beautiful background to complement the moon's faint glow that cast tall shadows behind the scurrying campers. The moonlight slipped past half-drawn blinds through the window above you, a sliver of light dancing across Jisung’s soft cheeks. He had them puffed out as he held his breath, looking over the door’s landing. You could make out half his face, the other half silhouetted in the dark tree house. He looked rather beautiful this way, the sharp line of his nose against the light and soft curve of his round eyes making him look like a painting. The realization momentarily stole your breath away.

When he turned around suddenly, your noses almost bumped together. It occurred to you with a start how close you were to him. He didn’t move away though, eyes gleaming with mischief in typical Jisung fashion as he took note of the proximity. You didn’t pull back either, transfixed and still a little dazed by everything. It took you way too long to notice you were staring at his lips. It wasn’t until he let out a soft chuckle that you slightly moved back, the breath of it fanning against your own lips. Your heart had fluttered annoyingly when you returned your gaze to his brown eyes.

“Have you ever kissed someone?” You asked quietly. The dark of the evening was working like liquid courage and brazenness uncharacteristically came easily to you. Jisung looked taken aback by your question, eyes widened as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip nervously and picked at his dark blue nail polish. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, hoping against hope that you were suggesting what he thought you were. He nodded his head, adding as he looked away, “Never a girl, though.”

“Oh,” was the only reply you could come up with, unsure of how to continue the conversation.

He faced you again, now grinning. You knew that look and groaned, already being able to tell the boy was about to say something stupid.

“You could change that.” He suggested with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes, mumbling something under your breath about how you ‘didn’t mean it that way’– yet you still brought his face closer to yours with slightly shaky hands.

“Your insufferable.” You said as menacingly as you could, but the twinkle on your eyes betrayed you.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat when you held his face in both your palms, cold from the air outside. He hesitantly brought one of his own hands to your cheek before closing the space between you two.

The kiss was soft, just a slow brush of your lips– neither of you confident enough go beyond that. In any case, you didn’t have the time to, hearing someone– undoubtedly the seeker– climbing up to the treehouse. You quickly broke apart and stood up, preparing yourselves for the impending race.

Your lips still tingled faintly as he looked at you and sharply nodded his head once. You nodded back, mouthing, “On three…”

—

As the days stretched on, hanging out with Jisung in between your duties proved to be a fun past time. Sure, he still teased you a lot, but more than made up for it by making you laugh hysterically. He’d been the mood maker during your time as a camper. Jisung always managed to rally the other kids’ spirits and always had a great story for the nights spent around the campfire.

On your second Saturday back at camp, you two were seated outside your cabin as you usually did when you were both off duty. It was the onset of summer the small room felt too stuffy at times. You’d helped him make sure the older campers he was in charge of weren’t getting into any trouble before retiring for the night. For those rascals, truth or dare had become riskier and ‘7 minutes in heaven’ was now the go-to game for a night spent indoors.

You and Jisung recalled one such occasion during your own teen years when he had lied you were his girlfriend to get out of kissing Felix in a game of spin the bottle. You didn’t understand why he’d done it; Jisung had kissed virtually all his friends at least once– and Felix was no exception. You’d now found yourself in the middle of the drama, your other campmates still demanding a kiss between you two to keep the game going.

Felix had eyed you sceptically as you fumbled for a way to back out. That boy had been Jisung’s bunkmate that summer and the previous one as well. Felix would surely have known if the two of you had something going on; the campers had a habit of sneaking into each other’s cabins when they dated.

The freckled boy’s voice was so low in the morning that it had scared the shit out of Jisung every day for the first two weeks spent as his bunkmate. The two of you burst out laughing at the memory of him spraining his ankle on the first week of that summer, having fallen out of bed at the sound of Felix’s rumbling morning voice. It had resulted in Jisung having to trade in the much coveted top bunk to prevent any chance of breaking a limb in his spooked frenzy.

“Hey! You wouldn’t have fared any better!” he managed between laughs, trying to save some face. “It’s hard to convince your brain at six in the morning that no, there isn’t any demon under you plotting to drag you into the underworld.”

The conversation then shifted to your future plans. Every new thing Jisung discovered about you left him yearning to know you at a greater depth. Jisung was going to study music and producing, naturally. He was still nervous about it, stomach churning from the thought of the calibre of classmates he’d have at the college he was accepted to.

“You’ve got the talent and the drive for it,” you reassured him with an earnest smile. You leaned your hand on your palm as you gave him your full attention, genuinely interested in his aspirations. You knew Jisung didn’t open up to many people about these things, afraid that they’d find his ranting tiresome. You wanted to make sure he knew you enjoyed listening.

Jisung couldn’t hold eye contact for long- eyes straying from yours every now and then. You were sat there looking at him with that look you had cast on him so many times before; one that made his stomach do backflips. It was a look of trust… of belief that his thoughts were not only valid but mattered. There weren’t that many people out there who took their time to just listen in the way you did. Not only to him; Jisung admired the caring nature you extended to everyone around you. It’s one of the things that made you a great Counsellor; the kids felt not only safe, but also heard when with you.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He whined, subconsciously hiding his flushed face behind his hand.

“Like what?” You chuckled. You fought back the flustered panic rising in your chest. Had your eyes let on too much? You were usually good at schooling your smitten expression in front of Jisung (or so you thought) but it seems the comfort of the moment had made you drop your guard.

“Like that,” He explained unhelpfully, wiggling his fingers in your direction. It really wasn’t like Jisung at all… the way he talked to you, treated you and behaved towards you made him seem so immature. Everything he said ended up sounding childish. It was rapidly getting worse the closer you two grew.

“Anyways,” he said, shaking his head and trying to regain his wits. “I’ve been working on something. Would you like to hear it?”

“If you’re going to try serenading me I swear-”

“No, no,” he laughed, getting shy again at the memory of that night so many years ago. “It’s…”

He trailed off, not wanting to give too much away. “I don’t want to give any spoilers!” He stood up and gestured for you to do the same. “Just come inside.”

Jisung turned on his laptop– his only possession separated from the heap of clothes and his other belongings sprawled on his top bunk– and pulled up a file labelled ‘Close’. He kept his eyes trained on the floor as he played you a snippet. The song had an upbeat and floaty vibe to it, the kind you loved. It eased the weight of the lyrics that carried such unaffected depth, typical of Jisung’s song-writing. He blushed as you praised him when the track-in-progress came to an end, attempting to downplay how good the song really was, but you didn’t let him. He cleared his throat, struggling to explain the meaning behind the song when yet again faced with your undivided attention. Around you all the bright ideas in his head came out messy and uncoordinated, even when he’d thought about what he wanted to say beforehand.

You held out your hand as you hit the replay button on his laptop and pulled him up.

“Dance with me?” you asked simply. It wasn’t really optional, considering you’d already brought him to his feet, but Jisung wouldn’t have declined anyways. You put your hands on his shoulders as you danced in the small space between your two beds. He tentatively brought his hands up to your waist with a small grin.

“Better not crush my toes with your great big feet,” he teased, taking one step closer to you and laughing as you swatted his chest with a grumble. Holding you in this way shouldn’t be having the effect that it is on him. But what did he expect? Every time he so much as looked at you for too long his breath caught in his throat. As always, the only distraction Jisung could find from the feelings blossoming within was to poke fun at you.

The song came to an end as the two of you were swaying silently, simply enjoying the moment. In any case, you both lacked the courage to do much else. Without realizing it, you had gotten closer– way closer then when you’d begun… but neither of you could find the will to pull away.

He should honestly just go for it.

Jisung was honestly one of the suavest guys he knew. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Why was it, anyways? He was a grown man, he reasoned to himself. Kissing his crush didn’t have to be like pulling teeth. Jisung shook his fears away as he held your chin in between his fingers, eyes imploring your own. You slipped your arms around his neck and he shut his eyes, letting you close the gap between you two.

The kiss felt different from anything he’d experienced previously. Your lips pressed against his with so much care, conveying everything you couldn’t put into words. When you pulled away your pretty eyes remained focused on his lips in a way that made him want to dip back in for more. Everything about you did.

He held you close to him by the waist, loosely enough in case you wanted to step back. You placed a hand over his chest, eyes telling him all he needed to know as you felt his heartbeat pick up under your palm.

“Hey…” he chanced, rocking you slowly to a rhythm no one else but the two of you could seem to hear. You appeared to be waltzing… lost in each other’s gazes as you both slowly shed the layers of pretence keeping you apart.

“Hmm?” You replied softly, careful not to break the comfortable silence.

“Be my girl,” he pleaded. Jisung drew you into a hug and leaned his cheek against yours, sighing at his lack of tact. You pulled back and smiled coyly at him before you playfully danced out of his reach. You plopped down on your bed, not anticipating the way he followed you and kneeled at your side so you were somewhat at eye level.

“Why should I?” You asked with your eyebrow raised and hands crossed over your chest. You’d expected a clever quip in return but he merely pouted at your answer.

“Haven’t I proven myself enough?” he whined. In spite of yourself, you reached out a hand and threaded your fingers through his hair. It had grown longer in the time he’d been here, brown strands tickling his neck. He sighed at the feeling, weighing his next words before he spoke again.

“Have you ever had sex before?”

The question stumbled out ungracefully. Its randomness made you raise your eyebrows and laugh. If it were anyone else, he’d have probably been able to say that smoother, maybe slip a warm palm up your thigh. But no, around you Han Jisung was an idiot.

You nodded your head, then– as if you’d suddenly recalled something funny– grinned and added, “Never with a boy, though.”

The reference had him chuckling in spite of his nerves, helping him relax a little. Of course, this peace was disrupted by what you said next.

“You could change that…” You suggested, trailing off in your slight uncertainty. You cleared your throat when Jisung looked at you blankly, examining your hands like they were suddenly the most interesting thing in earth as you tried to look anywhere in the room but him. He laughed quietly and brought your face back round to face him.

“You’re insufferable,” he said softly, teasing glint still dancing in his eyes. Jisung brought up his hand to your face and leaned in for the second time that night. The kiss was firmer this time round. His lips moved against yours with a newfound determination, tongue sliding against your lips and seeking entrance beyond them. His other hand trailed up you your arm to gently tug at your elbow, moving you closer to him.

You pulled him up onto the bed and he hit his head on the top bunk in the process. He groaned as he sunk down and you couldn’t help but break the kiss to laugh at him.

“See what I go through for you?” he joked, rubbing his forehead with a grimace.

“Okay,” you conceded. “I’ll give you a shot.”

“Really?” He exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement and reddening forehead forgotten.

“Just for the summer…” You negotiated. “You’re on probation.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing,” he shrugged before laying down on your bed and pulling you on top of him. You straddled him as your head lowered to his once again, closing your eyes as the feeling of his lips against your own and hands roaming your body engulfed you.

—

You woke up to the soft morning light slipping under your curtains and the feeling of Jisung’s breath against your neck. He’d nuzzled himself there and was borderline laying on top of you. He looked so peaceful like this, his toned back rising and falling with each breath he took. His leg was thrown over your own and you gently pried him off so you could go to the bathroom.

You gazed at your reflection in the sink’s mirror, noticing a very conspicuous mark on your neck that you’d have to cover up later. You ran your fingertips over it, smiling like an idiot. Why was it so hard for you to admit your feelings for this guy? Everyone could see there was something deeper between you two. Even one of the kids had pryingly asked if he was your boyfriend.

Every summer, all the relationships the two of you might have had over the school year dissipated into thin air the second camp began. Jisung seemed to forget the relevance of them all when you were in question. On your end, you struggled to mask your smile when someone brought his name up. Both his goofy and serious side were so special to you. His serious expression as he jotted down lyrics used to make your stomach flutter– you realized it still did when he was talking about his song to you last night.

You gazed at your reflection again, searching your own eyes for an answer you already held within you… could you be falling in love?

—

The weeks flew by and before you knew it, your final time at this camp was coming to an end. You and Jisung had been… busy, in between your Counselling duties. There were several times over the course of the past few weeks when you’d woken up in his bed instead of yours.

Nevertheless, you’d surprisingly enjoyed your duties. The kids this summer where a nice lot, especially considering you hadn’t been assigned to deal with the older ones. It was harder for them to take your instructions as they could see you weren’t much older than them. You didn’t know how Jisung managed.

On the last week you and Jisung were yet again sat outside your cabin, sharing a pack of gummy bears.

“So… am I off probation now?” he asked teasingly.

“Still thinking about it.” You deadpanned, resolutely staring ahead into the darkness.

“C’mon don’t be difficult,” He whined. “Admit it, I’m the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“Nope,” you said, giggling. “You’re the only boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

“So that automatically makes me the best!” He argued with a grin. “No competition… you’d just be comparing me to me.”

“I said you’re my first boyfriend, not first relationship,” you corrected him. “Don’t get to cocky,” you said throwing him a wink.

It was comical, really, the way he pouted at your answer. His eyes suddenly lit up as he dragged you up from your seat.

“Where are we going?”

“Just follow me.” He said with faux exhaustion, mumbling about how stubborn you were.

The stars twinkled above you and you could hear that distant hooting of owls from the nearby forest. The moon proudly lit your path as you recognized it as the route to the camp’s old well. It had no use really, and hadn’t in about 15 years.

You remember your third summer at camp when Jisung had jumped into it after you’d rejected him.

He’d stayed down that well until a Counsellor had to grudgingly get him out. Jisung had been a menace at the time. The only Counsellor who’d managed to tame him was a junior named Minho. Jisung didn’t seem to care about how much grief he caused them during activities- always stirring up some kind of mischief. You’d frequently catch him looking your way, as if he was specifically waiting for your reaction to his antics. Jisung liked to see you laugh at his jokes, beyond giddy to know he’d contributed to that beautiful smile of yours. He always strived to make his mark, he didn’t want to just hang or linger around you… a brief distraction that you’d forget by the end of the day. For reasons unknown to him, Jisung had wanted to be more than that to you.

Just like back then, he sat on the well’s edge.

“Be my baby,” he asked, already struggling to bite back a laugh. He threw in a ‘please’ for good measure. “I swear I’ll jump in if you say no again.”

The well’s depth wasn’t as deep or intimidating now considering you were both full adults, but the thought of having to haul him out in the dead of night did not sound appealing, so you agreed immediately. You chuckled as he stood up and made his way to you with a visible spring in his step.

“You’re so stubborn.” You scolded him as he gallantly took your hands in his.

“Annoying, childish, a thorough idiot...” He confirmed, taking another step closer to you. “Who's low-key in love with you.”

“Completely insufferable...” was the last thing you managed to stutter out before he crashed his lips into yours, cradling your face in both his hands. He titled his head and deepened the kiss after a short while, nearly tumbling you both over in the process. You snorted into the kiss and the two of you broke apart in peals of laughter.

It seemed that no matter how many times he did this, he was still messy, still uncoordinated and not much unlike the young campers you watched over.

In front of you, his love, Han Jisung was still a kid.

⚝A/N: Thank you for reading (⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆ This concept has been in my mind since May aah I'm happy to finally have it completed. If you enjoyed the story kindly reblog!

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