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ansksosns · 3 years

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Sealed Fates

This blog has no followers b u t this is my secret writing blog, where I have not posted any works....until now.

Simps, I present to you; Tobirama Senju.

Part 2 can be found here!

Word count: 3023

You burst through his office doors, not bothering to knock or give any announcement of your arrival to his household despite the late hour. You knew he wasn’t asleep; the man only slept when exhaustion won the battle against his mind and body.

Surely enough, there he sat at his oak desk, gracing you with a rare display of surprise upon his face.

“Tobirama Senju.” You growl, gritting your teeth.

He quickly collects himself, his surprised expression disappearing as though it was never there. He now looks tired—How many days has it been since he truly slept?

“I do not recall inviting you into my home.” He says pointedly, as his eyes fall back on to the papers in front of him. He begins scribbling on them, probably updating notes on the newest jutsu he’d created.

His lack of urgency towards you only makes you more annoyed; you thought the two of you were finally getting somewhere, after Tobirama saved your life from the clutches of death a mere month ago. You quickly learned that you were wrong, as he became more reclusive than ever following your discharge from the hospital.

You had every intention on broaching this topic with him in a professional manner, even going so far as to schedule a meeting with him—a meeting, with the man you served as some sort of assistant for a better part of your career as a shinobi.

All formalities went out the window when you quickly caught a glimpse of a very specific marking on the small of your back; one you knew quite well, but had no recollection of getting.

“How long have you had the seal on me?” You bark, taking one step closer to his desk.

He stops scribbling for a moment, considering your words carefully.

You don’t give him a chance to defend himself. “At what point did you decide to brand me with your jutsu?”

You take another step closer to him, and slam your hands down on the desk to get his undivided attention. You won’t let him get away with this without some sort of consequence; he may be above you in the world of shinobi, but he was not above you as a human being. It is time he was reminded of that.

Tobirama gives you a low sigh and then sets his quill aside. He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together in his lap. He looks at you with narrowed eyes, silently telling you to tread carefully as you speak. You ignore his warning, and more forward with your wrath.

“I have given you more than adequate work; I’ve dedicated my entire life to yours and Hashirama’s dream for this village. I have fought beside you, and for you without ever asking for anything in return.”

You notice your arms have begun to shake, so you grip the edge of the desk to stop yourself. Tobirama’s eyes have not left yours since he looked up at you, and you find yourself suddenly wishing he would look away. His stare is penetrating; making you feel as though he sees right into your very being.

Despite this, you continue with your rant. “Using this seal to spy on me, whenever, wherever you want—that is your payment to my loyalty, my blood, sweat, and tears?”

Your voice is bordering on shrill as you speak. Tears threaten to spill over your eyes, and you curse yourself for such a display of weakness in front of Tobirama.

“I have forgiven you for many, many, unspeakable things, Tobirama, but this crosses the line.”

He scoffs at you, while giving you a heated glare.

“You think I would place the Hiraishin seal on you with malicious intent?” He asks in disbelief.

His voice is lower than usual, cloaked in anger, as though he is offended by the accusations you are making against him.

You give him a humourless chuckle, “You would do anything if it meant furthering your goals.” You spit back at him.

You can feel the pressure of your chakra rising in the air around you, as you find yourself getting more and more upset with the man in front of you, and for once you think you will get the better of this stubborn man. Of course, he is one always one step ahead of you—his significantly more powerful chakra is threatening to squash yours as soon as the words are leaving your mouth.

Though you know it is a losing battle, you do not back down.

“I will not be insulted in my own home.” He states.

You’ve never seen him this angry before; not even with Madara. You have seen a lot of Tobirama over the years—one would argue that, aside from Hashirama, you know the younger Senju brother better than anyone. This anger you are seeing is entirely new to you though, and if it was not for the rage that burned within your soul, you might have even felt bad for invoking it.

“I will not be disrespected—not by you, or anyone else.” You reply, leaning into his personal space.

You have known Tobirama for too long; you know how to play to his weakness’. The pressure from your chakra, though significantly weaker than his, mixed with a newfound rage, and your close proximity, should be more than his sensory skills can handle at the moment. It would throw him off, and that is what you need right now to get a win.

“I will not tolerate being berated by an insolent girl, on a subject she knows nothing of.”

He surprises you by moving himself forward, sharing a space with you without a second thought. You are eye to eye now, his piercing gaze striking through you that much more. Your chakra’s shove against each other, battling for dominance.

You wonder why he doesn’t just end it; he is more than capable of doing so. Why drag it out for longer than necessary, especially when it is causing this much anger inside of him?

“This is my body, Tobirama!” You snap. “You do not get a say in this, no matter your excuse!”

Your proximity does not bother him, and it annoys you greatly. Even when you have the confidence to be this close to him; to challenge him—he is throwing you through another loop. When will you ever win with him?

You grit your teeth, breathing slightly heavier than you would normally. You continue to hold his gaze, though you feel like it is killing you from the inside out to keep doing so. You can’t back down from him this time; Tobirama has long ruled over your heart and mind far too easily. Now was a better time than any to prove to yourself that you can no longer be easily swayed by the younger Senju brother.

Tobirama narrows his eyes at you, lifting himself from his chair, pushing you out of his space with the sheer force and pressure of his chakra. You stumble backwards a bit, your stance falters for a moment as you are in awe of the raw power he possesses. You do not see it often, as he makes sure his power is stored away for only those who deserve it.

For a moment, you think you have gone too far.

You quickly regain your composure, and use your chakra to force his right back at him. His lips twitch upwards slightly, like a smirk was threatening to pull at the corners of them.

Was he...enjoying this?

It is gone as quickly as it appeared. You convince yourself that you imagined it.

“That seal saved your life.” Tobirama argues. He rounds the desk quickly, leaving you with no time to move with him before he has you trapped against the desk, facing him.

He leaves enough room for you to escape, if you feel the need to but you know you won’t. You are aware of what he is doing—forcing your hand to make you submit to him in this argument. He’d done it time and time again, though never with malice. Tobirama has spent his life being in command, never one to give up the control unless absolutely necessary. He understands that the presence of his chakra is intimidating, and he often uses that to his advantage. Clearly though, he has yet to realize that the threat of his chakra doesn’t work on you anymore.

“I don’t care.” You respond, your grasp on the desk behind you causing your knuckles to turn white. “I’ll never be able to remove it. I’m tethered to you for the rest of my life.”

You don’t mean for your words to sound so delicate, as though they were a confession of your soul. It doesn’t particularly bother you, because you have no intent on leaving his side any time soon, but your poor choice of words change the nature of the argument to an area you did not prepare yourself for.

Tobirama’s chakra stutters before the pressure of it dies off completely. Your own chakra is now powerful against him, causing it to forcibly push him away from you.

He is no longer glaring at you, but staring at you with eyes wide, and a slack jaw.

Perhaps your words affect him more than you can comprehend.

You retract your looming chakra, and step towards him, but he takes one step back for each foot you move forward. He is quick to hide his emotions again, replacing the softness he held in his eyes for you with a drawn out and irritated sigh. With closed eyes, he turns away from you.

You watch in complete disbelief. Tobirama Senju has just backed down from you; he submitted, and in turn, admitted to his defeat. You did not expect this from him.

You open your mouth to speak, but the lax of his shoulders stops you.

“I thought of it as a means to protect you.” Tobirama says gently. There is no trace of anger, or annoyance in his tone anymore.

You feel your resolve crumble at his tone, and your heartbeat doubles in the confines of your ribcage.

You hate this.

You hate how he renders you like this so easily.

His hands ball into fists at his sides as he lets his words hang in the air, allowing you the time to process them.

“You do not need to protect me, Tobirama; You have so much more to take care of in the village. You should have complete faith in my abilities as a shinobi to take care of myself.”

He scoffs loudly at your words, and shakes his head from side to side but he refuses to look at you.

You want to question him—make him tell you out right that he doubts your skills and has no faith in you at all; that your stint in the hospital and him saving your life were all the signs he needed to change his mind about you.

But seeing him this way leaves you with no other choice other than waiting it out.

Minutes pass as you both stand there in silence. Tobirama is seemingly struggling to find the words he has been looking for, and you are just waiting for him to speak them. You decided that one way or another, the two of you would settle whatever this is before either of you leave the room.

You only hope it won’t end with him saying all the things you can’t bear to hear; such as how useless you are, or how much he doesn’t need you anymore.

If that is what it came to though, so be it. If it meant sorting this out, you would take his words with your head held high.

You rest your hips against the desk, folding your arms over your chest.

“Tobi,” You say gently, to serve as a reminder that you were still here with him. You know, of course, that he can’t forget that; he is especially strong with his sensory skills—almost always aware of everything around him without meaning to be.

He turns to you and your breath catches in your throat. He looks utterly defeated and exhausted. His hard, pensive gaze turned in for a much softer one and lips parted slightly. The tension in his forehead usually caused by having his brows knitted together in concentration is gone, and it makes him look much younger.

Tobirama was either always dressed in his armour, or kimonos since they had established the village; it helped maintain an almost royal like status to the clans who joined the founding of Konoha.

But he is just a man—still so young. War often aged people much further along than they really are; something you often forgot.

You find yourself then wishing, if only for just a moment, that you can take it all back. You wish you were easier on Tobirama, and gave him more of the support he needs without question.

But you knew, as Madara once said, Tobirama Senju will always listen to you. Though you would never take credit for the accomplishments he succeeds in, you are aware that you have an influence on decisions he makes from time to time. The two of you are a team, always; even in your stubbornness and anger, you worked together like it was second nature to you both.

Damn him for doing this to you. Damn him all to hell.

“I have lost almost everyone I have ever loved.”

He says it slowly and carefully as though he is not sure if the words will scare you away.

He takes one step closer to you, and stops as though he is unsure of what to do. Words bubble in your throat, but no matter how much you will them from yourself, they do not come out.

“I refuse to lose you, too.”

The words are spoken so quietly, but they ring loud and clear in your mind. The doubling of your heartbeat from earlier now tripled as his voice echoes off the walls of your brain. It’s just like him to confess such a thing behind a wall of pride, but the fact that he said it at all meant that he is serious.

Your balance on the desk gives out, and you quickly slam your hands into it to catch yourself from falling completely. Tobirama steps closer to you, his eyes searching your entire self, up and down. The words are caught on your tongue; a lump forming at the base of your throat prevents you from breathing.

Tobirama’s voice fills the silence. “Putting the seal on you without your knowledge was wrong, I will admit that much.”

He sounds stronger now, more determined than you have ever heard him before.

He takes one more step closer to you. Your knees grow weak.

“But it was the easiest decision I have ever made. I will continue to stand by that decision until my very last breath, even if it means you hate me for it.”

Those words manage to snap her out of her dream like state. Does he think getting rid of you will be so easy? It is just like him to do something like this—damn him. This all could have been avoided if the two of you had just told each other sooner.

You lean forward, slowly raising your hand to the side of his face. You give him ample time and room to inch away from your contact if he wants to, but he does not move. You cradle his cheek in your palm, fingers hooking behind his ear, thumb gingerly brushing against his cheek bone.

It is to your surprise that he leans in to your touch, and closes his eyes. Your heart pulls in your chest.

“I could never hate you, Tobi.” You say softly.

This is the truth; no matter how idiotic he is, the harder he pushes you away, giving you the Hiraishin seal—you could never hate Tobirama Senju.

“I am tethered to you for the rest of my life,” You repeat. In a moment of boldness, you grab one of his hands and slowly drag it to settle on the seal that is placed on the small of your back. You hear his breath catch.

“—By something much stronger than this seal.”

You love him, more than he will ever truly know.

You ghost your lips over his, waiting for the moment he will push you away, but it never comes. His grasp on you only tightens as he pulls you flush against him, capturing your lips in his.

He is soft, at first; gentle with you as he engulfs your body in his arms. The palm you had on his cheek slides down to his neck, lazily clinging to the ends of his hair.

You both pull away, only leaving a breath of space between the two of you. Your eyes meet briefly, before he is on you again, kissing you harder than before, with a certain finality burning through. You only return the kiss with as much passion, scared that Tobirama will be gone the moment you stop.

You pull him closer; he grabs you by your hips with a bruising force, walking you backwards into the desk before lifting you with ease to sit upon the edge of it. He kisses you harder than the other times, rutting himself between your legs.

It is all lips, teeth and tongue with the two of you; low and heady sighs escaping your mouth when he pulls away from you, leaving trails of kisses and bites down the side of your neck. Gasps leave you and you encircle your legs around him, securing him to you. Hands tugging at his hair, causing salacious groans to seep through his tentative mouth.

You say his name sinfully, and before you can register his firm grasp on you, he is lifting you up off the desk, and moving you from the office, to his bed room.

#senju tobirama x you #Tobirama Senju x reader #Tobirama Senju #senju tobirama #reader insert #Angst #implied smut #Naruto #Naruto fanfiction #second hokage #naruto shippuden #angst with happy ending #nidaime hokage #fanfic #im editing the tags to say Wow!!! thanks for all the love guys!!!#another edit to the tags that no one will see but sorry for editing issues? i write this in 3rd person w a unnamed female character #there is a part where i use 'her' twice #will edit it when on my pc and not mobile!!!#oh and then i change 'her' to 'you' haaaaaa

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wizkiddx · 3 years

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i have exams hence why i needed to write something exceptionally cringe :)

PSA: this is completely inspired from one of my fave writers own blurb @blissfulparker --> completely recommend u go read hers its much better than anything i could ever write!!!! (and just her whole account) = link

Summary: pure exhaustion and mutual pining, Tom Holland x actress!reader

^(just thought this was cute, doesn't really fit aha but full credit to op!!)

A scheduling nightmare would be putting it lightly. Perhaps almost unavoidable but that didn’t make it any less of a hellish form a torture. Harry had very helpfully said it actually was a form of torture, that is sleep deprivation. Y/n loved her job - it was all she’d ever really wanted - yet that thought was quickly becoming not enough to get her through the day. Not when it felt like an interrogation tactic used by the CIA.

To give a quick timeline of the past few days may give a little context:

Thursday - filming the fight scene all day plus an evening-turned-half-the-night-shoot due to some technically difficulties delaying the process.

Friday - flying to New York while doing read throughs of scenes for the next few days; followed immediately by getting glammed and filming the tonight show with Fallon; then a dash across town to the late late show with James Corden; then straight back on a flight to Atlanta that landed at stupid o’clock in the morning

Saturday - a full day of shooting in a mock grand central station set

The press trip to NY had been unplanned… to say the least. But the star of their studios other new release had taken ill - meaning they had slots booked on some of the biggest talk shows in America that would just be abandoned (angering the shows bookers too). It was a waste of perfectly good promo time and since the studio had their two other stars together doing a block of reshoots - it wasn’t a conversation. Much more a call demanding the two of them to be on the plane.

Normally this wouldn’t be such an unmanageable ask either, except the reshoot block was really rather time pressured. You see, the promo tour wasn’t far from beginning meaning they really needed the final film in the can. So really it was a bit of a mess. Just to free up that single day the two were in New York the whole schedule had had to be rejigged - in doing so they’d lost a rare day off too. It was just typical.

The joys of success hey?

Well, that’s at least what Y/n was making herself think whilst her incredibly talented SFX artist was in the process of crafting a deep wound onto her upper arm. The reason why she would be ‘dripping with blood’ whilst at a train station was beyond Y/n to be honest - she hadn’t been allowed to read a lot of the script so even now as filming was drawing to a close, the story arc of the movie she was headlining was still a little ‘fuzzy’.

“So I watched your ‘spill your guts’ thing on YouTube” Ellie giggled whilst reaching over for more prosthetic putty- a technical term apparently

“I’m glad one of us enjoyed the experience” Y/n replied with a sigh, rolling her eyes at the mischievous smirk on her face - no doubt Ellie took great joy out of seeing her suffer through eating a thousand year old egg. Which Y/n swore the taste of was still in her mouth… and it seemed as though it’d never leave.

“Oh don’t worry darling I did too” Nelli called over from the next chair along, where she was doing Tom’s makeup for the day of shoots. “Between that and the animals on Fallon, you made a hell of a lot of people laugh last night” Tom’s artist was referencing the fact one of Jimmys other guests was a zookeeper, so at the end of the interview he had you and Tom join in trying not to scream at the snakes and spiders.

“You mean laugh at us?”

“Well of course darling!” Nelli exclaimed back in an overdramatic bronx accent making all three of the women burst out laughing, Ellie’s unceremonious snorts echoing through the trailer only egged them all on more.

Tom in response, who had otherwise been absent from conversation for the majority of the morning, exclaimed a curse and jumped up in his chair. While you and Ellie collected yourself, Nelli apologised to him.

“Oh sorry love, I’m interrupting your snooze with my uncontrollable comedic gift” She spoke sweetly, even if still taking the moment to flaunt to the other women, as she squeezed his shoulder compassionately.

“No no” Tom waved off her apology, attempting to rub his eye before Nelli swatted his arm away - a stern look for the risk of ruining all her hard work she’d put into making his face look half presentable.

“I’m impressed you can sleep while they poke you with all these er instruments” Y/n added in, having only just realised Tom had been in a light sleep for god knows how long they’d been in that chair. It did seem a bit unlikely, being able to fall asleep as you were dabbed, prodded and brushed.

“Maybe you should try though Y/n… your purple eye bags are proving a struggle even for me” Ellie quipped back, now it was Y/n’s turn to give the stern look. Tom took the explain though, shutting her off from whatever kindly meant insult she was about to throw back at her friend.

“No normally never, I just….” He was cut off by an ear splitting yawn, appearing almost powerful enough to crack his jaw - which would be a disaster, for no one should ruin such a beautiful and sharp jaw line. “…uh-sorry. I just think I ended up taking my NyQuil and DayQuil the wrong way round in the madness of yesterday.” Only Tom, the poor kid often seemed to lacking in any form of common sense - even if those closest to him knew just how intellectual and passionate he could be about the right topic. Affectionately, Nelli scalded his idiocy by jokingly swatting his head with a little tut.

“I can’t believe your still standing then! I’m barely alive and I don’t have any sedatives in my system.” It was true, Y/n was at that stage where every part of her body felt ridiculously heavy… eyes included … eyes especially.

“But I did sleep on the jet back while your stupid self was studying the script!” Tom replied with a pretty inarguable point - at the time he knew her actions were stupid; when their flight took off at 11 PM he was certain that the most valuable asset to his ability to act in the reshoots today would be sleep - rather than character development. And he’d tried to convince Y/n that briefly, but gave up. She was bloody stubborn when she wanted to be.

“Stop competing about who has it worse cos I think it’s me and Nell”Ellie announced - making Nelli agree empathically with her coworker, nodding her head as she looked first to Y/n in her chair then back at Tom.

“Yeh because we have to deal with your unusable faces!!”

After much sarcasm thrown back and fourth, the trailer slowly ebbed it’s way back into serenity and peace as both artists focused on their work. Once Nelli was done she excused herself, Tom staying in the chair in favour of studying (more like staring blankly) at the dialogue for this mornings scenes. His pretence didn’t last long though and while Ellie was busy adding the final touches of fake blood to the now almost completely believable gash that she’d crafted on Y/n’s arm - Y/n had her attention focused the opposite way.

At poor little Tom. He looked so childlike, his slightly puffy eyes looked as if they had weights tied to them - they way he was having fight against gravity to flutter his eyes open, before loosing the next second only for the process to repeat as they dragged downwards. The broad muscles of his neck occasionally seemed to occasionally let up a little, letting his head tilt slowly at first until it gathered enough momentum to throw him off balance. The then sudden movement of his head unconsciously pulling itself back in line caused his eyes to bolt open prior to the whole cycle repeating again. All Y/n wanted to do was let him lay down someone, her heart feeling a tug in her chest just seeing him like that.

Ellie proclaimed her completion of the wound, leaning back to admire her work before looking to get an affirming nod from Y/n. Yet instead, she was too preoccupied gazing at the boy slouched across from them. “Someone seems a little distracted.” Ellie smirked, finally garnering Y/n’s attention, only feeling more and more smug watching a light tint appear on the actors cheeks.

“I-well-no… we need to go.” Y/n ignored her words as though nothing had happened, instead rushing off the chair to get Tom out the chair and onto the awaiting set. They had places to be.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||| (bcos im lazy)

Honestly when the director, Ed, called for lunch break, it was pretty apparent to be purely as a compassionate gesture to Y/n and Tom. Both of them had tried so hard this morning to fully commit, even so they’d both been almost completely useless. Y/n kept missing cues whilst all Tom’s actions and lines where slow, dragged out and at times completely prompted from someone behind the cameras.

So when the lunch break was called there was only one thing on Y/n’s mind and what sandwich was available in the mess tent was not it. Still standing on the set next to her fake holdall bag she looked toward Tom, who was pulling himself up to standing from the train station bench - the pace of his movement making him look more like an old man.

“You good?” His answer was predictable.

“I’m so fucking shattered”

Tom swore he’d never heard anything sweeter come out of Y/n’s pink lips than her next statement.

“C’mon I know somewhere we can lie down.”

Without any sort of thought Tom blindly agreed, nodding as he took her outstretched hand in his. The gesture in itself brought a fresh wave of comfort to his aching limbs and as his feet stumbled to catchup with her slight head start he leant the majority of his weight into their connected hands.

Neither would admit it but they were ‘a thing’… whatever the hell that meant. It was clear as day to everyone and anyone that worked closely to the two but neither of them had ever broached the topic with each other. They’d worked on a few films together over the years; each time they got closer and closer to the point any job without the other simply wasn’t as good. It was scary though, especially for two actors in the prime of their careers. If they weren’t working the same film they’d likely be the opposite side of the world to each other most of the time - quality time together would be few and far between, Really their jobs didn’t suit dating at all, yet it would be perhaps easier if one half of it worked a ‘normal’ job. Something with consistency, a regular structure. A level of dependability that neither Y/n nor Tom could offer to the other.

So it was terrifying, acknowledging the growth in their magnetic attraction to each other. Both were acutely aware that doing that, confronting their feelings, would most likely signal the beginning of the end.

Although none of this stoped Y/n from returning the gesture, tilting her shoulder into Tom’s left side as they took slow steps through and then out the set building. She steered the two past the hair and makeup trailer and round into a store and extra equipment trailer. Tom tilted his head as she climbed the stairs whilst beckoning for him to follow - it didn’t seem like the most obvious choice. Rolling her eyes, Y/n explained.

“It’s where all the blankets and coats and kept for the raining scenes plusssss no one will disturb us in here.” Again Tom was not in a position to disagree, eyes drooping as his shoulders sagged to the floor. Right now he’d take anything.

So he climbed up the stairs and shut the door behind him, just as Y/n flipped the light on. She was right, it was well equipped and with an almost mountainous supply of red blankets that normally the crew and extra would all be wrapped up in after the freezing rain scenes with all the ‘waterfall machines’ as Y/n called them. However it was also um…. It was cosy. “Oh I don’t think I realised how small it was” She chuckled lightly, since now the door was closed her back was pressed up against the far wall of cabinets and still her front was mere millimetres from Tom.

“I…I don’t mind… if-if you don’t?”

“I’m too tired to care” She giggled in response, and Tom , now with her seal of approval, immediately started ransacking the piled shelves for all their worth creating a floor carpeted in the pale red of the blankets, in an attempt to make it more cosy. Joining in, it was almost remarkable how quickly their bodies suddenly agreed to move, with the new promise of rest mere moments away.

Once the trailer was fully drowned, Tom kicked off his costume shoes and threw his jacket off - it haphazardly landing by the doorway. Y/n copied him, leaving her stood up whilst he had the advantaged of already settling down on the floor, her standing and looking down at him.

The space between the two opposing shelving units was not close spacious enough for two people to lie down whilst keeping a respectable level of personal space. Suddenly feeling a wave of awkwardness, Y/n stayed standing, wringing her hands slightly - whilst fairly certain Tom could hear her heart running at 100 mph.

“You er… gonna stay there or?” Tom, contrary to popular belief, wasn’t a complete idiot - he could see she was suddenly self conscious. He got it too - they’d never crossed this boundary of choosing to cuddle into each other. It had happened once of twice accidentally over there 2 years of knowing each other. Both of those times it was completely accidental, falling asleep watching a movie with a safe distance of space b between the two, only to find hours later their bodies almost completely intwined. Tom would be lying if he said that his heart didnt skip a beat when he had awoken to Y/n’s soft and gently breath fanning into his neck. He’d loved it, but understood that was unconsciously breaking down part of the wall they’d both been the constructors of.

For fear of getting hurt.

So now, as Y/n awkwardly bent down and lay on her side, he thought it was imperative to make her feel comfortable. Naturally then, his arm slid round her shoulders and pulled her down toward his chest, releasing a little breath as he felt her relax, her legs slowly wrapping round one of his.

“This okay?” He murmured, now into the crown of her head as she lay half on her side half on his chest. In reply she nodded into him and Tom couldn’t help but grin- unbeknownst to him but Y/n was doing the exact same thing.

The peace lasted all of 3 seconds until she groaned again.

“What?” Tom enquired as she wriggled out his hold and stood up. Instead of replying though she just leant over and flicked the one harsh light bulb off making Tom chuckle as she fumbled her way back onto the padded floor in the darkness, earning a few grunts from both as she accidentally kicked Tom’s thighs or banged her head on one of the now empty shelves. Fumbling her way back into a comfortable position, occasionally cursing when she stubbed her toe- or Tom did when she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

“Comfy?” Tom asked a little sarkily as he squeezed her a little more into his side.

“Mhmmmm… I’m gonna sleep for 100 years”

“Yeh me… me too”

And with that they both almost instantly and in complete unison sagged into each other and the blankets - the pent up stress and tension of the past few days ebbing away.

What the pair had neglected to remember was that sleeping for 100 years wasn’t really an option. The whole crew of 50 people, who wanted to restart filming after 45 minutes, had not been told about Y/n’s little hiding place. The pair were so completely safe in their own little cocoon of comfort they were completely oblivious to their teams calling there names more and more frantically. Completely oblivious to the game of hide and seek the situation had descended into, completely oblivious to Harrys natural annoyance as the director asked him for the whereabouts of the two stars - as though Harry was childminder to the pair of them.

It was Nelli who found them first. She’d and Ellie and Tom’s manager had all been recruited by Harry as part of the man hunt. Both girls, having seen first hand the state of the two this morning, were fairly certain they’d both crashed out somewhere. So Nelli, already with a sneaking suspicion, opened the door gently, her figure blocking the majority of the light from seeping through to the dimly lit inside. The sight she was met with had her actually pouting at the cuteness - and yes its a cringey word but also the only one appropriate.

Between bedding down and barely an hour later the two had managed to become impossibly tighter pressed to each other. Y/n’s face was pressed into the crook of Tom’s neck and his arms seemed to have pulled her on-top of him almost completely. Her left leg was hooked under his right, which was then sandwiched by his left too. They both looked so pure and innocent and god did Nelli know they both needed any extra time they could get.

Nelli cared a lot about Tom, she’d been working with him from the beginning, from the child star days to now. She cared about him like her very annoying surrogate son and she wanted to see him looked after. She also so completely wanted the two stars to stop pining after each other. Because frankly it was getting a little frustrating for everyone else.

So she chose to tactically forget about her discovery, sneaking a photo on the sly before silently pulling the door closed and leaving them to their sleep.

#tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland x reader #tom holland x famous!reader #tom holland x actress!reader #fluff

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feministfocus · 3 years

Text

Cautious, Vigilant, Fearful: On Being Asian American

Art by R. Kikuo Johnson

By Cynthia Lin

The mother and child wait for the subway. The mother grips the hand of her daughter tightly, her other hand raised to check the time. A simple illustration, yet the mother’s and daughter’s eyes catch my attention. They are cautious, vigilant, fearful.

I realize what else makes me uneasy. The mother wears a turtleneck sweater beneath a long blazer and wide black pants. And tennis shoes. The sneakers clash incongruously with her formal attire—why wear sneakers with a blazer? Unless you fear you will need to run.

The New Yorker’s recent cover, “Delayed” by artist R. Kikuo Johnson, comes at a time in which racial violence against Asian Americans has surged. Just a few days before, a man was filmed kicking and stomping on a 65-year-old Philippine-American woman while onlookers from the nearby building watched. One even shut the door in her face.

It’s simple to blame the violence on the pandemic and the subsequent xenophobic rhetoric, but it’s not as if racism against Asian Americans did not exist before—it’s just that the public is finally made aware of it. It’s difficult to argue that racism is just overblown paranoia when there is widespread video evidence of the harassment.

For a while, I used to debate with myself whether someone was being racist towards me. Is it all in my head? Why am I making a big deal of this? Am I too sensitive? Can I not take a joke? It is exhausting to constantly question whether or not an action is racially motivated. I did not want to be so overly sensitive that every slight I experienced came down to race. You start to doubt yourself—is it not worse if you think it is racially motivated when it is not? Am I being hampered by my race, using race to excuse others’ treatment of me when it is just their reaction to me? But then again, my Asianness is written all over my face; how can you react to me without reacting to a core part of my identity? So there must have been some part of that action that was racist, even if it was mostly ignorant.

But it is easier to wonder what you did that made you seem so foreign, so “un-American” to warrant that might-be-racist action. You start overanalyzing your past actions, and you turn silent and reclusive, thinking it best that you should not bring more attention to yourself, but then you realize that by being quiet you are contributing to the Asian stereotype of meekness. You wish that there was a clear line distinguishing what is racist and what is “all in your head.” But that is the issue, isn’t it?

When the news first broke, I think I might have even believed the narrative the investigators spun about how the spa shootings in the Atlanta area were not racially motivated. In my mind, I hovered between calling the shootings a “hate crime” or a “crime.” It did not strike me until I read the words “sex addiction”—the excuse the shooter used to explain his murder of the eight people, six of whom were Asian women—that I realized the label “racial motivation” contributes to the falsehood that there is a distinct line separating what is racist and what is not.

“Racial motivation” is the covert label we use for the obviously racist. But the phrase doesn’t take into account the subtleties, the dangerous norms we have adopted to mark what is foreign and what is “American.” Or even more relevant, the generations of popular culture over-sexualizing and fetishizing Asian women. Perhaps the shooter’s alleged sex addiction is not inherently anti-Asian, but depictions of Asian women in film and television have dehumanized them into objects of desire, generalized them as “docile,” “demure,” and “obedient.” Easy targets.

But why this compulsion to explain the actions of the perpetrator? This desperate grab for a motive every time a racist crime is committed? Whether or not the shooter’s intent was racist, the ramifications still exist. Asian Americans, especially the elderly, do not feel safe in America. I worry about my grandparents’ recent move from Brooklyn’s Chinatown to Staten Island, where they are cut off from all that is familiar and comforting. After living in America for over twenty years, is it not their right to go on an afternoon walk without fearing for their safety?

Anti-Asian sentiment in America has not recently materialized; it’s only resurfaced in our collective attention span. Lately, I have been digging deeper into Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) history, approaching it with the intent to examine the longevity of the community’s residence in America, not just the well-taught immigrant story. Asians have been here before many Europeans immigrated through Ellis Island, but even to me, these “newer” Europeans seem to fit better with the American mold. How can they not, when U.S. history lessons consistently depict Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders as foreigners and national security threats? When the few times the curriculum touches on Asian American history, it focuses on Chinese immigration in the mid-19th century, the subsequent Chinese Exclusion Act, and the internment of 120,000 people of Japanese descent during World War II? The Asian Americans I learn about in history class seem to exist solely in the backdrop of exclusion, which only serves to highlight their “otherness.”

What of Larry Itliong and his efforts in organizing the Delano Grape Strike? Or Patsy Mink, the first Asian American woman elected to the U.S. House of Representatives? Why is it that these milestones in Asian American and Pacific Islander history aren’t taught more? By acknowledging the multifaceted and ever-changing nature of the Asian community in the U.S., we acknowledge the progress made and what we have yet to achieve. Instead, I learn about AAPI history through an antiquated lens—depictions of Asian Americans have remained stagnant, fixed in time, and painted in broad strokes of homogeneity. The diversity of the AAPI community has often been forgotten, pushed aside for the ease in generalizing one collective group of people. This has not only perpetuated the harmful myth that most Asians, being the “model minority,” have attained success in America, but has also led to blame on the whole AAPI community for the pandemic.

In high school, race was a political topic, one made so controversial that even now, there is still some ingrained part of me that hesitates to voice my opinions for fear that I would “get it wrong.” It was only through my college search that I realized a major like “Ethnicity, Race, & Migration” even existed. And if I, someone who plans to study race, feel this way, how do others —students, teachers—even begin to broach this topic without fear of controversy? Focus on eradicating the stigma behind racism without fixating on being politically correct? So, besides a reevaluation of curriculum, we must also change the culture of avoidance we have fostered in schools, end the mindset of avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

Perhaps during the first discussions, we’ll stumble over a few social faux pas, reveal some implicit biases we’ve kept locked away under niceties, but it is better to acknowledge these societal problems than pretend that ignoring these issues will make them disappear. Uncomfortable conversations elicit defensiveness, but they can also be an opportunity for growth, a way to find empathy for others who at first seem entirely unlike ourselves. Having these conversations can help make true social change, can even help materialize a world in which a mother doesn’t have to fear for her and her child’s safety while doing something as mundane as taking a subway.

Chen, T. (2021, March 22). Asian women are Hypersexualized, so don't tell me the killings In Atlanta aren't about race. Retrieved April 20, 2021, from https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/tanyachen/asian-women-fetish-racist-atlanta-shootings

Fan, J., Hsu, H., & Park, E. (2021, March 19). The Atlanta shooting and the dehumanizing of Asian women. Retrieved April 20, 2021, from https://www.newyorker.com/news/daily-comment/the-atlanta-shooting-and-the-dehumanizing-of-asian-women

If the mass killing of six Asian women isn't a hate crime, what is? (2021, March 18). Retrieved April 20, 2021, from https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-arts/story/2021-03-17/killing-six-asian-women-hate-crime-atlanta

Mouly, F. (2021, April 13). R. Kikuo Johnson's "Delayed". Retrieved April 20, 2021, from https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cover-story/cover-story-2021-04-05

Waxman, O. (2021, March 30). Why the Asian-American story is missing from U.S. Classrooms. Retrieved April 20, 2021, from https://time.com/5949028/asian-american-history-schools/

#stop asian hate #feminism #girls learn international #black lives matter

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kat-hawke · 3 years

Text

Further Education

Scanning the Pig & Whistle tavern's recently repaired interior as she entered, Kat caught no sign of the bartender who sat comfortably on her payroll. Vibration within the throat rolled slowly as she approached the bar, ordering her regular and waiting for several minutes to see if Quinn would make an appearance. The eventual conversation between employees revealing the young woman left work early. Pressing her lips into a fine line, the Director sucked her teeth in annoyance, funds were tight, and she couldn't afford to pay an informant who wouldn't stay at her post.

Knocking back the last of the whiskey before leaving, Kat set her path for Quinn's ramshackle apartment at the end of the street. Ignoring the beggars who loitered on the doorstep as she entered, taking the steps two at a time, and coming to a halt at the desired door. Digits curled around the doorknob, finding her entry denied by the lock. Kat rolled her eyes and knelt to the ground, glancing down the hall before slipping the lockpick from her back pocket.

One, two, three, and four tumblers clicked into place as the bar rotated the lock, allowing the door to swing open. "Shit security," she muttered beneath her breath as she inspected the flat. Things had improved since her last visit, though it seemed Quinn kept true to her word and refrained from immediately spending her paychecks like water.

The sudden meow of a cat underfoot nearly tripped the Director, who cussed beneath her breath and shoved the feline away. "Fuckin' cats... Why did she have t'get a cat." She mumbled in irritation, grabbing a chair and propping it in the far corner beside the window. Quinn was not currently home, but eventually, she would return.

Two hours pass and the statuesque Director remained seated and poised as Quinn's key turned the lock. The woman rushed in, slamming the door behind her as she pushed the cat away from the exit, scolding the creature for its attempted run-away. Looking up, she finally noticed Kat in the corner, nearly jumping out of her skin with a startled squeak, placing her hand over her chest as she used the wall for stability.

"Evenin' Director," Quinn cleared her throat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Kat stared the young woman down from across the room, tilting her head ever so slightly as she leadingly inquired, "Where have ya' been?"

"Left work early, my best friend, Sam, she's back in town, and I had to check on her. Think she lost her mum in the attacks." Quinn looked away, moving to the tiny kitchen to collect two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

"Mhm..." The single note rumbled in the Director's throat as she glanced out the window. Placing others above oneself was a trait that got many in this profession killed, but Kat's annoyance was split by the admiration to help those who were like family.

"Stopped by for a drink 'n was a little surprised to find ya' absent so soon after the reopenin'. Though I suppose it can be excused fer such a reason."

A few short nods from Quinn as she closed the distance, offering one glass to the Director, and continued to hover. "Yeah. Felt bad about it when I was the only one workin' bar, but...well, Sam's got to come first. She's havin' a rough time of it, so I'm just goin' to visit a few times a day, make sure she's eatin' and all."

"Mmmhm," another note hummed in Kat's acknowledgment, taking a sip of the whiskey as she watched the group of children in the street beneath the window.

The informant looked down into her glass in the brief pause before asking, "How's the Unit holdin' together?"

"Everything is fine if no' a bit overworked and overburdened by the bureaucracy, which is the noble houses." Disgust laced Kat's tone as she took in more of the liquor.

"I heard ya' and Fiske got properly acquainted fer a few weeks in the mountains."

"She's intense that one. Little judgy too." Quinn lifts her shoulders in a half shrug and then takes a sip of her drink, looking out the window. "I didn't make breakfast right. I didn't organize the stores in the right order. I had them pets in there, and that was an issue. Still, it was good to get to meet her. Better to know than not, yeah?"

"She's a career militant," Kat interjected, "born and raised t' follow orders, like her mother and father before her. It's easy to see where views don' align."

"Wonder how much I'd have agreed with her if I'd known my parents. Supposedly they were militant too." Quinn questioned, glancing into her drink with a weak shrug.

The glass in Kat's grip swirled slowly as she looked to the adjacent wall, spotting the terrarium and serpent within. "Since when do ya' have pets?"

"They're Sam's. Her cat and snake." Quinn motioned vaguely to the animals. "Thanks, by the way, for the cube...thing. Myz gave it to me to help move them."

Before Kat could ask for the magical container to be returned, Quinn had already plucked the cube from the nearby shelf. With a nod, the Director tucked it away within the inner pocket of her blazer. The dagger sheathed upon her thigh visible for a brief moment.

"Thank ya', I was about to ask for that back."

"I'm takin' the cat home tonight. I'll get the snake there soon too." Quinn added.

"Enough small talk," Kat tapped her glass with a single finger, pinning the informant beneath her gaze. "How has the education been comin' along?"

The question was merely a formality to test Quinn's honestly. Kat had received detailed reports and scores from the tutor every month over the last year, like a parent overseeing their child's classes.

"Good, leastwise, I think it's goin' good. My writin' is gettin' cleaner all the time. Readin's hardly a chore now, that's no trouble. I hope my reports are better all the time, even with a few hiccups here and there." The informant answered modestly, meeting the Director's eyes.

"They're looking good, yes. Glad t'hear readin' is no longer a strain." Kat remarked, one hand slipping into her coat's outer pocket, palming the small book within as Quinn quickly spoke again.

"I'd like to know what opportunities are next. If I wanted to train more, broaden my skills." There is a hint of hesitation in her voice, eyes shifting nervously. "Bein' helpless doesn't much feel like somethin' I want to do. Durin' all that chaos, I felt...useful. I know I'm young, that whatever this path is, it ain't a short one but...what would workin' towards takin' a more active role in the Unit look like?"

"Ambitious," Kat remarked with a lifted brow, going silent for a moment as she scanned the young woman. She had to sip from the glass to hide her smirk as Quinn broached the topic she came to discuss. A small part of her was pleased to see such forward ambitions, but the other spiked with paranoia, remembering when she was that young and everything that happened in the quest to get ahead.

"Is that ambitious?" Quinn asks, "just...you got a powerful and enviable group of women workin' under you, and I see in them someone I want to be. Eventually."

"Mmm, don't be like them," Kat commented off-hand with a grin.

"They all got their own unique strengths and weaknesses. I'd hope, in time, I'd have my own separate from theirs," the informant chuckled, looking off to the side.

With another short hum, Kat pulled the small leather-bound book from her pocket, offering it to Quinn, who studied the embossed image of peacebloom and silverleaf before thumbing through the pages.

While the young woman was correct in her assessment of the Unit's members, Kat did not wish to see Quinn become another killing machine of the Alliance or suffer the same tribulations the rest of them had and lose a part of herself.

And the Unit currently lacked a proper toxicologist.

"So glad ya' brought it up," Kat smiled. "Study that, with yer new skill of readin', and make use of it."

"I'll do just that, Director. Thank you." Quinn beamed as she flipped through each page, scanning the detailed images of various herbs and fungi.

"Figure mixology of drinks isn't too much of a leap, so." With a single shoulder shrug, Kat polished off her drink and stood. "Get familiar with th' plants first. I don't want ya' in the field. Yet. Lon' way t'go."

"I don't expect to be. I'm just glad I've been able to help. I'll start with this. Thank you again." Quinn pulled the book to her chest, watching as Kat moved across the apartment to leave.

"Is there anythin' else I can help you with tonight?" She called out from across the room.

Kat chuckled, stepping into the doorway. Looking back over her shoulder, she answered with a pointed tone. "Don't be late for work tonight."

As the door shut, she could barely make out Quinn's response. Taking a deep breath and straightening the hem of her blazer, Kat quickly interjected to the dagger-bound voice in her head as her boots clicked down the hall. "Don't even say it."

[ @quinn-varden ] [ Vague mention: @alyssa-ward, @myzariel ]

#ic #rp #Unit Eight #Informant Varden #Whiskey Whispers

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legendaryorangeloot · 4 years

Text

This is "The Union Screaming House", a short story I wrote as an alternate-universe American M.R. James story (which is why it's not got fully modern language when describing people's race and ethnicity, and the language/spelling in general is idiosyncratic in the way that letters from the <1900s tend to be.) I wrote it in one huge burst on a road trip with my partner from Milwaukee to St. Louis, and never really edited it, but I think it's true to the style and form of the author I'm trying to pay homage to, so all the weaknesses I can see are present in the source works and serve to make it more accurate (sorry, Monty James. you know I love you.)

Dec 22, 18--

My dearest Daniel - I write to you about events which recently occurred in the small town of Union, Mo., feeling certain that they will prove of interest to you, for your personal collections of curious supernatural tales and revolutionary literature. I suppose, as I shall leave no descendants, you may publish my full confession after all parties involved are deceased - such is the advantage of having much-younger friends, I suppose!

We were traveling across the midwestern states at a leisurely pace, hoping to recuperate my equilibrium after the trial in which I had recently defended Mr. W-- S-- against numerous charges of murder, about which: the less said, the better. It had become our custom over a period of weeks to seek out remote roads and tracks and follow them to their sources, which almost invariably were villages and towns with unusual “claims to fame”, such as one that boasted an underground lake, another with what they claimed as the oldest living tree in the state. This proved a diverting experience, and I greatly enjoyed conversing with many of the “oldsters” I met outside general stores and hearing tales of the War, and of their luck or lack there-of in the agriculture business. The endeavor was beginning to allow me to leave behind the feeling of grave wrong-doing that had dogged me since the verdict of the S-- trial, but what replaced it in Union may yet prove to be worse.

It was on one of these rather aimless treks that we found ourselves in Union, home of some 700 people. It was a chill autumn night, and darkness fell early, no later than 5 o. clock. Bryan, who was acting as driver, refused to travel in such a rural area after dark (wise, owing to his appearance - as you may recall from our last visit, Bryan is light enough to pass for “black Irish” stock, and usually does so successfully, but in the more… concerned areas of the country, he has been sometimes “found out”, with all the concurrent discriminatory rigmarole… sneaking “my servant” into my lodging-house rooms has been quite the risky undertaking in some of these towns.) At any rate, we obtained the name of a local widower who would be willing to rent a room to me for the night, and allow Bryan and our four-horse team to stay in his guest house and lavish stables, respectively.

Mr. R--, a sprightly gentleman of maybe 55 years, proved a quite gracious host, and commenced to give me a tour of the property, which was called Blackwater Woods. We walked around the barn, various outbuildings, and past many pastures and livestock holding-pens, before approaching the enormous main house. It was built in a style quite unlike the modest but modern homes of Union proper, and appeared to be designed in the manner of a frontier cabin, but on a scale so large that it made it seem slightly ridiculous, as though perhaps it had been constructed to display at a Worlds Fair and not for humans to inhabit at all. Mr. R-- was oddly reluctant to show me around much of the house in detail, as he had the farm-buildings, but he invited me to dinner and after-dinner drinks and cigars politely enough after escorting me to my second-floor room, which had clearly been a woman’s “boudoir” prior to being pressed into service as a guest room. I changed clothes and washed up with alacrity, eager to get the dust and grime of the road off my person, and still had ample time left to explore my surroundings. The room was large, and sparsely-furnished, but feminine touches from the prior inhabitant (Mrs. R--, I assumed at the time) still remained in the form of a silver-backed hairbrush near the vanity mirror, a jewelry box which played a tune when opened (I shut it quickly, as the mechanism appeared to be functioning not very well, and the too-slow tune rendered me oddly soporific), and a gauzy canopy hanging from the four posts of the bed, which I imagined was intended to be exotic in the manner of a harem, but was instead exotic in the manner of tropical anti-mosquito netting. I was oddly moved by this nod to concepts of Romance and Beauty in such a rural locale, and smiled to myself in the mirror, only to quickly blanch and whip my head round to look when I saw the form of a woman - a dusky-skinned woman, with high cheekbones and full lips - materialize behind me, visible in the mirror! In retrospect, I believe it was not just my terror at being accompanied at a time I believed myself alone that caused me to react so immediately and physically, but that the woman so obviously required help. She could hardly have communicated it more clearly than her facial expression did, even if she had plainly said “Help me!”. When I turned to look where I had seen her standing, near the enormous limestone fireplace, there was no-one there, and looking back in the mirror, she also did not re-appear. But there lingered in the air a smell - you are the only one I could tell this to - a womanly smell, but one that was attractive to me, in a way, which, I know you know, I have not experienced before (or since).

For all those reasons, I was deeply shaken as I went down to the dining-room to eat with Mr. R--. I thought that perhaps I could ask questions about the room’s former inhabitant, but each time I tried to broach the topic, Mr. R-- cut me off with florid tales of inconsequential things, which would have been greatly entertaining, had they not distracted me from my goal. I learned many interesting tid-bits of the area’s history, but was unable to discern a reason for the visage of the woman to appear, or what help she might require. I did learn that the “guest house” where my beloved Bryan now stayed was, in fact, former slave quarters, and this did not sit well with me. I was also able, by making some off-hand comments about the food, to learn that indeed we were alone in the house entirely, the woman who had cooked the meal being employed only at the dinner-hour and returning to her home in Union after serving. I do not remember what we ate.

After the meal, we retired to Mr. R--’s study, and he poured us generous doses of a bourbon of exceptional quality. The study, unlike the rest of the house, was furnished in an extravagant style that would not have seemed much out of place in the wealthiest salons of London or Vienna. Presumably for this reason, it was kept locked at all times with a latch and bolt-lock on the door, and keyed locks on the single window, to which, Mr. R-- explained, he held the only keys. I sipped at my bourbon as he spoke at length about various topics, and realized soon that he was drinking his as though it were water. I saw my opportunity to perhaps gain more information about the mirror woman, so I surreptitiously poured out the rest of my liquor onto the Turkish carpet, and proposed a refill, then another, then another, which I disposed of in the same way. As Mr. R-- became first tipsy, then outright intoxicated, I steered the conversation to the topic of the room I now stayed in. “Was it your wife’s chambers?” He appeared startled by this question and was quick to say, in a brusque manner, “No. It was used for brief, er, overnight stays only, for no-one in particular.” He attempted to change the subject after this answer, but I could see him beetling his brows at me from time to time as we spoke on less consequential matters. The evening wound down soon after this, and I excused myself to my room.

Upon reaching my room, it was no more than ten minutes before I heard the tip-tap of tiny pebbles being flung at my window, the typical sign from Bryan that he was waiting unseen below and wished entry. Never had I more needed his strong and steady presence, his welcome simple physicality, the comfort of his arms - I hope that you do not mind, and rather believe that you will enjoy this part, as unsatisfying as it ended up in reality - and I began to ready myself even as I quietly opened the window, using the heel of my hand to press against my rapidly-stiffening member in preparation for our reunion. But it was not to be, for the Bryan that hoisted himself through my window after climbing up the ivy and planks on the side of the house was not amorous, but terrified. I immediately asked what the trouble was, and he said that we must go, and that he needed to show me something in the “guest house” - which I shall refer to as the slave quarters from now on, as this is more relevant to its position in the story - after which we must flee this house. He used this exact word, “flee”, and it was one of the ways I knew just how serious this revelation he had for me must be.

We both climbed down the side of the huge house as quickly as we could, and dashed across the moonless dark of the lawn, past the garden and woodpile, to the former slave quarters, a squat building greatly resembling Indian long-houses I have seen, but made of sturdy split logs and patched with something between mud and cement. A fire burned inside and smoke spiraled up from the small chimney, and when we reached it and went indoors, shutting the pine-plank door fast behind us, Bryan first kissed me fiercely and quickly, then went on to say “I found this account written on bark, stripped from the walls of this house, hidden in one of the straw mattresses. But it is more than half in slave pidgin and picto-grams, and what English is used is not very grammatical. Do you trust me to tell you the contents truly?” and by way of reply I kissed him tenderly, pressing my forehead to his, and squeezed his hand, saying “With my very life.” He replied that it hopefully would not come to that. He showed me a long strip of bark with writing on it, and what I could read conformed to his translation, which I will put here in more colloquial ways of speaking, for clarity: “Last winter Margaret was called to visit Mr. R-- after sunset and never did return, and he said that she ran away, but never bothered to tell the lawman, or offer a reward for the return of a servant, and I think sometimes that I see her in the upper window, but never except at night when fires are burning in all the rooms of the house. Now he has arranged for me to come to the big house secretly after dark and I fear that I, too, will never return. If you find this, look for me. Meliora.”

We stared at each other wide-eyed as I put together the pieces in my mind and I said to Bryan “I know what we must do, but if you do not like it - I also do not like it - I understand if you must simply go and ready the horses for our escape.” He said that he would accompany me even to the gates of Hell, and I said that it hopefully would not come to that. We went to the great woodpile beside the house and found an axe and hatchet, and used the latter to break the lock of the front door, and went directly to my room. As quietly as one can accomplish such a thing, we began dismantling the room - we moved the furniture to the center, and started using the tools as pry-bars to remove boards from the wall. It was not long before I heard a stifled cry behind me and saw Bryan kneeling near one wall, pulling forth what was unmistakably a winding-shroud, stained with old blood, containing naught but dark skin, bones, and black hair. As I came over to assist him, I stumbled and fell against the limestone mantel, and broke it away, and the falling rock opened the boards of the floor, where more gauzy shrouds were hidden beneath, and my heavy axe smashed the fire-warmed stone at the back of the fireplace, where a recent, beautiful corpse, matching my mirror apparition exactly, lay in surprisingly dignified repose. This kind of noise would wake anyone, even the bourbon-soaked Mr. R--, who entered the room just at that second, and it is hard to say now which sight shocked him the most greatly. But he had no opportunity to say anything about it, as Bryan fairly flew at him from across the room, holding his hand over Mr. R--’s mouth, and the hatchet’s handle across his throat in preparation to strangle the life from him. “No!” I hissed quickly. And Bryan’s expression in that moment caused me to die inside, seeing how fast he thought I would side with the despicable murderer Mr. R-- over the love of my life, due only to our shared skin color, but I put this aside to say my actual piece, which was “We have to make it look like an accident.”

We frog-marched Mr. R-- downstairs, and forced him to unlock the study, confiscating the keys afterwards. We tied him to the heaviest chair using his own silk smoking-jacket, and I touched a brand from the fire to the Turkish carpet I’d soaked with bourbon earlier in the evening, and we did not spare the struggling, squealing Mr. R-- another look as we walked from the room, hands clasped, to return the axes to the woodpile before driving away.

I trust that, after your actions in Lawrence, this story will please you, rather than shock you. I hope that I have done your revolutionary spirit proud in administering fair and equitable justice. After long discussion, I have decided to prove to Bryan that his assumption in the moment Mr. R-- entered the room was entirely wrong, and we depart for France, together, next week. The keys from Mr. R--’s house, we will throw into the Atlantic Ocean, and never mention the sorry incident again.

With love,

Your friend,

J. Schiffmann

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recurring-polynya · 4 years

Note

First off, I love your work! Both formats— written and drawn. Second, I know it’s a long shot but I’m salivating over the idea of a Drabble featuring the Shinigami women’s association having a gossip fest (my fave setting besides anything RenRuki) about their latest sexcapades 😳 also Rukia having a moment where she says “it’s just so... big.” 🙈

Thank you so much, Anon! I fell down a little on the gossip half of it, mostly because I don’t really have any ships for the other ladies in the SWA, so I just used this as an excuse to have Rukia think about how much she likes banging Renji. I almost had Nanao read off her list of this week’s conquests as blind items, and decided that was too weird, even for me. (I still maintain that Nanao pulls and also, she has maintains a list of sex idiots so that she doesn’t curse anyone)

Anyway, here you go. I officially had to bump the rating of my drabble collection up to “mature” for this, although it’s more suggestion than description.

You can read this and my collected drabbles on AO3 or ff.net

Rukia fiddled with her teacup nervously, while Isane tumbled off on a long tangent on the best methods of sanitizing medical grade silicone. Next to her, a red-faced Kiyone stuffed rice crackers in her mouth and sank deeper in her seat. Usually, Rukia found Isane’s “fun facts!” to be rather interesting and informative, but Rukia’s mind was rather occupied at the moment.

Kusajishi Yachiru had many fine qualities. (Probably? Rukia wasn’t sure what she would say if called upon to list them) Punctuality was not one of them. There was nearly always at least 45 minutes between the time a Shinigami Women’s Association Meeting was supposed to start, and when it actually did. No one seemed to mind all that much, though, because that time was devoted to discussing things that were not appropriate to discuss in front of Yachiru.

Rukia had never had the opportunity to contribute to these discussions before.

She certainly could have. She wasn’t a virgin. It’s just that she was a rather private individual, and none of her previous dalliances had been public knowledge, and she wasn’t the sort of person to prance in, yodeling “Guess who got laaaaaaaaid this week!” (That was Rangiku. Rangiku got laid every week, but it never stopped her from announcing it.)

As it happened, Rukia had also gotten laid this week. She had gotten laid every night this week, actually, and the way Nanao and Rangiku kept eying her, she knew she was going to get asked about it, just as soon as Isane finished rambling.

That’s what happened when you started dating a hot stack of red-headed sex appeal, she supposed. She had long maintained a stoic silence every time the “how far down do you think the tattoos go?” conversation reared its head, no matter how many pointed glares were directed her way. There was no way they were going to let this pass without comment.

It’s not like she could have kept it a secret, even if she had wanted to. Renji had been grinning like a doofus ever since they made it official. Rukia was naturally a more private person, but she couldn’t possibly bring herself to tell him to tone it down. He’d been so patient and had worked so hard to get Byakuya’s approval, she didn’t want him to think for a second that she wasn’t just as proud to be his partner as he was to be hers. And to be honest, he wasn’t the only one walking around with a stupid grin on his face these days.

It would be easy enough to demur, to say they were taking it slow. Everyone knew who her brother was, after all, and even if they didn’t believe her, they would believe that a Kuchiki did not kiss and tell.

There was some part of her, though, that was dying to talk about him. It was so easy to look at a guy like Renji and jump straight to asking how she liked getting her back blown out every night. But the fact was, he was so sweet and so considerate. They’d been friends for ages, and it would have been easy to keep their lives as they were, just now with make-outs. But instead, he brought flowers to her office, and they’d had three dress-up dates. His attempts at fancy cooking had been a mixed bag, but she was really growing to appreciate eating by candlelight, and especially what it led to, more often than not.

Renji was stupidly romantic, actually, and not in that fake way that guys did things sometimes because they thought it would get them some action. No, he did things the way he thought she deserved. Not because she was a Kuchiki, it’s just the way he had always thought of her, as a person who deserved nice things. The time he covered his futon in rose petals was a little over the top (she was still teasing him about finding rose petals in inconvenient places), but she could feel it in the way he talked to her when they made love, the way he touched her, almost reverently. He took her happiness and pleasure as seriously as he took all his duties, and carried out his work with the same diligence and, ahem, attention to detail.

Which wasn’t to say they didn’t have fun! Despite her public, formal Kuchiki exterior, Rukia had ideas and a collection of things made of medical grade silicone. She had been a little nervous broaching the topic at first, but it turned out that Renji was up for adventure. At a few of her suggestions, he had made a face like he was trying to conjugate a verb in French or possibly do trigonometry, but he had yet to tell her no. Not everything they tried turned out to be a home run, but there had been some notable successes.

And when you got right down to it, Renji was also pretty damn good at everything his appearance promised he was. Six feet, two inches of iron muscle wrapped in tattoos, hair that looked like fire and felt like silk, sharp teeth, sharper eyes, smoldering over the top of his flashy sunglasses. He was a romantic, sure, but he was also horny as hell, and she had learned the hard way that if she asked for it rough, she was getting wrecked.

Rukia liked learning things the hard way.

She was in fact, reflecting on something she had learned the other day. Rukia had found physics class at Karakura High to be transcendentally boring, but the way Renji explained it gave her a newfound appreciation for forces and angles. She was just contemplating his take on pressure and volume, when--

“Hey! Rukia!”

Kiyone’s sharp elbow jabbed into her rib, and Rukia’s tea sloshed over her hand. “Eh?” she grunted stupidly.

“Well?” Nanao was staring at her.

“What?” Rukia sputtered.

“Tiger Stripes! How is he in the sack?” Rangiku demanded.

“Very large,” Rukia responded automatically. She sat for a moment before horror began pouring through her veins like ice water.

“Called it,” Captain Soi Fon announced. Rukia hadn’t even seen her come in.

“We all called it,” Nanao waved a dismissive hand at her.

“MEETING TIME!” Yachiru’s squeaky voice rang through the room. “I think we should plan a trip to the ROLLER RINK!”

Rukia sat stock still, tea dripping through her fingers.

Rangiku shot her a wink, taking her seat.

“I have some good lube recommendations,” Isane offered cheerfully, patting her on the shoulder. “We should talk about the meeting.”

“Yeah,” said Rukia, stiffly. “Let’s.”

#my writing #bleach fanfiction #renruki #rukia kuchiki #renji abarai #shinigami women's association #do you people know what a prude i am irl?#do you do this to me BECAUSE i am a prude??

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ambitionsource · 4 years

Text

no love like your love

Word Count: 6,500+

Notes: This little work is dedicated with so much love to my darling yearning touch-starved romantic, Jany ( @paigemelendez ). Yes, it is I, your secret santa!!! I tried to encompass a lot of your favorite little romantic things in here (as well as some of your fun little quirks and jokes and... unique opinions I’ve had the joy of getting to experience in our friendship). I hope you love it half as much as I love you. ♥

Happy holidays, AAA warriors!!

Preview:

If you asked Zay and Charlie what the best form of physical affection is, they’d say a hug.

If you asked Riley and Lucas what the best form of physical affection is, they’d say a hand hold.

If you asked Dylan and Asher what the best form of physical affection is, they’d say a forehead kiss.

1 ✾ Zay & Charlie

If you asked Zay and Charlie what the best form of physical affection is, they’d say a hug.

It wouldn’t take either of them long to reach this decision. Sure, they might throw a couple of other options out there into consideration before definitively settling on hugs. Charlie in particular would take a little bit longer to reach that conclusion, needing to give each one that jumps to mind its due weight in a way that Zay rarely has the time or energy for. It’s no surprise that their approaches would be different, but they would both get there eventually.

Because in their relationship, a hug symbolizes a lot more than just a hug. It’s bigger than a touch of the hand, but it’s more outwardly casual than a kiss in any variation. It’s deceptively informal, able to disguise itself as a friendly gesture or an offhand goodbye. But the two of them know the weight it carries—regardless of how they end up there, regardless of which of them pulls the other towards them, it brings them together. No matter who might see, no matter whether the embrace is fleeting or the kind where they don’t let go of each other for a long time, or the rare instance where they don’t think they’ll ever pull away for as long as they’re still breathing.

When Zay and Charlie hug, the universe finds its equilibrium. It’s the two of them finding everything they need in one another, bringing every piece of themselves in harmony and fitting together like puzzle pieces. It’s a symbol of what they are in spite of all the other external factors that push and pull at them throughout the day.

I’m me and you’re you, but we’re also one. We’re together. We are.

And when that sentiment is personified through an embrace, it feels pretty damn permanent.

When Zay initiates hugs, more often than not it’s a gesture of comfort.

If there’s one thing he’s learned about Charlie, it’s that he is the master of overthinking. He hides it impressively well, coming off collected and agreeable on the surface from a first impression and to most of their peers. Years of repression and behavioral habits make that possible, easily concealing the near constant way his brain is running on overdrive to stay out of trouble and prepare for any possible problem. Zay admittedly would have never guessed it back when they were merely classmates—the effortless, charming facade is expertly crafted and does its job well.

But now that he knows him, probably better than anybody else, Zay can spot the small tells that indicate how frantically Charlie’s mind is running. His eyes will widen just slightly, the edge of his smile grows tighter. His shoulders square, and while that could be construed as a gesture of confidence it’s more of a defensive position, a stance he takes to prepare himself for whatever anxiety he’s going to be carrying next.

The frustrating part is that there’s not much he can do to help. He knows that love doesn’t fix mental issues—he’s never been told that true love will cure his dyslexia, although he would not be surprised if someone tried to spin it that way—and even further, so many of Charlie’s greatest anxieties are things that he has no control over. It’s up to his boyfriend to grapple with and overcome his stressors on his own and in his own way. All Zay can do is what he’s been trying to do all along: be a safe space, an unwavering pillar of comfort and support whenever and however he might need it.

Admittedly, this task would be easier if Charlie were open about his emotional flares. Although it’s improved vastly in the time they’ve been together, Charles J.P. Gardner is still a master of deflection and repression and hardly ever wants to admit when something is wrong. So Zay has to rely on his knowledge of him, how intricately he’s studied him in the last few months to determine if there’s an issue for himself.

And even then, when he’s ninety-nine percent sure Charlie could use support, it’s still not simple to broach the topic.

“Everything okay?”

Charlie jumps lightly from his spot on the bed. He’s sitting cross-legged with his history textbook on his lap and a notebook on top of it for notes, but he hasn’t been turning pages. For the last two minutes he’s been staring blankly at the CD wall art Zay has at the opposite end of the room, clearly lost in his own head.

The question brings him back to the present. “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m—yeah.”

If anything, Charlie’s nonchalant shrug and stammering assurance is the final confirmation Zay needs. He pushes himself back into a sitting position, a little grateful for the excuse to avoid his math homework.

“Are you sure?” He puts a slight emphasis on the question, hoping his tone indicates that he’s already aware something is wrong and is more so asking just for the sake of giving him the chance to speak on his own. “You seemed a little off after performances today.”

“Did I? Well, I—no. No, I’m good.”

“Charlie.”

“Isaiah.”

Zay rolls his eyes at the use of his full name, but he can’t help but crack a smile, too. He doesn’t much like when people call him Isaiah aside from his family, and even they do it sparingly, but it’s different with Charlie. Somehow, everything is. “You know you can talk to me about it.”

“Oh, yeah. I know.”

“Cool. So talk, then.”

Charlie narrows his eyes, obviously reluctant to budge. But it’s hard for him to maintain his disdainful expression when they’re looking at one another—all Zay has to do is wiggle his eyebrows and a smile creeps onto Charlie’s lips. He looks away in embarrassment, biting back the smile before it becomes too obvious.

He runs a hand through his hair. Zay’s honestly impressed with how long he’s let it get. Impressed, and definitely not complaining. “I mean, it’s whatever. I just… I don’t know. I thought Maya was being particularly loud today, that’s all.”

“She’s always loud.”

“Okay, yes, she is,” Charlie agrees. “But you know, after me and Nigel finished our presentation and she had all those notes… I don’t know, I just think she could’ve been a little more tactful.”

He wouldn’t ever want to say it out loud, but Zay knows Charlie is more sensitive than he lets on. Another thing he expertly hides behind that suave persona, that he works tirelessly to keep under wraps.

“Maya Hart, being tactful?” Zay laughs. “I thought you were working on all that wishful thinking.”

Charlie frowns, leaning forward to playfully push his knees. Then he sighs, shrugging. “I know you’re right. I know it’s stupid—,”

“It’s not stupid.”

“I don’t even know why it’s bothering me. It’s not like I haven’t endured many a Maya Hart criticism in the last three years. This wasn’t even that bad.”

Zay has a theory. Charlie is juggling a lot more under the surface these days than he ever was a couple years ago. Or he supposes it was the same, only now one of those major stressors comprises a much larger share of his conscious mind. It’s easy to stuff your mixed emotions about being gay into the dark corners and pretend it’s not real when you’re not faced with it day-to-day—he’s doing a lot more emotional labor now given that he’s got a boyfriend and is in a committed relationship where he can’t exactly deny his own sexuality.

He knows it’s not his fault, but Zay does feel a sense of responsibility for it. It’s a constant circle he’s running through in his own head—that he’s the selfish one for wanting to be in this relationship with Charlie, for wanting Charlie in general, when he’s got so much to grapple with around it. Then, on the other hand, isn’t Charlie the selfish one for keeping their relationship a secret, giving it all these conditions and stress around something that shouldn’t be inherently stressful?

He’ll go around and around, but he always ends up reminding himself that it hardly matters. The situation is unideal—they both know it. They’re making it work—they both are putting in time and effort to make it so. So long as that remains the case, then he feels like the energy and emotion he’s expending towards it is worth it. Everything else hardly matters.

So he forgets all of the little pitfalls and just focuses on the good, and what he can do to keep it that way. In this case that involves assuring Charlie that his feelings are valid, no matter how small, and offering comfort and support in the way he gives it best.

Zay smiles softly, climbing to his knees and crawling to meet him. He wraps his arms around Charlie and pulls him into a hug. “Maya sucks most of the time. It’s okay to feel that way.”

Although there’s still a trained hesitation and Zay can feel the way Charlie’s muscles tighten at the embrace, it’s not long before the tension falls away. With every hug and every day, it takes less and less time for him to return the gesture.

He releases a sigh and loops his arms around Zay’s back, tilting his head against his shoulder.

Zay isn’t sure how long they’ll be there. Might be a while because Charlie wants more time to relax in it while he can; might be a while because there’s nothing quite like being in each other’s arms. He doesn’t mind either way—if Charlie wanted to never move again, he thinks he might be okay with it.

After a couple minutes, Charlie murmurs into his shoulder. “Maya does suck most of the time.”

Zay can’t help but laugh. He nods, nudging his head against his. He smells like lavender shampoo and the sugar cookie air freshener that he has in his car, and while Zay thinks the freshener itself kind of smells sickening somehow it’s soothing as it lingers on his boyfriend.

It’s different with Charlie. Everything is.

2 ✾ Riley & Lucas

If you asked Riley and Lucas what the best form of physical affection is, they’d say a hand hold.

Well, actually, they probably wouldn’t answer the question. Realistically, if you asked Lucas about anything relating to Riley Matthews, or love in general, he’d probably growl something incoherent and then tell you to mind your own business before stomping off and locking himself away where he can’t be reached. Riley would politely sidestep the question, changing the subject or turning the conversation back to you so skillfully you don’t even realize she neglected to give you an answer. It’s not that she’s shy about the reality of a relationship or how much touch shared with a significant other means—it’s that for how selflessly she gives up every part of herself to others, there are a few things that she likes to hold close to her heart, just for her.

So they wouldn’t say anything, but it’s undeniable that they would think the same thing. In fact, if you asked them at the same time, they would probably exchange a look that confirms that agreement without any words at all… before doing the above and escaping the query. The two of them are on the same page, and they don’t need to share with the rest of the world to make it true.

Like so many things between them, it would be unspoken yet perfectly understood.

For Lucas, a hand hold isn’t so much a touch as it is a confirmation.

Confirmation of what, exactly, he isn’t sure. The problem is that it seems to be not one concept but many, meaning something different every time he and Riley link their fingers together. Reassurance that they’re on the same page; proof that they are in one another’s corners; an inarguable and tangible acknowledgement that they’re together. She slips her hand into his, and he returns the touch, and it seems to say a million things without actually saying anything at all.

I’m here. I want you here. I want you. I got you. Together.

It’s good, because Lucas isn’t sure he’d be able to make it clear otherwise. He’s never been great with words when it matters—he hates how Asher and Dylan are constantly telling him he’s actually quite eloquent when he feels like forming a coherent sentence is a struggle when all eyes turn on him and the pressure is on—and communicating with Riley Matthews is quite possibly the most important words he’ll ever spare. So when they fail him, as they so often do, he’s grateful that there’s another way to deliver the message rather than just stranding her in uncertainty.

Riley doesn’t seem to mind much anyway. She likes to talk, of course, and he’s more than content to listen to her talk for as long she deems him worthy of her voice and attention. And sometimes, when the conversation is casual and the content isn’t crucial, he finds she can be easier to speak with than most people in his life. But she’s also surprisingly happy with the quiet, never complaining when they spend an hour or so in the booth working independently or when the walk to the subway is devoid of chatter. She doesn’t need the constant commotion and noise like so many of his classmates do just to get through the day. All she does is find her chance to slide her hand into his at some point, and that seems to suit her just fine.

It’s nice, because Lucas has always valued the quiet. He’s always grasping for it, he feels, but the disrespect others have towards the sanctity of it push it out of reach. It’s nice that the person who wormed her way into his life despite his best defenses, who is presumably meant to be the most important person in it if they aren’t doomed to fail by his cosmic bad luck, appreciates it just as much as he does.

The world is loud, and it’s also tough, and Lucas is no stranger to how much his hands have to endure throughout the day. His hands are practically maps of evidence, scars and callouses and cracked skin from biting New York winters. Riley is growing aware of it too, some of his favorite memories of her fingers on his skin being the afternoons in the back of her car parked at the hideaway the ones where she runs them along the marks on his palms and the back of his hands and asks to know the stories. Soft and sincere in her curiosity, wanting to soak up everything there is to know about him just because he’s him, and for whatever miraculous reason she’s decided that’s the most worthwhile thing he could be.

The stories usually aren’t pleasant, but neither are they all that interesting. A burn scar from a miscalculated bottle rocket, a hairline scar from falling in his entryway and knocking over the coat rack. A scuff from some stupid dare he pulled off with Dylan, the faded white gash in the skin of his wrist from when he fell and broke it on the dumpster last summer. Nicks from the tools while set-building, the occasional light scratch from a cat or dog at the animal shelter, band-aids to cover the places where he’s picked at his hangnails too much.

Riley loves to listen to the memories though, empathizing and nodding and responding at all the right moments. It’s as if they’re her memories too and she’s simply reliving them with him, his girlfriend somehow so gifted with empathy that he doesn’t even doubt it when she says she understands.

It’s a rare power she has over him, the ability to gain his trust so implicitly. He’d never say it aloud, but damn, does he love how nice it feels to be heard.

Case in point, his hands endure a lot, and today is no exception. In fact, today is especially rough, as the set piece they’re building for the musical is not coming along smoothly. They basically spent the entire breakout time putting half of one piece together before scrapping it and having to take it apart entirely. His hands are sore and scraped from the wood, and his fingers still ache with the pinch of having to use the hammer and drill to remove all those nails and screws.

That, and he’s been picking at his nails again. He knows how hard Asher worked on this set design, and he doesn’t want to have to be the one to tell him it’s not going to work. His best friend is resilient and clever and he knows he’d be able to come up with something else, but he also knows how attached he is to this vision. Not that he’d ever say it—Asher hates to come on too strong—but Lucas can tell, and he wants to be able to deliver on it. He doesn’t want his inability to figure it out result in the destruction of something so important to someone he cares about.

So he wracks his brain instead, skipping out on lunch with the techies in the courtyard to scrutinize the production design sketches in the booth alone. He doesn’t bother with food, hunched over the binder and comparing the specifications in Asher’s neat handwriting to the technical plans he and Nate put together in an effort to create a tangible product. Some piece isn’t translating over, and if he stares at them both long enough he figures he’ll be able to find it. He has to eventually.

Naturally, where he’s fine neglecting his own needs to get the job done, Riley is not so flippant. She figured out the situation before he even said anything, reading his absence from lunch as an indication that this was exactly what was happening. Hence why she shows up in the booth about halfway through the period, finding him precisely where she figured she would.

“Hi,” she greets him cheerfully, jogging up the steps with a bounce. She’s carrying an extra lunch bag in her hands. “I brought you something.”

Lunch. Food, one of the essential elements to survival. He furrows his brow but accepts it anyway. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she retorts cheekily. She leans down to give him a quick kiss, twiddling with the braid on her shoulder as she reads over his shoulder. “What are you working on?”

“Set design stuff. Something about the blueprint isn’t coming out right in execution.”

She hums, squinting at the designs for herself. Riley doesn’t know much about set construction, but she’s one of the few performers who actually bothers to try and comprehend the technical arts at all. If he’s honest with himself, that’s probably one of the first things he grew to love about her.

Love. Strong word. Maybe not the right word. Feels like it sometimes though, like now, when he’s glancing up at her gazing with such concentration. Love? No. Maybe. Could be.

Words are tough.

“Hm.” She frowns, crinkling her nose in that way that Lucas can’t believe is humanly possible. It can’t be possible to be that cute. She adjusts and delicately perches on his lap, sliding an arm around his shoulder. “Have you talked to Asher about it?”

His silence answers the question. She shifts her gaze to him, getting the message loud and clear when his expression twitches and he dips his head down to avoid her eyes.

Clear enough. Riley hums again, and Lucas is very aware of how her thumb is gently rubbing his shoulder. He’s pretty proud of himself for being so calm and open to their proximity this afternoon, as trying to accept that comfort level with her as natural and welcome rather than dangerous is a challenge all its own. It’s usually even more difficult when he’s stressed. It always amazes him how generous she can be with touch, how she makes sharing space seem so effortless.

She waits until he lifts his gaze again, tilting her head at him. Asking the question without a word.

Lucas sighs. “Asher is brilliant. This design is good, and I don’t want him to think otherwise.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand. You guys are really good about discussing stuff like this. He respects your opinions, and it’s not like you didn’t give it your best effort.”

“I know. But I hate… I don’t like all of the work having to go back on his shoulders. Especially when he already made something so good.” He shakes his head wordlessly, clicking his tongue. “Despite what my expertly maintained persona might suggest,” at this, Riley rolls her eyes, “it’s not fun to be the one telling your friend that their idea doesn’t work.”

That much probably went without saying. Riley nods, absorbing the truth of it and not immediately having a perky solution to volley back. He didn’t expect her to—unlike a majority of their peers, he doesn’t expect her to be the magical mechanic to every problem that arises at Adams.

Instead, she offers him her hand. She takes the hand he’s resting on her knee, threading their fingers together. Expressing solidarity and comfort in an instant.

I’m here.

Lucas glances down at their joined fingers, her soft, well-manicured hand in contrast with his tanned, harsh one. Her fingernails are light blue—she must’ve just painted them last night. He likes the color. He likes the touch.

He likes her.

Loves? Maybe. Could be.

Lucas lets his thumb stroke the back of her hand.

I want you here.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Riley contemplating with her eyes on the production sketches while he finds trouble keeping her eyes off of her. Then her eyes widen, a little bit brighter than before as an idea strikes her.

“What if I talked to Asher with you? Maybe we can find a more subtle way to approach the conversation. I’m sure it’s not as disastrous as you think it’ll be anyway, but a comfortable setting might make it easier to have. Dylan can be there too, obviously. Like on our next double date.” She meets his eyes, curious. “Would that help? Just to have a buffer, someone to help you articulate what you’re really trying to say. Avoid any potential missteps. And then it’ll be done with, and you can move on from it rather than starving yourself trying to piece together a puzzle that might not ever fit together.”

It doesn’t completely take away the discomfort, but the prospect of not having to face the conversation alone does remove some of the weight off his shoulders. He finds it impressive how often she can end up being right, even years later. Because it’s a relief not to have to do everything alone, just like she told him.

“Yeah, that would be cool,” he says. “Thanks.”

She smiles, the type that makes his stomach flip. Then she leans forward and presses their lips together, stealing a kiss from him whenever she can manage it.

In this case, the proximity is more than welcome. He kisses her back, squeezing her hand to accent the point.

I want you. I got you.

Together.

3 ✾ Dylan & Asher

If you asked Dylan and Asher what the best form of physical affection is, they’d say a forehead kiss.

Of course, this is only after multiple alternative answers and a whole lot of discussion. It would start somewhere in the general kiss category—Dylan Orlando is the kissing expert, after all—but would bounce around a lot before landing on anything decisive. After contemplating the effective tenderness of a cheek kiss, Asher might point out that it’s sort of narrow-minded of them to immediately jump to kissing as the ultimate form of affection when there are so many non-kiss related gestures that also convey appreciation. Dylan would agree and easily shift into listing just about every other display of adoration he’s ever given to Asher, the latter having to reach over and cover his mouth after a certain point when the content innocently grows more intimate than Asher would like anyone else to know.

Even still, it would be endearing, because when Dylan lists them all it’s crystal clear how much love must go into each and every one.

But yes, eventually, they’d end up on forehead kiss. After two well-organized lists and hefty amount of banter, somehow they’d get there. Only Dylan would insist on an addendum, a little metaphorical asterisk next to their choice that clarifies “forehead kiss” is just a convenient umbrella term for any sort of peck upon the general head and face area. And Asher would question whether that includes cheek kisses, then, because that seems a bit like a cop-out if they do that, so the asterisk gets refined to specifying kisses above the nose on the general head and face area. Forehead kisses, kisses on the top of the head, kisses on the temple—all of that is fair game under their given consensus.

Then they’d add one more addendum, which is just Dylan’s way of pointing out that while they’ve provided an answer here, forehead kisses don’t actually convey any greater power or importance than any other form of physical affection. It’s just what they’re feeling that day, in that discussion. Asher agrees to the amendment, because it seems only fair to give the other contenders their due credit, and he’s never been opposed to a good clarifying statement.

But for Dylan, it’s not about fairness. It’s about breadth, abundance, that only sticking to one form of affection towards Asher Garcia feels impossible. He’s forehead kisses and linked pinkies and playful nudges. He’s bops on the nose and tight hugs and quick kisses on the cheek when he says something particularly smart or cute or unintentionally charming and Dylan can’t possibly leave him unrewarded. He’s cheekbone strokes and fingers in hair and kisses like kryptonite that always linger until they get the chance to do it again. Asher is all of it and more, deserving of all of it and more, he’s everything, everything, and there’s no possible way to put a limit on it.

But for now, sure, forehead kisses will suffice.

Dylan admits that one of the advantages to a forehead kiss is how convenient it is to give them.

He definitely has the upper hand when it comes to this particular display of affection. When the two of them met they were basically the same height, but after more than two years and a handful of inches later, Dylan stands at a comfortable five-foot-eight in comparison to Asher’s more humble five-foot-six. So he’s at the optimal height to brush his lips against his boyfriend’s forehead, taking this honor with great care and being as generous with it as he can.

Even still, he can’t help but love when Asher tries to return the favor. He likes the way he has to stand up on his tip-toes if they’re standing. He likes how much more common they are at certain times of day, like in the afternoon while he’s crouched down over a set piece helping Dave put it together and Asher comes over to check in with their progress. He’ll lean over his shoulder to ask for updates, then give him a brisk kiss on the top of the head while it’s in such a perfect, reachable place. Or at night after Dylan climbs in the window to stay the night, it’s not unusual for Asher to give him a quick peck on the forehead as a thank you before they settle in for the night.

Like everything else in their relationship, they’re equally eager to show their affection in whatever way possible. Dylan doesn’t think height impacts it much either way, and even though he has the benefit of two inches he greatly admires how Asher carries himself with so much poise it’s almost as if he’s six feet tall.

Of course, not everyone else feels the same.

“Oh, fuck off, Nate,” Jeff says, rolling his eyes.

“What? What are you all getting so heated about?” Nate shrugs offhandedly, focused on keeping his balance as he stands on a 2 by 4 on top of a cylinder. “I’m only saying, technically me and Dave are the only real ones in here.”

Dylan isn’t paying much attention to the argument. Nate is always poking fun and saying incendiary things, and although they’re all complaining and barking back at him Dylan knows they all actually kind of like it. They like the silly debate and fiery spirt he brings to things, so he doubts whatever they’re snapping about now is going to leave much of an imprint on any of them.

Honestly, he’s much more entranced with watching him try to balance on the board. He was the first one to give it a try fifteen minutes ago, which is why he’s now sitting on the acting block while Asher disinfects and patches up the scrapes he got on his knees when he inevitably fell off. He figures he could treat his own injuries, but Asher offered and the fact of the matter is he knows how much pride his boyfriend gets out of taking care of him. And admittedly, it’s nice to be taken care of with such obvious affection.

So instead he gets to focus on Nate’s balancing act, observing the way the wood is bending like a see-saw on the cylinder and brainstorming other ways he could improve his own record. More thoughtful accommodation for how he tends to put his weight on his left foot… maybe he could move with it, like a skateboard… honestly, him trying to figure out this contraption might not make a bad vlog update…

“Having more inches in height doesn’t give you more class,” Jade snarks.

“Wait, who wants more class?” Dave says, obviously lost. Much like Dylan, it’s likely he hasn’t been paying much attention. “Isn’t three hours a day with Cory enough?”

“Class like credentials, Dave.”

“Oh. Wait… oh. What are we talking about again?”

“You’re being so huffy,” Nate laughs, crossing his arms. He nods towards Dylan and Asher, the latter just finishing up sticking a band-aid on and helping him roll down his pant leg. “Can’t you all be more like Asher? He’s short and you don’t see him getting all fired up.”

“You going to tell Lucas to his face that you don’t think he’s a real person?”

“Lucas is tangential. He’s like the bar. You have to be that tall to have rights.”

Jade starts to argue back, but Asher beats her to it. He’s still deceptively calm as he rises back to his knees and closes the first aid kit, but something about his tone is terse in a way Dylan doesn’t miss. “You’re an idiot, Nate.”

“Oh, blah, blah, blah,” Nate responds, before promptly slipping and falling off the board.

The rest of them burst into laughter, but Asher doesn’t join in. He marches off to return the first aid kit to its rightful place and doesn’t come back, Dylan looking in the direction he disappeared until he decides to go after him. No one notices him leave, too wrapped up in scraping Nate off the floor and making fun of him for his grand fall from grace.

Dylan doesn’t have to search long. He unlatches the gate to the set piece storage and heads straight for the step-ladder to the prop loft.

He hears Asher before he sees him, the light sniffling signaling that he is in fact present and is more than likely crying. That’s not out of character for him, Dylan knows, so he’s only moderately concerned as he pulls himself fully into the loft.

“Hey,” he greets him. Glass props clink as Asher rearranges them on the shelves he’s organized a thousand times, facing away from him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you crying?”

Asher sniffs.

“No,” he lies.

Dylan can’t help but smile. Maybe it’s morbid to find joy in your boyfriend’s tears, but he finds it so endearing how emotional he is. Especially when the tears are over something silly like this, something that he knows he can help fix.

He strides across the metal grates, lightly pinching Asher’s ribs and getting an involuntary chuckle out of him before he elbows him back. He grins wider and hugs him from behind, propping his chin on his shoulder. “So what was it? I’m assuming Nate.”

“Well, he was basically the only one talking,” Asher mutters. He keeps his gaze on the floor, but his hands drift to touch Dylan’s arms around him almost like they’re magnetized.

“True. I don’t think he was being particularly bad today though. He’s had worse takes. Remember when he said we shouldn’t go to the doctor because they’re capitalist machines and he informed you he hadn’t been to a dentist in three years?”

Asher shudders. “Please, don’t remind me.”

“Just saying, it’s been worse.” Dylan pauses. “So?”

There’s a moment of quite between them. Then Asher sighs, pulling away from him. He leans back against the wall—the same one they always sit against when cuddling together or when Asher needs to vent, the same one where they had one of the best kisses in the early phase of their relationship—stuffing his hands in his pockets and frowning.

“Do you think I’m short?”

Dylan doesn’t think on it much. “Not really?”

“I mean—,”

“I don’t really think you’re tall, either.”

“Well, Nate said—,”

“I don’t think I really think about it. It’s all relative, anyway.”

“Nate said I was in front of everyone else. I don’t really think about it either, usually, but I don’t know. I guess when someone just says it like that, it feels like it’s obvious. Like everyone feels that way too.”

Dylan twists his mouth, thinking. “I’m not sure anyone has feelings about it either way, babe.”

“Okay, I know. Like, I know that in my head. But it feels like one of those things I guess where yeah, I don’t normally really think about it, but then when someone points it out it stings more than I expect. So it’s like, I don’t care about it, but I guess I kind of do.” Asher fiddles with his sleeves, smoothing the crease where they’re rolled up. “You know? Does that make sense?”

No. Not to most people. When Asher gets this way, his normally eloquent way with words and even temperament go out the window, and it can be hard to follow what he’s trying to say.

But yes. To Dylan, it makes sense. Not because he relates—he and Asher are both well aware that they have very different mental states, totally different ways of absorbing and processing the world, but that’s one of the things Dylan loves most about being with him—but because he’s become rather skilled at understanding Asher Garcia.

“Sure,” he assures him.

“So yeah. It’s just another dumb thing, I don’t know. My brain will get stuck on it and then get over it.”

“Okay. But again, I don’t really think you’re short.”

“Well.”

“You’re not… you’re just Asher, you know?”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “Reassuring, thanks.”

“Hey, you know I think that’s the best thing anyone could possibly be. Shame there’s only one in the entire world. Lucky for me, though.” Dylan beams, stepping closer and poking playfully at his cheek. Then he lights up with an idea. “Oh, I know what will help. Let’s look it up.”

The desire to remain blissfully ignorant is clear in Asher’s eyes. Dylan gets a little stuck on how pretty and green they are, with that unique hint of intensity they seem to always carry, before he continues pulling his phone out of his pocket. “No, that’s alright. Let’s not.”

“You love statistics. Nothing makes you feel better than definitive facts.”

“Okay, yeah, but—,” He lets out a grunt as Dylan slumps against him, huddling close and holding up the phone so they both can see the results come in. “Ouch. You’re heavy.”

“We can look that up next too, if you want. But at least I kept most of the weight on my feet this time.”

Service in the loft is notoriously bad. It takes a few seconds for the page to load, and a handful more to find results after Dylan types the query into the search engine. Asher’s fidgety hands shift from his sleeves to Dylan’s waist, ghosting his fingers absentmindedly over his skin along the hem of his shirt while they wait.

Finally, the results come in.

Average height for men in the U.S. Five feet, nine inches.

“There you go,” Dylan declares. “Feel better?”

“Not exactly,” Asher says, frowning. “That didn’t really disprove Nate’s point.”

“Yeah, but look at it this way. I’m short, too.”

Asher snorts, rolling his eyes. “You are not short.”

“According to the statistics, I am. It’s all relative!” He waves the phone closer to his face, Asher unable to hold back his smirk as he pushes his arm away. “See what I mean?”

“Okay, okay, yes. Point taken, thank you, Dyl Pickle.”

Dylan beams as brightly as he can manage, waiting until the inevitable moment when some of that sunshine leaks into his boyfriend’s expression. It always happens eventually.

“I don’t know if this will make you feel better, but I think you’re the perfect height. And you can say I’m biased—because I am—but I think of it like this.” He shifts back so he’s in front of Asher again, taking his hands as they press back against the wall. Their wall, it feels like, for all intents and purposes. “We fit together pretty well. Don’t you think? And we didn’t use to always be that way—there was even that crazy month in November freshman year where you were taller than me by a quarter of an inch.”

“Historic margins,” Asher deadpans, but when he moves his hands to wrap his arms around Dylan’s torso, the gesture isn’t anything but soft.

“We grew into this, just like we grew into everything else about ourselves and our relationship and whatever else. And I know that’s not the only thing that matters, but I think it’s pretty damn epic that for all the heights we could’ve surpassed and all the ways we could’ve turned out, we ended up like this.”

To demonstrate his point, he places a gentle kiss to Asher’s forehead. Right in perfect reach.

“I know that’s not a solution, but that’s how I feel.” Dylan shrugs, pleased to see most of Asher’s earlier frustration melted away to content. “I hope that helps, at least.”

“It does,” Asher murmurs fondly. “You always do.”

Then he rises onto his tiptoes to return the favor, keeping them in perfect balance.

#bonus content #riley x lucas #zay x charlie #dylan x asher #secret santa 2019 #winter hiatus 2019 #by maggie #<333333

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yodawgiherd · 5 years

Text

In Pursuit

Rating: T

>>>Read on AO3<<<

It was cold outside, as one could expect at this time of the year, making Sasha shiver and bury deeper into her coat. That damn cook told her that his shift was ending, she checked her watch, fifteen minutes ago, yet here she was, and Niccolo was nowhere to be seen. Sitting in her wheelchair in front of the soup kitchen, she must have looked like a beggar, judging from the glances the passing pedestrians threw her way. Gritting her teeth, she just hoped that no one who actually knows her will walk past, because that would be rather embarrassing. Finally, after about five more minutes of her contemplating if the guy didn’t forget about her, Niccolo appeared, nodding in greetings as he came to stand next to her, hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket.

“What took you so long?”, Sasha hissed at him, righteously upset.

“What? I’m late?”, he frowned down at his phone, shrugging afterwards, “Whoops.”

Bastard. But she couldn’t antagonize him, he was the best lead she had.

“So, can we go?”, she asked, forcing a smile on her face despite really wanting to punch the smug bastard right between the eyes.. Or in his stomach, if she was being realistic, because she couldn’t reach his head.

“Just one last thing.”, Niccolo looked left and right, squatting to be on level with her, which simultaneously gave her the perfect opportunity to fulfill her dream of breaking his nose. With a lot of self- denial, she pushed that desire back. For now. “Is there something you didn’t tell me? Anything that could help us?”

“Gabi talked about needing a “fix” from time to time. Does that help?”

He nodded.

“Immensely.”, Niccolo grinned, “Luckily for you, I do have certain knowledge of the drug underworld here, so don’t worry. I know just the person to talk to.”. Standing up, he stretched, groaning when his back popped a bit. Spending the whole day behind counter and handing out soup was not exactly comfortable. “Shall we?”

With Niccolo leading, Sasha followed, wheeling herself next to him. The road was silent, with only the passing cars cutting into it. She was used to being around introverts, after all, she was Mikasa’s friend, but she wanted to know more about this guy, the I’m a cook and volunteer in soup kitchen profile didn’t really cut it for her, especially when she had to trust him with something as personal as this.

“So, Niccolo,”, she began, getting his attention, “your family is Italian?”

“Because of the name, huh?”, he smiled, “It does give it away, doesn’t it. Anyway, if you are interested, I was born and raised in America, but my grandfather was Italian.”, he looked down at Sasha, his voice dropping to a secretive whisper, “Apparently he was a mobster, and tried fucking with the wrong people, so he was forced to flee Italy to save his life. Crook can’t deal with a boss.”, he looked back forward, making sure that they were taking the right street. “That’s how mafia works.”

She watched his face with an unamused expression.

“You’re full of shit.”

“I know.”, Niccolo shrugged, “But it’s much more interesting than what actually happened. Dad simply wanted to live in America, so he came over and met mom here. Not much of a fun story now, is it.”

“I prefer the truth.”

“Suit yourself.”

Abruptly, he stopped, turning back to Sasha.

“We are here.”

Sasha wanted to ask what does “here” mean, but then she noticed a man coming their way, dark skinned youth in a buttoned-up jacket. He reached Niccolo, and they nodded at each other, before his gaze slid down to Sasha, and he frowned.

“Who’s this Nico? A cop?”

Before the cook could answer however, Sasha did it for him.

“Oh yes, I’m a policewoman, special wheelchair division.”, she patted the side of her seat to emphasize her point, “We specialize in chasing running suspects and climbing stairs.”

“Right, chill lady, I’m just careful.”, satisfied with her outburst, he turned back towards Niccolo, who extended his hand.

“You got the stuff?”

Instead of answering, the youth reached into his coat and pulled out a small plastic bag, stuffed with certain substance that she recognized from her college years.

“Weed? You’re buying weed? Do you two realize that it’s been legalized?”

So, they were doing all this sneaking around and cop accusations for a few grams of cannabis, which you can buy in a regular drugstore nowadays. Perfect, just perfect.

“I do know that.”, ignoring her, Niccolo pocketed the bag, “And I also know that I can get better price per gram here than in any other store. Plus, I’m also getting something else…. right?”

“Right.” Agreed the salesman, pulling out another package from his pockets of wonders, smaller this time, filled with pills. Sasha watched, wide-eyed, as Niccolo grinned in satisfaction, handing over some cash.

“So, we came here just so you can get your stuff? Or what the fuck did we walk all the way for?”

“All in due time.”, as if annoyed by her eagerness, he shook his head, looking up at his supplier. “Listen buddy, I need to know, have you seen a young girl recently? About thirteen, apparently going around with a guy of the same age. We just want to know if you sold her anything, and where.”

“I don’t deal with underage kids. Shit’s too risky.”, the dealer redirected his eyes at Sasha, “Sorry lady, can’t help.”

“Well, worth a shot, thanks anyway.”

With that, the man turned around and walked away the same way he came, doing his best not to look suspicious.

“Dead end?”

“Nah, not at all. An elimination tactic.”, Niccolo looked smug, even with Sasha glaring at him. “Now we know that she didn’t buy form this guy and can move on from here.”

“Ah, and you get your own fix in the meanwhile. Junkie.”

“I just take some stuff from time to time, to feel better.”, he patted the pocket where he hid the weed, “Nothing beats a joint after work.”

Whatever, Sasha wasn’t here to criticize his life choices. She came to find Gabi.

“So, what now?”

“Easy. Now we…”, but before Niccolo could finish his thought a motorbike stopped nearby, and a figure jumped off, removing the helmet to reveal a pale face framed by waterfall of shiny midnight hair. Sasha’s eyes widened. She knew that face very well.

“Sash? What are you doing here?”, Mikasa asked, her eyes flying over to Niccolo, measuring him. “Who’s this?”

“This? Uhm that’s…. eh..”, Sasha’s brain was working in overdrive, trying to figure out an excuse that her friend would buy. It had to be something real, something good, because Mikasa was far from stupid, and wouldn’t buy just anything. “A cook?”

“Cook?”, the biker wondered, looking back at him.

Niccolo smiled, giving Mikasa a small nervous wave. He seemed to be shrinking where he stood, rather intimidated by her presence.

“Yes, a cook. Me, Armin and Connie are considering adding a kitchen for our bar, and this guy, Niccolo, is one of the potential hires to work there.”, she nodded, satisfied with her fabrication, “It’s of course just a possibility, nothing is certain.”

“Okay… But why are you meeting out on the street?”

Damn she was persistent.

“We just wanted to get some fresh air.”

Mikasa seemed to be turning her statements over in her head, eyes flicking from Sasha to Niccolo and back. The whole thing didn’t seem right, not at all, but she had no intention of trying to act like a Spanish inquisition towards her friend and just grill her out in the street. Sasha’s life was her own. Faking her best, “I understand”, expression, she took a step back towards her ride.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”, she finally spoke, putting her helmet back on and mounting the bike with a practiced movement. “See you around Sash. Niccolo”

With that, she kicked the machine back to life, and with a screeching of tires disappeared after taking a sharp corner. Sasha exhaled in relief, wiping her brow. Crisis averted.

“Fuck.”, Niccolo breathed out as soon as Mikasa was gone, hanging his head, “She was scary.”

“Scary?”, Sasha blinked in surprise, not sure where that was coming from. She wouldn’t call Mikasa scary, but then again, they each other for a very long time. It was hard imagining someone as scary after you saw them wiggling on the bed, trying to hide beneath the blanket moaning “Just five more minutes.”, when you tried waking them up in time for class.

“Yea, with the bike and her figure and the black leather clothes and stuff, she looked like a gangster.”, he gestured towards his face, “the dark lipstick and narrowed eyes didn’t really help it either. And the way she looked at me, it was just…”, he ran out of words, shrugging. “Scary.”

“And here I thought you knew how mafia worked.”, Sasha couldn’t stop herself from poking fun at him, just a little bit, for all his previous bullshitting. Felt good.

“Yea well,”, he let out a breathy laugh, “this one was definitely a hitman.”

Finally collecting his bearings, he straightened, giving Sasha a wink.

“Let’s go.”

“You never told me where we are going now.”, she said as she followed him, matching his tempo.

“Oh right, it’s a…. well, how do I say it, a house where you can shoot your stuff into the vein without fear of someone robbing you and raping you after. Safe house of sorts.”

“Crack house.”, Sasha corrected him.

“You could say that. They do sell more than crack though, they are rather well supplied.”

“Wonderful.”

“It’s a good thing.”, he pointed out, “Since we don’t know what Gabi’s thing is, we can’t filter places by what they sell.”

“How do you even know all these people?”, Sasha wondered, “Wild youth?”

“Grew up around them.”, he said, but didn’t elaborate further. This conversation was over.

The rest of their way was quiet, as Sasha sensed that she broached a sensitive topic that Niccolo didn’t have any intention of speaking about. The destination showed to be a rundown building, the stairs at the front flanked by three guys, lounging around. Not suspicious at all.

“Wait here.”, Niccolo ordered, crossing the street to meet the welcoming party.

Ignoring her gut, which was telling her that this was a bad idea, Sasha watched him swagger right into them, greeting the one who stood up with a raised hand. They talked between themselves, with the guard pointing at Sasha, demanding something, but Niccolo calmed him with a few choice words. After a bit more discussion, and some money flowing from the cook’s pocket to the sentry’s, they parted, with Niccolo returning to her with a thoughtful expression.

“Didn’t see her either.”, he said, shaking his head.

Sasha could feel the desperation in her rising. Nothing at the guy they met before, nothing here. What now?

“He did promise that he will put a word out, for a small fee.”, seeing her so crestfallen, he put a hand on her shoulder, “Don’t worry, she will turn up. Sooner or later.”

“Why would he help you? Just for the money?”

“That and other things. Dealing with a minor is tricky, if you get caught the authorities will fuck you hard.”, he stammered, cheeks coloring slightly. “Excuse my language.”

So, he drags her through a meeting with a drug dealer, to a street where a crack house is, and he still apologizes for swearing. This guy.

“It’s quite all right. Thanks for the help today.”, burying her hands in her pockets, she blinked up at him. “But what do we do now?”

“Now we wait. I’ll contact you as soon as someone finds her, I promise.” He handed her his phone, watching Sasha put her number in. He chuckled. “Gotta be honest, this is the hardest I ever worked for getting a girl’s number.”

“Then you had it easy.”, Sasha answered, returning both his phone and his smile. “Wonderful first date, I learned a lot about drug dealing in our city. Call me?”

Niccolo pocketed his device.

“Count on it.”

Half a city away, Mikasa sat in a random bar, replaying the weird encounter in her head. From time to time, she liked to just take her bike and ride, with no destination in mind, simply enjoying the way the motor purred between her legs. What she didn’t expect however, was her meeting Sasha in a rather unpleasant part of town, accompanied by a short blond guy, talking out in the street. She circled the cold bottle of coke with her fingers, studying the mental image she made of them. Both Sasha and the guy, Niccolo, seemed nervous, and the excuse that she was interviewing him to be a cook at the bar didn’t sit well with her at all. Why would you look for a staff, when your establishment has no kitchen? Mikasa was also rather familiar with the layout, as she spent a lot of her free time there, helping, and she knew that there were no plans on building anything new. But even if her friend told her that the guy was a waiter or something more credible, she would still have very strong doubts about it. Talking in the street, in that part of the town? Yea right.

The meeting plagued her mind, so much in fact that she couldn’t focus on driving, so she took the first exit she saw and went to sit down, entering a bar she never visited before. There were a lot of bikes in the front, and the interior was half full of leather clad men and women, making her realize that this was most likely some kind of biker meeting point. With her clothes, she fit right in. The atmosphere was nice, rock music playing, with most of the patrons playing pool, talking and laughing between themselves. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her, which suited her just fine, until a man emerged from the crowd, coming to sit down next to her.

“Now what’s a beauty like you doing here all alone?”, he asked with a suggestive smile.

His intentions were easy to guess, so instead of answering, Mikasa held up her hand, letting the light shine on her engagement ring, offering him an apologetic shrug, hoping that he will understand. To her own surprise, he did.

“That’s a damn shame.”, he muttered, standing up, “Have a great evening miss.”

And with that, the well-mannered biker returned to his group, leaving her alone. With that out of the way, she was once again free to think about Sasha. What was she doing there? The dramatic explanation would of course be cheating on Connie, but her friend wasn’t that kind of person. Sure, she was way more socially active than Mikasa, having a number of boyfriends and even some short flings in college, but to her knowledge she never cheated on anyone, ever. Then again, what other solutions were there? Why would she just hang around bad neighborhood with a random dude, chilling on the street? Mikasa had no idea. Finishing her coke, she decided to go back out for another ride, hoping that the wind and the sound of engine will put her mind to ease.

The door creaked closed behind her, as she jumped on her bike once more, speeding away.

#fanfic #snk #eremika #sasha braus #niccolo #gabi

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imaginarybird · 7 years

Text

Unwilling and unable to face everyone on her own when it comes time to attend Auggie and Ava’s wedding, Riley Matthews hires a solution in Lucas Friar. Loosely based on The Wedding Date.

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five

Rating: Around a PG 13/14

Notes: As always, thanks to everyone who has read, reblogged, commented, liked…whatever you’ve done to support the fic. It means the world to me. And just a reminder, I’m more than happy to chat about this or any of my other fics if you pop into my inbox.

Some special shout-outs this chapter go to @sand1128, who has been an incredible cheerleader every time I feel like I’m faltering with this, and to @frankchurchillsaysrelax, who was a great sounding board when I was frozen at a particular moment. You’re both amazing!

In this chapter, Auggie and Riley have a little bit of family time, we go to dance class, and Lucas hears The Ballad of Corpanga.

The next day starts with Auggie taking Riley to sit at the far end of the breakfast table away from everyone else to apologize for bringing things up the way he had the night before at dinner.

Well actually, before that Ava gives a sweeping declaration that if a scene like that occurs again anyone involved will be banned from attending the wedding, regardless of their relationship to the bride and/or groom and their position in the wedding itself.

And before that there was navigating waking up next to Lucas, practically sharing the same space in the bed with his arm up above her head across her pillow and their bodies barely half an inch apart… Riley woke first and nearly had a heart attack when she realized she could feel his chest against her back in time with his breathing before she remembered that the night had ended with her practically demanding that they share the bed. Thankfully, she had been able to extricate herself and get into the bathroom to shower and go through her morning routine without somehow waking him up or otherwise embarrassing herself, and even though Lucas was awake by the time she was dressed and ready for the day, he wasn’t really alert or talkative until after his own shower (and really not until after they got downstairs and he had his first few sips of coffee in him) so their conversation had been minimal and unremarkable.

So for Riley, who’s choosing to do her best to forget her wake-up call and the awkward staring and silence followed quickly by everyone conspicuously starting up conversations and turning away the moment she and Lucas arrive at breakfast, the day really begins when she’s with her little brother and he’s trying to make amends for his misstep.

“I know it’s not an excuse but she was being a total bitch.” Auggie says after his initial apology. Riley automatically admonishes him for the language (that’s never been how they talk and besides that there are a few little kids in the room) but he continues talking as though she hasn’t said a word. “ And I knew no one else was going to stop her except for maybe Uncle Eric, and you weren’t going to fight back so I just thought I’d...knock her down a peg or two and remind everyone that she wasn’t exactly blameless for your junior year.”

“Except you know that’s not how they see things, Aug.” Riley shakes her head. “They heard you say that and they saw us attacking her for something she had no control over.”

“I never said I was thinking when I did it.” When Riley doesn’t join in his nervous laughter, Auggie glances down, contrite. “I’m really sorry Riley. I know I probably made things worse…”

Riley shakes her head, and briefly rests a hand on Auggie’s shoulder; the last thing she wants is her brother stressing himself out the week of his wedding over this problem that’s over ten years old. “Pretty sure that’s not possible.” She forces a smile to go with the cynical comment. “Don’t worry about it Auggie. Just don’t do it again, OK?”

“Are you sure?”

“Bygones, I promise.” She nods. “It’s not like everyone in the room didn’t already know the whole sordid story.”

Well, everyone except for Lucas, she internally corrects. She still hasn’t been able to bring herself to broach the subject, even after he had shared his own personal humiliation with her. A part of her feels like she has to. It doesn’t feel entirely fair to subject him to all of this and expect him to take care of her without knowing why. But at the same time, outside of family and those involved, there’s only a grand total of two people that she’s ever told the whole story to. And one of those had been under the influence of heavy duty painkillers when she had needed to get her appendix out.

It’s not something she talks about or even likes to think about. And even though she’s had a lot of time to process and come to terms with the fact that she was merely one player of many involved in the disaster and that everyone had done things that they probably shouldn’t have, Riley can’t help but feel that at this point she’s one of the only people who has reached that conclusion. If no one else sees things that way, who’s to say that Lucas will?

Riley doesn’t think that Lucas will up and quit if he hears the story (he has a contract to honor after all), but there’s a part of her that worries how his opinion of her will change.

They’ve only been at the charade for a day and she’s already grown accustomed to his support--in public and in private. The thought of losing any part of that unsettles her, to the point where she’s almost positive that she’s only going to bring the subject up if she absolutely has to. Until then, he can try to piece together the small snippets of information that have been floated around and everyone else can just be running on the assumption that he already knows.

“You have been the family’s primary topic of gossip for years.” Auggie nods, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of, other than the Maya thing...how did last night go?”

Riley’s mind immediately flashes to climbing into bed next to Lucas. “What about it?” She asks, speaking a little too fast to be called calm or collected. “The room is nice, Lucas and I slept fine, everything happened exactly the way it was supposed to.”

Auggie’s eyes widen and then his entire face crinkles. “What? No! Gross!” He shoves at her shoulder. “You are my sister and as far as we’re concerned you have no sex life, thank you very much.”

Oh. Oops.

“I meant, how did things go with the rest of the family? I only saw the awkwardness that was your conversation with dad.”

“Oh, the usual. Uncomfortable and laden with judgement. And then mom showed up.” Riley glances down to the other end of the table where her mom and dad are eating their breakfast while being lectured by Ava looking thoroughly embittered by the experience. She reasons that they’ve earned that particular brand of torment and turns back to grab her glass of orange juice and take a long sip. “And she was exactly how you’d expect mom to be.”

Auggie winces. “Awful?”

“I know I’m not always the most confident or assertive person but I’m 28 years old. I’ve been taking care of myself since I left my senior year. I’ve debated with a presidential candidate before for goodness sake. But put me in front of mom and it’s like I’m eight years old again, trying to tell her about knocking into the bookshelf and breaking her Junior Associate of the Year plaque. Completely unable to explain or defend myself.”

In reality, Riley hadn’t even been the one to knock into the shelf; Maya had when she had been attempting to recreate a dance from her new favorite music video. But Maya had also convinced Riley that if they told the truth, Topanga would be so upset with Maya that she wouldn’t be allowed over anymore and they would have to stop being friends. To eight-year-old Riley, that hadn’t exactly been difficult to believe; her mom demanded the best of everyone, especially herself, and the trophies and certificates that proved she had exceeded those standards were a source of pride and joy to her. The way Topanga took care of that shelf and showed everything on it off, Little Riley knew that damaging any of her trophies was probably the worse thing someone could do other than dropping Auggie. It wasn’t a stretch to think that she would be incredibly angry with Maya.

And Riley had never really believed in lying to her parents, but she also really didn’t want to lose access to her best (and only) friend. Her best (and only) friend who was supposed to be to her what Uncle Shawn was to her dad. Everyone said so.

Desperate to keep her friend and have that experience, Little Riley had fumbled her way through the lie and her mother’s enraged interrogation and lecture, scared that in doing so she was losing her mother’s adoration and approval, but just as fearful that if she didn’t she would lose Maya and have to go back to being the lonely little girl who was stuck singing with her dolls in the bay window of her room because nobody else would put up with her for very long. Nobody else ever seemed to notice her torment over what was ultimately a non-event, nor did they ever realize the truth, but Riley has never been able to forget the look of angry disappointment in her mother’s eyes as she went through her diatribe.

“If Lucas hadn’t been there, I think she’d still be lecturing me about my lack of contact and commitment to the family, Ava’s call to the meal and schedule be damned.” Riley finishes, drawing herself back to the present.

“How is loverboy feeling now that he’s met the family? He’s still here so he can’t have been too scared.”

Riley glances down the table again; Lucas is a bit closer to their end of the table, eating what appears to be an impossible amount of breakfast meat while talking to her grandparents. He catches her looking and winks at her before refocusing on what her grandpa is saying. “He’s, uh…” Riley struggles a moment to get her heart’s automatic fluttering reaction to the gesture back under control. “He’s not exactly a stranger to having a family that doesn’t understand or approve of your choices.”

“Well, he seems like a really great guy. I’m glad you found him.”

“Yeah, me too.” Riley’s not really sure as she answers whether she’s referring to Lucas in his professional capacity as an escort and companion for the week or in the nebulous region of something more personal that it feels like they’re hovering near, but she knows without question that it’s the truth. She’s glad that she found him.

“OK!” Ava claps her hands together. “Now that everyone’s here, we can get started. I know a few of you still need to change your shoes and things so before I hand things over to Natalya, our instructor for the day, I just want to take the opportunity to say a few things and give you an idea of what we’re hoping to accomplish today.”

“I know you said she was detail-oriented and all that, but is she seriously going to explain the purpose of a dance class to a bunch of adults?” Lucas leans over and murmurs his comment in Riley’s ear, forcing her to smother a giggle in the crook of his shoulder to avoid attracting attention.

They’re sitting on a small row of chairs on the edge of a dance studio, putting the shoes that they’ll be wearing for the wedding on so they can jump through Ava’s next ‘wedding party participation’ hoop: a dance class. The rest of the wedding party had arrived throughout the morning while the Matthews spent time relaxing on the beach, and after a light lunch everyone’s phones chimed with the calendar reminder that Ava had sent out (after Riley and Lucas’ late arrival to dinner the night before, she was not taking any more chances and she had sent the itinerary for the week out to everyone with orders to set whatever alarms they needed to on their phone to ensure that they would be on time). Not that the reminder had been needed with everyone together on the beach. Ava had been more than happy to usher everyone to go change into more appropriate attire and drive to the nearby dance studio.

“First of all, thank you all for taking the time to come here today, and for agreeing to be a part of our wedding!”

The group claps and cheers a bit and Ava grins, clearly in her element as the center of attention. “Now, we’re here today because Auggie and I want to kick off the reception right with some dancing. Nothing too fancy, just a small choreographed foxtrot for the wedding party on their entrance. Then Auggie and I will come in and do our first dance together, a waltz, while you all wait in the appropriate positions off to the side, and at the very end of the that you’ll all come back in and join us to finish things up. Are there any questions so far?”

Thankfully, nobody raises their hand or says anything. Riley reasons that Ava has been chatting their ears off about it for weeks now and everyone already knows just about everything that she’s saying.

And even though it sounds like there’s going to be a lot to take in over the next few hours, Riley actually finds herself looking forward to it. She’s gotten over a lot of her clumsiness from high school, and while she’s by no means about to go out and audition for a dance contest or anything, Zay has taken her out dancing and taught her enough basic skills that she’s fairly certain that she won’t stick out like a sore thumb and attract negative attention.

Plus, the only other family member present besides Auggie is Uncle Josh; everyone else in the wedding party is Auggie and Ava’s friends from school. She and Josh had been close when she was younger, but that had ended her senior year of high school. Nowadays he’s usually perfectly content to pretend that Riley’s not even there unless he’s getting drawn into a conversation by someone else, which should make this a lowkey afternoon. No one else really knows her, not enough to be interested in the family drama.

Between that and the quiet morning she and Lucas had spent on the beach with Eric and Linda, Riley is feeling pretty good and relaxed about her afternoon.

“Great! This is going to be so wonderful you guys, I just know it.” Ava gushes, clapping her hands together a second time. “Now, everyone will have an assigned dance partner, and with two exceptions, your partner will be from the opposite side of the wedding party. Riley, as Auggie’s version of a best man, and Melanie, my fabulous maid of honor, you two will each be dancing with your boyfriends--side note: Lucas, Todd, I need you to run your suits by me tonight to make sure they won’t stick out too horribly. Everyone else, Auggie is going to read off your partnerships. As soon as you have your proper shoes on, please find your partner and we’ll let Natalya get things underway.”

Auggie starts reading a list from his phone and the couples slowly start standing and finding each other and some space on the studio floor.

“You were not kidding about her putting a lot of thought into this ceremony.” Lucas comments as they find their own space on the floor to stand. “I have been to a lot of weddings and I have never seen a reception open up with a number that could be from Dancing with the Stars.”

“She was probably watching the show when she came up with her vision.” Riley whispers back. The last thing she wants to do is catch attention while gossiping about the bride. “Ava’s a massive fan.”

They chat quietly while waiting for everyone else to be ready and the instructor to get started, but are quick to refocus when the older woman calls for the group’s attention.

“So the first thing I would like to do before we get completely underway learning the basics of our dances themselves is just to assess where everyone’s level of skill is.” Natalya says. “My assistant, Paul, and I will briefly demonstrate a proper frame, and then we’ll play some music, and I want everyone to just...do what comes naturally for them. Dance exactly how you know how to dance.”

In a matter of moments, Riley is facing Lucas, his left hand wrapped around to rest on her shoulder blade while she loops her hand over to his shoulder, and their right hands clasped together on the other side. It’s not any closer than they’ve stood over the past couple of days--if anything there’s a little more space between them than when they’ve been practically cuddling to sell their coupledom to her family or when they were sharing a bed the night before, but Riley finds herself fighting to keep control of her breathing. Lucas is really right there.

“Don’t be nervous. This doesn’t count for anything.” He nudges her gently with the hand on her shoulder blade either completely mistaking the source of her nerves or trying to discourage her from that sort of thought without being rude. Her cheeks feel like they’re on fire as she considers the possibility. “I only know a little bit of this stuff anyways, so we’ll keep it really simple. Just keep your eyes on mine, and follow me lead.”

Another moment and there’s music playing, a soft standard that Riley vaguely recognizes.

Slow. Slow. Quick, quick.

Lucas taps the pattern in time with the music several times over, a spark seeming to travel between them with every pulse. Then with a gentle squeeze on her back, he guides her to start moving. With each step the room seems to fade away until it’s just her, Lucas, and the music. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick.

For a split second, Riley feels like her feet aren’t even on the floor.

Then just as quickly the music fades out, and Lucas guides them to a stop. Where they stay breathing heavily and staring at each other.

There’s something strangely intimate about the position. Lucas is right there. A warm, stalwart presence holding on to her. Even though they aren’t pressed up against each other, it feels like there’s nothing between them. And those gorgeous green eyes are locked with hers, to the point where it practically feels like they’re boring into her soul and it’s all Riley can do to remind herself that they are in a room full of people and it’s not nearly as amatory as her mind is telling her it is.

It just… really, really feels like it.

Riley can’t exactly blame Lucas for stepping away from the evening’s activity, a bonfire on the beach, to return a few phone calls. He’s had his phone on silent (or, at least, she hasn’t heard his phone so much as beep) for their entire trip and it’s only natural that he has some messages to return, and it wouldn't exactly be fair of her to make him wait until the middle of the night when he’s quote unquote ‘off duty’ to return them; even people with the strictest of bosses at their normal nine-to-five jobs get breaks throughout the work day, and Riley is determined to be a good, non-demanding, easy-to-work-for client/boss, so of course she waves him off when he mentions a need to speak to his business partner.

Besides. Things have been kind of...weird since the dance class. It isn’t exactly easy to forget staring into Lucas’ eyes for a few hours, locked in an embrace with a thrum of electric energy hovering between them as they moved to the music. Riley’s trying to remind herself that her relationship with Lucas is strictly business, and that whatever it is she thinks she’s feeling for him is probably really just some physical attraction mixing with her deep appreciation for Lucas being a source of comfort at a time when she’s feeling so vulnerable, but it’s not exactly working. Not when strictly business means holding hands and sharing glances and blurring all kinds of lines.

Riley had almost welcomed the opportunity to clear her head and rest that came when Lucas had mentioned the need for his phone call with open arms. She would have if him stepping away hadn’t meant that she’s now stuck at the beach party alone, white knuckling her drink and praying that none of her family decides to stop their mingling with each other to come and try and talk with her.

Still, she can’t blame Lucas for stepping away to return a few phone calls.

She just kind of wants to when Shawn comes over. “Hey Riley,” he greets, taking a sip from his own drink as he approaches.

“Shawn.” Riley doesn’t know what to think that her surrogate uncle is approaching. Despite the fact that he’s technically her godfather, they’ve never been particularly close; she doesn’t remember the early years of her life when supposedly he was helping her parents to raise her, and when he got a job as a travelling photographer and blogger he all but vanished from her life save for e-mails and the occasional phone call. Then when his work brought him to move back to the city when she was in middle school, he tried but just couldn’t seem to understand her. Like everyone else it seems, he found it easier to bond with Maya, and it wasn’t long before they weren’t really interacting with each other at all unless it had to do with her or Riley’s parents. She can’t imagine why he’s trying to talk with her now.

“You know, I wasn’t sure I was gonna have a chance to talk to you alone. Your boyfriend has been glued to your side ever since you got here. Did pretty boy finally need a break?”

Riley very nearly clenches her jaw and her heart starts to hum uncomfortably in the middle of her chest.It’s not that she thinks Shawn means anything rude with his comment--tiny little mostly meaningless jabs like that are how he communicates--it’s just that it seems like no one is ever referring to Lucas by his name, just random descriptors, and this one feels particularly pejorative. And she can’t tell if he means to imply that Lucas needs a break from the family in general or just a break from her and it leaves her on edge to be so unsure as to what exactly is happening in this encounter. “Lucas had to make a couple of calls. He went somewhere quiet.”

“Right.” Whatever he’s assuming, it’s obvious that Shawn doesn’t believe her, despite it being true. “It looks like you two are pretty close.”

Oh. It’s gonna be one of those talks. “We are.” Riley answers, keeping her words clipped. She learned a long time ago that nothing good comes from being overly friendly and encouraging anyone when they try and go down this path.

“You love him?”

“We haven’t said it yet.” Riley regards him with a little more suspicion; she has no idea if she and Lucas would have said any sort of I-love-you’s if they were really dating (it’s not one of the details they’ve discussed) but she doesn’t want to leave much ambiguity about their ‘relationship’ so leaving the implication that they are in love feels like the safest bet.

“Yeah, but it’s in your eyes when you look at him.” Shawn smirks. “His too.” A beat passes, because Riley has no idea what to say. The conversations never go like this. Thankfully Shawn picks right back up. “You two look really happy together.”

“We are.”

“That’s great.”

Wait, what? “It is?”

Now Shawn frowns. He reaches out with his free hand, resting it on her elbow. “Riley, I know we’ve had our differences about somethings but when have I ever begrudged you happiness?”

A part of Riley wishes she were brave enough to give an answer filled with all of the biting sarcasm and truth that question deserves. But she’s not a confrontation person, particularly with people that she knows, even if it’s someone that’s long drifted away from her. She doesn’t know how to swallow the part of her that’s a people pleaser, who just wants people to like her and it’s that part that keeps her standing in submissive silence.

“Anyways, I wanted to talk to you because of last night.”

All right. There it is. The real reason for the talk. Lucas coming first was just a red herring. Riley sighs. “What about it?”

“It was really unnecessary, don’t you think?”

Riley’s grip contracts around her glass. She hadn’t even done anything. She had gone in the night before determined to introduce Lucas and fade into the background, and it was other people who turned nothing into something, but as expected, everyone is more than happy to stay true to form and lay the blame at her feet. “I didn’t--,”

“I mean, it’s been ten years. Over ten if you really think about it.” Shawn continues talking as though she hadn’t started to say anything at all. “That’s a long time to be holding on to this grudge of yours.”

The humming of her heart starts to pound, almost achingly. “It’s not a--,”

“Everyone else has been trying to get past this for years, and you make it so hard. You isolate yourself and refuse to have a real conversation about any of it and you won’t even give them a chance. And it’s not a good way to go through life Riley. I’ve been there and believe me when I tell you I’m right about this.”

It takes everything Riley has not to give in to the tears that are springing to her eyes and she hates herself for it. As though she hadn’t wasted years dying for any of them to give her a chance, jumping at any glimmer of hope she could see and inevitably being disappointed. She should be full of rage at every syllable of Shawn’s words and all she can do is sink down under the guilt he’s laying across her shoulders. All she can do is feel the cloak of panic and upset engulf her, drowning any rational and reasonable response that she wants to spit back.

“Look,” Shawn says, gesturing with drink in hand, “Riley. You and I have never been super close, and I can’t pretend that I’ve ever really understood you, but I think I know you well enough to know that you’re never going to be really happy without your family around you. It’s time to apologize.”

“If you can’t pretend that you’ve ever understood her, now probably isn’t the time to start.” A deep, hard voice interjects.

When a hand slides around her waist, Riley realizes that her timely defender is Lucas. When had he gotten here? Unfrozen, she glances over at him and is surprised at just how cold the gaze he’s directing at Shawn is; he seems genuinely, and deeply, angry.

“Excuse me, I was just having a private conversation with my goddaughter.” Shawn’s reply is a little more heated.

Lucas doesn’t blink. “And now you’re not.”

“I’m sorry?” Shawn sputters.

“A conversation is usually two people talking. Listening to each other. Sharing ideas and trying to reach an understanding about something. But from where I stand, all that’s happening here is you’re trying to make Riley feel bad about a decision, but you won’t even listen to hear where she’s coming from. You’re more interested in blaming her for not coming around to your point of view than understanding why she hasn’t. And I’m not going to let you hurt her like that.”

For a moment Shawn just stares at Lucas, and the rest of the party seems to fade to the background. All Riley can hear is the ominous distant crash of the waves and an echo of Lucas’ unexpected defense. Is this part of the boyfriend package? She doesn’t remember there being anything about going to bat for her when extended family members lecture her and send her into a panic but the contract had been kind of long and wordy so maybe she just missed it… But if it isn’t part of his assumed role than what is it? And either way, what is Shawn going to do?

He’s always been a bit of a hot head, Riley knows. Sensitive to criticism and personal slights. Leftover pieces of his difficult childhood, her mom had explained when Riley had witnessed an incident in seventh grade. It just takes the right sort of thing to push his buttons and set him off and surely Lucas’ comments might qualify.

Riley would really prefer to not see the conversation get louder and draw attention from the partying crowd; it’s bad enough just the three of them.

However, instead of the anticipated explosion, Shawn raises his soda can in a flat-smirked toast. “Sir Lucas of LA bursts in on his noble steed to save the day. So that’s why she’s with you.”

The comment lands like a punch to the gut and rather than focus on how she feels, Riley watches Lucas to gauge his reaction; surprisingly to her, he seems even more on edge, clenching his jaw and shaking his head. “And that right there? I’m pretty sure comments like that are why she left New York. Come on Riley, let’s get out of here.”

Before she can even totally process it, Lucas is guiding her away from the confrontation, with his arm moving from her waist to wrap her hand in his instead as they walk. The further from the party they get the more the entire conversation hits her.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Shawn didn’t say anything she hasn’t heard a million times before and Riley has long given up on having any kind of meaningful relationship with him, but still… she’s never been able to just ignore people when they tell her that she’s the problem and start to point out every flaw. At least, not about the things that she’s insecure of and worries about herself. Having Shawn all but call her stubborn and selfish still feels like someone clawing at her very being.

Riley doesn’t even realize how the feeling is settling into her gut and crawling its way towards engulfing the rest of her until they stop, well down the beach and away from the crowd of the party, and Lucas is pulling her into a hug, his arms wrapping around hers.

“I am so sorry, Riley. I should have never left you alone there.” He apologizes, murmuring into her ear. “Are you OK?”

Riley nods into his chest, unable to trust that her voice will sell the lie. She knows she shouldn’t be accepting the embrace, let alone returning it, and she can’t imagine why Lucas offered it in the first place when there’s no one around to see but she can’t help it; she needs the moment to compose herself a little--to turn the lie into the truth--and it just feels so...right to be in his arms, even just for a moment.

“I’m really sorry.” Lucas repeats. “The rest of the day went so well, I didn’t even think…” He trails off and they stand together in silence,

“It’s OK.” Riley says, pulling away after nearly a minute when the sand beneath her toes feels a bit steadier again. She wipes at her face, just in case any tears fell. “You couldn’t have known he was gonna come over. He’s usually happy to pretend I don’t exist.”

“You don’t have to answer, or say more than you want to,” Lucas slides his hand back into hers and they start walking again, still going down the beach away from the party but at a much slower pace, “but what was all that about?”

“You pretty much summed it up when you stopped him.” Riley shrugs. “He’s my dad’s best friend, my mom looks at him like a brother… He was just going to bat for them, trying to goad their wayward daughter home.”

“And the knight in shining armor thing?”

“What about it?”

Lucas glances over at her. “It’s a little specific don’t you think? Everyone’s been kind of skeptical about our relationship but for him to label it like that? And in a way that so obviously bothered you… I just thought there was something bigger there.”

Riley stops walking. She debates briefly with herself over answering the question at all, but reasons that really, this part of the story is not that bad at all and barely has anything to do with her and besides which, Lucas has opened up a lot when he didn’t have to; the least she could do is try to return the favor and explain a little bit of why he’s being exposed to so much drama. “For that, you have to know my parents’ story.” Glancing around, she spots a nearby log of driftwood and sits down, digging her bare toes down beneath the cool sand and launching into an abridged version of her parents’ story for Lucas as he joins her. She tells him about how they met in pre-school, fell in love in kindergarten, got cooties in the first grade, started to seriously reconnect in middle school, and then had their ups and downs until they got married at the ripe old age of 18, to live perfectly and forever happy in wedded soulmate bliss.

“Wow.” Lucas lets out a low whistle. “That is quite the story.”

“Yes it is.” Riley nods, then sighs.”I hate it.”

“You...hate that your parents are happy together?”

“Of course not. But I hate that they had this epic love story and that it constantly follows me around. Instead of reading me Snow White or Sleeping Beauty when I was going to bed, I got tales from The Ballad of Corpanga and its companion story: Cory and Shawn--The Closest Best Friends to Best Friend That the World Ever Did See.”

“So you’d rather they filled your head with fairy tales? Princes and princesses, knights in shining armor…? Riley the people that spend their lives fantasizing about that spend their whole lives waiting for a happy ending that’s never going to come. Do you know how many of my clients…”

Lucas continues to talk but for Riley, the sentence fades out after he mentions his other clients. Not only is it embarrassing, knowing that he’s doing it so constantly (probably because of her behavior to try and remind her what’s really going on) but it stings that he’s missing the point entirely, when she thought it would be obvious.

“My parents’ story is just as much of a fairy tale as anything from Disney, Lucas. It’s just as fantastic, just as one-in-a-million...just because it lacks the thrill of a dragon or a fair maiden being rescued from her tower doesn’t mean it’s more realistic for someone to dream about it. It just means they won’t get laughed at for wanting it past the age of nine.”

Lucas takes a moment to consider her words this time, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he speaks. “You know, you don’t really strike me as the kind of person that doesn’t believe in that kind of magic.”

“I’d have to be stupid not to believe in it when it’s been right in front of my face. Take away the fanciful embellishments of witches and royalty and fairy tales are very real. You can see people finding their happy endings all the time. But the hard truth...the one that no one wants to tell you because it’s not nearly so magical as everyone having one true love waiting out there to sweep you off your feet and make everything perfect someday...the one that I had to figure out for myself a long time ago, is that just because fairy tales are real, doesn’t mean that everyone gets to star in their own.

“Not everyone can be the princess, or have a fairy godmother to grant all their wishes, or have a prince burst in and give them everything they’ve always wanted. Some people are just the ugly stepsister in someone else’s story.”

#rucas #rucas fanfic #riley matthews #lucas friar #gmw #fanfiction #au #fic: Cold Cape Cod Clams

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totalfanfreak · 7 years

Text

One of Three - Chapter Two

One of Three

Chapter Two – An Irish Hello

To be fair she wasn’t as late as one would think. She was an art teacher to one of Boston’s private schools. It had taken forever to find a placement too; many of the schools had strict requirements. Mainly, they wanted someone of their own religion, which she could understand. Though it had been a tad dramatic when she had walked into an interview and the woman fainted when it was stated she was Jewish.

Being the only teacher for the subject she liked to come in a few hours ahead to set everything up and make sure her lesson plans were solid. She may pick one theme throughout the day but you didn’t want set things up for a twelfth grader as you would for someone in third. But that was out the window today, there were already children outside the door. Her schedule alternated between grades, and it was the poor first graders sitting outside the room. Many of the kids brightened when they saw her approaching.

“Good morning, Miss Shafir and Shepherd.”

Sera smiled down at the little girl, Molly. She could remember most first names, it was the last names she had trouble with. She wanted to believe the children liked her well enough, though Shep may have more to do with it. The dog usually being asked to model on more than one occasion.

“Good morning, sweetheart. I hope none of you had to wait too long for me. I’m afraid I nearly got swept away by all the rain and was running late.”

She had said it enough for the class to hear, most shaking their heads others still talking amongst themselves. Unlocking the door they all scrambled to their feet, getting to their assigned tables.

“Since there is so much water out today, I thought it’d be appropriate to work on our watercolors. We are going to go over a few facts first –“

A collective groan hit the walls.

“I know, I know, but we have to. It’s in my job description guys. When you have yourselves situated can someone tell me when did watercolor art begin?”

“The cavemen!”

“That’s correct, Trenton, can someone name a cave painting?”

“Lacroo?”

“Chateau!”

“They’re in France!”

Writing the answers on the board she turned to them.

“One at a time guys, remember we raise our hands to get a turn. But a lot of you are right. There are many drawing in France, but it’s Lascaux, just say it like lasko, makes it easier. And it is Chauvet not chateau, both are French but a chateau is more like a manor – a very expensive home. All right, I’m going to put the chapter lessons on the board, you can do the vocabulary and question sheet now while I set up for today’s lessons. It’ll be chapter six, remember to read it please.”

She passed out the papers from her folder, watching the children skim over the questions.

“There’s going to be a test next Monday. I want you to get an early start on studying. You know I don’t make it that hard but the last results I wasn’t too happy with. I know all of you can do better than that.”

The morning had been fun, despite all the gloom outside, she was hanging her last class’ pictures up on one of the clothes line to let it dry when she heard a soft tapping on her door.

“Hi, Sera, ready for lunch?”

She glanced at the clock first, a little stunned to have time pass that quickly before turning her eyes to Claudette. She was a small blonde woman and one of the few teachers around her age range, the other, Janine probably waiting for them in the parking lot. She counted them both as friends, she could talk to them, and they would ask her to come along with them to lunch, even trying to get her to tag with one of them on their weekend plans. But Sera usually settled with keeping a distance, setting this as a work friendship and nothing more.

“Sure, let me grab my things, I need to grab the schedules, testing’s coming up soon and I don’t know which medium to use for eighth and up yet.”

Claudette gave a humbling smile. It was odd, the contrast of them all, Claudette so soft spoken whereas Janine would ramble out whatever came into her head.

“I’m happy to see you’re adjusting well here. It’s been about, what, six months?”

Sera nodded as she tanked Claudette for opening the door, her arms a little more full with the leash and folders. “About that, I think I’m finding my niche.”

I hope it lasts, that I can stay this time.

Janine waved to them from her car, a plume of smoke exiting her mouth as she dragged on her cigarette. It was then she realized the rain had halted, though the sky was still black as ink.

“You know you shouldn’t do that on school grounds, some of the kids are out for recess and can see you right now.”

Janine rolled her eyes but dropped the butt on the pavement, squashing the smoke out with her heeled shoe.

“So where to, ladies, I’m starving.”

Sera shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, aren’t you fun today.”

“Cloudy days always depress me, make me tired too.”

Janine perked, sliding in her seat with ease. “I don’t why, I love them, brings out the philosophical thoughts.”

Sera snorted. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, death? Look up at the cathedral, and how the gray looms over the graveyard. Total death right there.”

Sera could hear, as her and Shep filled up the back seat, Claudette’s little gasp as her hand went to clutch the cross that forever hung around her neck.

“Eh, how about something a little more cheerful, huh?”

“Okay, how about plans for next weekend, there’s an open Morisette concert, all the proceeds go to help fund the project to stop domestic violence.”

Claudette played with a loose strand on her sweater. “I’ll have to ask Toby what we’re doing.”

Janine beat the steering wheel. “See that’s your problem! You don’t need to go asking a fucking man what and when you’ll be doing something. If you want to go, go. If not, then don’t use him as an excuse.”

Sera thought they could be sisters sometimes, then thinking of death and her own sister she wilted.

“Okay, Janine, back it off, let’s let it go. I’m probably not doing anything, I’ll go with you.”

She got two sets of blank stares then and she shrugged. “What?”

Janine chortled but Claudette answered. “It’s just, you never do anything with us. Surprising is all.”

“Yeah, well, it may be a onetime thing, so neither of you get used to it. I don’t know how, Shep’s going to like the noise anyways.”

Sera saw the back of Janine’s head tilt. “I didn’t think of that – would you be okay too? Like I won’t turn and see you foaming at the mouth or something will I?”

She thought for a minute. “As long as there are no flashing lights.”

“Oh.”

So there would be.

“Nevermind.”

“No! No way, you actually accepted a night out with me, and I’m taking it. Hell, I can figure something out for us to do, and if Claudette comes then I’ll bust her midnight cherry too.”

Sera laughed and wonder how that cross hasn’t been rubbed away yet.

“Okay, everyone, I know the bell’s about to ring, but you know I’m going to want that your croquis sketches the next time I see you. I’m not asking for a Degas or anything, just do your best so we’ll have something to broach the topic next time. Any references needed, my door is open or you can go by the chapter.”

She smirked to herself as the bell went off; she was getting better at timing herself. The class rushed out, leaving her to pick up the easels and smocks. Funny how a six year old is better at picking up after themselves than a teenager, she decided to let the brushes soak overnight, praying she’d make it in early tomorrow to rinse them off.

“It’s not raining anymore, boy.”

Shep trotted over, looking out the window with her. She remembered her promise, but now she didn’t know what to do. She conceded to herself that she was nervous to go back. A handsome Irish accent or not, it was still dangerous. Only knowing Mr. MacManus for twenty minutes wasn’t exactly an established level of trust, and then he’d have his brother with him. Two against one even if Shep was there to defend her wasn’t in good favor of her.

It wouldn’t kill either of you to have a little faith. You act like the whole world is against us.

Her sister had been right on that, and maybe Sera didn’t want to go through life thinking everyone was out to hurt her anymore. She knew something like that wouldn’t magically happen overnight, but she could at least keep a promise. That much she could do, and if something did happen she had Shep and pepper spray in her bag.

“Let’s go, Shep.”

It’ll be okay.

Her heart still hammered a bit, and she breathed deep to get her pulse to slow down. Looking out she was glad the clouds were starting to break loose. Maybe the sun would be out tomorrow. She pulled up and parked, having arrived a little early, and watched people departing the plant. Many left their white coats on, some casting curious peeks at her, checking around at the other vehicles maybe her Roadmaster was a tad conspicuous. Letting her seat lean back, she tipped her head back on the head rest, her hand wandering to the passenger seat to scratch at Shep’s ear. It wasn’t as cold as it had been this morning, the frigid air tapering on a more comfortable feel; it was relaxing, kind of nice. That was until there was a banging from her window.

Her eyes popped open. “Holy fuck!”

The shout caused Shepherd to commence his barking, and she shushed him as she opened the car door, seeing the blonde grinning ear to ear at her a bob of dark hair that must belong to his brother behind him.

“Didn’t mean ta scare ye lass.”

She rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Caught me off guard is all.”

The smile remained, the crinkling around his eyes causing her to smile back.

“Ya probably could’ve guessed it, but this one ‘ere’s me brother, Murphy. Told ye he’s an ugly thin’.”

“Fuck off, Conner.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the snub, she could tell the teasing wasn’t meant to be hurtful, and it kind of delighted her reminding her of her own siblings’ antics. She held out a hand, and hoped he wouldn’t notice the sweat.

“It’s nice to meet you, Murphy. I’m Sera.”

The brunette looked at her hand a moment, his hands had been busy looking through his coat pockets before, making her think she should’ve waited for the introduction. His hands stilled, eyes looking at her now, and she noticed his were the exact same blue as his brother’s. She was about to let her hand fall back to her side, when he grabbed it, pulling her in close and kissing both of her cheeks. The places his lips had touched instantly beginning to heat up.

“That’sa proper Irish greetin’ for ye, love.”

She gawked for a second. “And here I thought that kind of greeting would be considered French.”

At last finding the crumpled pack of what looked to be cigarettes, he unfurled the pack before smirking.

“Gotta correct ye there, them snail eaters took it from us. Irish’re the romantics of Europe, y’know.”

She continued to blush. “I guess I do now.”

He had flicked open his lighter, lighting it and taking a puff in a millisecond.

“Sure do, love, if my brother had any common sense he’da showed ye how we say thanks.”

The response to that was a slap to the back of Murphy head, Connor looking livid.

“Is é an ag fuck cearr leat? Ná bíodh caint leis an cailín mar sin, nó beidh mé ag insint ma.”

(The fuck is wrong with you? Don't be talking to the girl like that, or I'll be telling ma.)

Murphy wrenched away, clutching his fist. “I gcónaí ag rith go dtí ma, pansy tú cac. Ní raibh mé chiallaíonn sé liek sin sa chéad áit diabhal!”

(Always running to ma, you pansy shit. I didn't mean it like that in the first damn place!)

Sera had to cover her smile as she watched them push each other. “Tá brón orm cur isteach ach is féidir liom a thuiscint cad atá tú ag rá agus mo mhadra ansy dul mar sin má tá an bheirt agaibh réidh ...”

(I'm sorry to interrupt but I can understand what you're saying and my dog's getting antsy so if you're both ready...)

Murphy twisted out of Connor’s arms, both having a look of incredulity. “Aye.”

They got into the backseat, Shepherd turning his head to look at the newcomers. Connor sat up to let the dog sniff him. “There’s me new best friend. Let ye replace ol’ Murph here, doggo.”

Murphy scowled, flicking the butt out the cracked windshield. “Shut it. So ya can speak a little Irish there, love?”

What was it with the two of them and calling her that?

“I can speak a few different languages.”

Connor turned to her then. “Das ist so? Und wie viele Sprachen hast du in deinem aresenal?“

(That so? And how many languages do you have in your arsenal?)

She smiled in the dash mirror. "Etwa acht." (About eight.)

She could feel the two smiling at her, and she flushed.

“Y en qué línea de trabajo conocéis a tantos?” (And what line of work are you in to know so many?)

“Sólo un profesor de arte.” (Just an art teacher.)

She could feel their confusion and she laughed. “My mother had thought it would come in handy. She had hoped her daughters could use their language skills to woo a few diplomats.”

“Aye, ours as well, not to woo, though it don’t hurt us none.”

“So where can I take you boys?”

She could hear the leather to Murphy’s seat shifting. “Like I was tellin’ Connor, he needs ta thank ye proper like. So we’ll take ye out ta eat t’night.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, I’m sure if the tables were turned you two would’ve done the same.”

She couldn’t turn but Sera could feel Connor’s stare on her. “Aye, but not the point, lass, fer once me brother’s right, can’t be lettin’ angels starve on our part. ‘Specially when one was brought to us at a fittin’ moment.”

“I would’ve let him drown out there.”

She smiled. “It’s very kind of you both but really it’s not –“

“Can’t take no fer an answer love, if yer too uncomfortable we understand. But like Connor said, not many people out t’ere do the right thing anymore. Gotta give ye some credit on that regard. Besides that, maybe we want to be a little selfish, and bask in the presence of the angel Seraphine. He was right fer once, you are a mighty exquisite creature.”

She blushed hearing a resounding slap, and Gaelic curses coming from Murphy. She laughed, butterflies still swamping her gut.

“How can I say no to that?”

#the boondock saints #boondock saints #connor murphy #connor macmanus #murphy macmanus #my ocs #norman reedus #sean flanery

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beccalovesdarling · 7 years

Text

Reach for the Stars Part 7

Who’s ready for some Ladynoir agnst?

Previous Parts

Marinette finished with the dance preparations about an hour later. She kept replaying her time with Adrien to pinpoint what had made him mad at her. She sniffed her blazer as she walked home but found only the constant smells of sweets that were embedded in her very soul from living above a bakery instead of body odor or some other nasty smell that might have chased him off. She knew she had the beginning of a few zits from her tear fests, but unless her concealer was flaking they should have been covered. As she entered her home, she still had no idea what she had done.

Pushing it on the backburner, Marinette greeted her parents as they closed the bakery for the night. As she slipped into the familiar role of helping her family, she glanced at the ornate clock hanging on the back wall of the shop. It was a little after six so it was too early to call on Chat. She needed to clear some of the air between them after her actions Monday and then she still needed to think of some way to broach the topic of their…relationship.

As much as she wanted to fight it, Marinette supposed it was her destiny and she needed to own up to it. She had thrown her temper tantrum like a toddler and after last night with Chat-

She almost dropped the bowl she had been cleaning.

Her tiny mother swooped in and snatched the bowl before Marinette could damage it. “Are you okay, dear?”

Marinette mumbled out an excuse about a headache before tossing her towel into the sink and sprinting to her room. Once there, she collapsed on the floor and Tikki appeared before her voicing the same question her mother had minutes ago.

“Adrien’s mad at me because I told him about last night,” Marinette wheezed out passed her dry lips. “He must find me so fickle to cry one day about a boy and then be over it the next. Not that I’m over it,” she hastily added at Tikki’s confused look. “I mean, I’m still upset that I’m being forced to be with Chat and I can’t just stop my feelings for Adrien, but to Adrien it must have looked like-“

“Marinette,” the kwami interjected. “I don’t think he’s mad at you. From what I’ve seen, Adrien is a sweet boy. I think he’s just concerned.”

“He danced with me,” Marinette whined. “And then he ran away! I don’t want to chase him away! I don’t want him to hate me!” She pulled on her pigtails. “I want to be selfish just this once, but if I do…” The tiny girl visibly deflated with a heavy sigh. “If I’m selfish, Adrien will get hurt and Paris will never be safe.”

Tikki floated closer and hugged Marinette’s cheek with her stubby paws. “Oh, Marinette…”

“Tikki,” she mumbled. “Spots on…”

XXX

Chat joined her atop the Tower minutes after she arrived. As usual during their joint patrols, she reached into the bag from her family’s bakery and handed him a chocolate croissant. Chat practically purred in delight as he plopped down next to her and took the sugary treat. She grinned as he slowly ate the delicacy. When Chat was eating, he was quiet. And sometimes, most of the time, that was a good thing. Especially today. Her nerves were frazzled after dancing with Adrien. And she wasn’t quite sure how to act around Chat considering her revelations about him.

Thoughtfully, he swallowed his bite and licked his lips. “My Lady,” he began. With a sigh, she hummed for him to continue. “Tom and Sabine’s daughter, Marinette…”

She tensed. “Um, what about…her?” He tossed the last bite of his snack into his mouth. Chat’s silence was eating away at her as he leisurely ate. “Chat!” She finally snapped.

He swallowed. “She…I think she hates me? Like, both Chat Noir and regular me? And I don’t know why. Does she know who I am?”

Ladybug snorted. “I doubt it.”

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his gloved wrist. “Whatever the reason, there’s something wrong. She’s…” His hand dropped to his lap and fisted. “I think Hawk Moth is targeting her.”

Ladybug blanched. “What? Chat, I really doubt that-“

“Monday night I found her crying,” he interrupted. “I was patrolling and I ended up at her house. She was talking to herself and she kept apologizing and using my name,” His face heated and he avoided her gaze. “I ended up on her balcony and we…kissed,” he peeked at her from the corner of his mask. “And I kissed her last night, too.”

Ladybug looked hard at her lap. Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out through her nose slowly. “Why are you telling me this?” She whispered lowly.

“Adrien Agreste.”

Her head snapped towards him so quickly her neck popped. “Adrien?” Her eyes were wide.

Chat nodded. “I’m upset about what happened Monday on the Tower,” he admitted. “I know you like Adrien and it was really stupid of you to do what you did.” Neither hero could meet the other’s gaze as they watched the city below them. “I wish you had listened to me,” she barely heard his murmur. “I wish you had trusted me. But you didn’t and we can’t change what happened.”

Guilt flooded her. It was stupid of her. It was part of the reason he had found her crying that night. She had caused an akuma and nearly got herself killed. She should have never acted that way. Especially considering the entire cosmos wanted her to be with the guy beside her. No matter how much she fought the pull. “Adrien-“

“Let me finish, Ladybug.”

Ladybug.

He called her Ladybug.

Tears welled in her eyes. She had truly hurt him. Her lip quivered and she bit down on it. She would not cry in front of him. Ladybug didn’t cry.

“I know how you feel about Adrien because…” He finally looked at her and she saw the serenity in his chemical eyes. “I like Marinette. I don’t know when it happened or why, but I love her and she’s in danger.”

Ladybug closed her eyes against the warmth dripping from her eyes. She could not hold the boiling tears back any longer.

He’d fallen for her twice.

He’d fallen for her on both sides of the mask and she could not stop thinking about another guy. She kept overthinking their time together when they were Chat and Marinette. She kept pushing him away as Ladybug. She had to be literally the worst person ever.

But something else he had said finally plucked at her mind. She roughly scrubbed away her tears with her palms. He said nothing as she collected herself. “You said,” she hiccupped. “Does she know your civilian side?” Did she know this sweet, kind boy?

He nodded. “Yeah, but I swear I’ve not told her anything.”

Ladybug inched closer to him and peered into those eyes. She forced herself to make a connection. To see the boy who set before her. The boy who visited her. “I know what I did was…wrong,” she started sluggishly. “I don’t expect you to forgive me or understand. But Adrien and I…” She licked her lips. Would she be revealing herself if she admitted she knew Adrien? If Chat knew Marinette, if wouldn’t be hard to guess he also knew Adrien. This was a big risk. Could she take it?

“I don’t want to know,” he looked away from her and lithely pushed himself to his feet. He stepped a few paces away. “He’s a model, so I’m sure you have a massive crush on him. And if that’s what I was competing against…” He shook his head, his shaggy hair brushing his shoulders. “Just please,” he whirled around to face her again. “Just please, help me save Marinette.”

Her throat tightened at his begging. “I can’t save her, Chat. She’s not in danger.”

“Yes she is!” He insisted. “Hawk Moth is using her as bait to lure me. And I’m certain he’ll use Adrien against you.”

“No one is baiting Marinette,” Ladybug snapped. “Maybe she’s just going through a really hard time! And Adrien is perfectly safe! I’m not gonna let that happen to him again!” She flipped onto her feet. “I asked you here to talk about something important, but I can see now’s not the time.”

“You don’t know Adrien!” Chat screamed at her. He honestly screamed to the point his voice cut out from the roughness of the air pushing out. “You don’t know a thing about him! But I know Marinette! I know she’s not been herself lately. I actually talk to her! You…you…” He cut off on a growl. He turned, his hand reaching for his baton.

“I know Adrien better than you think!” She hollered back. “I know he’s impossibly lonely and kind. He’s super smart. I’ve been in love with him for months! You have no right to tell me I don’t know him!” She paced after him and gripped his firm shoulders and roughly twisted him to face her. “And yes, I would give up my Miraculous to keep him safe. I’m aware that it’s stupid and brash, but I’ve been watching him. I won’t let Hawk Moth use him against me again! But you,” she jabbed a finger in his chest. “I should have never trusted you to watch protect Marinette! She’s just some stupid, silly girl! And she will never love you!”

POP.

Ladybug stumbled backwards, her hand flying to her stinging cheek. The horror in her eyes reflected in Chat’s. Chat’s hand still hung in the air from his slap and his terrified eyes traveled to it; his mouth hanging open. Ladybug let out a barely contained sob as she continued to stagger backwards drunkenly. Chat watched silently and numbly as she vaulted away with her yo-yo.

XXX

Chat had hit her.

Marinette was borrowed under her blankets with Tikki resting by her side. The kwami offered her menial warmth and comforting friendship she was certain she didn’t deserve. She did, however, deserve Chat’s wrath, but she never expected him to physically hit her. Was that the proof of his feelings for her—for Marinette? Was their partnership over? Their friendship?

The girl let out a choked sob as more tears freely poured across her cheeks.

“Marinette,” Tikki began pitifully.

Marinette shook her head against her drenched pillows. “No, Tikki. I deserve this.”

“No, Marinette, you don’t,” the little ladybug tried again.

“Tikki,” Marinette muttered dishearteningly. “I hurt Chat. I was wrong.”

She heard scratching from the trapdoor above her and knew it was a certain stray begging to come in. Marinette kept quiet and prayed he would leave under the impression she was asleep. He scratched again with a whisper of “Princess?”

Marinette sniffled. Would he still call her that if he knew who she really was? That she was Ladybug? “Go away, Chat,” she pled.

His scratching paused. “Princess-“

“Just leave, Chat Noir!” Marinette yelled through her tears.

Buy me a coffee??

#ladynoir #marichat #adrienette

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bluewatsons · 7 years

Text

Philip Reider et al., The end of medical confidentiality? Patients, physicians and the state in history

Abstract

Medical confidentiality has come under attack in the public sphere. In recent disasters both journalists and politicians have questioned medical confidentiality and claimed that in specific contexts physicians should be compelled to communicate data on their patients’ health. The murders of innocent individuals by a suicidal pilot and a Swiss convicted criminal have generated polemical debates on the topic. In this article, historical data on medical confidentiality is used to show that medical practices of secrecy were regularly attacked in the past, and that the nature of medical confidentiality evolved through time depending on physicians’ values and judgements. Our demonstration is based on three moments in history. First, at the end of the 16th century, lay authorities put pressure on physicians to disclose the names of patients suffering from syphilis. Second, in the 18th century, physicians faced constant demands for information about patients’ health from relatives and friends. Third, employers and insurance companies in the 20th century requested medical data on sick employees. In these three different situations, history reveals that the concept of medical confidentiality was plastic, modelled in the first instance to defend well-to-do patients, in the second instance it was adapted to accommodate the physician's social role and, finally, to defend universal values and public health. Medical secrecy was, and is today, a medical and societal norm that is shaped collectively. Any change in its definition and enforcement was and should be the result of negotiations with all social actors concerned.

Introduction

Keeping secrets is both a social constraint and a professional imperative for a physician. It partakes in the definition of the professional identity of health professionals. And yet, why should physicians keep the darkest secrets of murderers, depressed pilots, rapists, unfaithful spouses, contagious patients and heads of state? At times, publishing such information appears to be a means of preventing public health issues, private and political disasters and seemingly, an unlimited list of crimes. The issue has been of late regularly broached in the public sphere. Media suggest that physicians should be compelled to inform relevant authorities of their patients’ health in order to prevent crimes and public disasters. Thus, taking up on present and past contestations of medical secrecy, occupational fields, status, gender or past offences are variables that have been or are being presented as requiring that the physician relax his practice of medical confidentiality.

In the eyes of journalists and politicians, medical data appear to carry a foreboding truth, demanding both attention and preventive measures. Three days after the horrific crash on 24th March of an airbus run by Luftansa's low-cost parent company, Goldenwings, German prosecutors announced the finding of a series of medical certificates excusing the co-pilot Adreas L from work. This information was immediately related to the announcement made the previous day by French prosecutors that data obtained from the black box suggested that the co-pilot had voluntarily crashed the plane.1 Less than a week after the crash, as from 30th March, the idea that airplane companies should automatically receive data on pilots’ health was voiced in the media.2 The ensuing polemic mirrors an ongoing debate in Switzerland as to whether physicians of dangerous prisoners should not automatically inform the judicial authorities of their patients’ (mental) health. The debate was triggered by the murder of Adeline M, a social worker, by Fabrice A, a convicted rapist and murderer. The murder was perpetrated on a therapeutic excursion during which the social worker accompanied Fabrice A. beyond the prison walls. Although the prosecution underway has revealed that a series of institutional dysfunctions clearly accounted for the fact that a notorious sex offender was let out in the sole company of a female therapist, the idea that medical confidentiality had no legitimacy in such situations surfaced in the media where it was presented as potentially endangering the lives of innocent members of the public. Judiciary and police authorities petitioned for means to compel health professionals working in prisons to disclose medical information about their patients.3

In view of these highly mediatised cases, it seems legitimate to question whether medical confidentiality should be guaranteed to the same extent to all patients. Modern-day preoccupations and obsessions with security issues appear to warrant a revision of medical deontology. Is medical confidentiality an obsolete concept? Different perspectives may be adopted in order to address such a question. In this article, we shall discuss historical inputs to the debate. What can history tell us about the genesis of medical confidentiality and the role played by healers in reacting to pressures coming from outside the profession? In the following pages, we shall show that while one may be tempted to consider past practices of keeping secrets as simple and obvious,4 historical data show that there was constantly a tension between social expectations and medical practices.

Origins

The fact that the notion of medical confidentiality is almost as old as medicine itself is well established and confirmed by an often quoted section of the Hippocratic oath (IVth century B.C.):What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about.5

One of the most obvious characteristics of the oath is that the physician was to judge himself what exactly should not be communicated to third parties, that ‘which on no account one must spread abroad’. The fact that the oath itself was regularly quoted in texts since the 1st century B.C. has led many authors to believe that medical confidentiality was a constant medical norm. Historical research tells a more complex story. A short summary is necessary to understand later debates. To start with, the context of the formulation of the oath is not known precisely. Ludwig Edelstein has convincingly argued that the content of the oath itself suggests that it was written for physicians of the Pythagorean sect. This may explain why the content of the oath was not consistently applied by Greek physicians.4 ,5 It was more popular in Roman times, not as a binding rule, but as a ‘medical reference’.6 All in all, little is known about actual practices of medical confidentiality in antiquity.

Understanding to what extent norms voiced in the oath were implemented in the following centuries is essential, and yet historical data on practices remain scant. The notion that the patient's secrets were to be kept by the physician was voiced by a series of medical authors in the Middle Ages and more regularly since the Renaissance.4 ,7 The frame in which medical confidentiality was set varied from one place to another during the early modern period, and practices often depended on individual physician's ‘judgement’ of what he decided not to disclose. In 1598, the rule that no member should ‘reveal either the secrets or what he had seen, heard or understood’ of the patients’ secrets was added to the statutes of the Paris Faculty. Other French universities and some surgeons’ guilds adopted similar regulations.7

Institutional rules thus suggest that confidentiality was often expected of practitioners, sometimes compared with a priest's obligation to withhold the content of confessions. Court rulings confirm this view as judges condemned those who used medical information to slander their patients6 and yet it was admitted that health professionals should inform the authorities of infectious diseases and some municipal regulations stipulated that healers were to report wounds.8 In short, confidentiality was a rather vague quality expected of a physician. This did not change in the last decades of the 18th century when ideas about confidentiality were voiced in an emerging literature concerned with medical etiquette, deontology and ethics. John Gregory (1724–1773) and Thomas Percival (1740–1804), recognised today to be the founders of modern medical ethics, considered confidentiality as essential to the moral behaviour of physicians. And yet neither of them gave precise indications as to the nature of secrecy. For both Gregory and Percival, to judge precisely what medical information was to be kept secret remained subject to the appreciation of each individual physician.9 ,10 The view of medical confidentiality they thus formalised was compatible with that of the Hippocratic oath and adaptable to an indefinite number of social situations.

Within a few decades, such a subjective practice of medical confidentiality was outdated by the Code pénal (1810): confidentiality became a legal norm as all practitioners who failed to withhold confidential information about their patients were liable to a hefty fine (500 francs) and up to 6 months prison (article 378).11 The legal obligation for physicians to keep their patients’ secrets (except when public health or state security was at stake) withdrew, in theory a least, part of the responsibility from the physician and construed a more precise frame for medical practice.

The story of medical confidentiality could thus be that of the displacement of core responsibility from the physician to the judge, the 19th century marking a transition from an informal flexible practice regulated by the physician's judgement to a legal and codified practice upheld by political actors and enforced by judges. And yet, normative and theoretical texts teach us little about the realities of confidentiality in medical practice. Opening the perspective to court cases, private documents and professional journals reveals that medical secrecy was manifold in the past. It was designed at times to protect the patient's interests, elsewhere to support the patient's health or family interests and occasionally to defend the physician's reputation. To test the importance of the changes introduced by the Code pénal and to understand how ‘ideal attitudes’ were effectively translated into practices, it is necessary to change perspective and to consider particular situations and problems induced by medical confidentiality.

The following analysis is focused on three crises set off by problems of confidentiality concerning the patient and professional healers, and employers, institutions and the state between the 17th and the 20th century. Each case reveals something about the type of behaviour that was challenged, the actors and their attitudes. As the interpretation of medical confidentiality varied from one moment to the next, from one location to another and in order to privilege a historical perspective, we have chosen a circumscribed locus, the Swiss French region of Switzerland, where primary sources such as state records, letters to physicians and egodocuments are available. Concentrating on particular affairs and the debates that they set off reveals social values, constraints, interests, expectations and representations, which underpinned the practices of confidentiality in the past. Beyond the accumulation of historical information, we shall argue that, considered together, these affairs tell us first that medical secrets were adapted to the values and expectations of the social actors concerned, second that the status quo was never immutable and practices of secret were ever vulnerable to attacks from social groups and institutions that came to consider it as an obstacle to their own ends, and lastly, that the capacity of physicians and groups of physicians to withstand such attacks and negotiate new compromises was instrumental in the constant redefinition of medical confidentiality. A long series of adaptations mark long-term trends in the history of medical confidentiality.

Confidentiality challenged by lay authorities

The issues at stake were high for the physician between the Renaissance and the Revolution. His behaviour and his practice were inscribed in a complex web of values, including economical, intellectual, social, corporatist, political, legal and institutional components. The physician's right and capacity to adjust his attitude singlehandedly to the circumstances of both the patient's status and the prevailing social rules were oftentimes questioned by administrative and political instances. Analysing physicians’ responses to pressures exerted on medical confidentiality offers insights into the values and interests at stake.

At the time when the first cases of the pox (syphilis) appeared in the late 15th century, physicians were used to collaborate with local authorities about plague cases.12 ,13 Tensions did surface between individual healers and authorities over publicising the names of the sick. The plague hit indiscriminately. Revealing patients’ names had implications for the families of declared cases and sometimes for the physician. A physician's resistance to comply stemmed either from his decision to protect his patient (to keep his custom or out of pity) or from his own desire to avoid quarantine.13 ,14

The issue was slightly different regarding patients suffering from the pox. Such patients were stigmatised as having contracted the disease by their immoral behaviour, although a variety of other means of contracting the disease were also recognised.15 In the 16th and 17th centuries, the pox became both a public health issue and a source of conflict between physicians and local authorities. Patients with the pox strove to avoid recognition and did all they could to hide their condition. This triggered specific precautions among healers; some referred to such cases anonymously, referring to them as ‘secret’ or ‘shameful diseases’ even in their private account books.16 In Geneva, public charities took care of certain pox patients, namely those considered to be innocent victims (children and wives), but patients whose behaviour was considered amoral were banished.14

All over Europe, policies were enacted to report the sick, triggered by moral and public health concerns. The first known action taken in 1590 by Geneva's authorities against syphilitic patients as a group was triggered by an ecclesiastic court, Geneva's Consistory, which judged moral and religious behaviour.17 The court deferred the case to the secular authorities who had the power to enforce physical punishments. The project was to require that surgeons and physicians report the names of patients to the authorities so that they could be confined. Three healers refused, insisting on the possible consequences ‘if [the disease] affected some honorable person or their children, a fact one would not like to bring to light’.18 The argument was sufficient to calm the aldermen's enthusiasm.

The problem remained endemic and tensions recurred in 1621. A second group of healers refused to comply with official requests to give up the names of their patients. They justified their attitude. First, they declared that they had sworn not to reveal any disease ‘which should remain secret’ when graduating, rendering any disclosure impossible. The basis of their argumentation was their deontology and integrity. Second, they claimed that if they complied, the effect would be that the sick would no longer consult them, which would only make the situation worse. Here they addressed the politicians’ concern for public health. Third, they argued that the pox was not dangerous in Geneva, and thus the risk of contamination was not a major concern. Medical science was the final argument voiced to justify their refusal to comply. The authorities apparently gave in, although they did require that all healers disclose the names of poxed ‘ruffians and prostitutes’, without shocking anyone.19 ,20

The pox set off negotiations between healers and authorities. Of interest here is the fact that arguments put forward in the late 16th and early 17th centuries are still voiced today in debates about mandatory declarations of contagious patients and the protection of patients’ data when social stigmatisation is a serious risk. Confrontations between state and healers concerning patients suffering from the pox suggest, not surprisingly in a tiered society, that the social status of the patient and possibly his or her weight as a paying client could trigger differentiated treatment. That vagrants, marginal social groups and the poor should be treated differently was not questioned. Social discrimination was, at that time, a problem neither for the physicians nor for the aldermen. More interesting for our purpose here is the fact that problems set off by the pox led, for the first time, physicians of Geneva to refuse to reveal a specific diagnosis. This may answer the tendency of patients to consult illegal specialised healers who promised effective, rapid and discreet treatments which regular practitioners had not hitherto guaranteed.21Regular healers were thus induced to guarantee privacy if they wished to keep a foot in what was a very lucrative market. This is a first milestone in the genesis of a modern conception of medical confidentiality.

Confidentiality challenged by patients

Medical secrecy did prevail in medical contexts, although not always in the sense expected today. Friends and family would often enjoin the physician not to disclose a bad prognosis to a patient for medical reasons: emotions were considered to be lethal to a fragile patient's health.22 Worry could also entice next of kin and spouses to secretly consult a physician for a loved one. Mme de Nettencourt did not inform her daughter before consulting the distant and yet famous Dr Tissot (1728–1797) about her case: “I am frightened that she would worry still more about my anxiety…” the mother explained to the physician, “she shall not know that I have the honor to write to you until I receive your answer”.23 Siblings, parents and friends were the objects of secret consultations. Anxiety was contagious in the patient's social circle of which the physician was more often than not a member. His role was to assist all the actors of a disease situation.

Pressure was often exerted by family and friends to gain information about the patient's health. The therapeutic relationship was more than a private encounter between two individuals. Lay individuals expected friends and acquaintances to share medical stories. Research in patient history has shown that it was rare for a patient not to share knowledge with friends and family; epistolary consultations demonstrate just how ‘normal’ the circulation of such information was.24 ,25 At the age of 22, for instance, Horace-Bénédict de Saussure (1740–1799) was capable of consulting a physician about his mother's health, communicating detailed information about her dejections, her spittle, transpiration and menses during the previous 5 years.24 In fact, to retain information about one's health could be a problem. Here Saussure's own health story illustrates the point: he believed that he suffered from a hereditary disease from his mother's family and withheld information about his health. This strategy upset his close relations and one of them sent an anonymous letter to a foreign physician, Albrecht von Haller, about his health. The wording of the letter suggests that by taking medicines in secret, Saussure had upset members of his circle of friends and family. Sickness was then a collective event rather than an individual one, and sharing information was accepted and required.22 ,26

Social pressure weighed heavily on healers to reveal information on the health of patients known to those with whom healers entered into social intercourse. The norm was for physicians and patients to be friends.27 Well-to-do patients and physicians often lived in the same communities and met in social venues, which could make patients ill at ease. They also often exchanged stories of individual health in social gatherings. Patients could not always trust local physicians to keep their health status secret when it carried heavy social stigma such as venereal diseases or hereditary conditions. Although today physicians in small isolated communities do share social venues with their patients, the physician is not expected to be a friend, and even if he is, patients expect him to keep secrets. In the past, the success of alternative, often shady healers, and the open admission by physicians that they were not consulted by patients suffering from venereal diseases, confirms the fact that confidentiality was not a readily available orthodox service.

Another issue that became a problem towards the end of the 18th century was the common practice of requiring medical information about a possible son or daughter-in-law. Marriage was an important and often definite step, conveying identity and meaning to the lives of the majority.28–30 Families developed strategies in order to avoid generating sick offspring. Parents of young adults gathered information about the health of intended spouses. The marquessa d'Agrain, for instance, was planning to marry one of her daughters to a man who appeared to be the ideal son-in-law: he was of high extraction and possessed both natural and acquired qualities, which had all been screened. And yet, the family hesitated because the young man had confessed that he suffered a slight atrophy of his legs. They had consulted a physician who had been incapable of determining the possible impact of such a condition. A letter addressed to Dr Tissot heralded one central question: what were the possible effects on the future children? “I beg you to answer as if you were Monsieur d'Agrain, or as if you were yourself to be married”.31 Although Tissot's answer is not known, a short comment he left on the letter is quite clear as to his opinion: “this unfortunate disease will slowly progress and undoubtedly, in the end, make a cripple of him”.31 The doctor did not hesitate to offer his prognosis on the health of an individual who was not his patient. Being asked questions about third parties was far from exceptional and physicians were routinely expected to answer such requests even when they concerned their own patients.

Louis Odier, a physician of Geneva, exposed the dilemma in his 1803 conference on medical discretion. If healers aimed to respect their oath only when the diagnosis was likely to stigmatise the patient, their silence could be interpreted to the disadvantage of the spouse to be. If they answered truthfully, they would be breaking their oath. Odier also pointed out that medical knowledge was not unequivocal and that mistakes occurred. An incorrect interpretation could affect a destiny for the wrong reasons. The term destiny is not too strong here: one can suspect that after having received Tissot's answer, Mlle d'Agrain's fiancé's chances of marrying his beloved were slim. Odier himself related the story of young lady who did not marry because of the opinion voiced by a physician, insisting on the devastating effect this had had on her life.22

Confidentiality challenged by health systems

The ‘wedding dilemma’ and more generally, the impact of physicians’ chatter on individual destinies, were, at least theoretically, solved when breaching medical secrets became a legal offence in France after 1810. The idea was to defend both private interests and public order by guaranteeing that those needing treatment could get it without taking the risk of being betrayed. The recognised exceptions to medical confidentiality were contagious diseases and offences against state security.4 During the following two centuries, the medical profession gained both respectability and credibility: the increasing impact of public health on public policies, the growth of hospital medicine and, last but not least, spectacular innovations (anaesthesia, X-rays, antibiotics) brought it new visibility.32 ,33 Members of the profession and its numerous local and federal societies came forward to counsel governments. This is the time when ethical and deontological discussions were increasingly integrated into the medical sciences, a transformation made visible by the first international congress of deontology in 1900.34 The growing impact of health professionals at different levels of everyday life led to new questions about the management of medical confidentiality.

Among these, issues related to the new insurance schemes for the working class arose. In Switzerland, the actors were national companies and administrations, insurance companies, physicians and patients. Towards the end of 1920, the question of medical certificates became controversial. Private and public employers complained about the lack of information transmitted by doctors on employees on sick leave. The debate developed around a routine practical medical issue: the form physicians had to fill for the insurance company for each and every sick employee. Each physician interpreted individually what was to be included, some offering detailed information, others refusing to give any idea of what the diagnosis was. The lack of consistence became an issue for administrators. The central Swiss medical committee(Comité médical suisse) tried to standardise practices, but failed, due to disagreements between insurance companies and physicians, but also among physicians themselves.35

In 1920, an interesting debate surfaced in response to the request for a standardisation of practices made by a company in Lausanne. A medical commission, chaired by Dr Pochon, was formed to discuss what a physician should or should not communicate to employers and insurances companies concerning an employee's health. The elements discussed were (1) the seriousness of the disease, (2) the contagiousness of the patient and (3) the prescriptions given so that employers could check patients’ compliance. The commission's stand was more than accommodating. In its report, it recommended that physicians reveal the seriousness of the sickness, but also that they mention a diagnosis if it was a ‘real’ disease, with the exception of venereal diseases or diagnosis that could be of damage to the patient's reputation. In so doing, the report accommodated employers who planned to adapt the benefits given to employees to the nature of the diagnosis: an employee suffering from a ‘real’ disease would be paid a full salary, whereas an employee suffering from less ‘real’ diseases (such as nervosity, anaemia or weakness) would be allocated half-pay only. The commission also recommended that physicians reveal cases of contagious diseases and the list of prescriptions given to each individual patient.36

These recommendations triggered violent reactions from colleagues. Dr Maillart (1860–1932), a well-known Geneva physician, contended that since doctors were to reveal diagnosis in some cases, to refrain from doing so because the disease was stigmatised (in cases of venereal diseases for instance) was damaging information in itself. Furthermore, even if a particular diagnosis was not damaging at the time, it could become so at a later date. Silence, he asserted, was always the best solution, a solution that never forced the physician to make a choice between his conscience and his duties.37 “I couldn't believe Dr Pochon's report”, wrote Dr Rychner, a second indignant colleague active in the canton of Vaud; Rychner had serious doubts about the category of ‘real’ diseases, “and I know that I am not the only one. But I feel the need to discuss it, because each day which ends without any protest being voiced will suggest to administrations, employers and insurance companies that the entire medical corporation agrees with the stunning conclusion: that the physician is to reveal his patient's diagnosis”.38 The debate revealed that confidentiality was treated differently in each Swiss canton. In Geneva, for instance, physicians were in favour of a strict observance of confidentiality and refused to communicate information about their patients to anyone but a doctor working for an insurance company.37 Such a solution was not possible in the canton of Vaud as the local medical society was opposed to doctors working under contract (it worried that physicians would become employees) and physicians had to communicate information directly to administrators. Unsurprisingly, Dr Pochon's report was not accepted by the local medical society.

The question of communicating (or not) data on patients to insurance companies reveals the stakes of medical confidentiality. First, it illustrates the difficulty to find cohesion within the medical profession, due to different corporative environments and the leeway individual physicians had, some being more inclined to be discreet than others. Second, it shows the importance of the moral component of medical secrecy. In the view of some actors, physicians and laymen, it was normal to control the behaviour of employees. The latters’ compliance could be checked. Sick workers were considered useless for the nation's workforce, and state officials and doctors were expected to rally with employers in order to compel them to return to work. Third, it is significant that the question of diagnosis included the distinction between ‘real’ and ‘less real’ diseases. Sufferers of ‘real’ diseases were socially and medically recognised to deserve a full reimbursement, and others were not considered to be worthy of it. Tiredness was assimilated to laziness, and nervosity and anaemia were considered to be chronic diseases and thus personal flaws. Dr Rychner was indignant and wondered wittingly if ridicule was not a real disease from which some of his colleagues may have been suffering.

Conclusion

All in all, medical secrecy appears to be by nature plastic and forever adapted to the context in which it is inscribed. The analysis of selected moments in the history of medical secrecy presented above shows that despite a constant recognition of the importance of the notion of medical secrecy through time, in practice attitudes were adapted to both social, economic, political, medical values and historical contexts. In all three historical situations, patients were stigmatised and pressure was exerted in order to ensure that they were punished because of the nature of their diseases. Confidentiality was challenged because of the way society considered particular diagnosis, specific categories of people and particular behaviour at different moments in time. The destiny of individual patients was at stake: imprisonment for syphilitic patients, prolonged celibacy for Mlle d'Agrain's fiancé, economic vulnerability for employees. Each situation calls attention to the weight of responsibilities physicians had to shoulder as individuals and as a professional group.

The attitude of physicians and the values they stand by have evolved over time and yet, medical confidentiality has always called upon a physician's capacity to judge by him or herself. Stigmatising patients and even sharing information about patients’ health with political instances have not always been seen by all physicians as a problem depending on the social status of the patient and the nature of the request. It is difficult not to suggest that past physicians were more inclined to protect patients they knew and patients who were good custom. At the same time, the three situations are revealing in the historical changes they infer. In the 17th century, the information lay authorities wanted access to was conveyed by the sick themselves: venereal diseases were described by patients suffering from their genitalia and both actors knew how to identify the cause of the disease. The authorities expected physicians to reveal information they came by in their professional life. Again, in the case of patient pressure, particularly apparent in the 18th century, but possibly common in earlier centuries, at issue was information given by the sick person, although here the judgement of the physician concerning prognosis could be requested. A medical expertise of a different nature is expected of physicians in the 20th century as it is surmised that their capacity of diagnosis enabled them to distinguish between different categories of patients. The physician was here a tool for revealing the patients’ secrets, some of which may have been unknown to him or herself. The emphasis is placed on the individual physician's diagnosis and yet again the Hippocratic idea surfaces, and despite clear normative rules, the physician must judge him or herself.

The physician's capacity to judge is clearly excluded in the highly mediated cases of Andreas L. and Adeline M. mentioned in the introduction. In these debates, the basic assumption is that the physicians’ judgement as to whether or not he, or she, should request the permission to reveal to the relevant authorities sensitive data gained in a consultation is not a sufficient guarantee when the lives and the health of others are in jeopardy. At stake is, in short, a loss of confidence in the individual physician and extraordinary belief in the capacity of medicine to predict the future behaviour of highly unstable individuals. Would the relevant information enable any one and any one instance to take appropriate measures?

Historical data does little to suggest an answer to such a question. It does reveal that the professional and legal foundations of medical confidentiality have evolved. During the 19th and 20th centuries, a web of legal and deontological dispositions was construed to guide the modern practitioner. In modern-day debates, the possibility of ‘relaxing’ or ‘softening’ medical confidentiality and even the idea of compelling physicians to reveal information about their patients were put forward in the public sphere.39 In early 2014, two Swiss cantonal governments planned laws, which would constrain physicians to reveal data on their imprisoned patients. Professional values were voiced in opposition to these projects. Each and every argument put forward in both public and professional media contributes to qualify the nature of the confidentiality expected of a physician.40 ,41 A certain conception of therapeutic relationships was defended, a relationship that should enable patients to voice their ailments and problems to a doctor, making it possible for the latter to offer the best possible diagnosis and the most adequate therapy. Without the promise of confidentiality, the patient could be tempted to withhold information and thus impede directly on his physician's capacity to heal42 and by undermining the notion of medical confidentiality itself, the legal setting could encourage political authorities to exert an administrative control abusively.43

Medical confidentiality was and is not only a medical matter, but a societal concern. Social groups and institutions such as political deciders, insurance companies, medical guilds and even groups of patients threaten medical secrecy. Medical confidentiality remains plastic and should not be adapted to answer the interests of any single interest group, but must be tailored only in response to changing values in society and via a consensus among all actors concerned.

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#confidentiality #controversy #mental health #stigma #biostate #technology #privacy #politics #biopolitics #doctor-patient relationship #doctor-patient confidentiality #medical records #data #public health #healthcare

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: A Showing of Art World Solidarity on Inauguration Day

The #J20 Art Strike outside the Whitney Museum of American Art (all photos courtesy Noah Fischer)

A plan to parade missile launchers through the capital; a plagiarized Potemkin village of a trophy cake, sliced by two homophobes sharing the same sword; presidential rhetoric apparently drawn from Wrestlemania broadcasts, Batman movies, and Charles Lindbergh speeches — such moments from the recent US presidential inauguration somehow seemed both surreal and all-too-real. Within these unbelievable, unbelievably toxic conditions, many felt obliged to refuse any semblance of normality, thinking that to present even the appearance of consent would be to grant the Trumpist regime the legitimacy it so blatantly lacks. Such was the logic behind the call for the #J20 Art Strike, which was criticized by some as elitist or impracticable, but was intended to be interpreted broadly as an incitement to creative resistance. The objective was not to compel others into making a superficially radical gesture, but rather to help mobilize various arts communities toward a joint struggle against the normalization and legitimation of an unjust, hostile regime.

A similarly urgent sense of purpose also motivated the collective Occupy Museums, which organized a public speak-out as part of the Whitney Museum’s alternative programming on January 20th. The event was free (given the Whitney’s decision to implement pay-what-you-wish admission), and was timed to take place at the same time as the inauguration, thus functioning as a clear gesture of non-compliance. Like the art strike, the speak-out framed the day as a chance to break out of one’s everyday routine and to institute different orders of time, space, experience, and community. As some speakers remarked, many people felt a strong need to be together, to think and speak and plan together, and to do so in a place without a TV or a computer.

It was as if everyone knew what was about to happen and agreed that hate-watching the sham pageantry of the inaugural wouldn’t change anything, and would likely only make things feel worse. Instead, those present decided to commit themselves to a different kind of event, one grounded in acknowledging the coexistence of many intense and difficult emotions. This was as true of the speakers — a highly diverse group of about 30 artists, activists, arts professionals, and critics — as it was of the audience, which included a number of walk-ins, and ranged from students and organizers to tenured professors and Whitney staffers.

If I say that the event was unlike anything I’ve been a part of, I do so not to exaggerate but to try to render a feeling that I experienced strongly but have yet to fully understand. (I was one of the invited speakers, and am writing here from the standpoint of a participant-observer.) I hope that others who were lucky enough to be there feel similarly; I know that at least some do. There was a heightened attentiveness and receptivity in the room, and a palpable energy circulating between the speakers and one’s neighbors. There was also, at least for myself, the sense of a singular, highly charged moment. Perhaps that derived from the ominous sense that a terrible history was being made; it could also have stemmed from the fraught tension between the rage, disbelief, and powerlessness people brought into the room and the refuge and even enjoyment they found there. People were laughing, crying, laughing to keep from crying. At some moments it felt like a wake for the lost promise of the Obama years; at others, like an Occupy assembly or a Quaker meeting, or like the formation of the culture ministry of a government in exile.

There is plenty to say about the three dozen presentations, much more than this space allows for. Presenters were invited to speak about one relevant “value,” and reflected on such principles as inclusiveness, agency, accessibility, and solidarity. They did so in forms that ranged from anecdotes, meditations, and manifestos to poems, karaoke, and improv performances. Dread Scott produced a purpose-built “conceptual artwork”: a sign printed with the text “BY READING THIS, YOU AGREE TO OVERTHROW DICTATORS.” The presenters varied widely in their tone and style. Some spoke bravely from a place of vulnerability; others with the assurance and poise of practiced performers.

Dread Scott holds up his sign among crowds outside the Whitney Museum of American Art

Among the many memorable moments from those three hours are two that speak to this powerful variety of ideas, attitudes, and positions. The writer Pamela Sneed read a poem that moved through histories of oppression, citing Trayvon Martin, Steve Biko, and the Warsaw Ghetto rebellion. She rhythmically built her delivery with shouts, incantations, and hushed pauses, reaching a climax of almost unbearable intensity, her voice nearly breaking as she closed with the phrase “always uprising!” Immediately afterward, the artist Baseera Khan spoke softly but incisively about the tension between American, Islamic, and South Asian identities, and about the ambivalence that can leave one longing for inclusion, but fearful of it. She closed by sharing a moving recitation of a Muslim prayer, a simple, everyday act of devotion that has become highly politicized, even fraught. These two presentations exemplified the kind of relationship that any democracy worthy of that name must foster and protect — one between individuals who are incommensurable, but simultaneously interdependent and equal.

Speakers not only described the values we associate with democracy and resistance; they realized or enacted them, such that the event itself assumed a meaning greater than the sum of its parts. Far from serving as an excuse for self-pity or left melancholy, it functioned as an effective counter-inaugural: a ceremony marking the beginning of a wider commitment to shared struggle, and a chance to begin to think together about how best to operate within these new parameters of aesthetic and political practice. It was generally assumed that art cannot divorce itself from Trumpism, no matter how hard artists like Richard Prince might wish to do so. Rather, as the artist and activist Chitra Ganesh incisively pointed out, the same forces that brought Trump to power exist within the supposedly “sacrosanct” or autonomous precincts of art.

This means that the important question is not What sort of art should we make? or Will Trump somehow be good for art? or What should celebrities do? Instead, we should ask ourselves how to act in multiple capacities: first, as stakeholders in a democracy who oppose the ascendancy of an authoritarian, militaristic neo-fascism, regardless of our nationality or immigration status; second, as members of specific communities, whether local, institutional, or global; and third, as people whose affiliations with art endow us with particular abilities, privileges, and obligations. We need to understand what everyone can do and what we are best positioned to do; then we need to do these things. Most immediately, this means working together to combat the increased dangers that now threaten those who have been targeted by the new regime’s white suprematism, xenophobia, misogyny, homophobia, ableism, and nativism. Looking further into the future, it means grasping these new power relations in a way that allows us to effectively alter our strategies and tactics, and doing so in a way that successfully builds on the precedent of earlier aesthetico-political projects, while simultaneously coordinating new initiatives with ongoing ones.

The legacies of left cultural activism were poignantly manifested in talks by Martha Rosler, whose principled defiance of authoritarianism dates back to the Nixon era, and by Avram Finkelstein, who recounted how he learned to silkscreen from a classmate who wanted help duplicating posters from the French protests of May 1968, and how that laid the foundation for his later work with ACT-UP. These continuities gesture toward a broader and enduring history, one that stubbornly refuses to end. As Finkelstein emphatically put it, “no political action is futile, ever.”

Martha Rosler reads

A number of presentations offered concrete, perceptive insights regarding the tactics that cultural resistance might use in the months to come. One recurring theme was the strategic value of institutions like the Whitney, which are now potentially under threat, whether through federal defunding or the alt-right philistinism of Breitbart-incited e-harassment. Megan Heuer, Noah Fischer, and Mariam Ghani each spoke to this concern, which has recently inspired efforts to organize a national network of art institutions dedicated to the defense of democratic values. Another concern was the need for a particular kind of free speech, one that becomes necessary when democratic institutions are in crisis. As theorized by Michel Foucault, this requires a different order of commitment from the speaker, a kind of radical transparency or vulnerability. The artist and Whitney staff member Madison Zalopany thoughtfully broached this topic in her presentation, which critically questioned the ways that truth-telling depends on platforms and resources that are less accessible to people who lack certain privileges or fail to conform to normative standards.

A third tactic can be described by the rare but increasingly common term “ungovernability,” which might be understood as an effort to block the exercise and legitimation of state power wherever it is manifest; this might take the form of boycotts, strikes, and noncompliance, but also of symbolic negation (as in art) or the production of other values, desires, and spaces. Zoe Leonard’s text “I Want a President” can be read as a paean to ungovernability, as was clear in a compelling performance by the scholar Tavia Nyong’o, who read from a recent adaptation of Leonard’s text produced in a workshop as part of a public art project.

Simone Leigh reads

One question that wasn’t raised explicitly at the Whitney was how the ongoing crisis will impact the ways in which we make, view, and write or think about art. This was surely because so many people feel that art can wait, at least for now, but that the same isn’t true of the rights, lives, and dignity of those now threatened. While this is impossible to deny, the event nevertheless suggested potential paths to follow when the time is right. Speaking out against the exclusionary structures that traverse the art world, Chitra Ganesh noted that art is able to communicate with “a complexity that reality can’t take.” Not only does such complexity resist whatever forces might try to silence or reduce it; under the right conditions, it can also force reality itself to change. With this said, perhaps the most powerful takeaway from the speak-out was the way it exemplified a certain kind of collective labor. The individual presentations were coordinated but autonomous — interdependent in a way that acknowledged their own vulnerabilities as analogous but by no means identical. In this sense, they embodied the sort of mutual connection that we are likely to need moving forward: a solidarity that is impassioned, resilient, self-critical, fearless, and resolute.

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