#My latest drawing. Figured this community would appreciate it. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

demetriandelibinaryboyfriends · 3 years

Note

Do you think that Hawk going violet will happen in a big emotional time? Like he's feeling like he's still a Cobra and gets confused and wants to leave Miyagi-fang (?) but something happens and he realizes that he's not a Cobra.

YESSSS this would be great!!!

Like I’m imagining Hawk feeling pretty conflicted because it’s been several weeks and STILL no one in the dojo really seems to like or trust him aside from Demetri and Miguel. Like even Mitch and Bert are wary of him, having seen firsthand how far under Kreese’s influence he ended up falling--and perhaps they’re a little jealous too, since he got to stay in Cobra Kai while they were both booted out. Johnny is glad to have Hawk back in his class, but he still can’t help but be a little angry with him for choosing Kreese over him initially--he knows HE’S the one who toughened Hawk up, not Kreese, and he can’t help but remember how readily Hawk dismissed him at first.

Maybe word gets out about Hawk trashing the Miyagi-Do dojo the previous summer--perhaps Miguel confides in Sam about it, and Sam, in a moment of hotheaded weakness, storms out into the dojo courtyard and confronts Hawk. I dunno if she would be mean enough to yell at him in front of everyone, but people almost certainly overhear regardless--and when it gets back to Daniel, ohhh boy. Hawk and Daniel were warming up to one another, and Daniel was even trying to help Hawk through some of his anger issues--but once he finds out that Hawk stole Mr. Miyagi’s medal of honor, all bets are off. (At least for now--Daniel has a way of coming around. But Hawk sure as hell doesn’t know that.)

After the whispers about what Hawk did the previous summer start spreading around the dojo, people avoid him even more. People look at him like he’s even more of a monster. Daniel doesn’t interact with him any more than is absolutely necessary. Hawk apologizes, of course--tries to channel as much emotion into it as he can so people know it’s genuine. But no one seems to believe him, and he can’t help but be confused about what else he’s supposed to do. Apologies for him have always been a one-and-done deal, and he’s not sure why everyone else isn’t accepting it like Demetri was. He doesn’t know what else to do to communicate he’s serious.

Demetri and Miguel both vouch for him, of course. Demetri especially--he’s used to getting across what Eli’s trying to communicate, attuned from years of practically being Eli’s voice. Demetri never wants to leave Hawk’s side, standing centimeters apart from him at karate practice and swinging a protective arm around him to squeeze his shoulder whenever people shoot Hawk suspicious looks. Despite his friends’ efforts, Hawk is miserable--he feels like he’s under the worst kind of microscope, and no matter what he does, no one is going to trust him.

He feels guilty about it, but he finds himself longing for his Cobra Kai days. How he was respected, feared, celebrated for his strength and his fighting skills and his ruthlessness. Now, it feels like everyone flinches at them--even Miguel and Demetri, on occasion. He just isn’t admired--just isn’t appreciated--like he used to be, no matter how much Demetri tries to reassure him. “I know they’ll trust you eventually. It’ll just take time!”

Hawk isn’t sure they’re ever going to trust him.

Sometimes he wonders if he should go back to Cobra Kai, regain the fame and the prowess and the fear of everyone who dared to cross him. He’d take Miguel and Demetri, of course--he can’t bear to be pitted against either of them ever again. But a bit of intensive training on the side for both of them, and he’s sure they could make it in Kreese’s Cobra Kai. They’re both incredibly skilled fighters, and the thought of the three of them becoming the three most intimidating fighters in the Valley is oddly cathartic to Hawk. The three most pathetic losers in the school, risen to great heights to be terrifying warriors who people were scared to so much as breathe wrong around. Demetri will come, Hawk is sure--Demetri would follow him anywhere, as long as he gets Hawk’s word that Hawk will never turn on him again. And Miguel...well, it might take some convincing to get him to leave the LaRusso girl, but if Demetri comes, Miguel will surely want to be with his two best friends more than his annoying girlfriend.

Hawk is walking home one day from karate training (a training that Demetri never showed up to--a bit odd, but Hawk figures he must have just called out because he had a lot of AP homework), thinking about how best to try and loop Miguel and Demetri into extra training, when his phone rings. He picks up, and it’s Miguel--panicked, hyperventilating, voice cracking like he’s been crying, rushing words out through raspy breaths. He’s hard to understand, talking fast with his voice choked with sobs, but Hawk makes out something about “Demetri” and “an ambush near the park.”

Hawk is at the location in minutes, sprinting there at top speed despite running never being his forte (Demetri was always the faster one between them). Demetri is lying motionless on the cement, passed out with his flannel slowly soaking through with blood. Hawk runs to him in a hysteria, screaming and crying and begging for him to be okay.

While Miguel calls an ambulance, Hawk is frantically looking over Demetri, trying to figure out where all that blood is coming from. No amount of punches and kicks could draw out that amount of blood. Then he lifts up Demetri’s shirt, and lets out a strangled whimper.

The Cobras are fighting with knives now, apparently. And someone--probably Kyler--carved “COBRA KAI NEVER DIES” across Demetri’s back.

And Hawk can’t stop crying because he knows this is his fault. There’s only one reason the Cobras would target Demetri--he was the reason for their latest deserter, and they knew that.

Or maybe he had simply been someone from a rival dojo in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the Cobras were just those kinds of people.

Because it was never strength and power that Kreese cared about--it was war. Using dojo rivalries as an excuse to get away with hurting people because he enjoyed it. Because them being on the “opposite side” made it seem justified, somewhere in his twisted mind.

The doctors have to practically drag Eli out of Demetri’s hospital room. Luckily they’re able to at least reassure Eli that Demetri is going to be okay--it’s the only way to get him to leave. There are more knife wounds that he didn’t see at first, but they didn’t hit anything vital--thank god. Demetri’s lost a fair bit of blood, but he’ll be all right.

The text scrawled across his back most likely won’t scar, if Demetri cares for the wound properly. And that’s enough for Eli--he knows how meticulous Demetri is. He’ll get through it.

Still, the red stains on Demetri’s shirt and the dark cuts slicing through his skin are seared in Eli’s mind as he drives home. When he gets in the shower that night, he thinks of the words carved into Demetri’s back and his lips curl up in a snarl. He grabs a bottle of bleach, emptying the entire contents onto his limp scarlet hair.

Hawk bleaches and bleaches until the shower is a mess and the entire bathroom smells of cleaning products and every trace of the distinctive Cobra Kai red is completely annihilated. Cobra Kai never dies? Bullshit--they’re dead to him.

His eyes trail to a bottle of hair dye on the top shelf of the shower rack, and he grins. He’s been toying with the idea for a while now, but now...he’s never been more certain in his life. With the red gone, and Cobra Kai truly behind him...it’s time.

When Demetri wakes up in the hospital the next day. The first thing he sees is a jagged purple shape clouding his vision--hair, he realizes. “Who are you?” he mumbles.

“Come on, Deme, how many people do you know with a goddamn mohawk?” a familiar voice says.

His eyes focus to find Eli smirking at him, hair up in deep violet spikes. His hand feels warm, and he looks down to see Eli’s holding it.

Demetri hopes his blush isn’t too visible.

“Holy shit, dude.” Demetri can’t help but grin. “You look great. Why the change?”

“After seeing what they did to you, I couldn’t...do a Cobra Kai color anymore.” Eli bites his lip. “And it just reminded me of all the awful stuff I did there, too. But uh...you know how Sensei LaRusso is always talking about balance?” Demetri just nods.

“I guess I thought I needed something like that. Like I want to be cool and intimidating and kick ass, like Sensei Lawrence and Miguel. But I also want to be all...I dunno...rational and wise and moral and shit, like you and Sensei LaRusso. And Eagle Fang’s got the red thing, and Miyagi-Do’s got the blue thing, so I was like...maybe I should mix them? For balance?”

“Ohhhhh!” And here comes Demetri’s shit-eating grin. Hawk isn’t sure why he expected any different. “You think I’m ‘rational and wise and moral and shit,’ Eli? I thought you thought I was a ‘lame nerd!’”

Eli just rolls his eyes. “God, shut up. You can be both.”

“Also, are you going to stop holding my hand?”

“No.”

Demetri just snickers and leans back, enjoying the sensation of Eli’s fingers between his.

“I was thinking about leaving, you know,” Eli admits quietly, after a beat.

Demetri sits up, staring at him in shock. “What?”

“I didn’t feel like I belonged,” he explained. “I didn’t feel like anyone wanted me there, after everything I’d done. No one but you believed me when I said sorry. I thought maybe I’d be happy if I went back to Cobra Kai, took you and Miguel with me so I wouldn’t have to fight you and we could all become strong together without...without everyone looking at me like I was evil. But now? I never want anything to do with those assholes ever again. Not after they hurt you like that.”

Demetri looks at Eli so softly that Eli thinks he might melt. Then Demetri breaks out in another huge smirk. “Awww, you were going to try and bring me back to your evil karate cult with you? How thoughtful of you!”

“Oh my god, shut up. Yes, I think you would’ve been good enough to survive in there. Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Also, are you still holding my hand?”

“Maybe I am. Mind your business.”

When Demetri takes said hand and uses it to yank Eli forward and kiss him full on the mouth, Eli isn’t about to complain.

When they pull apart, Demetri is a spluttering mess, quickly apologizing and insisting he wasn’t thinking. Eli just laughs, and pulls him forward by the neck so their foreheads are pressed together. “God, I’ve wanted that for so long, Demetri. Don’t you dare apologize for it.”

A short pause. “I know it’s been hard for you,” Demetri adds quietly. “At the dojo. But you have to believe me when I say they’ll come around. I know you’re a good person, Miguel knows, and everyone else will realize it too. It’s just going to take some time. But you’ll figure out how to make it up to them. I believe in you.”

“Okay.” Hawk closes his eyes and exhales slowly, letting himself relax. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be fine.”

44 notes · View notes

wexhappyxfew · 3 years

Text

The Nightingales of Fortune Favors the Brave

A Band of Brothers Fanfic Coming Fall 2021 (or presumably whenever Landslide finishes up!)

HELLO!! If you’re reading this, then as you can see, I’ve finally created a master post with all my Nightingales (well, not really mine THE PUBLIC’S but you’ve all gifted them to me ever so graciously, and it honestly, it means the world to me). Just to see the excitement and reception I’ve gotten from so many people in the fandom involving a female group of Pathfinders - an area of war, I have wanted to cover ever since nearly over 2 years ago I got involved in the fandom. All OC’s will have their creators name listed beside them - I did not create any of these OC’s, all credit goes to the lovely people who crafted and gifted them to me for FFTB!

Viewing where I currently am in my life, I’m going to going to college this year! I got accepted into the school I wanted, the program I wanted, even a scholarship! And I’m beyond excited. I really wanted to have something there for me when college does finally, you know, HAPPEN, and so Fortune Favors the Brave was the only way to go! To have a wonderful group of Nightingales, of female Pathfinders in the Band of Brothers fandom, seemed to be the way to go. Updates and such will definitely be different - I’m picking up more work hours this year, probably even summer classes, night classes, weekend classes - whatever I can do to benefit my degree and myself, I’m taking the opportunity.

And so, updates will presumably be quite different, depending on a variety of things, but...this will be my college story! No matter how many years it takes to complete and update and write, this will be the thing I have with me through it all for when I need a mental break from school! And I am beyond excited for when I do finally get to share this story more than anything!

We have such a great group of OCs here - different backgrounds, different reasons for joining, different creators who gifted them to me, different friendships, relationships and abundances of sisterhood and brotherhood moments. I’m truly beyond excited to showcase the Pathfinders side of the war in the light of 16 female OCs, whose stories will be told through their viewpoints based on different episodes whether whole or split!

So thank you ALL!! These past 2 years have been a joy in the fandom and let’s hope for another few more! I’ve managed 3 fics and 4 books total and I’m excited to bring, presumably, my FINAL Band of Brothers fic in the fandom to you all in the near future. Thank you!! <3

THE NIGHTINGALES

Team C DZ C for 506th PIR, 501st PIR

-> 2/506 PIR (Stick 2/Plane #4)

-- TOCCOA VETERANS --

Team Leader

Captain Eleanor Graham - @basilone

Eleanor Graham had never met a challenge she couldn’t conquer - the eldest of four and a farmer’s daughter, teamwork and diligence were drilled into her mind like clockwork, along with being as much of a leader in the eyes of her family as she could. There was more to life than a farmer’s wife for her future though, no matter how much she adored the farm her family had grown to craft from the ground up. Iowa brought no opportunity except the farm life deemed fit for her, so upon seeing the advertisement “ It’s Your Fight Too “, OCS had never seemed like a better choice in her eyes. Because it was all their fights - man, woman, child, anyone - it was a World War, a fight for all their lives, for human lives. And with the capability to obtain Captain just before leaving for Camp Toccoa, it solidified her position for not only leading in Easy Company, but leading the Nightinagles - the first stick of female Pathfinders.

Assistant Team Leader

Lieutenant Florence Godfrey - @pxpeyewynn

A British lady and an artist at heart, from the little town of Avebury, set inside Wiltshire of Great Britain, her father made it big in New York just as the war that swarmed throughout Europe, erupted into spitfire. And suddenly thrust into the world of an America before war, was unsettling. Her country fought while America remained neutral. Yet, when the advertisement flooded throughout New York City - she couldn’t help but take it as her only way to get into war. OCS was beyond enough challenges, but walking in as a Lieutenant for Easy and for the Pathfinders, she was no longer the little girl who prayed at night to whomever was above to end the people’s suffering, or avoided interaction to instead draw in her notebook. She was a Lieutenant, and she was a woman at war - yet what was she even fighting for?

Eureka Operators (each equipped with a Eureka Transponder each)

Sergeant (NCO) Marie Reynal - @thoughpoppiesblow

Grandmère Reynal always held her at night, under the dark night sky and sang in her soulful Cajun French, the words flowing from her lips and remaining an ever-present comfort in times where food was hardly ever on the table, or when she had to watch the other girls at school get the latest Mary-Janes and she was stuck with her old ones. Her grandmère taught her to appreciate the small things in life. But when the “It’s Your Fight Too” poster came out in the papers, Marie Reynal knew there were larger things in life than the newest Mary-Janes at school. Packing up what she could, Marie headed out to Camp Toccoa, equipped with nothing but some clothes and her fiddle.

Corporal Edith Lockner - @mercurygray

Remember to look up - her mother would always tell her that. Especially when things on their little farm got hard in Stanford, Illinois where the only thing that occurred there was the wagering price of corn that fluctuated with the ever-changing times. So...she figured that’s why she always tended to look to the stars when her mother would tell her that before bed each night, looking out the wooden window under her quilt as a cold draft blew in. She always imagined herself up there, amongst the stars and for once seeing what the stars saw. But to be up with those stars and to get to study them, she’d need a lot more money than what ever amount the corn tended to bring in. And the Airborne with a fantastic pay grade, along with the Pathfinders and their earnings -- it seemed her ticket out. Maybe there won’t be stars - but anything’s got to be better than here.

Wireman

Corporal Chiyoko ‘Luna’ Omori - @papersergeant-pencilsoldier

Know your place. Eyes down, mouth shut. And most importantly, honor your family. Chiyoko Omori has never been one to step out of line, nor has she been one to speak when otherwise not spoken too. Trained in the art of kendo, the Japanese martial arts that her ancestors trained in, she leads with discipline and integrity amongst the group of Nightingales training as Pathfinders, as the solo wireman of the group. Her intelligence, more than once, has saved her and in war might just save her again and again. Her father’s garage had always been home to a multitude of repairs and many she had learned to do herself. But there she had been Chiyoko. But for war, she must forget who Chiyoko is and embody the only other name besides her family name that she will ever know - Luna.

Lightmen (each equipped with 2 Halophane Lamps each)

Staff-Sergeant (Senior NonCom) Sarah Prowse - @junojelli

For once in her life Sarah Prowse would not have her twin brother by her side. He hadn’t been by her side for years after he went back home to fight with the English and lost his life at Dunkirk. But this was real, this was happening - and the Pathfinders withheld the opportunity to prove to herself that Edmund had died with valor and courage. And he would not have died in vain. The nannies had always said they were inseparable but they weren’t those kids anymore. This was real life. And in real life, there was love and loss and pain. And sometimes the only way to get through it all was to do the thing to distract you most from it all. Some days she wished her family could’ve just stayed in England - maybe Mum would still be here. With her sharp mind, and the ability to read people like an open book, rising to the rank Staff-Sergeant had come easily - reading the field and reading people were pretty similar...right?

Corporal Jean Dawson - @tvserie-s-world

Life in Louisville, Kentucky had always been a sort of cozy-comfort that Jean Doxon had always enjoyed. The weekend fairgrounds filled to the brim with people enjoying the night life it offered, early summers filled with watching her father race horses around the tracks sprinkled throughout the town and nights by her boyfriend, Glenn Hartley, where the sky seemed to stretch forever into the night. That is before the war sent him away to the Pacific. And their only form of communication was reduced to letters, with pressed flowers and the hint of rose perfume. Jean refused to mope about, when she knew this war was hardly far from over. Quick-thinking on her feet, and a town champion for knot-tying in her days in elementary, she packed what she could and left for Georgia the second she was able to take the first train out. The Airborne had much to offer, but more importantly so did the Pathfinders.

Corporal Mercy Codonoa - @whoahersheybars

Mercy Codona always been a traveler, never staying in one place and always on the move to somewhere new that she might've never quite been before. This meant new neighbors, new friends and a new way of life. Something the United States readily offered. Each new town in a new state had a different way of life than the next. She figured that's why she was so quick to adapt to her surroundings - nothing was ever permanent, nor set in stone. Neither was family. Orphaned by 17 and left to fend for herself, left in the care of her mother's estranged sister, Mercy took the liberty by herself to do what she could to support herself. Taking up odd jobs in each town she traveled to and managing what she could to feed herself. But she was proud of her Romani-Croat heritage and what her ancestors had done in their past lives. She intended on continuing what their stories had not finished. If only she could continue to support herself. It was only when the "It's Your Fight Too" showed up newly on the Fort Wayne clipboard by the post office in April 1942 and then and there in that moment did she decided - with the extra money the Airborne offered, along with that of the Pathfinders, she'd be able to support herself in the future as well as possibly find people with the same dreams as herself for their futures, and for once finally belong.

Private Kennedy Rutlidge - MINE

Kennedy Docherty had always had quite a wild and exciting mind, always having a new idea, or a new method on selling the most recent paper that got her a few cents an hour. All through her schooling years and even up to her senior year, she took to the busiest corner on Lake Ave and Lyell Ave, calling out to sell her papers, before heading home for the night and running her normal routine the very next day. She spent summers at Lake Ontario, in her grandmother's home on the lake, where some of her fondest memories of her youth had been born. She always believed that's why she was always fascinated with flying, like one of the birds or hawks that flew out across the lake in the early morning. What she'd give to get that feeling just once in her life, away from school and away from the constant need to make as much money as she could to help with the family. The words "It's Your Fight Too" scrawled across the paper in early April had caught her eye within a second and left her running home just that night to break the news that she was signing up. And almost a week later, she found herself packed on a train towards Camp Toccoa, Georgia, bright eyes and the last bit of innocence fading from sight.

Security Personnel

Sergeant (NCO) Alexandra Calypso - @iilovemusic12us

A Boston girl who grew up with her proud Jewish faith, with a Greek mother, knew hard work and sometimes it was pushing yourself to the very limit beyond what the human body could handle sometimes. So that meant falling, scrapping your knee a few times, sucking up the tears, sending a quick prayer to God and moving on with your life. Life had always been like that - they weren’t the richest, nor the poorest, but there wasn’t ever enough food on the table or enough money to fix the roof, or even to keep the mortgage paid. But her parents never stopped working. And she supposed what drove her to the Airborne and to the Pathfinders was seeing how hard they worked. And they paid well she had heard. She could work with it. And if anything, the Pathfinders were more accepting than any school in Boston she’d been to.

Sergeant Nellie Shaw - @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant

Hailing from a small, coastal town in Maine, the proud Scot wanted more than anything to stay out of war when it finally came knocking on America’s doorstep. But Nellie Shaw, loyal as saint, knew that there was one thing she could do for this country and that was fight. Give her a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of gin, and she’d go in swinging for the war effort, even with her grumpy morning attitude that slowly became infamous in her elementary school days among the school children. She had no purpose on a farm on a mountain side anymore, rather destined to do what part of the fight she could. Taking Greer Riddell under her wing, the fellow Scot befriended the least likely person to enjoy her company and yet Nellie’s easy-going companionship slowly became integral to the entirety of Easy Company and the Nightingales.

Private Greer Riddell - @leighinthesky

Schruz, Nevada was home for 21 years and by the looks of it, home for the rest of her life. A bee farm in a tiny town wasn’t idle for the rest of her life, but if she never got the money for college to get out of the small town, she feared she wouldn’t ever leave. And knowing the military had offered 16 women a stick of a plane to get their shot at becoming Pathfinders for the Army was her ticket straight to Toccoa, Georgia for training. The pay could send her not only to college, but could get her out of that tiny town which had confined her to nothing but her family and a cute little bee farm where hard work always paid off. Don’t be fooled by her subdue and withdrawn nature, the second her hands touched the rifle - the field was hers and yet so was the valley.

Codebreaker [Betchley Park Member]

Sergeant Laverne Robinson - @vintagelavenderskies

For her 23 years of life, Laverne Robinson had known just about every spot in London where you could catch a smoke break and not get caught by one of the older women and get scolded for doing so. She blamed her older brother, he blamed her. It was a mutual thing. But that had been the only thing to fear in London - until war struck, which sent every eligible man off to fight for the effort. Her brother included, leaving her staring out the rain speckled window all alone as the smell of her mother's soup wafted past her nose. Yet, like many women of the time, she wanted to fight too. Fluent in French and German and skilled in mathematics and code-work, Bletchley Park seemed the best fit. Working on codes, both sculpting and breaking them inside the building, keeping her lips shut and going on about her normal day when not inside the institution, life didn't seem as dreary as she had anticipated. Because she knew she was apart of the effort to end this war. That was until, she was called upon in late March 1944 to join up with the 101st Airborne with the first female stick of 12 pathfinders to make the jump into Normandy and assist them in anyway possible. Laverne knew it was a once in a lifetime opportunity and if her brother were there, he would've told her to run with it. Becoming a professor of mathematics would have to wait.

REPLACEMENTS

Corporal Alessandra Lisi - @tvserie-s-world

Alessandra Lisi had never known her parents. She was always told that sickness had taken them when she was just a child. Her brothers had been older than her and had tried to protect her from the sight of her parents dying. And so when their Nonna had taken them into her home without hesitation, Alessandra grew to look to her Nonna as the other parental figure she’d ever had. Of course, her brothers were always there for her, protective as they were, they never let her get into any sort of trouble without hearing about it first. Alessandra grew to adore her Italian heritage, cooking with Nonna on Sunday’s, inviting family over to enjoy the meals and even getting to stir the sauce as Nonna dropped in fresh, cut tomatoes. That was life and it had always been life as such. But when war sent her 3 brothers away, she knew she would not go down without a fight either. Upon receiving the paper in November 1943, she noticed the cover page withheld the picture of 12 women, adorned in jump wings as well as military grade goggles and scarves standing with wide smiles and bright eyes in front of a C-47, the title 'The Nightingales', lying just underneath. Female Pathfinders. If her parents were here, they would've been telling her what Nonna would've been telling her now. Fight for what you believe in, because while there's life, there's hope.

Private First Class Bettie Smith - @sgtxliptons86

Brooklyn, New York had it all - the kids in the streets, the shops on the corners where you could get a piece of candy for as little as 5 cents, even the corner stores in the summer where you could get ice cream for a dime. And as Bettie Smith grew older, running the streets of Brooklyn became like a weekend job - checking in on the younger kids of friends, riding bikes past the floral shops and picking up flowers for her sister, getting a bag of charcoal for her father. Even throwing some curses towards the boys who would heckle her for the way she wore her hair or the old shoes laced on her feet. Her older sister wasn’t too pleased with it all, but ever since Ma had passed, she seemed to let it slide - it was an escape for Bettie. So when war came knocking on the Smith’s door, anger, yet pride for their country filled the home, as well as the streets of New York, as more men and women began signing up for the cause. More friends left to join the effort, leaving Bettie there on the concrete doorstep. So when Bettie received the daily paper in November 1943, showcasing the 12 female pathfinders of the 101st Airborne, front and center for all to see, Bettie took it in quite large strides and took the first train of December 1943 to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Private Annie Laine - @wereinadell

Annie Laine, the daughter of Finnish immigrants, had always dreamed of leaving the quiet countryside her parents had always preferred for their family for the big cities of the Midwest - maybe she’d go to Chicago and study theater, or maybe she’d go and finally attend college in Milwaukee. Anything to get out of the small town she currently resided in. But the countryside had brought alone its perks - orienteering and hunting were big in the Laine family and every child, her 3 brothers, her and her sister, had all been taught the noble art. Swimming the streams, fishing in the lakes, taking hikes through the forests and coming back with a deer for dinner - life had always been quite peaceful Annie felt. But she could always hope that one day it changed. And it seemed war rung those bells quite early on. Annie was tired of structured life and if anything, she knew that the start of structured life in the military would fall quite nearly to shambles once they hit war. The November 1943 issue of the daily newspaper brought upon not only sudden interest in the military, but in that of the female pathfinders who were paving their way in all of military history to be the first stick to jump into continental occupied-Europe. All it took was what cash she had saved for college and a small suitcase to get her on the way to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Private Marla Hughes - @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant

Lafayette, Louisiana had been home all her life - Baton Rouge just to the East and New Orleans just a little further. It had always been home for as long as she could remember. With the fancy parties her father always allotted for the family to attend, talking with the men in pristine suits, or the women with the big hats, some days Marla Hughes just wished to be able to go outside and enjoy nature instead of suffocating amongst the people who seemed to live in a world that didn’t even seem like real life. She supposed that was when she had hit her breaking point and joined the Airborne in Fort Benning, Georgia. She was tired of the life that did absolutely nothing for her. There was more to this world, so much more and yet she was confined to a party dress and an expensive glass of wine that tasted bitter when it rushed down the throat. There were small bars, where the music played, and you could dance until your feet grew tired, there were beer bottles awaiting to be clinked together with friends and there were people beside the stuck-up society she was forced into. The Airborne accepted anyone far and wide - and maybe she could strip of the posh life given to her and finally be set free.

THESE ARE THE NIGHTINGALES!!!

> if you have any questions, feel free to send them in! if not, it’s all good! these are our 16 nightingales! :) thank you to all of you who sent them in back in early December! It’s been an honor to craft these wonderful OC’s!

#band of brothers #fortune favors the brave #the nightingales #pathfinders #easy company #bob fic #band of brothers fandom #band of brothers oc #master list post

66 notes · View notes

thefreakydeaky · 4 years

Text

Call Out My Name

Chapter One Title: All I Know

Characters: Negan x Plus Size Reader, The Saviors, The Wives, Eugene

Summary: You belonged to him.Try as you might to pretend indifference, Negan’s very presence has awakened feelings in you that you believed had died with the old world.Is the ruthless King of the Sanctuary still human enough to fall in love?

Warnings: Language, Canon Gore & Violence.

Word Count: 2,930

Careful to avoid making any noise, you pressed down on the stainless steel lever.As discreetly as you could manage, you peered into the communal living space.Sherri and a few of the other wives sat together on the large sectional speaking in hushed tones. Your prison guard however, was absent. You grinned. Dropping all pretense, you stood up straight and let the door swing shut behind you.

“Good Morning.” You called out cordially.

Her eyes gave you an appraising once over. They paused at the sight of the old flannel you had on over your dress.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Negan’s first wife asked sternly.

“Where ever the wind takes me on this fine day, Miss Sherri.”

The remnants of a southern upbringing scolded you for being rude.You knew well that all of these girls had to put up with the boss man same as you,but you couldn’t risk getting caught just to be polite.

“He’ll be angry.” You heard her call after you, but Negan was always angry. So you didn’t let that stop you.

There was no way of knowing how long you had, but you intended to explore as much of the sanctuary as possible. You had been out of the room before, sure, but you had only seen flashes of the place as you ran past.Then there was the mini-mission you went on two months ago to find out what was making Joey late. Once you figured out what day of the week Pastry day was, it was simple.Third day of every week, Joey headed straight for the bakers and stood in line for a good half hour. You left when they handed him the sweet bread and found you could beat him back to the room.That was the most you had seen of the sanctuary since your arrival and was not the best way, you were convinced, to get to know and appreciate the beauty this place might hold.

The Sunlight felt nice for the first few seconds after you stepped out of your building, but soon enough the humidity ruined the moment.

You stayed on the greenery beside the road to avoid burning your feet, following the gravel path to the market place.Careful to avoid the baker’s side of the warehouse, you walked idly passed stall after stall of goods and services.

Your eyes caught on a table of battered shoes. You recognized the pasty ex-alexandrian running the table.Eugene, he was called.You knew this from the stories Tanya told you at dinner time.He was nothing but a blubbering wuss from the sound of it, so you figured you could handle him.You strode confidently to the front of the line and smiled.

“Excuse me?” You found yourself demanding not two minutes later.You glared at Eugene until he looked away.

“You don’t have credit.”

“The hell I don’t!”

“How many more times do you need me to say it?”Eugene repeated a smirk on his lips.

He leaned back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“How fucking dare -” You started to shout, your voice ringing out through the warehouse.

Calling attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted to be doing you reminded yourself anxiously. You scrambled to come up with a different tactic.The corners of your mouth pulled up into a practiced grin that you never thought you would have cause to use again.

“My my,” Injecting sugar into your voice, you leaned across the table until you were nearly close enough to touch him.“Look at you! You’ve been runnin’ with the big dogs long enough to do a halfway decent impression, Eugene.”

Eugene’s shifty eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Negan only ever talks about one genius with a mullet.”You lowered the volume of your voice conspiratorially, “How fortunate you are that my darling husband hasn’t seen through you yet.” You postured, taking a risk. “Maybe, I ought to help him see you for what you really are?”

“He will never believe you.”

“Why not? It wouldn’t make any sense for me to lie about a man I have never met. All i have to do is call into question your history with the people of Alexandria and make it seem like I feel concerned for his safety.”

Metal chair legs scraped against cement as Eugene pushed his seat back and stood.

“I’m g-going out for a smoke.Them shoes better be the only thing missin’ when I get back.” His trembling lower lip killed any affect his wrathful tone might have had on you.

You snickered at his retreat.

Your white dress fanned out behind you as you hurried away brown leather contraband on your feet, eager to begin your self guided tour.

Building after building of industrial rot, a few rusty tin shacks, and a sad row of herbs and spices later, you found yourself in front of the main building itself.

The Sanctuary’s weather beaten concrete face was made of cruel sharp angles. Her broken windows were yellowing jagged teeth.She stared brutally down at you until you couldn’t bare to meet her eyes anymore and turned, walking brusquely away from her frightening visage.

You turned the next corner only to freeze in your tracks.The wet raspy growling filled your ears before the smell hit you.

Walkers

Your eyes swept from left to right a few times trying to count, to keep track and then you realized, that they weren’t coming for you. There was a chain link fence separating them from you.Your brow knitted.They were tied down.They were, for the most part, stationary.Some chained up, some tied up, some stuck through with pipes. It took a twisted mind to come up with such a gruesome thing.

You wondered if Negan had come up with the idea himself.You shook the thought away. You didn't want to know. You made for the only corner of the god forsaken place you hadn’t yet visited.

The stolen too-big boots kicked up loose bits of gravel behind you as you headed for the backlot. Little did you know that you had an audience.Eyes followed your trek down the road from the loading dock behind you.

The field was inhabitted by broken wood pallets, a rusted up old mercury with bullet holes along the side, some old crates, a busted up head board, ruined tires, and tin sheeting. They lay rotting in the grass.Nearer the chain link fence, lay the final resting place for the few men who managed to stay on good terms with Negan until their last moments. Crude wooden headstones marked with paint stuck out in a bad attempt of making a row.

You slowed down as you reached the end of the pavement and waded into the living green sea of grass hoping not to encounter any snakes.The damp blades were staining the skirt of your dress, but it’d be worth the scolding. A long jagged claw snagged at your dress.You cursed. As you pulled it loose, you realized it was a foot and a half of wood that likely came off of one of the pallets.You tossed it aside and smirked.Now that you’d gone and torn the thing, he would be extra pissed. Hell if you were going to get him good and mad you had better do it well you thought, untieing the bright orange ribbon from around your wrist. Negan's latest gift to you. Each time you saw it, it reminded you of who you belonged to. You frowned as you let it flutter to the ground. It may as well have been a dog collar.

Negan was following you, keeping far enough away not to draw attention.He cursed Fat Joey for letting you out.That idiot was going to pay.He grit his teeth as he watched you wade into the tall grass.Flannel shirt or not you were ruining your dress.Where the fuck was he supposed to find you another dress as nice as the one you had on? The sight of you tugging on your skirt brought his eyes to your wrist. He saw you take off your bracelet and let it fall. Did you have any idea how hard it was to come by anything in bright colors these days?Of fucking course not!You were a spoiled selfish ungrateful untamable thing.He was not going to be taking it easy on you this time.He spotted you staring at the barbed wire topped fence and froze.

He didn’t have to imagine you attempting to clamber over the high fence, face full of determination fueled by spite.He would never forget it.Your last attempt to leave made it clear that you didn’t give a shit about your own well-being anymore.Negan cursed under his breath. God help you if you were stupid enough to pull another stunt like that.Yet he knew way down deep inside, somewhere primal, that you belonged to him.After three years and fifteen failed attempts to leave him, Negan had come to the conclusion that he had to do everything in his power to make you want to stay.

Despite the show and the accusations he had made, alternately burning and bashing some person or another, every time you fucked up Negan went easy on you.The second he’d laid eyes on you, he’d chucked his personal rule book out the window. He was afraid that this made him look soft and that burned his pride like nothing else could.

However, women with your body type had always been his preference and He knew, a figure like yours was a rare find these days. He wanted you. Negan wanted you badly. More than anything, he wanted you to want him to fuck you.It was a frustrating blue balls inducing shit show of a situation.Charming women had always come easy to him. It was his shit luck that you weren’t easily charmed. He followed you into the field. His eye caught the shine of the ribbon easily. As He pocketed the scrap of orange cloth, the memory of your first meeting came to mind.

Your hair pulled back into a braid, a lovely face, enough cleavage showing to catch his eye. Your faded jeans had holes in the thighs and your breathing was heavy from your attempt to out run The Saviors.

You looked so darn pretty kneeling before him.You’d had the audacity to meet his gaze. It pissed him off and turned him on in equal measure.Your eyes captivated him.They were burning with resentment, but no tears.Not his Y/n. You didn’t cry, didn’t beg, and didn’t flinch at the sight of Lucille.Not even after he’d dirtied her up a bit.Near the end of his speech,some traitorous switch inside him had flipped.

“Darlin’, You have got a look in your eyes that says you haven’t been fucked right in years.” He drawled smiling his slick easy smile.”Why don’t you come on home with me, I’ll show you how good it can be with a real man.”

“You expect me to believe that a bean pole like you can handle curves like mine? Honey, I would eat you alive.”

He laughed low and long.The genuine mirth startled everyone, but you.

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.I just wanna love you right.”

“Well, I am sorry, Mister Real Man, but your pick up lines are bad jokes at best and that mouth of yours...” You shook your head in disapproval. “So dirty.”

You were meant to be his. No doubt about it.

“Mmm, there are plenty of good things I can do with this dirty mouth and you are curious to find out, I can tell.”

Negan’s big strong hand had fisted into the collar of your flannel pulling you toward him. You stumbled onto your feet to keep from being dragged. Before you could catch your balance, his lips were on yours.

Unbeknownst to Negan, unlike his bat and savior show, the heated kiss he gave you impressed you.

He nipped at your lower lip and turned back to what was left of your group.

“We are gonna do just fine, Dollface. As for the rest of you sorry shits, You are going to bring me my stuff and then go out and get me something nice.”

His hazel eyes gleamed down at you. “We’ll consider it a wedding present.”

Your exclamation was drowned out by the saviors’ hearty laughter as you were forcefully led to his truck.

From the moment Negan made you a wife, you vowed that you would get away from him even if you died trying. After three years and fifteen failed escape attempts, you had come to the conclusion that making him hate you was the only way out of the wives club.

You rummaged through the crates and found quite a few empty glass bottles. They would do. You put them all in the same crate and carried it with you as you counted your steps. You waited until you were at least two yards away to throw the first one.

Thunk

Wading further into the tall weeds and grass he frowned at the unfamiliar sound.

“Well I’ll be damned.” You murmured to yourself as you bent to pick up another bottle.

You glared at the Mercury, closed your fist around the neck of the bottle, and swung. It grazed the roof, but landed on the other side of the car.

“Have you lost your freaking mind?”

Your shoulders tensed at the familiar deep baritone of your husband’s voice. You stood there clenching your teeth, frustrated with the intrusion.You schooled your features before turning to face him.

“Hey there, Sugar. What are you doin’ out here?”

Negan came to stand before you, but he didn’t ask the questions you had expected him to ask.Perhaps, Where in the hell did you get shoes? or How in the hell did you manage to escape a locked room with a savior standing watch?Instead, Negan swallowed his anger and made himself the very picture of patience.

“I could ask you the same question, Darlin’.” He replied.

You stared at him, curiosity battling the wrath within you.

“Well?” Negan prompted after a minute or two of your silence.

Your thoughts raced.

What the fuck?!Why was he being nice?!He should be letting you have it right now! He should be cussing up a storm!

“Just... keepin’ busy.”You said lamely.

“In the junkyard? Playing with glass? That’s a hell of a thing for a Queen to do.” He murmured.”You could have hurt yourself.”

You were disgusted by how genuinely concerned he sounded and cringed at him calling you “Queen”.For weeks now, you had been working on him, from picking fights, to ruining belongings, to giving him the cold shoulder.Until finally you’d been able to break out again.You wanted him good and mad and Negan was not cooperating.

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“Actually, I haven’t been here long.I walked the whole Sanctuary first then ended up here.”You shrugged and made to pick up another bottle.”It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Who do you think you are?”

You should have known his anger couldn’t stay contained for long.

“Beg your pardon?” You snapped.

“I said,” Negan growled pulling you toward him by your shirt collar, “Just who, in the fuck, do you think you are?” His eyes glowered down at you.

“Y/F/N Fucking Y/L/N.” You declared and kicked him.

The shock on his face turned to fury. Familiar though the expression was, Negan had never turned it on you.Adrenaline spurred you into action.You yanked out of his grasp and tore through the field.

“Y/n!” He bellowed.

You didn’t dare look behind you as you pushed yourself to run.

#Negan #negan x plus sized reader #negan x reader #the walking dead #twd x reader #jeffrey dean morgan #jdm x reader

173 notes · View notes

fishylife · 3 years

Text

Guess who caved and read all 66 chapters of Painter of the Night? I don’t normally like to read comics that are still ongoing because I don’t like losing momentum while waiting for updates but here I am 🤡🤡

Spoilers.

I typed this while distracted so sorry for any muddled thoughts.

Story

I am glad that I read up to Chapter 66 because a huge misunderstanding was cleared up (the fact that Nakyum legitimately did not run away this time). I would’ve been pulling my hair out if the misunderstanding went on further (I HATE misunderstanding/miscommunication as a plot device).

A lot of people on the subreddit theorized that this was a huge turning point in the story. For the first time, we’re seeing Seungho show legitimate remorse and sadness over Nakyum’s suffering. Hopefully we’re going to see change his behaviour and act more reasonably towards Nakyum, and be more communicative about why he’s doing what he’s doing.

Though I think Nakyum is still a bit confused about his feelings for Seungho, he’s past the point of hating Seungho and wanting to leave. He said that he’d tried to run away before but he had nowhere to run to. He acknowledges that Seungho is a constant in his life, a protector and an indirect caregiver. But he’s still struggling with his feelings for Seungho.

In that way, Seungho and Nakyum are sort of opposite. Seungho recognized his romantic love for Nakyum first, but he couldn’t see how he was hurting him. As for Nakyum, he figured out how he could make Seungho happy early on, but he’s still struggling a bit with regards to how he feels about Seungho, likely because a part of his heart is still with Inhun. Again, he definitely recognizes Seungho as his protector (he’d instinctively called out to Seungho for help when he was kidnapped), but he’s still struggling over whether he’s in love with him.

This week we’re getting a continuation to the spinoff story so we won’t see the story pick up again until next week.

I do think the spinoff story is interesting. Currently, Seungho holds a lot of power over Nakyum, both in terms of political/administrative power, and physical power. But with Seungho as a peasant and Nakyum as a son of a noble family, Nakyum holds the social power over Seungho and it evens up their power dynamics a bit, which I do like. It feels safer for Nakyum lmao.

In terms of the style of story telling, it’s mostly angst, I’ll be honest. And it is rather melodramatic because miscommunication tends to be something the author uses quite a bit as a storytelling technique. Luckily, they’re not dragged out for too long.

Art

The art is pretty nice. It’s all in full colour, which surprised me. The art is extremely detailed. I wonder how the artist can do so much in a week lol. I hope they’re not overworked.

Seungho

Both Seungho and Nakyum have had their share of past trauma, but my thinking is that they’ve manifested in different ways.

It’s implied that Seungho’s father knew about his sexuality from a young age and tried to treat it through medical means and then by locking him up, which effectively stopped his education, despite him having been a bright student. Seungho then lived out his young adult days in debauchery. Early on, he implied that he was just living by his father’s principles, or something along those lines. My guess is that his dad left him behind so he could debauch in isolation without affecting the rest of the family.

So Seungho grew up without many close friends. He was surrounded by servants and yes men (like Jihwa) who would not call him out on his bullshit. So I think that’s how he developed his extremely bossy and abusive behaviour.

Why Nakyum was different for Seungho was that initially, he didn’t have power over Nakyum. He would tell him to do things, but Nakyum would not necessarily heed his commands, not painting, or trying to run away. His heart was still fully loyal to Inhun. So I think that was why Nakyum elicited extra violent behaviour from Seungho. Seungho had never been defied like this.

But I think Seungho was also intrigued by Nakyum. Nakyum was a contradiction because he drew smut but was always super embarrassed when faced with sexual situations irl. Seungho should've felt better when Inhun was sent away and Nakyum became submissive during sex and yet that’s when Seungho felt like something was wrong. Nakyum just kept eliciting unexpected emotions from Seungho. I definitely think Seungho saw him as a plaything at first, but came to care for him after he got to know more about him and his personal life.

Nakyum

Nakyum also came from a tough background. He was an orphan, and was raised along kisaeng ladies. Inhun was the first authority figure whom he’d had a positive impression of, and he latched on to him. He admired Inhun so much that he tried his best to listen to him when he told him not to draw erotic art anymore.

Inhun unfortunately didn’t see their relationship the same way. He showed a kind face to most of his students but he looked down on their lowly statuses. Only when he saw Nakyum as a pawn, did he give him attention. But he never hid his emotions, visibly expressing his anger when Nakyum wasn’t being a good spy, brushing off Nakyum’s confession of love.

Nakyum’s love for Inhun was so extremely pure and all-consuming. I cried when he was so swiftly rejected and condescended upon by Inhun T_T Because I knew how much courage it took for Nakyum to confess, how he wanted nothing but for Inhun to have good things, and Inhun cared not for any of that because it wasn’t want he wanted. Nakyum wasn’t helping him in the way he needed, and he cared far more for ambition than romantic love (not to mention romantic love from a lowly peasant).

After the rejection, Nakyum internalized Inhun’s words when he called him a prostitute. A part of him still loved Inhun and if he said that, Nakyum figured he must’ve been right. The other part of him decided that acting submissively to Seungho was the only way to survive.

Basically, Nakyum’s going through a huge emotional journey because his hero Inhun has kind of abandoned him (though he hasn’t forgotten him completely), but Nakyum hasn’t found a worthy person to give his heart to.

Seungho & Nakyum

I’m still thinking about their relationship and why we ship them despite the shit they’ve done (mostly the shit that Seungho’s done to Nakyum).

For Seungho, I think Nakyum was the first person he met who had a different way of expressing love. He’d never met someone like Nakyum who would stuff he despised just to help out Inhun. Even when Inhun didn’t show an inkling of appreciation. Perhaps Seungho felt that he didn’t know what love was until he met Nakyum.

As for Nakyum, he theorized that he was only desperate for affection and that was why he felt himself drawn to Seungho. I think that is technically true. But more than that, I think Seungho has arguably shown more levels of care to Nakyum than Inhun has. Yeah, Seungho has done horrendous stuff to Nakyum, but he’s also shown more affection to Nakyum. That includes physical affection, but Seungho also bought him warm clothes, called on a doctor to care for his health, etc. Again, all of the care absolutely does NOT cancel out the abusive behaviour on Seungho’s side, but that’s how I think Nakyum found himself feeling more and more comfortable with Seungho. Loving someone is about showing your bad sides as well as your good sides.

I think both Seungho and Nakyum are finding affection/care in forms that they’d never experienced before, and that’s why they are drawn to each other.

Problematic?

I had a feeling that this would be a story that a lot of people would consider problematic. It’s probably because I’m older now, but it doesn’t really bother me. I obviously know that there is toxic behaviour shown by the characters and I would never want that in real life, but it’s really not difficult for me to separate what works in fiction vs. what works in reality.

This was a different time period, when rich and powerful people could just do whatever they wanted. Not excusing problematic behaviour, just explaining the entitled behaviour of some of the elites.

Seungho for sure shows extremely toxic behaviour. I think the point is that he is a problematic man who has trouble expressing emotions the normal way, and it ends up hurting those around him and those he cares about. He’s definitely an imperfect person who’s unpleasant to be around, but I think one thing the author wanted to show is that bad people are still capable of having emotions. By no means do I excuse his toxic behaviour. But I am all for showing that flawed people are still worthy of attention. We are still interested in what Seungho does in spite of his poor behaviour because we recognize that he is still a person.

I also recognize that Nakyum is woobified a lot. He’s constantly put in situations where he is the victim and he doesn’t/can’t fight back. In the latest event with Jihwa ordering Nakyum’s kidnapping/murder, the Nameless one had threatened Nakyum’s life so that he wouldn’t reveal the fact that he’d kidnapped him, and that caused all of Seungho’s meanness in the past few chapters. I recognize that whump is a popular trope, but usually because it ends in comfort. (I specifically can’t enjoy whump if it doesn’t end in comfort) It sets up a situation in which it feels reasonable for the victim to receive comfort. Again, this is stuff that I only enjoy in fiction. I recognize that in real life, people shouldn’t have to get hurt to be worthy of love and care. But I can see why people may say that Nakyum being the victim might be a problem.

Other

I thought Jihwa & the Nameless one were going to be a side pairing from the moment I saw the Nameless one’s jaw lmao. It was angular and I was like, that’s a handsome man’s jaw. I’m glad that Jihwa realized before hurting Nakyum that he couldn’t possibly fix his relationship with Seungho anymore. He recognized that even with Nakyum out of the picture, Seungho wouldn’t want to come to him. Seungho’s mind would always be filled with Nakyum, and if Seungho had found out that he was behind the murder, he’d hate Jihwa even more. Like Nameless one, despite the despicable things that Jihwa had done, I did pity him. He was in love with Seungho for a long time, and thought that giving him everything he wanted (including letting him have sexual relations with others) would endear himself to Seungho. But they were just not meant to be.

But Min implied that Jihwa had crossed the line already this time by kidnapping Nakyum. After the happenings of Chapter 66, Seungho’s going to have a field day with Jihwa and I’m not sure how he’s going to get out of that one. Not sure if Nameless one can do anything to help.

I don’t know how long this manhwa is supposed to be, but there are several story lines other than Seungho x Nakyum that haven’t been addressed yet. Like I said, I think we’re going to see Jihwa x Nameless one expanded upon a bit. There’s some stuff going on with the Yoon family, since Seungho’s brother keeps coming over. I wonder if Seungho’s going to try starting a career (this isn’t based on anything, I’m just wondering). And I also have a feeling that Inhun might return, which will likely force Nakyum to choose between Inhun or Seungho once and for all.

To be completely honest, I don’t want this manhwa to drag out for too long. For selfish reasons because again I don’t like waiting for ongoing comic chapters. I don’t know how long the manhwa is intended to be, but based on my paragraph above, it’d still take a lot of time for all of those loose ends to be wrapped up. But considering the fact that Seungho and Nakyum’s relationship is probably finally going to get better, hopefully we’re over half way through? Just me being hopeful.

Final

I didn’t write a full review for this on my Dreamwidth because, like, this comic isn’t even done yet. But as you can see, I enjoyed reading it. I feel like I’m missing a hundred things that crossed my mind while reading this. And there are a lot of interesting analysis posts on Tumblr and Reddit that are opening my mind to other interpretations too.

I had a BL manga phase when I was a teenager and now I’m like “...is it time to get back into it?” Lol. In any case, it’s interesting reading BL as an adult now because like I said, it’s so much easier to separate the fiction from the reality now. I can read BL purely as fiction while recognizing what tropes are not healthy, and they don’t diminish the story. It’s melodramatic because it’s exactly that: melodrama.

#thinking out loud #manhwa #painter of the night

40 notes · View notes

reyescarlos · 3 years

Text

look after you || a buddie fic

❄️ @911giftexchange fic for @bombera hey, tori! i'm wishing you the happiest of holidays! this year has truly been one for the books so i hope this fic will help to end 2020 on a good note for you! it kinda ran away from me but i hope you’ll enjoy! ❄️

word count: 4.7k || read on ao3

You've begun to feel like home, yeah What's mine is yours to leave or take What's mine is yours to make your own

Infamously December is known to be a hectic month but now, with just a little over two weeks until Christmas, Eddie is feeling the pressure. His work schedule leaves little to no time for him to prepare for the holiday season, time slipping through his fingers with such ease that it had come as a surprise to see just how close he and the rest of the world were getting to the big day.

His concern was bad enough but this last week his mind has been additionally preoccupied with worrying over his son who is the latest person to come down with the bug that’s running rampant. If he isn’t at work, he’s right by Chris’ side, doting over him and doing his best to insure his comfort.

Throughout it all he has had Buck, his best friend and confidant, a man he can share virtually any thought with. All, really, but one. Eddie groans internally. His unspoken feelings for Buck are the last thing he needs to dwell on now. But the thought is far easier to think than put into practice with Buck sharing this space with him. Even on his day off Buck opts to spend time at the Diaz house, an additional set of hands that Eddie is beyond grateful for at such a time. Buck has long since been a staple in his home and now, more than ever, he’s grateful for his companionship and help to keep him from going under. Buck seems to understand him in ways very few can, sensing his needs and thoughts without a single word uttered.

He can feel Buck’s eyes on him as he pops two slices of bread into the toaster but he focuses on his task, doing his best to keep his head on straight though his mind is a riot of thoughts.

Eddie massages the back of his neck to relieve some tension, stretching it a bit as he draws in a breath.

“Alright, what’s going with you?” Buck asks.

Eddie turns back to face him and shrugs. “It’s nothing. I’m just trying to figure out a game plan. I still have to finish holiday shopping but you’ve seen our schedule for the next two weeks. We’re practically going to be living at the station.”

“But we have today off and it’s only noon. That’s plenty of time for you to head out there while I stay here with little man. See? Simple solution.”

“It’s your day off. I couldn’t do that.”

“I can watch him, it’s not a problem,” Buck insists.

Eddie hesitates. It’s a great offer, one that would quickly remedy his dilemma. “I don’t know, Buck. It’s a big ask. It’s short notice and he’s sick.”

“It’s not a big ask. It’s not even an ask at all; I’m volunteering. And besides,” Buck says, puffing up his chest. “Buckleys don’t catch colds.”

Eddie’s mouth twists to one side in thought. Today really is the one true window of time he’ll have and it’ll certainly be easier to stealthily buy Chris’ presents without his observant son being able to see what he’s purchasing. Resigned, Eddie nods slowly, knowing this is the best offer he could possibly have.

“Alright, yeah, okay. I’ll try and hurry back but still, I know it’ll be a few hours until I’ll be back home.”

Buck rolls his eyes. “Would you relax? Take all the time you need, seriously. Chris and I always have a blast together. We’ll be just fine. I promise.”

“No, I know he’s good with you. I just…”

“Suck at accepting help, yes, I know,” Buck teases, patting him on the shoulder with one hand and gesturing towards the front of the house with the other.

“Go. I’m officially kicking you out. Don’t forget to get me something nice, yeah?”

~*~*~

Eddie returns home with a trunk full of presents after a very successful trip to the mall. He’s managed to get for everyone on his list and the relief he feels in having this task officially scratched off his to-do list is a major weight off his shoulders. He carries a few bags in with him to the house. From the moment he steps inside he can hear the raucous laughter of Christopher and Buck coming from the living room, his son breaking into a small coughing fit afterwards.

Eddie stashes his purchases into the closet, hiding the bags under his jacket in a feeble attempt to bury it for the time being. Buck and Chris carry on chatting and Eddie is certain that neither of them realizes he’s gotten back, so wrapped up they are in their conversation.

“Maybe we could go to New York like Kevin next year for Christmas? Me, you, and Dad.”

Eddie feels his body tense and he stays in place, curious as to what Buck’s response will be.

Eddie could easily picture it, the three of them taking on the city. The images that flood his mind teem with warmth and joy and sincerely, Eddie would love nothing more than to wrap himself in that. But a trip that elaborate wouldn’t be a casual thing between friends, at least not for him. It’s one thing to have Buck over at his place or for them to go on outings around LA with Chris on weekends. A Christmas getaway would carry far more weight. It’s something that families do. Something twinges a bit in Eddie’s chest at the thought. Somewhere along the way, without Eddie even fully realizing it had solidified itself, that’s precisely what Buck has become to him, and apparently Chris too.

“Now there’s an idea. I would love to go with you guys. Sure you wouldn’t mind me tagging along?”

Chris is quick to respond, casting away any trace of doubt. “Nope, the trip wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Eddie can hear Buck sigh. It’s clear just how touched his best friend is by Chris’ sentiment and Eddie would have to agree with his son. Any trip, any facet of life really, is so much better when Buck is thrown into the mix. He’s so interwoven into the fabric of their life, it’d be hard to picture any moment, big or small, without him there experiencing it with them.

“See, this is why you’re my favorite Diaz. Don’t tell your dad I said that though. It may break his old man heart,” Buck laughs, Chris joining in.

This melody is Eddie’s favorite sound, the lightheartedness of his two favorite guys sharing a private joke. It’s the little things like this that light him up, that fill him with a warmth so vibrant and strong that it takes every ounce of strength in him not to sit Buck down one day and have a serious conversation. But Eddie has never been good with words and in a case like this, for a topic this important, he knows a talk like that would be best handled with care. Whenever, or rather if ever, that day comes, Eddie hopes he’ll be prepared to handle it. Instead he’ll stick to this, to cloaking his feelings for the sake of keeping the scales balanced.

“With laughs that big I’m guessing someone is feeling better?” he says aloud, essentially announcing his presence.

He steps into the living room and sees the space has been transformed. A giant fort is set up in the center of the room and at the mouth of it is Buck and Chris stretched out side by side on pillows from the couch and Chris’ bed. It looks like the coziest of setups and Eddie isn’t at all surprised to see that Buck got creative in trying to make Chris as comfortable as possible.

Chris slaps on an innocent smile but Buck apparently has a harder time schooling his features.

“Eddie, you’re back. I didn’t even hear you come in,” he says, picking up the remote.

The end credits for Home Alone 2 flit by on screen. Buck hits pause as Chris reaches for the DVD of A Charlie Brown Christmas.

“Can we watch this one next?” he asks Buck who’s already nodding.

“Oh, definitely. This is one of my all-time favorites. How about I get you another bowl of soup and then we can fire this one up. Sound good?”

Chris gives him a two thumbs up and flops back against the pillows, plucking a tissue out of the box and wiping at his nose. Eddie frowns seeing his son so sick but the best he can do is continue supplying him with medicine and fluids to help him through it.

Buck carefully climbs out of the fort and walks over to Eddie, the two of them going into the kitchen.

“How’d your shopping go?” Buck asks as he opens the fridge and takes out a container.

“Really well. I managed to get stuff for everyone on my list, including a certain pest I know,” he jokes the second Buck opens his mouth, no doubt to check about the status of his own gift.

“Well, I’m glad you have your priorities in order then, thank you.”

A comfortable silence falls between them as Buck moves around the kitchen and Eddie is struck, not for the first time since befriending Buck, at how comfortable his friend is inside of his home. That’s all Eddie could have ever wanted. Buck moves with such assurance taking a bowl down from the cupboard, pulling a spoon out of a drawer, knowing exactly where everything is without hesitation or having to ask. It warms his heart to see this, to know that Buck must feel comfortable here, that this could somehow be home.

“Thanks again for watching Chris for me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” he says as Buck pops the now filled bowl into the microwave.

“Don’t mention it. I love hanging out with him and if I can help you in any way, I will. Always.”

Buck holds his gaze and for a moment, Eddie thinks he’ll say more. There’s something in his expression that looks as if he’s trying to communicate something wordlessly but far too soon, the moment passes and shortly after the microwave beeping breaks the silence between them. Buck smiles softly before turning away but Eddie keeps his eyes trained on his back, getting lost in his thoughts.

Maybe this is all in his head or perhaps an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking is at play but lately something has felt different between them, as if there’s something going unspoken.

Buck gets a tray and puts the bowl on top of it, carefully picking it up from the countertop.

“I can bring it to him,” Eddie says, gesturing to take the tray. “You can get out of here, if you want. You should enjoy what’s left of your day off.”

Buck rolls his eyes as he side steps and laughs. “That’s exactly what I’m doing now. Didn’t you hear? It’s Charlie Brown time. No way in hell am I missing him or that tree.”

Eddie smiles softly and shakes his head. He opens his mouth to say something but falls short on words. Buck seems to understand regardless as he smiles back and nods.

“I know,” he says simply. Eddie wants so desperately to ask what exactly it is that Buck knows, what he feels but he lets the matter go for now.

This right here is more than enough, he reasons. To have Buck look at him and comprehend even a fraction of his gratitude.

~*~*~

Eddie knows he worries too much but watching Buck throughout their busy morning and early afternoon with back to back calls, he can’t help but to feel a little troubled over Buck’s slower pace and quieter nature. Usually he could be counted on to be the most energized and talkative during calls but today he’s so much more subdued and it feels like a real cause for concern.

“You okay?” Eddie asks, searching Buck’s face as they wash their hands in the bathroom to prep for lunch.

“Yeah, I just need some food in me and I’ll be good to go.”

Buck smiles reassuringly but Eddie isn’t convinced. Nonetheless he follows Buck up to the loft where the rest of the crew is already gathered around the table. Eddie takes a seat beside Hen who sits across from Chimney, the two already engaged in conversation.

This leaves Eddie the coveted spot of sitting opposite Buck.

Buck settles in at the table beside Chimney, placing a hand against his throat as he clears it before he reaches to the center of the table to start fixing his plate. Eddie watches him curiously as he’s done all day, noting the way Buck seems to be moving a bit slower than usual, the man’s eyes trained in focus on the simple task of putting food on his plate.

Eddie wonders if he’s reading too much into Buck’s body language but given how well he knows his friend, he feels safe in his assumption that Buck is off today because he’s sick and putting forth his best efforts to disguise this fact. Out in the field it was easy to attribute Buck’s pace to the amount of work the team had to put into their calls but now, with everyone finally able to unwind and catch their breath, Buck still looks put out.

“Buck, you’re really hot,” Chimney says as Buck’s arm grazes his. Eddie purses his lips, his suspicion confirmed easily.

Buck flashes a smile and a wink. “Tell me something I don’t know. But I don’t think Maddie would take it well to know you’re hitting on her brother.”

Chim smacks his hand against his forehead and shakes his head.

“You’re no match for your sister, I can tell you that right now, but that’s not what I meant. Seriously, don’t you feel warm?”

Buck shakes his head. “No. It’s actually kind of cold in here, isn’t it?”

Hen pushes back from the table across from him, putting a hand over her mouth and nose.

“Nope, you’ve got to go. Cap, this bug is making the rounds quick. I swear half of Denny’s class is out with it.”

Bobby rises from his seat and walks over to Buck, placing a hand on his forehead. Buck looks like a grumpy child as his bottom lip pokes out slightly.

“Jeez, Buck. You’re like a furnace. I’m afraid I have to send you home.”

“But, Cap!” Buck tries to protest but Bobby shakes his head and holds up a hand to stop any more objections.

“That’s an order. And here are some more for you: drink lots of fluids, get in bed, and stay there. Be sure to get a ton of rest until this fever breaks. I know you want to stay on and help but you’re going to sideline the whole team if we don’t do this. Sorry, Buck.”

Buck sighs defeatedly and pushes back in his seat, rising to his feet. The crew murmurs their get well soon wishes to Buck as he heads toward the stairs and Eddie’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach knowing how and why Buck is sick in the first place. He rises from his seat, quickly wiping at his mouth with a napkin before following him to the locker room.

Eddie stays quiet at the door as Buck gets his locker open and takes out his bag.

“So much for Buckleys don’t get sick, huh?” Buck says with a sigh, sitting down on the bench.

Eddie steps further into the room and sits beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. He’s surprised when Buck’s hand comes to rest over his. Buck’s hand is warm and Eddie relishes in his touch but too soon, the feeling is gone; Buck quickly lets go and clears his throat, shifting his attention to his bag. Eddie’s hand falls limply into his lap.

“This one’s on me. I’ll stop by after work and check on you, okay?” he ventures.

“You don’t have to. I’ll be alright.”

“Maybe so but I’d feel a hell of a lot better seeing that for myself. I can drop you home now, if you want. I’m sure Bobby would let me run off for a bit.”

Buck smiles softly and shakes his head. “You’re a good friend, Eddie, but I can manage the trip home. I promise I’ll follow Dr. Nash’s orders to the letter. I’ll be back on my feet in no time, just you wait and see.”

~*~*~

It’s been two days and Buck’s fever has been making its presence known; it’s Chris’ symptoms all over again but Eddie is ready for it, already having placed a call to his grandmother for even more of her miracle soup. Eddie’s been anxious at work, keeping his phone within reach at all times just waiting to get replies from Buck when he checks in. Some messages are more coherent than others but overall it seems as if Buck is hanging in there as much as can be expected.

Eddie’s certain that what his friend needs now is his grandmother’s home-cooking to really send Buck’s ailment packing. It’s to her house he heads straight to after his shift, his thoughts resting heavily on Buck’s recovery.

“Abuela?” Eddie calls out as he locks back the front door of her home.

“In here!”

Eddie follows her voice to the kitchen where he finds his grandmother ladling her soup into Tupperware, the remnants of vegetables and spices on the counter.

He greets her with a kiss on each cheek, taking a set back so she can continue filling the container she’s halfway done with.

“Thanks for doing this...again,” he muses. “One day I swear I’ll learn how to make this stuff.”

She gives him a doubtful look but smiles. “I don’t mind making it for you and your boys.”

Eddie eyes her for a moment, taking note of the implication of her wording. Unsure of how or even if he should call attention to it, Eddie switches gears a bit.

“I’m sure Buck is going to appreciate it. This soup was practically magic for Chris. Buck is chomping at the bit to get back to the station. This is just the thing to get him there again soon.”

His grandmother sets the ladle down and secures the lid on the container, double checking that it’s properly sealed.

“And I’m sure you’re eager for him to get back, too.”

Eddie is brought up short by this, his brows furrowing in thought. Isabel Diaz is as formidable a woman as ever and is always far too good at reading things that weren’t spoken with Eddie. In a case like this, it only makes him feel on edge rather than comforted.

“What are you getting at?”

Isabel shrugs her shoulders but despite how nonchalant the gesture is, Eddie knows there must be more to her thoughts than she’s letting on just then.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Buck is your best friend, no? I would think it’d make sense that you’d want your partner back.”

Eddie can feel heat rising in his face and quickly turns to the pantry, opening the door to it and taking a tote bag off one of the shelves, taking advantage of the brief moment of reprieve to pull himself together.

Eddie returns to her side and begins packing away the various containers. His grandmother is nothing if not efficient and thorough. These batches will be enough to get Buck through the week.

Eddie stays quiet while he works but just as he’s putting away the last container, she places a hand on his arm, stilling him.

He turns his head slightly to look at her, not quite meeting her eye. She takes it as the invitation it is to say whatever is on her mind.

“He’s lucky to have a friend like you,” she says softly, as if in thought.

“I’m the lucky one here, believe me. Buck’s always a huge help. At work, around the house, with Chris. This is the least I could do.”

It’s only then that Eddie looks at his grandmother fully and the knowing smile on her face is so comforting that Eddie feels the tension in his body melt away.

“People like that are hard to find in life. Be sure to hold on the good ones for however long you can.”

~*~*~

Visits to Buck’s after work have become the norm all week and with each trip, Eddie feels more assured that Buck will be better in no time. Today’s check in brings on a sense of déjà vu. In Buck’s living room now is a replica of the fort he and Chris constructed at Eddie’s place a week and a half prior.

“What’s your obsession with forts anyway?” he asks as he climbs inside, surrounded by plush pillows and blankets.

“Maddie used to make them for me all the time when I was little,” Buck says. “Building one with Chris has me kinda nostalgic, I guess.”

Eddie smiles to himself at the mental image of Buck as a kid. It isn’t too hard to picture what he must have looked like back then as he looks at him now, a blanket draped over his head and shoulders sitting cross-legged in front of the laptop, a movie already playing.

“What are you watching?” Eddie asks, settling in.

“Love Actually.”

Eddie laughs and shakes his head. “I didn’t take you for a romcom lover but I guess that somehow makes sense now that I think about it.”

“What’s not to love about them? The build up, the will-they-won’t-they but you know they totally will, the big sweeping declaration at the end? That’s what everyone roots for. Who doesn’t like seeing people in love live happily ever after? It’s the dream,” Buck concludes.

Eddie doesn’t argue the point. How could he possibly when that’s all he’s been hoping to have himself?

“That’s really your dream?” he asks tentatively.

Buck shrugs. “I definitely wouldn’t say no if it were to happen. But in order for all of that, someone would actually have to fall head over heels for me,” he laughs wryly.

“You make it sound like such an impossibility. Like you’re somehow difficult to love.”

Buck’s head tilts to the side a bit. “You don’t think that I am?”

It’s such a loaded question, a dangerous one really but still, the words fall effortlessly from Eddie’s lips as he replies.

“I would think that falling for you is one of the easiest things a person could do.”

Eddie realizes this conversation is veering off course and Buck probably isn’t thinking very clearly given the state of things. For all Eddie knows, Buck is hopped up on cold medicine and doesn’t realize he’s asking leading questions. Eddie falls silent then, laying back and staring up the blanket overhead as the movie continues to play on screen. The seconds stretch tauntingly and Eddie knows he’s said too much, gone too far over the line they’ve been treating as a tightrope.

He hears the tap of the keyboard and the movie pauses. Eddie keeps his eyes trained above him, hoping they can avoid delving deeper into this. But he’s kicked open the gate, ushered in this line of conversation he’s been terrified to have.

“Eddie, I—,” Buck starts but Eddie isn’t so sure he wants, or is even ready, to hear what Buck has to say in response.

“You should get some sleep.”

“But I want to talk to you. I missed you today. I always miss you when you’re away.”

Eddie freezes, unsure of if this an open statement Buck would be making if he wasn’t sick or possibly feeling awkward given Eddie’s last comment but he’d be lying to himself if he said it isn’t something that makes his chest warm right in the center.

“I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere all night,” he assures.

“All night? What about Chris?”

“He’s probably on his way to a sugar coma at my grandmother’s right about now. She’s baking tonight and Chris, of course, volunteered to help. I know he’s just in for the leftover frosting and taste testing.”

This seems to be a good enough distraction. Buck laughs softly and grows quiet, pressing the laptop again and Eddie is certain he’s never been more grateful to hear a bunch of British people in conversation with each other. He opts to just listen to rather than watch the movie; his focus is completely shot.

After a few minutes, Buck sighs and burrows in against Eddie’s side. Instinctively Eddie wraps an arm around his friend. Before he can undo it or reprimand himself for getting too familiar with Buck, the man buries his face against the side of Eddie’s neck.

He’s all too aware of each breath Buck takes, his skin tickling with every exhale. There’s nothing casual or platonic about this and Eddie’s heart aches so painfully in his chest that it takes every ounce of willpower he has to keep breathing. But still, before he can allow himself to truly accept what Buck getting this close to him means, he needs to hear it from the man himself.

“Buck?”

“You didn’t give me a chance to say anything before so I figured I’d show you where my head and heart are instead.”

Eddie sits up slowly, Buck moving with him. Eddie takes in his expression and sees a real clarity in Buck’s eyes that leaves no room for uncertainty that he’s serious. Eddie has spent so long feeling terrified of being presented with this moment but he takes comfort in realizing this isn’t one-sided like he’s feared.

“Is this the part with the big sweeping declaration?” he jokes lamely to work out his nerves.

“I sure hope so. That tends to always be the best part.”

“You’re a lot better at this than me,” he says, rubbing his palm against the front of his jeans.

“To be fair, I watch a lot of romantic comedies in my downtime.”

Eddie can’t help but to laugh at this, grateful for the levity Buck brings to this moment. He cups the man’s cheek and strokes his face lightly with his thumb as he stares into his eyes.

“I’ve never been too good with this sort of stuff but you make me want to figure out a way how to be. Maybe in time I’ll be able to get the words out but, if nothing else, just know that I feel a lot for you, Buck. With you, I feel everything.”

Eddie leans forward and kisses Buck’s forehead, his eyes drifting closed as he lingers for a moment. Buck sighs contentedly, one hand settling on Eddie’s knee. Eddie pulls away then, resting his forehead against Buck’s, his fingers carding gently through his hair at the back of his head. Buck bumps his nose softly to Eddie’s who smiles at the move.

“Crap, sorry,” Buck says, pulling away. “What if you get sick next?”

“I survived Chris’ fever. I think I’ll be fine with yours too. If not, then I’ll just have to commission Abuela to make more soup,” he laughs. “Speaking of which, I should get some for you. Or tea or—”

“No,” Buck interjects, holding on to his wrist gently, keeping him in place. “Please, just...stay here for a little while longer with me?”

Eddie looks at him, takes in that soft pleading look and nods. “Whatever you want.”

Buck smiles at this and lays down on his side. Eddie doesn’t hesitate in spooning him, his arm securing snugly across Buck’s hip. His face burrows in the crook of the man’s neck, chin propped against his shoulder.

“Now will you get some sleep?” he asks quietly.

Buck laughs, light and carefree. “I don’t see how I can be expected to now after all of this,” he replies just as quietly, playing with Eddie’s fingers.

“This feels like Christmas morning as a kid. All that excitement, wondering what’s in store. No,” he continues, shaking his head. “ I couldn’t possibly sleep now. I don’t want to miss a second of what comes next.”

44 notes · View notes

iphisesque · 4 years

Note

Joe + Nicky + Saint Sebastian + ☕

(this started out as a fun little question to answer! might throw around some headcanons! might even reference some of my favourite renaissance artists along the way! and here we are, a couple of months and 1.1k words later, with a fanfiction about joenicky, saint sebastian and antonello da messina. i have no idea how this happened --- you can find the link to this on ao3 in the source!)

---------

Yusuf loves drawing Nicolò, that much is certain: whether it be a doodle on the corner of a page in his sketchbook or a painting on a panel larger than either of them, he's always found something almost sacred, almost divine about it, about tracing the curve of his nose, the bright glimmer in his eyes, the relaxed grin on his lips and recreating his image like Allah created man in his own. They often joke about Yusuf making Nicolò into a saint, giving his face to George slaying the dragon, or perhaps painting both of their likenesses onto an embrace of Sergius and Bacchus commissioned by another wealthy Florentine with tastes not unlike theirs, but nothing really ever becomes of it --- until.

They're staying in Venice at Antonello's house, not long after he's returned from his latest travel to the Flanders; him and Yusuf are excitedly discussing the latest news in oil painting, while Nicolò is dozing off in bed as he pretends to follow the conversation, still tangled up in their sweat and spill and little else.

He stretches and stirs, more asleep than awake, and both of them look up at him from the desk in Antonello's room they're sitting at; the man glances at his figure, lightly constrained by the bed sheets strategically covering his body, his face still blissed-out, and reaches for his sketchbook, showing his latest preliminary sketches to Yusuf. A young man, tied up with rope to a pole, arrows penetrating his near-bared body in an intent more sensual than murderous, if the man's expression is anything to go by.

"San..." He can't recall the saint's name on his tongue, but he knows the man is one: it's always saints and Marys with Catholic artists, which isn't necessarily a complaint. "Sebastiano," Antonello helps him, his voice low. "I was commissioned a Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian by the Church of San Zulian, and I thought you might appreciate the idea."

He glances up at his lover, fast asleep in bed still, and back down at the sketch. "Who's the man?" he asks, an artist's silent understanding: every painting contains a part of its maker's soul, but masterpieces such as Antonello's seldom are created without a certain familiar face to inspire the hand that paints its likeness.

"An old friend," he answers, his eyes growing dark. "Loved him and left him in Messina, like too many other things in my life."

Yusuf nods, he too well aware of what it means to leave people behind; his heart still aches when he thinks of his sister Maryam sometimes, watches over her descendants in Mahdia and Tunis as best as he can alongside his beloved. "I'm going back there as soon as I finish this commission, tell you that," Antonello interrupts his thoughts. "I far too much miss my dear Smeralda and my dearest hometown, though I'm sure a man like you would have none such problems."

Yusuf scoffs playfully. "I miss more places and people than you could ever think possible, believe me," he replies, and that much is the truth: the pain of leaving people and places he's loved never stops or dulls after centuries of life, or at the very least it still hasn't for himself and Nicolò.

He comes back home that night with his head buzzing, and dreams of his sister, of his past life in sun-scorched Mahdia, of his beloved's embrace as they ate and drank and recited poetry in his family's house in Damascus, back when they were still learning to know and love each other for the very first time. He dreams other, abstract dreams too: a broken arrow, lengths of rope holding strong muscles tight, his beloved's face enraptured, the near-indecency of a drape slipping off his bare lap, and these don't fade from his thoughts even after he wakes up.

He tells Nicolò of the sketch Antonello showed him, the sketch that hasn't left his mind since he first saw it, and his lover's eyes widen, his interest piqued. "Would you like to paint me like that?" he whispers, his voice low and raspy like he knows it drives Yusuf wild.

He nods, not wanting to break the heavy intimacy of the silence hanging between them, and Nicolò presses a kiss to his lips, his hand caressing at first his cheek and then moving lower and lower.

"Paint me then, beloved," he tells him in that same voice, before dragging him to the bedroom, and Yusuf begs Allah to let him at least finish the sketch that night before succumbing to the desires of the flesh. (If He hears that plea, He seems to pay him no attention.)

---

Centuries later, one French art forger baptised as Sébastien Le Livre has joined their warrior group of immortals, and he finds himself with them at a safehouse in Florence sometime between the two world wars; he's still young, barely been undead for more than a century, and cannot wrap his head around the idea of his mates having been alive since way before his country or the one they're staying in were united. Safehouses like that are a blessing to him, filled to the brim with material testaments of his and his companions' eternal lives, and often hiding pieces deserving of a place in a museum; it is one of these he stumbles upon that afternoon as he explores the dusty old attic, holding a torch high and not too close as he theatrically removes the white cloth covering a painting --- late 1400s, he thinks with a glance at the technique and at the style, further proved by the signature in the lower right corner reading "al-Kaysani, 1479".

Yusuf's old art, and certainly not his oldest, he thinks to himself, and he has a better look at the subject: a Sebastian like himself, painted as was the norm in the day, penetrated by arrows and tied up to a pole, in an expression of supposed agony resembling more of a petite mort than a real death.

Only when he pays closer attention to the face does he realise who the subject is, and he recoils so suddenly he drops his lamp in the darkness --- he cannot look Nicolò in the face for a week following the incident, and they only find out about that when Yusuf goes to store another masterpiece in the attic alongside the cursed San Sebastiano. They laugh it out eventually, of course, and it becomes something to tease them both about, but he is more than glad to be leaving Florence and going to London the week after that, where he starts going by Booker and buries his old name for good.

---------

A few notes:

1) the mention of Saints George, Sergius and Bacchus is not casual: Saint George, in particular, was the patron saint of the Republic of Genova, and Sergius and Bacchus are two saints martyred together who are often thought to have had a homosexual relationship and are somewhat of the patron saints of the gay community.

2) Antonello da Messina was an early Renaissance painter who introduced Flemish oil painting to Italy and Italian perspective technique to the Flanders; his portrayal of Saint Sebastian, inspired by Andrea Mantegna’s, was among the first ones to popularise what we now consider to be the classic portrayal of the martyrdom of Sebastian, aka “young man tied to a pole and sensually struck by arrows”. In Messina, Antonello was friends with Saint Eustochia Smeralda (the Smeralda Antonello mentions), and he allegedly based his masterpiece Virgin of the Annunciation on her.

3) the headcanon of Yusuf coming from Mahdia belongs to @hottopicmonk, and him having a sister named Maryam comes from a conversation with @tovezza!

#the old guard #the old guard fic #tog fic #the old guard fanfiction #the old guard netflix #nicolò di genova #yusuf al-kaysani #sebastien le livre #tog fanfiction #mine #my fic

96 notes · View notes

anika-ann · 4 years

Text

The Best Mistake of My Life - Pt.5

The A+ Day...

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 2320

Summary: A soulmate AU. They say having a soulmate is a blessing. Who wouldn’t love the idea of star-crossed lovers, right?

You get to spend the day with the Avengers. Should you be excited or scared? Well, Steve is by your side, so...

Warnings: swearing, FLUFF, Steve’s friends being Steve’s friends… go figure

Story masterlist

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

You were very comfy and very warm. Maybe even too warm. Also, your covers were moving behind your back and that was a bit odd, but you blamed the sensation on the morning confusion. Your bed smelled nicer than usual too. You nuzzled closer into the moving warmth, content it stilled its movements.

Except that after that, it talked.

“Sorry to wake you,” the comforter whispered hoarsely and it was like a shot of adrenaline to your veins, making you jolt fully awake, sitting up straight, causing your head to pound with the swift movement.

That was Steve’s voice.

Because you were sleeping in Steve’s bed.

“Are you okay?” he asked lowly, but you couldn’t respond right away. The memories came rushing back to you, messy but warmly fuzzy images of last night.

You had danced with Steve. Steve had kissed you. Steve had kissed you a lot.

Your lips unwittingly curled up in a smile despite the abrupt wake-up process. You heard him moving at your side, sitting up as well, so you turned to him, still grinning in perfect contrast to his concerned face.

He looked adorable with his hair sticking in every direction, a bit sleepy expression on his face, and he was also still very much shirtless. You were sure you woke up to heaven.

“Sorry to freak out. I was just… ugh, confused for a bit,” you explained, keeping your voice on low level just like he did, worried you might disturb the peace. “Good morning, Steve.”

His face cleared of worried wrinkles and he charmed a smile for you. “Morning, doll. Slept well?”

“Very. You?”

“Yeah.”

You just stared at each other, grinning like fools, eyes sparkling. You must have looked ridiculous, but you didn’t care. Subconsciously, when he released you from the lock of his eyes, your gaze wandered over him, appreciating the lack of clothing. How could person have a body this marvellous? You knew it was probably the effect of the serum, but gosh. What a view.

Good morning indeed.

You noticed a blush spreading down his neck and quickly snapped your gaze back to where it was decent. But hey, when you were offered a view like this, you simply had to make the best of the opportunity!

Steve seemed a bit sheepish, but you couldn’t help but notice that a new glint appeared in his irises, something in the way he was watching you back that gave out that maybe, you weren’t the only person to enjoy the situation at hand. It took you a second to realize why that was – you were wearing his clothes.

You remembered Ryan telling you about what it felt like to him, seeing a girl – or a guy in his case – in his clothes. Like a flag on a flagpole, mark of ownership on a conquered land, he had told you.

No funny business had happened between you and Steve last night, but the thought still made your face hot all over. To cover your embarrassment, you ducked your head to Steve’s shoulder, resting your forehead on it.

Steve tensed at first, but quickly recovered and sank his fingers gently into your hair, very carefully caressing your scalp, wary of pulling at your hair and causing you pain. You hummed in appreciation, instinctively brushing the nearest patch of skin with your lips – an inked patch of skin. You smiled against your will at that. Your words. Your ridiculous first words to him.

His breath caught in his throat at your bold move, but a kiss landed at the top of our head, so you figured you didn’t overstep.

“How much do you hate morning breath?” he muttered, sounding a bit embarrassed.

“Not particularly…?” you answered, not sure where that headed.

Looking back, you really should have understood what he was asking. Then again, the pleasant surprise of his fingers gently finding your jaw and tilting your head so he could kiss you right on the lips, warm and soft and sweet, was worth the lack of your brain function. You melted, your palm finding a way to lie flat on his very bare chest, feeling every expansion of his ribcage, his skin burning. He deepened the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair enough to make you notice and boy, did it do things to you. You sighed into his mouth, content and yet needy for more, a second from climbing into his lap, too fast development be damned.

Just as you were out of breath, he released you, his thumb drawing a soft circle on your cheek. It was cliché, but your fingertips were literally tingling with euphoria and excitement.

“Wow,” you breathed out, still feeling his breath tickling your lips as he had barely moved away. “Can I stay another night? Can I be woken up like this every morning?”

He gave a breathy laugh, making your eyes snap open, and you could see the blown black of his pupils, the gleam of wanting more now diluted with giddiness.

“Can’t say I’d complain,” he admitted with a lopsided smile radiant on his kiss-swollen lips.

God, he was so handsome. Had you mentally noted he was handsome before? You still couldn’t believe it.

“That an invitation?”

“I mean, if you convince Tony…”

“Oh god, I take it back,” you groaned, falling back to the sheets dramatically, rewarded with Steve’s light-hearted laugh.

He laid down on his side then, propped on his elbow, watching you with a soft smile. “Thank you for staying.”

You let out what surely was a very unattractive snort. “’Cause not having to go home and not having to hail a cab in the middle of the night was a real sacrifice…”

Steve was fully grinning now, dropping a playful kiss on your nose, which caused you to giggle.

“I know, my lady. Let me make up for the hardship you had suffered through with making you breakfast.”

“You sound like Thor. Also, offering breakfast to a girl? You are a dangerous man, Steve Rogers,” you stated, the stupid smile simply not disappearing from your face no matter how much you tried to get it under control; so you gave up on that. “You seem to know just the way to my heart.”

“I sure hope so. Are you coming with the adorable bed-hair or do you want a minute?”

You gasped at the cheeky comment, grabbing the pillow by his head to smack his stupidly perfect skull.

His laughter filled the room and you felt like the happiest person on Earth.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

When Steve led you to the communal kitchen and dining room ten minutes later, you were surprised to find three people already there. Clint was sitting at the bar, his head resting in his palm, a mug of coffee hazardously close in your opinion, just in case he would actually fell asleep and faceplanted on the counter; Bruce was sitting nearby, watching over him, while Natasha was standing at the cooker, making…

“Are those pancakes?” you gasped, your stomach instantly reacting to the smell, making you squirm in humiliation. Steve at your side chuckled, while Natasha grinned at you.

“Yep. There’s enough for you too. Unless Steve wants to impress you with his own cooking skills,” she teased and winked at him. He smiled bashfully in return.

“I mean… maybe next time? Since you already started…”

“Oh-ho, so there will be a next time?” Clint wolf-whistled, startling you with both the question and sudden sign of life.

“Let them be…. Coffee?” Bruce beckoned to the pot. You bit you lip bashfully. You didn’t want to be rude, but coffee… “Or maybe tea?”

You lighted up. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

“I’ll do it,” Steve hurried before the other man could rise from his seat. He pecked your temple. ”You go sit.”

“Yes, sir…”

Looking around, you weren’t sure where to. Between Bruce and Clint? Next to Clint since Bruce was at the bar stool at the end of the counter?

“You can sit next to Clint. It’s safe. This is his second mug of coffee,” Natasha supplied helpfully and you frowned in confusion. Perhaps an inside joke. “Yes, he is dangerous before he finishes his first.”

“Hey!” the man in question complained, but rolled his eyes for your benefit. “That’s actually accurate. You can sit here, I don’t bite.”

“He’s just a pain in everyone’s ass.”

“Morning to you too, Stark,” Clint saluted him and a mug of tea landed in front of you, soon followed by a stack of pancakes.

“You’re gonna spoil me. Thank you,” you said in earnest.

Natasha waved it off, while Steve let out a simple “Planning on it.”

“So you didn’t spoil her last night?” the billionaire hummed casually, pouring himself a coffee. Your eyes widened and you rather started eating to avoid an answer. Steve only sighed.

Neither of you replied, which earned you some raised eyebrows.

“She seems right at home in his clothes, huh?” Clint added and you shot him a look, mortified. Him too?

“She does, doesn’t she? Sign of a successful night?”

Steve grinded his teeth at Stark’s latest remark, turning a bit red in his face. You sipped your tea, figuring out a sassy response.

“Very successful. I slept like a baby. Sleeping duty fulfilled,” you announced and noticed that Bruce’s lips twitched as if he was holding back a smile. You continued. “That will be all, thank you for your questions. For further information, contact our PR department. ….Ouch, we don’t have one, looks like it’s none of your business then. Too bad…”

Tony’s mouth was theatrically hanging open, his hand clutching his chest and Clint’s eyes seemed rounder than a moment before; then again, that could just be because of the amount of caffeine in his system. Natasha chuckled, positioning a plate in front of Steve – his stack of pancakes was visibly taller and you wondered just how much he had to eat.

Speaking of Steve, he was smugly grinning into his mug. “I have nothing to add.”

“Still though. She’s like… shining or something. That’s released endorphins, I can tell. Good job, Cap.”

You internally whined.

If they keep that up, staying overnight is gonna start feeling like a sacrifice.

“Play nice, boys,” Natasha scolded them and you smiled at her gratefully. “Let the poor girl eat. She’s gotta make up for the calories Steve helped her burn…”

“You too?” you burst out simultaneously with Steve and Natasha raised her hands in a harmless gesture.

“I meant when you were dancing. What did you think I was talking about?” she asked innocently and everyone in the room but you two laughed.

“I hate you,” Steve mouthed at her and she just winked in return, turning her attention back to her cooking.

You wished for the Earth to swallow you, but you liked the teasing air hovering above the group of friends. You smiled reassuringly at Steve, stroking him arm shortly.

“It’s okay, Steve. I still like you despite your annoying friends,” you emphasized the last words, which was followed by affective aww from Clint, Tony and Natasha.

Steve smiled at you, apologetic and kind. “Thanks, doll. You’re the best.”

To show his appreciation, he kissed your cheek, the innocent gesture drawing a wolf-whistle from Tony.

“Get a room!”

You just rolled your eyes and stole a quick peck from Steve’s lips for a good measure. He tasted like coffee; it seemed you might grow fond of that taste after all.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Despite all the odds, everyone survived breakfast. They teased you once more after you asked about Thor, learning he had left in early morning because of an urgent matter on Asgard. After all, he was son of the King. And an Alien. And a demigod. Apparently, you knew those now. What an insanity your life became in such a short time.

The team went separate ways after the meddling over the most important meal of the day. Steve stayed with you, of course, showing you around the Tower. You marvelled at the view and despite having a tiny fear of heights, you agreed to Steve taking you outside at the top.

It was incredible. You found yourselves basically on the top of the world, steps slightly shaky, but with Steve’s firm reassurance. You trusted him not to let you fall. So trying to keep your mind of the potential life-ending fall, you busied your mind with how touchy-feely Steve quickly became after sharing the first kiss yesterday night. You loved it.

When you came to a stop, you were unable to resist the urge to spread your arms and let the gentle wind play with your hair and rather loose clothes; Steve’s hands found their way to your hips to steady you. Slowly, he moved further, his fingers running in a feather-light touch over your arms and threading his fingers with yours.

You giggled and dared to lean onto him with your back, testing the waters. His lips brushed your cheek and you couldn’t but turn your head, catching his mouth with yours in a searing kiss. He was so sweet. You trusted him with your life, knowing he would never allow you to even stumble, and yet you were falling, falling for him so hard. The realization was overwhelming.

How could you be… falling in love so fast?

Steve gently squeezed your fingers, brining your joined hands to your waist and you decided you didn’t care and let the kiss consume you.

When you finally parted, your eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze. You couldn’t stop smiling.

“Put Titanic on your list, huh?” you murmured, your brain turned into a useless mass of lovesick jello.

Laughter was twinkling in Steve’s eyes. “Not really. It’s a perk of the movie nights, we take turns in who’s picking.”

You frowned in confusion. “Who chose Titanic?”

For some reason, Natasha didn’t strike you the type. Clearly, you were right, because Steve chuckled.

“Clint.”

You burst out laughing, Steve soon joining you. You wondered if the whole Manhattan could hear you. Once again, you had no care in the world.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 6

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Tags:

@cxptain @mermaidxatxheart @smilexcaptainx , @murdermornings@irepostthingsiwanttoseelater , @polarcrystall @eliza5616, @rayofdawnworld @victor-criss-bish @skychild29 @elysianecho @simmisblog @scentedsongrebel @orions-nebula, @sergeantrosabellaswan @songofcosplay, @ilovesupersoldiers @wxstedhexrt @silver-winter-wolf @nova3312

Tags are open, you want in or out, let me know :))

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

I actually had to split it into two parts, because it was waaay to much fluff in one go an that coming from me? You better believe it!

Thank you for reading. Attempt at humour will come later, promise ;)

#marvel #fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #captain america x reader #captain america x you #steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers imagine #captain america imagine #soulmate #soulmate au #avengers #mcu #reader insert #the best mistake of my life #anika ann

261 notes · View notes

eclecticanalyst · 3 years

Text

We’re Expecting You...To Boldly Go [part 2]

In my last post, I expounded on the similarities in the general premise and structure of The Love Boat and Star Trek: The Next Generation, two shows that on the surface seem not to have much in common but on closer examination have some unexpected similarities. In my follow-up post on this theme, I will be drawing parallels between the main/regular characters of both shows. The crew lineup on each ship can be broken down into six character functions/profiles: The Captain, The Captain’s Confidant, The Big Brother, The Two Buds, The Chick, and The Kid.

The Captain

Star Trek TNG: Captain Jean-Luc Picard

The Love Boat: Captain Merrill Stubing

“The Captain” is...the captain! Beyond his role as the primary authority figure, he can be characterized in the following ways. Being the one to whom the rest of the crew reports, he is a bit socially removed from the rest of the main characters. While they can pal around with each other, they still treat him with a bit more deference even as he comes to be just as integral a part of their found family as the rest of them. The Captain can be rather intimidating at times—especially in the early days, when he had a tendency to be overly gruff with his crew. Part of that gruffness is the fact that he has very high standards for the people who serve under him. At the same time, however, he cares deeply for those people and is willing to put himself on the line for them, even bending the rules a bit in order to help them out of a difficult spot. He’s full of thoughtful advice should one of his crew ask for it, and is the most likely of the crew to give speeches about moral responsibility. He also has a playful streak, which he keeps under wraps but uses to mess with his crew from time to time. In terms of appearance, he’s older than the rest of the cast and he is bald(ing). He’s played by the best actor of the cast—Patrick Stewart is, of course, Patrick Stewart, I don’t think I really need to say more there, and Gavin MacLeod was a veteran actor (probably best known at that point for his role as Murray on The Mary Tyler Moore Show), able to handle both the comic and the dramatic whenever needed.

The Captain’s Confidant

Star Trek TNG: Dr. Beverly Crusher

The Love Boat: Dr. Adam “Doc” Bricker

I could have called this character profile “The Doctor,” following the same pattern as “The Captain,” but there was another aspect to Beverly and Doc that I wanted to draw attention to, beyond their being the respective healers of their crews. Both Beverly and Doc have a slightly different relationship with the Captain than the other members of the crew. They are a bit closer to the Captain, able to address him easily as a friend instead of as a superior officer if the situation calls for it. Notice that when working, Beverly will address Picard as “Captain” and “sir,” but when it’s just the two of them chatting in a more intimate setting she calls him “Jean-Luc.” Beverly is also one of the few people on board that Picard is comfortable with opening up to regarding his own insecurities or worries, while he takes more care to maintain his “self-assured captain” persona with everyone else. The same dynamic plays out between Stubing and Doc: there are several instances of Doc addressing his friend as “Merrill”—which none of the other members of the crew would even consider doing—and the power difference between the two is not as pronounced as it is between the captain and the other crew members. Whenever Captain Stubing has a personal problem, he goes to Doc for advice, and vice versa. Dr. Crusher and Captain Picard have a history, having been friends long before he took command of the Enterprise. In the same vein, Doc seems to know Captain Stubing’s past more intimately than the rest of the crew, as there are a few episodes in which the two of them discuss Captain Stubing’s alcohol addiction and current status as a teetotaler as if this is something Doc has always known about Merrill.

The Big Brother

Star Trek TNG: William Riker

The Love Boat: Adam “Doc” Bricker

So this is cheating a bit because I already have Doc listed under a character profile above, but TNG’s main cast has more people than that of TLB, so a one-to-one mapping wasn’t going to happen anyway. Doc’s “Captain’s Confidant” role deals with his relationship with the captain, and his “Big Brother” role deals with his relationship with the rest of the regulars. The fact that Doc is a bit older than Julie, Isaac, and Gopher means that even though he, like the rest of them, is under the supervision of the captain, he has a slight position of seniority over the other three. He balances the by-turns mischievous and responsible aspects of an older brother figure—he’ll tease Julie about her latest infatuation, and set up elaborate pranks to mess with Gopher, yet whenever Gopher and Isaac get swept up in some not-well-thought-out scheme, he’s the level-headed one who tries to point out that they’ve gotten carried away—or sometimes refuses to get involved altogether. William Riker is, of course, first officer of the Enterprise, and therefore has the same seniority-among-underlings position (in a more official chain of command capacity than Doc does). His big-brother-ness manifests as the poker-playing, jazz-loving guy who will do things like give Worf’s son music recordings that he knows Worf will hate one day but get actively upset and almost personally offended at the idea of Data getting hurt the next.

Not necessarily related to the “Big Brother” role, but another little parallel between Doc and Riker that I would like to point out—they are each the designated ladies’ man of their ships, yet both are able to completely switch to focusing solely on their job responsibilities the moment it is called for. (Honestly, Doc always struck me as going beyond “ladies’ man” and skirting dangerously close to “creep” territory at times, but I did appreciate how he would always drop everything the instant there was any sort of medical issue on the Princess.)

The Two Buds

Star Trek TNG: Geordi La Forge and Data

The Love Boat: Isaac Washington and Burl “Gopher” Smith

Although both the TNG and TLB crews form a group of close friends, The Two Buds are best friends. They are the two most likely people to hang out together in their down time, the two who understand each other the best, the two most sympathetic to each other’s problems and most likely to indulge the other long after everyone else would have put their foot down. When Gopher gets some conspiracy theory into his head about a passenger, Isaac will hear him out and sometimes even help him investigate. When Data wants to do some questionable experimentation on his positronic net, Geordi is there with a tricorder making sure the whole thing doesn’t go completely haywire. Data once said that he didn’t know what a friend was until he met Geordi, and Isaac once told Gopher that he (Gopher) is the only one Isaac would resign in solidarity for. All four men/androids have a tendency to get a little too wrapped up in their obsession of the week—see Isaac’s novel-writing attempts, Geordi’s holographic Leah Brahms, Gopher’s conspiracy theories, and about half of anything Data does.

Each pair also consists of one white guy and one Black guy. (Obviously, Data is an android and therefore is not technically any human race or ethnicity, but he’s played by a white guy and his artificial skin is paler than anyone else’s skin on the senior staff.) The white guy representatives, Gopher and Data, are almost polar opposites—Data is calm and logical, and Captain Picard trusts him implicitly, while Gopher is a goof who freaks out easily and who is often upset with the way Captain Stubing dismisses him (those dismissals are especially prominent in the first few seasons—Gopher does mellow out later on). But they do have some similarities, one of the most striking being that they both struggle with appropriate social behavior as well as their own emotions. This is more readily apparent with Data, of course, who is literally not human and is trying his best to understand the nuances of things like humor and love, constantly asking his friends to explain behaviors they take for granted. Gopher’s struggles are more understated—he has a tendency to make comments and observations that the rest of the crew find slightly tasteless, he goes into several anxious tailspins over the course of the show, and he at one point believes his emotional attachments to his friends compromise his ability to fulfill his job duties. Both Data and Gopher use their respective best friends—each of whom are the more level-headed of the pair—as a steadying force.

Now for the characteristics shared by those respective best friends. The Black guy’s job responsibilities root him in a specific place and often set him slightly apart from the main action. While Geordi can and does go up to the bridge on several occasions, as Chief of Engineering he spends most of his time hanging around the warp core, communicating with the bridge over the com system. Meanwhile, Isaac can be seen wandering hallways and so forth, but he spends most of his time behind the bar, whether that’s in the Acapulco Lounge, on the Lido Deck, or in Pirate’s Cove. The rest of the crew, despite having nominal work stations like the Enterprise bridge or the Pacific Princess purser’s lobby, are seen to roam more extensively. (I’m pretty sure we never see Julie’s office.) Isaac is busy serving drinks in pretty much every episode while Doc and Gopher are chatting and dancing with passengers on the dance floor of the Acapulco Lounge. The Black guy also gets the short end of the stick in the romance department. When you see a Black guest actor on the opening credits of The Love Boat, it’s a good bet that Isaac will be involved in their storyline. If it’s just one Black woman, there’s a 99% chance that Isaac will be involved in her story, and his involvement will be as her love interest. I remember one particularly glaring example of the show going to extreme lengths to avoid even hinting that Isaac could potentially do something vaguely romantic or sexual with a white woman—Julie’s hosting her high school reunion on the ship, and there are a few scenes where everyone is discoing in the Acapulco Lounge. Isaac gets out on the dance floor, and conveniently some random Black woman appears out of nowhere as his dance partner. This woman is not named or acknowledged at any other point in the episode. Over on the Enterprise, Geordi isn’t restricted along race lines like Isaac, but I find it highly suspicious that the one Black guy is the least successful in romance out of everyone on the senior staff. Geordi struggles to even start up a conversation with women he’s attracted to, let alone flirt with them. Data has a better romance track record than Geordi does, and Data usually ends up in a romantic entanglement by accident! It’s as if the show was afraid to let Geordi enjoy those kinds of relationships to the same degree as the rest of the crew, which is a different kind of restriction than Isaac’s, but still a restriction nonetheless.

The Chick

Star Trek TNG: Deanna Troi

The Love Boat: Julie McCoy

The standard lineup for both TNG and The Love Boat consisted two female main characters, thus allowing the ladies to gossip about “girly” things in keeping with gender stereotypes, but Vicki was a preteen/teenager and Beverly had a sort of matron vibe going on, which left Julie and Troi to be the respective sex appeal characters out of the main cast. The Chick has non-standard dress that sets her apart from the others and their status as officers. While Doc, Gopher, and Captain Stubing wore nautical stripes and white uniforms (and Isaac usually had a variation on this outfit, wearing a red or blue jacket), with very little in the way of costume changes whether they were greeting boarding passengers, chatting on the Lido deck, or dancing in the Acapulco Lounge, Julie had no stripes to speak of. She would wear a (feminine) uniform at boarding, switch to a casual outfit during the rest of the day, and was always wearing a gown of some sort in the evenings. Deanna Troi for her part cycled through purple jumpsuits and asymmetrical dresses, her Starfleet badge precariously pinned to her neckline. We didn’t even get to see the pips indicating her rank until she was finally given (in story, ordered into) a normal uniform in season six.

The Chick gets saddled with way too many romance plots, some creepier than others. Giving Troi something substantial to do in an episode usually consisted of making her the love interest of whoever happened to be boarding the Enterprise that week, like the ambassador with the telepathic interpreters or the quarter-Betazoid interplanetary negotiator. Deanna also got her mind invaded by a man who was interested in her, prematurely aged by a man who took advantage of her, and kidnapped by Ferengi (who have a disturbing species-wide infatuation with non-Ferengi women). I’m not as upset about Julie having several romance-related plots, as romance was the name of the game on The Love Boat and the men on the crew had their own share of romantic entanglements—but I do find issue with the fact that when Julie was in love she always seemed on the verge of getting married and leaving the ship, which was a vibe we didn’t really get from, say, Doc or Gopher when their love lives turned particularly intense. In terms of creepiness, Julie had to deal with fending off the extremely aggressive advances of Captain Stubing’s uncle, a computer programmer who rigged his dating algorithm to ensure he matched with her, and a college acquaintance of Gopher who actually came to her door to badger her as she was getting dressed.

The Kid

Star Trek TNG: Wesley Crusher

The Love Boat: Vicki Stubing

For some reason, both of these shows thought it necessary to have a preteen/teenager in the cast whose character has way more responsibility than is realistic for either a cruise ship or a pseudomilitary starship. Instead of Vicki wearing a uniform and checking in guests on the Pacific Princess, we really should have seen Julie’s or Gopher’s staff fulfilling check-in duty (Doc and Isaac were also too often seen checking in passengers, which I will say again is a duty that on a real cruise ship would definitely not fall to either the ship’s doctor or chief bartender, but we’re talking about Vicki at the moment). Wesley, meanwhile, was made Acting Ensign on the Enterprise, saving the ship way more than he should have and probably earning the ire of all the official ensigns who actually went to Starfleet Academy and were losing precious time at the conn due to Picard’s favoritism.

Speaking of Picard, The Captain has a paternal relationship with The Kid—literally in Vicki Stubing’s case, emotionally in Wesley Crusher’s. He is very concerned with imbuing The Kid with strong morals, and has a vested interest in The Kid’s upbringing and making sure The Kid has a bright future. Meanwhile, the rest of the main crew are like an assortment of aunts and uncles, being the cool, approachable sources of advice when The Captain’s not around. In fact, The Kid hardly seems to have any friends their own age. Instead, they hang out with the adult crew members and get involved in their social drama, which may or may not have always been appropriate.

Isn’t there someone you forgot?

The TNG fans among you may now be thinking to yourselves, “What about Worf?” Alas, there seems to be no satisfactory Worf counterpart on The Love Boat. After all, there isn’t really any need for a tactical officer on a cruise ship, so a warrior-type personality is not represented on the Pacific Princess crew. Other Worf characteristics would be that of an outsider, or one who is occasionally not sure if they truly belong on the ship, but everyone on the Princess seems pretty happy to be there. I guess in a pinch I could say Ace, the late-addition ship’s photographer, might serve as Worf’s counterpart, but other than the fact that Ace’s family is rich and it is established that he doesn’t really need a job on the ship to get by, I’m not sure there’s much of an “outsider” status brought to the table here. I also haven’t watched enough Ace episodes to have a really good read on his character.

Thus ends my Love Boat/TNG comparison! It was nice to finally get this analysis out of my head and onto the page.

#the love boat #star trek #tng #comparison

2 notes · View notes

saang · 3 years

Note

6: sacred text (on post-it notes)

title is from taste by sleeping at last (amazing song!! i recommend!!)

wow, it’s certainly been a while hasn’t.... sorry anon.... anyway (pairing is taang)

word count: 1834

read on ao3

Aang woke up to a cold bed and messy sheets. He looked at the alarm clock and he understood why. It was ten in the morning on Aang’s day off, which unfortunately wasn’t Toph’s day off. He got out of bed and started his day. By half-past ten, Aang had showered, brushed his teeth and gotten dressed. He headed to the kitchen, where a post-it note was stuck to the fridge.

“You seemed too peaceful to wake up, sorry. Love you, see you after work! - Toph”

He laughed a little as he plucked it from the fridge. It was written messily in braille. Aang learned braille for Toph. To write her little notes, to communicate with her without speaking. To do something just for her, and only her. He put it into the cupboard above the stove with all the other notes from Toph he saved. She didn’t know that he saved them all, she’d probably call him cheesy if she did. Aang was smiling the rest of the morning. They left each other little notes all the time, and it never failed to make him extremely giddy.

—

Toph woke up to the smell of breakfast and coffee. She had just stepped out into the hallway when she heard the front door close. She went to open the fridge and felt a post-it stuck to it. Her hands glided over the etched-in braille.

“Sorry to leave so early. Made some breakfast and coffee, might have to heat it up though! I love you! - Aang”

Toph smiled to herself. She clutched the note to her chest, careful not to crease or rip it. She didn’t appreciate the fact that he could make her lovestruck so easily. She put it into the bottom drawer beside the fridge. If Aang knew she kept all of his little notes, she’d never hear the end of his teasing. She settled into the couch, a cup of coffee in her hand. She could feel the warmth of the sun seeping in from the window.

—

“You really need to work on your braille,” Toph joked, snuggling deeper into Aang’s side as they cuddled on the couch. “It’s almost illegible.”

“Yeah, well so is my normal writing,” Aang replied. He played with her hair. The black strands we’re soft against his fingers. “Everybody has to deal with that.”

“Maybe I should get you one of those printing exercise booklets they had in kindergarten. I feel like it would benefit you.” Toph’s eyes closed slightly in exhaustion. Her thumb caressed the back of Aang’s hand. His skin was smooth, his palms were a bit calloused. Toph didn’t care, she thought it gave him character.

Aang laughed. He repositioned them a bit. His arms around her, hers around him. “Are you tired, Toph?”

“Perhaps, but I’m also really comfy,” Toph’s voice was muffled by Aang’s chest. “Carry me?”

Aang smiled fondly and carried his girlfriend to bed.

—

Toph got out of her shower, wrapping her towel around herself. She’d gotten so used to their apartment, she never needed to feel around for anything, it was nice. Much nicer than her parents’ house, who felt the constant need to rearrange everything. There was a note on the counter next to her phone. Toph dried her hand on her towel and felt the note.

“Hey Toph, we were out of soy milk. Just ran to the store to grab some. Be home soon, I love you! - Aang”

When Toph had gotten dressed, Aang still hadn’t come back from the store. She took the opportunity to tuck the note away in the drawer with all the other notes. She took a moment to look through some of them. They were always so sweet, he was always so sweet. She put all of the notes, she would cherish forever, back into the neat little pile and closed the drawer.

—

Aang woke up to a post-it note stuck hastily to his forehead. He laughed a little before peeling it off of his skin. He looked at the note and smiled.

“Hey babe, remember that we have that dinner with my parents tonight! Love you, see you then! - Toph”

Aang hadn’t forgotten about the dinner with Toph’s parents, but it still sent a wave of panic over Aang. He knew that they didn’t like him much, but for Toph, he would make the effort to win their favour. For Toph, he would do anything. He had a lot of time before the dinner, he would need most of that time to compose himself. Tonight he was going to ask Toph’s parents for their blessing. Aang wasn’t planning on proposing in the immediate future, but if he didn’t ask her parents that night, he would have to wait until Christmas. Considering the fact that it was March, Aang really didn’t want to wait that long.

—

“May I ask you two a question?” Aang asked Lao and Poppy Beifong when Toph had gone to the bathroom.

“Go on,” Lao said, taking a sip of his drink.

“I want to ask Toph to marry me,” Aang started, his chest was heavy, anxious to hear what the Beifongs had to say about the prospect. “I am asking for your blessing. I know you don’t have the most positive outlook on me or my relationship with your daughter, but I love her with everything I have. I want to spend my life with her, she’s my everything. It would mean so much to me if I had your blessing.”

Poppy gave her husband a pointed look. They seemed to have a conversation with just their eyes. Poppy seemed to win their silent argument since Lao sighed heavily.

“You have our blessing to marry our daughter,” Lao said. “If she chooses to accept your proposal.”

“Thank you so much, sir.”

—

Aang was having trouble trying to decide how he would propose. He didn’t want to do anything big because he knew Toph wouldn’t really appreciate that, but he didn’t want to do something too simple because Toph deserved more than simple. She deserved the world and if she accepted his proposal, whatever that proposal may be, Aang would spend the rest of their lives trying to obtain it for her.

He spent weeks trying to figure out how he would do it. He consulted almost everyone he knew, but nothing seemed to fit just right. Until one morning he woke up to a post-it note.

“Went to breakfast with Katara and Suki, and I know you were up late working last night so I didn’t want to wake you, love you! - Toph”

He collected all of the post-it notes he’d saved from the past few years of their relationship. He looked through each of them and was reminded of just how much he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. He found one where she tried to draw a smiley face. It was messy and shaky, but it might’ve been Aang’s favourite piece of art in the world. It was from Toph, and it was to him.

After reaching the last one in the pile, the first one she ever wrote him, he gathered them all back up. He stuck them back together in a neat little pile and put them back in the cupboard above the stove. The latest of the notes right on top. He finally knew how he was going to propose.

—

“What is up with all of these notes lately, Twinkletoes?” Toph asked one night before they went to bed.

“I don’t know, just practicing my braille, since it’s apparently illegible,” Aang said, putting the book he was reading down on his nightstand. “Why?”

“Nothing, you’re just doing them a lot more all of a sudden,” she shrugged. “I don’t mind though, they're pretty cute.”

“Are you getting soft on me, Toph Beifong?” Aang laughed.

“Absolutely not, me? Soft? Ha,” she replied, getting under the covers.

“Ok, you keep telling yourself that.” Aang cuddled up next to her, resting his cheek on her hair and he drifted off to sleep.

—

Toph knew something was up with the notes. They usually happened infrequently. Every other week, if that. Toph wondered what Aang had planned in that little head of his. She went to her ever-growing pile of notes. She heard the front door opening and quickly tried to put all the notes back in the drawer.

“Hey, babe! I’m home,” Aang said as he walked through the door. He turned toward Toph in front of the half-closed drawer. “You okay there?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” Toph replied, quickly closing the drawer.

“Toph, what’s in the drawer and why do you close it so hastily?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Toph?”

“Aang?”

“Can I open the drawer?” Aang asked crouching down next to it.

Toph thought about it for a little while. She sighed, “go ahead.”

Aang opened the drawer. He saw the notes he’d left out for her. “Are these?” Aang asked quietly.

“All the notes you’ve written me since you could write in braille?” Toph finished the question. “Perhaps.”

“You kept them?” Aang looked through them. As he kept looking, his braille got messier.

“Well, it was the first time someone learned braille for me because they wanted to. My parents learned it, but they needed to. It was probably the nicest thing someone had ever done for me,” Toph said, She smiled as she felt the imprints of the first note Aang had ever written her. Aang stood up and walked over to the cupboard above the fridge. He brought his pile of her notes over.

“I kept yours too,” Aang smiled.

“Really?” Toph asked, she reached over to his pile. She remembered writing every single one. She worked her way through the pile, smiling the whole time. She got to the last note.

“Toph Beifong, every new day I get to spend with you becomes my new favourite day. You are the most amazing person I have gotten the pleasure to fall in love with. Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me? - Aang”

“Aang?” Toph whispered.

“Yes?” Aang said, the ring was in his pocket. He quietly pulled it out.

“Are you proposing to me right now?” Toph asked, she glided her fingers across the braille again.

“That depends, should you say yes if I was?” Aang played with the ring nervously.

“Hypothetically if you were proposing to me, I would be inclined to say yes.”

“Then yes,” Aang said. “Toph Beifong, I am proposing to you right now.”

“And I am accepting your proposal,” Toph replied. Aang took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger.

Toph brought him in for a kiss. The metal was cold against his cheek but it was happily welcomed. Aang pulled away and rested his forehead on hers. “Seems like you’re getting soft on me.”

“Me? Never,” Toph said it, but there were tears of joy in her eyes when she did.

#thank you anon #anon asks #taang #atla #avatar: the last airbender #aang #toph #toph beifong #taang fic #atla fic #avatar #toph x aang

10 notes · View notes

subtlereferencetomyinterests · 4 years

Text

Communication Issues (Alternative Title: Three Touch-Starved, Insecure, Metaphysical Beings Constantly Misinterpreting Each Other and Yet Somehow Falling in Love)- Chapter One

Ao3, MasterPost, Chap.2, Chap.3

Relationships: Eventual Analogince, implied Moceit

I usually have new stuff up on Wednesdays, Sorry this is late. I hope the length and angst will make up for this slight :) Also, because of how long this fucker is, I did not go in and manually add italics, so you can just. Imagine them there when you need them.

Warnings: Panic attack (?), overworking oneself, self-hatred and insecurity, Excessive Amounts of Hurt/comfort, eventual friends-to-lovers, slow burn, arguing, crying, angst w/ a happy ending, swearing, creative blocks, mentions of isolating oneself, excessive hugging.

Word Count: 6,396

What do you do when you find someone crying, and it’s all your fault? What do you say when you hear the muffled sobs and frantic words behind the blood-red door? When you know that, no matter how much you never wanted to hurt him- never wanted to hurt anyone- you still did. Is there anything you can do to fix it, when you’ve spent so long pretending that nothing was broken? When you’ve spent so long pretending that you didn’t care if things were broken or not?

Well, if you're Logan Sanders, a metaphysical representation of the logical thinking of one Thomas Sanders (and you are, for the purposes of this story), then you book it down the hall in a desperate effort to find someone more emotionally competent to solve the problem.

The search is short, lasting just to the bottom of the stairs. As soon as your feet touch down on the living room carpet, your haste brings you slamming into just the side you were looking for. Hands wrap around your middle, narrowly stopping you from stumbling over.

“Geez, L, what’s the-” Virgil doesn’t finish his sentence, his expression wrinkling in concern when he sees your face. He leans down to your level, his gaze flickering over you to search for injuries.

You take a step back and shake your head, struggling to explain.

“Roman- I- He-” you’re supposed to be articulate, intelligent, eloquent- but when it comes to feelings, you never are. You never have been. You try so hard nowadays, but God, do you still need help sometimes. Like these times. These confusing, awful times when you hear dear sweet Creativity sobbing self-deprications loud enough to be heard from well outside of his room, many of which are dramatized repetitions of things that you have said to him.

“Is he okay?!” Virgil, bless him, snaps you out of the oncoming mental panic before it renders you any more useless.

“Physically, yes- as far as I know- but emotionally, well-” you cut off, terrified of choking up. He seems to catch your meaning, though.

Virgil doesn’t ask any follow up questions. He grabs your arm and the room blurs. Static hisses against your ears and pricks at your skin, this form of transportation being mostly foreign to you. You don’t even rise up, merely popping into existence right in front of Roman’s door. Virgil throws it open before you have the chance to react.

Roman doesn’t notice the increased population of his room, which is concerning. His back is to the door as he works fervently at his desk, but evidently not making progress, shaking as he is. He’s muttering under his breath, much quieter than what you’d overheard before, but you can hear distinct utterances like ‘unrealistic… overused… disappointment…’ et cetera, et fucking cetera.

“Roman, what happened?” Virgil’s voice is distorted, loud and quiet all at once. You barely keep yourself from covering your ears.

Roman clamps his mouth shut mid-wail, his hands spasming in surprise against his desk. His quill drops to the paper with a soft clatter, a sound that echoes about the walls. Then, the only noise left is his staggering breathing.

Slowly, Roman peers over his shoulder at you, eyes puffy and red with mascara practically dripping down his chin.

A gasp draws from you, against your will, at the sight.

Roman makes some strangled throat-clearing sounds before trying to speak.

“Oh, hey-”

“Nope, none of that,” Virgil is across the room in two strides, effortlessly taking the lead in this situation. You can’t push yourself any further into the room, but you do shut the door behind you. Probably best not to involve any of the more unpredictable sides in what was sure to be an… emotionally charged discussion.

Roman looks absolutely mortified, jolting up from his chair and backing into the wall like a cornered animal. With distance between himself and Virgil reestablished, he then buries his face in his hands. He trembles like a leaf caught in the wind of fall, and he’d probably crumble just as easily.

Many times in your life, you’ve wished that you couldn’t feel. You even had yourself convinced that you couldn’t, for a while there. Now, all you wish is to know how to feel correctly. You’re meant to know things, Logan, aren’t you?

“Alright, so I’ve been having a bit of a rough time,” Roman’s voice cracks and wavers when he speaks, “It’s just writer’s block. Sure, I got a tad bit frustrated- but I’ll be back on track in no time, I promise! You needn’t concern yourself with my momentary lapse, I’ll have a new story for you by Saturday at the latest!”

He’s looking at you. Virgil is standing right next to him, but he’s looking at you, all the way across the room. He’s trying to… appease you? Reason with you? Give you what he thinks you want?

Say something, Logan.

“You need to take a break, Ro,” Virgil’s voice slips back to normal, “C’mon, you’re overworking yourself,” he tries to be nonchalant, but it’s obvious just how concerned he is. You can hardly blame him. When he reaches his hand out, Roman recoils, showing his face enough to see the guilt written across it.

You need to say something, goddammit.

“I can’t just ‘take a break’,” he spits, “I can’t stop now. I need to get this done first- I’ll stop when I finally do this properly. So, maybe never, right?” He laughs, horrible and twisted, and he looks at you because he’s really, truly asking you. Is he really expecting you to agree? Is that the impression you’ve left him with?

You say something.

“This is all my fault.”

Clearly, neither of them expected that. You press on.

“Your worth as a side-” no, not quite right, “-Your worth as a person is not measured solely by your productivity. I know we’ve talked before about the damages of excessive perfectionism, but I know I may not have been effective in ‘showing not telling’ that your ideas don’t need to be flawless. My harshness. My Coldness. I thought I was doing better, but obviously... I was wrong.” Again.

Virgil looks half-way to anger, but it’s unclear what he’s directing it towards. You aren’t sure of anything right now, really, except for the general upset tugging at your stomach.

“L, no, if this is anybody’s fault- it’s mine,” he turns to Roman, and what. “I didn’t know how hard you were taking all this. Dude, I had no idea. But I owe you an apology, I have for a while, for making fun of you about your insecurity. Like, kind of a lot. Long after you stopped doing it to me. Honestly, I can’t believe that I didn’t realize how much it was actually getting to you.”

“What? Virgil, I truly appreciate what you are trying to do, but I was clearly the one who pushed Roman too far,” you find the courage to step a little closer as you argue Virgil’s point, spurred on by how ridiculous you find this exchange.

“Well, I mocked his sensitivities. This is my responsibility!”

��But you didn’t know you were doing that- I acted like I didn’t care for him, and now he thinks I don’t! I am doubtlessly the one to blame.”

Virgil looks ready to snap back, and you’d be just as ready to retort, but a quiet sniffle alerts both of your attention to the matter still at hand. Roman, standing back against the wall, growing increasingly bewildered. He’s still crying, a surprisingly open display for a prideful trait such as himself, but you get the impression that he simply can’t hold it back anymore. You can see him squirm under Virgil’s and your gazes.

“It- It’s nice, that you both are attempting to take the blame for my failings, but you don’t have to. I can figure this out for myself. Then, I’ll finally prove myself to you, and no one will need to worry about anything. Which is why I need to keep working.”

“You have proven yourself to me,” Virgil darts from the desk to Roman. He grabs the trait’s ink-stained arm, gaze fierce and unyielding.

“Why, then,” Roman mutters, eyes downcast, “doesn’t it feel like I have?”

“I never tried to do right by you. Like you did for me.”

You watch them sway, awkward, and finally, finally push movement into your legs. You step to Roman’s other side, much slower. It probably appears to be deliberate, but in truth you just feel unsure. You place your hand on his shoulder in a way that is hopefully comforting.

“The same, in a different sense, is true for myself. But if you would allow us to make it up to you…?” you aren’t sure where to go from there. Virgil nods, though, granting you a hint of pride. You don’t quite buy it when he says he’s part of the problem, but you’d rather not start any arguments at this particular moment.

Roman won’t look at either of you for longer than a second, like he’s not sure if you’re serious. Just so he knows that you are, you gesture to your necktie, giving him the tiniest smile.

He buckles to the ground immediately, a mess of sobs, the both of you letting yourself be dragged along. He clings to Virgil, and you try to keep an arm around him as well. He needs all the support he can get, really.

“I-I’m so so-rry, I don’t- I-”

Virgil shushes him and shoots you a deeply concerned look: This is really bad. I’m not letting him go. You rub Roman’s back as he shakes and return your friend’s gaze with a nod: I’m not either. We’re going to help him. Don’t worry.

The three of you sit there for what feels like hours as he cries, and cries, and cries. None of you say a word, letting him get it all out. You let him hold onto you- you hold him as well, because you’re nearly as dismayed and unsure as he is.

But eventually, you need to talk. Once he finally settles, his head resting against your collar and his legs splayed across Virgil’s lap, it’s you who gets the proverbial ball rolling.

“You already know that overworking yourself leads to exhaustion, which in turn leads to an overall drop in productivity and quality of work,” Roman’s eyes fill with guilt, but you’re quick to elaborate, “but that isn’t at all my primary concern. I won’t carry on acting like it is for a moment longer, now that I see how it’s hurting you. Hurting you is something I would never intend. You mean so much to me. There are so many arguments I could use to convince you why you need to give yourself a break, but I’ll settle with this: a hypothetical ‘perfect story’ is not worth your suffering, and it never will be.”

Roman looks up at you, once more crying, so that was probably a very unhelpful thing to say. But he leans into you and hugs you close, recontextualizing his emotional display. Relief washes over you.

“Thank you, Logan.”

Virgil clears his throat.

“I know I’m not as, um, articulate as Lo is, but- for what it’s worth- I care about you, too, and all.”

You stretch out the arm that you had around Roman’s back, pulling Virgil into the hug. Roman lets out a shuddering breath from where he’s cradled between the both of you. It’s the deep, relieved breath that means the sobbing is through with, leaving only tired eyes and silence.

It is at this point of alleviated tension that the uncomfortable nature of the floor begins irking you. Like hell you and Virgil would live Creativity alone like this, so after brief deliberation you stand to move as a unit. An amoeba of facets making their way down the hall, in a manner likely comical (though thankfully no one is around to see). Your room is the optimal place to rest, as it eases emotions and calms overthinking minds, even if it is a little chilly.

You let your fellow traits drop down onto the couch, passing Roman the TV remote. Yes, whatever you like to watch, you inform him. Yes, really, anything, you confirm, waving your hand to conjure some blankets for them. The smile he gives you, though small, is enough to boost your hopes considerably.

You really can’t fix everything- at least not immediately. But perhaps, with Virgil to fill in your gaps, you’ll be able to make things right for the Prince.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

So looking after this insecure dumbass is totally your job now. Said dumbass, of course, disagrees strongly; he tells you he’s doing better, and thanks so much for the one afternoon of help, Virgil, but he can totally take it from here. You do not give a single shit about what Roman claims, because he is very obviously lying, because he doesn’t want to be a burden. Yeah, as if.

You’re taking care of that idiot if it kills you.

Thankfully, Logan is on the same page as you (proverbial page, as he would specify). It almost surprised you that he didn’t make himself scarce as soon as he told you about the situation, but it’s certainly a pleasant surprise to have him by your side in this. Roman needs all the help he can get, and you can’t think of anyone better.

The pair of you only begrudgingly leave him alone after a sufficient several hours of Comfort Time, retreating to the hall so he can rest. He looked so fuckin’ tired, face a dull red and eyes puffy, but he was smiling. You count it as a temporary win.

The first thing that you do, naturally, is slam your back against the wall and let yourself slide down to the floor out of sheer emotional exhaustion.

Logan sits next to you, much less aggressively. It’s a nice gesture, considering how he absolutely despises sitting on the ground and this is the second time he’s had to do it in one day. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He keeps trying to say something, before clamping back down on it. You bump your shoulder against his, telling him that whatever it is, you’re listening.

“I feel-” which is already a testament to how serious he’s taking the situation- “horrible.”

“Yeah, same- I mean, big mood- no, that’s worse, fuck-” you take a deep breath, hitting your head back against the wall, “I mean, me too. So, at least there’s that, right?”

Logan shoots you one of his patented Microscopic Smiles.

“I suppose that counts for something, yes.”

You manage a laugh, leaning even more against your friend. You’ve got a whole contradictory bundle of feelings coiled up in your chest, and it sucks, but also it’s a relief, but also it’s the worst thing ever. You exhale slowly, your eyes falling shut.

“I don’t wanna leave him alone, ya know?”

“I know. We’ve done all we can do for now, though.”

“I guess.”

“I’m just glad he let us help at all.”

“Well, assuming we did help. Who knows, we could’ve made him feel a million times worse by confronting him, and now-”

He cuts off your spiraling immediately.

“But we didn’t. He clearly needed intervention by that point. Besides, If we’d been making it worse, it’s unlikely he would’ve let us stay for so long. Nor would he have accepted your plan of ‘helping him deal with all this shit from now on, no matter what he says.’”

“Right,” you take another deep breath, “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

You elbow Logan in the side, playfully. He smiles again, wider and brighter in a way that most others probably wouldn’t notice. It could, from some angles, in the right lighting, possibly maybe be considered a little bit pretty. Not that you think about things like that, of course, that would just be weird.

You stop leaning so heavily against Logan, only to find how much your back hurts from sitting in the hall. Come to think of it, the hall might not be the best place to calm down from emotionally charged interactions. The only issue is that your room is literally the exact opposite of a good place to chill out right now, and you’re reluctant to move.

“Hey, uh, would it be okay if I- like, my room isn’t the best for times like this, and I-”

Logan’s already standing, taking your arm to help you up.

“Come on. I’ll set up the Planetarium for us.”

“Thanks,” God, you’re thankful for somebody like him. Such a simple word, when you aren’t crazy about spelling out all of the gratitude and nervous tension that lays behind it, and he picks up on the layers perfectly. He gets it- he gets you.

Things will be okay.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

Once upon a time (ha), you felt appreciated. Of course you did, else how would you remember it so vividly? How would you long for it so desperately? Yes, you can safely say that you, Roman Sanders, had once been cared for. But that was countless screw-ups ago, before hundreds of your careless insults, your many vicious words followed by weak apologies and unchanging ways. The distant past of a disgraced royal- one far too imperfect, far too cruel to be forgiven without first proving himself time and time again.

That’s what you’d thought, anyway. When you expressed such beliefs to other sides for the first time, just a few mornings after said sides comforted you in the midst of a breakdown, they told you it was the stupidest thing they’d ever heard. Direct quote from Virgil.

It was stupid, apparently, because you were forgiven so very long ago, and you are actually considered to be better now than you were then. It shakes you up inside to think about. In a good way, for once.

They hover around you almost always, offering you plenty more of those somewhat aggressive reassurances whenever you give the vaguest hint of self-deprecation. You were sure they’d brush it under the rug after those first few days, perhaps even tease you about it, but it seemed that was completely false. It’s been a good week.

They’re with you this very morning, chatting idly while you wait for the kettle to shriek. You let the drone of Logan’s voice wash over you as you finish fixing your tea. You don’t believe all of their reassurances just yet, but God are you trying. You want it to be true- more than you’ve ever wanted anything- when Logan says their care is unconditional, or Virgil says that he likes spending so much time with you.

You turn around, the mug in your hands warm against your chest, and stare at the sides on the couch. The three of you are in your corner of the Mindscape; they had already invited themselves in when you awoke. You quite like that they do that- you still aren’t sure how to express that you want to be with them, without prompting. You would feel clingy. Greedy.

“Thank you,” you settle down Virgil, smiling groggily. He waves his hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it, man. What’s on the agenda for today?”

That’s another thing. It’s not all crying and hugging, Lord knows how old that would get- but they just end up hanging out with you. Sometimes it’s just Logan, if Virgil’s having an off day, or sometimes it’s the opposite, when Logan’s particularly busy, but you really like it best when it’s the three of you.

That didn’t used to be unusual; you used to spend all of your time surrounded by all of your family (or most, in light of recent acceptances), laughing and joking and working all together. Then, slowly, you stopped, just as things became more complicated for everyone. Camaraderie was a waste of valuable time, time that could be used coming up with ideas that would finally be good enough. They got the hint easily enough, allowing you to isolate yourself until you were perfect for them.

No, you aren’t thinking about that right now! It isn’t the time to worry about how this will all have to end eventually. You’ll have to think about it soon, but not now, dammit!

You swing back a sip of scalding cinnamon tea, letting it clear both your throat and your mind.

“I have a wonderful idea for today!” You puff your chest out and straighten your back. In actuality, you haven’t had a ‘wonderful’ idea in ages, but you hope the confident stance will give you one.

It doesn’t. Logan notices this.

“I sincerely hope that this is not yet another attempt to ‘cure’ your writer’s block and attempt to get ‘back on task’?” he chides you. You falter, letting the regal pose fall away. Logan tells you that what you need is rest. You do not want to rest. But you don’t want to get lectured, either.

“I do not have any ideas for today. Or in general,” you grind out, the second part tacked on bitterly. You don’t look at them, even as Virgil knocks your elbow with his.

“Good, that means you can come play Scrabble with us.”

The hesitance must show on your face, because Logan sighs and adds:

“I will allow you to use your original- completely nonsense, meaningless, irrational- words, if butchering the English language makes the game more fun for you.”

Now that. That is a tempting offer. You really would be a fool to pass it up.

You might as well indulge yourself this much, for however longer they’re willing to let you. It’ll be a nice memory to draw from when you do get back to work.

Good God, your ribs hurt. You can’t breathe.

“I’m just saying, you can’t prove that the earth is round,” Virgil claims, staring mischievously across the table at Logan. Logan fumes. It is fucking hysterical.

“That’s ridiculous! Putting aside the overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary for a moment, you can literally see the curve of the earth on the horizon!”

“Uhh, it looks pretty flat to me. I’m not buying your government propaganda, Lo,” Virgil’s very clearly trying not to chuckle, and his resolve is impressive. You’ve already been reduced to unintelligible cackling at their interaction. This exchange has brought the progress on the jigsaw puzzle you’d been solving together to a screeching halt, but you couldn’t care less.

“What do you mean ‘propaganda’?! This is common knowledge!”

Virgil cracks, bursting into raucous laughter. He grabs onto your arm as gravelly chuckles escape him, the both of you scrambling to keep upright. Logan narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Unbelievable. Infuriating. Intolerable, the both of you.”

You compose yourself just enough to stick your tongue out at him teasingly, before hunching right back over into your giggle fit.

Then, you notice it as it happens. The aggravated expression etched across Logan’s face shifts, but he keeps staring at you. It’s inscrutable, and also weird.

“What’re you looking at?” you challenge, voice broken up by subsiding laughter. You turn your head to Virgil, as if to say wow, what a nerd, huh?, only to find him staring at you with much the same expression.

“Guys? Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” Anxiety amends.

“I’m sure we were both just caught off guard, is all,” Logic adds, his attention redirected from you to the carpet hastily.

“In a good way, though. It’s nice to see you smile- ugh, that sounds so weird, I just meant- it’s been a long time since you’ve. Done that.”

You blink, taken aback, only to feel the dull ache in your face. You reach a hand up, pressing a finger to the corner of your upturned lips. It really has been a while since you’ve laughed like this, hasn’t it?

A selfish, malicious creature that stalks around in your chest tells you to stop smiling. If you’re happy it means that their job is done, then you’ll be all alone again. Is that what you want, Roman?

You almost listen to it. Before-

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten what you said just because Roman laughed, V.”

“Nah, you never forget anything, O keeper of memories,” Virgil flicks a puzzle piece at Logan, smirking just enough to show off his sharp teeth.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” he flicks another puzzle piece. Logan’s face twitches in what is either a barely suppressed smile or a grimace, but likely a combination of the two. When Virgil finally aims a piece to hit his face, he snaps, throwing little bits of the jigsaw back at the anxious trait.

“Wow, L, you’re really just throwing away all our progress like that? Tsk, tsk.”

“I will end you,” he lands one smack on Virgil’s nose, earning a hiss. The puzzle continues to be destroyed by their squabble.

You don’t think you could stop yourself from beaming at them, even if you wanted to. Toothy, confident, amused- oh, how you’ve missed this.

How you’ve all missed this.

It hits you with the swiftness of a bullet, right when you least expect it. You’re just sitting in the living room, idly sketching as you half-watch TV with Patton beside you on the couch. You offer a laugh when he pipes up with a pun based on whatever’s on screen, but your mind is far elsewhere.

You’ve got an idea. A really good one.

You’ve filled up a page with mindless doodling while the thought was still forming, for fear of jumping on it too suddenly and losing the inspiration, but you find it solid as you continue to mentally examine it. Perhaps a bit overeager, you flip the page, scrawling excited concept sketches across the thick, rough paper. The details flow and evolve in your mind’s eye, and it becomes something of a struggle to hold back your creative aura from infecting the common area.

That confident smile, one you’ve been wearing more and more often these past few weeks, graces your face once more. The semi-subconscious expression brings a memory from just nights ago: Logan told you that your face was built to wear such a grin (‘Speaking architecturally, of course,’ he cleared his throat awkwardly, ‘The form that you’ve chosen for yourself is suited to it. Objectively.’).

You find your smiling widening, just as it had when he first told you.

So caught up in your art, half-listening to Patton, and also vaguely following along with the show he’s watching- you don’t even glance up when Virgil rises up and seats himself at the arm of the couch. It’s the way he huffs a laugh at something Morality says that first catches your attention, and suddenly he’s got all of it.

“Virgil!”

He grimaces at the volume, tilting his head to look at you.

“Something got you excited, Ro?”

“I’ve got a story! That is to say, I’ve got a premise, but also characters! Look- it’s- come here, let me show you what I’m drawing, it’s easier than explaining,” you chatter happily, shuffling your way to Virgil’s perch. You hold your sketchbook out to him and jump into explanations.

The drawing is messy, and not nearly finished, but it’s you and it’s good and it’s new. It’s a scene- heavily annotated to explain some of the more abstract concepts in the image- depicting an ent-like creature towering over a young woman, who holds a flower crown up to him. You tell Virgil about the story based around the two, some of the major plot points already planting themselves in your brain. You inform him that it just came to you, and you’ve got so many different ideas for what these two will do, what will happen to them, and how they’ll get out of it all. When you look up from your rambling, all the excitement slips off your face. It’s replaced by awe.

Virgil is grinning, showing a good deal more of his fangs than he usually likes to, enthusiasm dancing in his eyes. You’ve never seen him emote that much ever, not for any purpose. You would be lying if you said that those huge chompers weren’t at least a little hot.

“Okay, I totally wanna hear more, but pause for a sec. I gotta get Lo, ’kay?” And with that, he’s gone as quickly as he arrived, pausing only to toss the sketchbook back to you. You twist around, eyes wide with shock, to find Patton smiling softly at you.

“You saw that, too, right? Or have I gone mad?” you ask him, earning a chuckle.

“I think Virge is proud of you,” he shuts the TV off as he talks, moving to stand, “I am, too! It sounds really cute!”

“Thank you,” Patton arches up to stretch, tossing the remote down on the couch. “-Er, where are you off to?”

“I think I’ll let you three have the living room, to talk all about your story.”

“I’d hardly mind if you wanted to hear about it!”

His eyes dart to the side, an awkward smile stretching across his face. His noticeably pink face.

“Oh, I- I was planning on spending some time with Jan today. I was about to take off, anyhow.”

“Aah,” you start sketching again, if only to spare Patton your wolfish grin, “Well, if you’ve already got plans.”

He gives you a tiny wave, sinking out immediately. Thus leaving you alone with your thoughts. Fuck.

It crosses your mind that- now you have an idea to work on, an idea you’re proud of- your slump is over. The creative block has been cured. Logan and Virgil won’t need to coddle you anymore.

Your hand ghosts over the paper, and for a second you consider tearing it up. Pretending you lost the spark, pretending you need more time and help and companionship. Guilt rises in you at even the thought of being so selfish, the doubts and worries overpowering your former giddiness completely.

You can’t imagine anything worse than that brilliant smile Virgil gave you turning to disappointment, if you pretended to lose your inspiration. Or the disdain that would surely flash in Logan’s eyes at having his work interrupted for absolutely nothing. Plus, if you did so, what’s to stop them deeming you a lost cause and abandoning you anyway?

If you’re being honest, you need approval more than anything. And dear God, it is so close. You have to tell them, and hold on to whatever scraps of praise it earns you before the three of you revert back to normal. You’ll fall back into seclusion, as that seems to be one of the few things you’re good at, and they can actually get back to their own existences.

There’s a whoosh behind you. You spin around, forcing the tension out of your shoulders.

“Well hello there!”

“I want to hear about your story,” Logan cuts straight to the point. You couldn’t care less about his bland bluntness because he is watching at you in a way so unbearably fond. They both are. You push your reservations down and present him with your sketches, diving into what you’ve come up with so far (plus a few extra points off the top of your head, which isn’t an uncommon method for how you develop plotlines).

When you’ve finished, not quite as exuberantly as earlier, Logan continues with the theme of surprising the fuck out of you that this day has established.

He settles a hand on your upper arm, but really he might as well have swept you up in a hug. You blanch, the touch fuzzing up your brain, just like it has been doing so often now and God you don’t want to lose this.

“I told you so,” he sounds playful.

“What?” you question, vaguely dazed.

“I think that L’s saying we were right about you just needing a break. Seems like the rest cleared up your burnout pretty well,” Virgil loops around to your other side, patting your shoulder awkwardly.

The euphoria from being touched is broken once you actually manage to process the words.

“Oh! Right, yeah, I'm- I'm so excited to get back to work!”

Logan removes his hand and you burn cold.

“No, you aren't,” you hear his confusion, like he's trying to unravel why that could possibly be and wow you are not as good an actor as you’d hoped. “What's upsetting you?”

You try to say that it's nothing, but your voice pitches up embarrassingly. You clear your throat, but you can't make yourself maintain eye-contact anymore.

“Dude, you can tell us what's up. Are you just overwhelmed?” Anxiety is worried and caring in a way you didn't know he was capable of and it hurts worse because you don't know how to tell him that you're just selfish. But you knew this was coming- and you aren't going to make these two waste their concerns on you any longer. The problem has been solved, Roman, get that through your skull!

“I- I suppose I'm just- I’m lamenting the end of this. It’s unimportant.”

“You are upset about the end of your writer's block?” Logan tips his head to the side and gives you a bemused look. Frustration stabs at your skin.

“No! That's a good thing, obviously it's a good thing- I'm saying that I'm going to miss… I mean, I'd gotten used to spending time with you. The both of you,” Virgil's eyebrows shoot up, Logan squints at you, so you backpedal like there's no damn tomorrow.

“See? It was stupid, I know I can't always have all the attention, any-”

“You're right, that is stupid,” Virgil cuts you off with a grumble. You must deflate visibly, though, because his voice softens, “That you think we aren't gonna hang out with you, I mean.”

You feel something. You think it’s hope. It almost feels foreign- unbelievable, even.

“What?” a murmur, too small and doubting for you to associate with it, though it must be yours. Pathetic.

Logan leans forward, as though he's studying you. Good God, who let him be so tall?

“Were you under the impression that we were going to cease contact with you once you resumed productivity?”

“Wha- I mean- when you say it like that it sounds… bad.”

“It would be bad. It would also be incredibly manipulative; being kind to you only so as to get you back in working order, rather than being kind to you to provide genuine help.”

Virgil nods his agreement.

“Yeah, you aren't getting rid of us that easy, Romano.”

You recall the first Big Conversation you had with the two left-brained sides. They'd insisted to help you, despite your lack of understanding in the beginning why they'd do so. Similarly to that talk, this is filling you with an almost painful fondness, almost too much to bear.

“But, you already helped me, just like you said you would!”

“Why did we help you, Roman?” Logan inquires, in a way that makes you feel like you should know the answer. You do not.

“Because you were worried about me?”

“Why would we be worried?”

“Because you… felt bad for me?”

He groans, tapping Virgil on the shoulder. The anxious facet rolls his eyes.

“You're our friend and we care about you, stupid.”

You clear your throat, attempting to say that you knew that (even if that isn’t entirely true), but Logan interrupts you.

“In case it wasn’t clear why, allow us to explain: one, as I’ve stated before and will likely state again, we don’t value you for your ability to create alone.”

“Two,” Virgil cuts in, “You’re, like, fun to be around. Way less stiff than us, and honestly we probably need that.”

“Three, we were never opposed to being around you even before the- this. You claimed to like being alone. And I’ll admit I’m not the best with subtext.”

Virgil looks ready to add a fourth. You don’t let him, waving your hands wildly. If you verbalized what you meant to convey, you’d definitely start sobbing, and that’s just embarrassing. Thankfully, Anxiety seems to pick up what you’re laying down, giving you a moment to collect yourself. You take a few breaths and try to pretend that you aren’t being watched like a hawk.

Aaaand you’re already crying. That’s probably the point of no return, isn’t it?

“Ha, and I thought that you two weren’t the sentimental ones,” the effect of your teasing is ruined by how much your voice wavers, “You’re just big softies, aren’t you?”

Logan’s expression is caught somewhere between concern and confusion.

“You are quite literally sobbing? How are we-”

“Shut up,” you retort. The effect is once again ruined when he comfortingly pats your back and you absolutely fall against him.

“Wow, again? You’re really set on making a habit out of this,” Virgil hovers uncomfortably apart from the set of you, eventually landing on wrapping an arm around you. And it’s so him, that you can’t help the little chuckle that breaks through your crying. You really have been doing this a lot more than you’d like lately.

“I- I’m okay,” you stammer, “I’m good- this is- just- I’m relieved. Why am I crying? I’m happy!”

“It’s alright, man.”

“Yes, take as long as you need.”

You tear yourself away from them, scrubbing at your eyes, but grinning all the same. Your skin burns, you’re shivering, but you’re sick of clinging to them and crying and the desperation that tugs at you. You feel so many things, but there’s one that’s overpowering, one thing that’s so familiar and has been so distant. It’s a blur, a mash, but it goes something like this:

The people you care about, that you work so hard for- they aren’t going anywhere. No conditions. Logan repeats it plenty, Virgil shows it to you quietly, but only now-

Now you believe them. You feel looked after. Cared for. If you’re being bold, you could even say loved.

You feel secure.

“Thank you,” for being there, staying there, helping you, everything. You can’t thank them enough for everything.

Virgil shrugs.

“You’re worth it.”

#sanders sides #ts #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #analogince #analogical #logince #prinxiety #panic attacks tw #cursing tw #logan #roman #virgil #patton #implied moceit #my writing

32 notes · View notes

ferusaurelius · 4 years

Text

Nihlus Fic Headcanons

My latest fic, The husbandry of victory is blood (on AO3), is basically a Nihlus Kryik and Mass Effect mercenary/batarian culture headcanon backstory where @expertmakodriver reacted by asking me to ... please translate w/e I was on about.

So here it is! The English translation of my Nihlus Kryik worldbuilding art project.

In reality, this type of character sketch is something I would normally keep private. But since we need more Nihlus content, both it and the headcanon basis are all public and free to use and/or transform as you see fit without attribution.

Please, I’m begging anyone who might want to use any of these ideas in whole or in part: write it and save me from having to do it myself. You do not need to credit me, but I would appreciate a link to your work so I can promote it! :)

Tfw you actually need to annotate your own fic...

Long post - everything is under the cut!

Organized by the order each element is referenced in the fic, with the divided sections labeled as [NUMBER] on the left.

Edited 5/28/2021 because I forgot some things.

[Title] “The husbandry of victory is blood” - Taken from “Sparta Says No” by A.E. Stallings. I actually thought about using this as an alternative title for another fic, but I figured this background sketch for Nihlus more aligned with the themes. I strongly suggest you go and read the poem without taking my word for the following interpretation: the contrast between growth and destruction, and civilization built through conquest or through agriculture. I enjoy the high-level commentary on society. The metaphorical encounter between farming and war is something I wanted to bring to my work, and I wanted the title to color the tone of the epigraph from Virgil’s Georgics. On a more personal level -- my grandfather joined the military in part to seek out opportunities he wouldn’t have had if he’d stayed on a farm, and I decided to draw on that experience for Nihlus.

[Epigraph] - Virgil, Georgics Book I (tr. H. R. Fairclough) - I picked a public domain translation of the poem and went hunting around for a line that had juxtaposed farming and war imagery. It’s a fairly common classical motif! Wars often stopped and started based on the seasonal harvest and the necessity of feeding the community and supplying the troops. You can’t fight a war and gather in wheat at the same time. Digging up the weapons pf the dead in farm fields is a powerful image. My take on Nihlus draws on the tension between fighting and negotiation that I also connect to the symbolic opposition between agriculture and warfare. The Georgics are also just really neat.

[1] Half-face markings - I could write a whole headcanon post on turian colony markings and how mercenary modifications fit in with them (and I will at some point). You’ll see in this fic that I regularly use terms for how much ‘real estate’ the colony markings cover. My HC is that there are variations of colony markings that can be worn as minimalist (smallest critical details), half-face (upper or lower, may include simple full-face designs without a lot of paint), full-face (both, usually more elaborate), and full-crest (what it sounds like on the tin). These are all just different styles and up to personal preference, though there are a few cultural connotations or stereotypes about people who choose which version. Plus I felt really bad for people who might have super-complicated full versions of markings and wanted to give them something more aesthetically lightweight that would have the same meaning.

[1] Batarian trader patois - An evolving lingua franca with many dialects. Nihlus is uncannily fluent at the one spoken in the Terminus, which is mutually intelligible with the dialect spoken in the Attican Traverse. This is a language without a formal codex that sounds a little strange even to batarians born into the Hegemony. Since batarians have been around and in contact with the Citadel and council races for ~1000 years longer than turians (true if the timeline on the wiki is correct, but I haven’t done the backdating myself), I HC that batarians have a more refined and developed spacer and trading culture. Traders and smugglers are infamous for liking to be beyond Hegemony control and when their government withdrew from Council space, they just kept up with business as usual. Many of them have a shared religion based on debate and argument over the meaning of the Pillars of Strength and the way to live an honorable life.

[1] Terminus languages - They exist, both with and without formal linguistic codexes available to ordinary citizens of Council space.

[1] Hierarchy basic - The common turian colonial language spoken in Hierarchy space. Nihlus was born outside turian space, so he had to learn it from his parents and from educational videos. While he has only a vague accent, certain words and phrases he uses come off as very strange to turians who were raised in Hierarchy space.

[1] Draughts - A popular ancient board game dating back to before the Romans. Pieces move by sliding on the board or jumping over each other to capture. I originally wanted to use river stones as a metaphor, but Nihlus at that age had never seen naturally flowing water. I figure everyone has a version of a capturing/marker/stones sort of game.

[1] Amma and appa - Batarian words for grandmother and grandfather. Nihlus is a bit of a ‘surprise’ baby for his parents. This nice older smuggler couple are longtime associates of the mercenary group and, while they have never done fighting themselves and have no children of their own, they are friends of his mother and father and are absolutely delighted to “adopt” him. He is their smol spikey grandson, they teach him to speak and act like a proper young batarian, and anyone who argues with them about how exactly he is related will end up on the wrong side of an airlock.

[1] Vatar - A canon planet in the Mass Effect universe with a cold and inhospitable environment, located a short relay hop away from Omega (“downtown”) in the Terminus Systems. Mercenary groups have outposts dug into the surface. I rolled with it.

[1] Falx - The turian name of the mercenary group Nihlus is born into. A falx is both a Roman entrenching tool and also the most overhyped Dacian curved blade weapon you’ll see in ancient art and literature. In essence? The word has been used to refer to both weapons and farming tools for a very long time. The group is a batarian-lead mercenary company with a very long history of turian cooperation, which enjoys stable political ties to other such batarian splinter groups. Traders and smugglers often form the links between them. The batarian word for members of this same group translates as “harvesters” or “reapers.” HAHA. And you thought this was a no-Reapers AU…

[1] Truce customs - A batarian mercenary outpost thing. If you’re friendly and in mechanical distress, or if you have something to trade, it’s not unusual to head to a known group of mercenaries and ask for truce on tightbeam broadcast to get someone to meet you or actively flag your ship with their ident codes (aka: make you temporarily register in local space as belonging to their ‘fleet’). This is usually for medical essentials, emergency mechanical trouble, and also serves as an informal way for Terminus merchants and traders to make a living without having to worry about being boarded every time they deliver the groceries. It’s considered a grave breach of etiquette to violate truce terms and those who do are hunted down as examples to the rest. Truce terms make “ordinary life” possible for outposts that are otherwise on the edge of traveled space.

[1] Trade-cloth - A canon quarian cultural object. Mentioned in the the fandom wiki and probably part of a quarian codex somewhere. Intricately patterned cloth is common on the Migrant Fleet, but the personal cloths are seldom given to outsiders. Nihlus’s gift is one used in trade, but displays a pattern with more ‘friendly’ cultural connotations than something that would be sold and mass-produced in a shop. It was made special for him by his childhood quarian friends. It’s something that it would be appropriate for him to wear like a scarf on formal occasions when he’s dealing with quarians, or when he’s invited to quarian parties or festivals.

[1] Colony crescents / Falx sickles - Yeah there’s some repetition here, but it’s mostly to contrast the two. I HC that Nihlus’s base colony markings are already curved. “Sickles” are embellishments which add a cutting or combative edgeline in some places and very overt stylized weaponry to standard colony markings. They are additions or alterations that are unique to mercenary groups and may read as “flamboyant” or “aggressive” because they are noticeably different in appearance to Hierarchy turians. This is more or less on purpose, and is a bit on the taboo side. One does not wear these additions or draw their markings in these styles without genuinely belonging to one of these groups -- the patterns are not easy to reproduce correctly or in the right places, and they are generally a source of stigma in Hierarchy basic training.

[1] Sand-bath - How you clean a turian when water is scarce and everyone has to share it.

[2] Draw and fire from retention - The shooting-sports specific term for “shooting from the hip.” Kinda. This breakdown of a scene from Collateral, one of my all-time favorite Michael Mann films, will give you an idea. All of the referenced gun techniques are also more or less real, and lining up your body posture so that it helps with aiming and putting the rounds where you want them to go is a real thing. Nihlus has a great deal of practice in shooting as self-defense and was training alongside professionals from a young age. Going to the range is one of his hobbies (but not mine, I’m lame and that’s loud).

[2] Triginta Petra - A canon Mass Effect world that is a dustball home to hardscrabble turian farmers. Kavala Kryik’s family were some of the first colonists and they’ve been scratching a living from the surface since she was nine years old. They are very proud of this fact, since it gave them opportunities they wouldn’t have had on their native Oma Ker (also a canon turian world).

[2] Laskaris - Nihlus’s mother’s original family name. Kavala Laskaris. While I don’t have any particular headcanon about whether or not turians do the whole ‘changing surname’ thing when they marry or pair off or whatever, Kavala really liked both the alliteration and the overall aesthetic. Joked with Inaros Kryik, her husband and Nihlus’s father, that she only married him for his pretty colony markings.

[2] Lupulin - Literally, hop acids and the essential oils that you get from ‘hoppy’ beer. A direct reference to hops (Humulus lupulus) and brewing, because why not? Actually is a mild sedative and produces a bit of a chemical high.

[2] Stiletto - A pistol from Haliat armory (turian weapons manufacturer).

[2] Blooded sickles - Worn only by mercenaries who are full / fighting members of Falx or their direct allies. Batarians have their own culturally-coded marks, some of which have been adopted and/or adapted by their turian members as embellishments to colony markings. I HC that newer “commercial” groups like the Blue Suns and Nyreen’s Talons, without a shared cultural background, are imitating this style of marking rather than the other way around. Merc-born turians with old-style batarian trade connections tend to recognize each other through these symbols, which are used most often outside of Council space (i.e. the Terminus Systems and the Attican Traverse).

[2] Pillars of Strength - Canon batarian religious artifact. I treat them as a text or a particular philosophy that values free will and independent action as the signifiers of ‘strength.’ While I don’t have a fleshed out or specific HC for what the ‘tenets’ are, I do know that slave implants are treated as anathema.

[3] Struthious - A reference to Earth ostriches. Some kind of chicken-like prey animal that turians like to cook and eat. Mostly because the thought of Nihlus running around like a chicken to entertain his sisters made me laugh.

[4] Cutter - Bigger than a personal clipper and better armed, with living space for a crew. They come in various sizes and are smaller than frigates.

[4] Cup of mourning - A turian funerary ritual. On Taetrus, performed with a distinctive form of dark ale. Different colony groups have different cultural traditions.

[4] Thalia, Tomyris, and Traian - Nihlus’s three turian siblings. Thalia and Tomyris are his younger twin sisters. Traian is the youngest and his baby brother. While they’re only hinted at in this fic, I do plan to make some references to them in the Air Needing Light arc at some point. There’s also a chance they’ll get their own short!fic appearances.

[4] Hierarchy military grants - A HC pool of money that the Council races put up to fund large-scale basic training for anyone (turian or another client race) completing compulsory citizen service.

[5] Talons and suns - Generic references to other symbols that are common incorporations for mercenary groups. I HC that these were adopted and color-coded by the Blue Suns and the Talons rather than conceptually created by them!

[5] Fuck the cause, we’ll die for a drink! - Profane versions of the turian Hierarchy anthem are popular drinking songs among the merc-born. If it’s a patriotic and well-known song, you can pretty much guarantee turian mercenaries have parodied it. Awkward for colony-born squadmates who find these renditions hilarious and catchy—but also a little horrifying.

[6] Optio Sideris, 85th Atrax Legion, Fifth Cohort Operations Section - A one-off turian Blackwatch OC I may bring back in another fic at some point because I ended up liking her. The Hierarchy military organization borrows from the HCs I use for the Air Needing Light AU: 85th Atrax Legion is a joint special forces organizing legion made up of six cohorts. The 5th Cohort is informally known as Blackwatch, while the “Operations Section” is a generic term used by intelligence operators. Optio is a mid-tier leadership rank.

[6] Batarian body language - Batarian language and manners are highly dependent on physical cues according to the Mass Effect canon. I took this one step further with a HC that Nihlus is essentially a native speaker of turian-adapted gestures that translate successfully into batarian social patterns. This physical vocabulary is most refined and most present in culturally batarian mercenary and trading groups with a strong history of turian association and recruitment. While older turians can learn and approximate the gestures, they are best learned and absorbed in childhood. Nihlus “speaks” a form of gestural batarian that places him as a native of the Terminus Systems.

[6] Interrogating batarian prisoners - No torture involved! Optio Sideris trains Nihlus in a more practical form of intelligence gathering that involves building rapport, establishing trust, and remaining consistent. Even pirates or smugglers who would not normally give information to a Hierarchy patrol flotilla can be convinced to—if not speak—occasionally offer hints about the locations and activity of slavers. Nihlus is notable for actually being conversant in traditional batarian moral interpretations of the Pillars of Strength, as well as being able to walk the fine cultural line between guarded respect and abject deference.

[6] Merc Red - Nihlus’s batarian nickname among the patrol flotilla’s prisoners. A sign of individual respect, since it contains no profanity and is just blandly descriptive.

[7] Broken weapons - A traditional sign of thanks between two non-allied mercenary groups when one has agreed to truce terms. Mostly symbolic.

[7] Tattoos - The permanent marking method of choice when turians are full-grown and have developed a strong preference for the color and personal style of their colony markings. Nihlus decides on a complex ‘full-crest’ Taetran colony pattern embellished with Falx blood sickles. This is more or less him being loud and proud about both his colony origins and his mercenary background, as well as putting them on an even footing by tattooing the entire pattern: mercenary symbols and all.

#mass effect #nihlus kryik #my headcanons #my writing #air-needing-light #long post #fanfiction #nihlus kryik headcanons

11 notes · View notes

the-melting-world · 4 years

Text

A Stranger Aura

This fic came about when I discovered @forgedarcana and their apprentice Malon Almasi! It didn’t take long for me and my own apprentice to fall in love with this sweet gremlin. Take a look at how they first meet!

~ 2200 words

A Stranger Aura

In which a humble gardener meets a feral wanderer… .

Despite how unpopular it would make her among the other merchants, the innkeeper was determined to smoke out her communal fireplace by the end of the afternoon. She was convinced that it was the only way to purge her establishment of the family of bats that had taken residence there.

Kipling Bronne absorbed this information along with other gossip highlights as she arrived for weekly upkeep. She had eleven storefronts to cover. Her potted arrangements were looking a little more overgrown than usual. Some even had leaves that were glistening with sap. Not poisonous or uncommon, but also not particularly appealing to the city dwellers as they went about their errands.

Kipling took in the sorry state of her plants and groaned internally as her mind generated a lengthy to do list. She really had her work cut out for her.

The block was busy that day. And so was Kipling if anyone took the time to notice. Yet it kept none of the gossipy merchants from interrupting her often and baptizing her ears in the latest scoops whether she invited them or not.

“Kip, have you been by Little Brother’s yet?”

Little Brother. The innkeeper, who happened to be large-boned, robust and a widow, but nicknames were sticky, stubborn things. For the fourth time that morning, Kipling heard about Little Brother’s pest control problem and her radical solution.

“I mean, don’t you think that’s inhumane, Kip?”

Kipling briefly turned away from her work to offer a look of consideration. “I think Little Brother’s customers are tired of hatchlings wandering from the nest and falling in their soup.” She also thought the other businesses thrived off the innkeeper’s unhappy tenants, but she plastered a smile over that little sentiment.

As the day dragged on, the interruptions did not slow down. Kipling could only rely on her familiar’s steady chittering and encouraging ear nibbles to keep her focused as much as possible.

However, as the gardener worked her way further down the street, she noticed that her pygmy lemur grew more and more antsy. Taro was already a lively companion. Add a dash of neurosis on a day like this and it really sent Kipling’s nerves spiraling.

“Taro,” She finally huffed, “what is the matter with you?”

Taro whimpered and bounced around Kipling’s ankles. Usually she could tolerate the lemur’s sporadic bouts of mania, but it was very hot and she wasn’t in the mood. Work was tedious, and the damn shop owners kept bothering her, and —

“Kipling! Might I have a word?”

The inquiry snapped Taro out of her neurotic rain dance. She scrambled so fast onto Kipling’s shoulder that it made the gardener sway on her feet.

The newcomer steadied her and asked if she was all right. Clearly they were not going to leave, so Kipling affected yet another friendly smile and said, “Can I help you?”

The shopkeeper wrung their hands and threw a glance at the intersection off to the right. Kipling followed their nervous gaze, but saw nothing amiss in the throng of passerby.

“Don’t you see that?”

Kipling narrowed her eyes. “See what?”

The shopkeeper steered her gaze with their finger. “That. Coming back this way right now.”

Taro chittered again with sudden urgency.

Kipling saw what the shopkeeper was talking about. A Vesuvian to be sure, but walking with a strange gait, like a cross between a raptor and a toddler. With a walk like that combined with those bright, shifty eyes, it had the potential to put people on edge.

“I don’t know what manner of vagrant she is, but she’s been prowling the intersection for the past three days.” The merchant threw their hands in the air. “I can’t figure out what she wants! She won’t buy anything. Whenever someone tries to talk to her, she barks. Once she even hissed at me!”

Kipling fought to stifle a laugh. Yes, the lurker was odd, but otherwise she seemed harmless.

“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

The shopkeeper fixed her with a desperate gaze. “I was wondering, would you mind maybe just seeing if you can get through to her? Make her go away? Or encourage her to buy something at least. Anything would be better than haunting the crossway like this.”

Kipling tried to think of a polite way to decline when Taro suddenly bolted from her shoulder.

“Taro, no!” She hastily threw her work tools in her satchel and took off after the purple lemur. It was too hot and crowded to be chasing anything, let alone something so small and fast. And what do you know? Her familiar was headed straight for the wild eyed vagrant.

Taro was already coiled around the wanderer’s shoulders by the time Kipling caught up. Thankfully they were off in a spot outside of the foot traffic. It was shadier there. The road tapered off into a more natural setting. Further in were clusters of trees and beyond that a sparsely wooded glen.

As Kipling approached, she was able to get a better read on Taro’s new friend. The closer she got, the more she was confronted by a rather unique aura. Gauzy and yellow – a feral essence. Almost exclusively so. Rare for a Vesuvian. Most tended to be elementals or some manner of seer.

The limbs of the stranger’s magic stretched far, but flailed from a lack of practice. Kipling wondered if the carrier even knew what she was capable of. The stranger was now letting Taro groom her and . . . grooming the lemur in return.

Taro was not the kind to jump on people she didn’t know, so Kipling wasn’t really sure how to go about this. Not only did she have to ask for her familiar back, but she also had to find a way to tell the stranger to run along – that she was scaring the poor shopkeepers.

The stranger and Taro carried on, only vaguely aware of Kipling’s presence. That was okay, she still hadn’t worked out the details of what she wanted to say. Plus she was still studying the vagrant and weighing her appearance against the presence of her wild aura. She was tall enough that Kipling had to look up, which happened often because from her point of view everyone was tall, no matter what was considered standard.

Kipling registered skin that was baked by sunlight and colonized by an army of freckles. Lastly, the stranger had a youthful mop of dark hair and a scar on her lip that gave the illusion of an errant fang. Kipling wouldn’t have been surprised if the shopkeepers had dismissed it as such.

Despite Kipling’s proximity, those bright eyes kept flitting about, fixating on pretty much anything and everything.

“Uh,” Kipling was about as close as she dared to approach. “Hi. Sorry about that.” She gestured to Taro. “She doesn’t usually jump on people’s heads.”

The stranger regarded her briefly, so fast she almost missed it. “It’s okay. Taro is really good at finding ticks.”

Taro chirped appreciatively.

Kipling blinked. “How . . . ? How did you know her name was Taro?”

The wandering gaze settled. “She told me.” She said it like it was the only natural answer.

Given her sunny aura, Kipling wasn’t surprised. She narrowed her eyes at her familiar, but relaxed her shoulders a little. “What else did she tell you?”

The stranger giggled. “That you’re called Kipling.” Then she shot out a long arm. “I’m called Malon. Or Mal if you want.” The way she pronounced her own name came out like a yawned mewl. It made her wonder if that’s why the shopkeepers mistook her for something primal.

Kipling smiled. “Hi, Mal. You can just call me Kip.” As she shook Mal’s hand she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do more – hug this feral being or simply give her a bath.

Taro whined in protest as Kipling pried her from Mal’s curly mop. “So, I have to ask. What exactly are you doing out here?” Not happy with the way that came out, she added, “I mean, is there a reason why you keep going back and forth along this street?”

Mal’s gaze was back to wandering, and this time she was sniffing the air. “Do you know what panic dreaming is?”

Bewildered, Kipling said that she had never heard of it.

Mal gave a curious grunt. “Hm. I’ve been wondering why it’s so loud over here.” And when it seemed that her answer was not going to evolve beyond that, Kipling tried a different approach.

“Are you,” she paused, trying to choose her words wisely, “looking for food?”

Mal grinned and reached for Taro. “I can find my own food. See?” She extracted a tick with ease and popped it into her mouth.

For a moment Kipling was struck with disbelief, but it didn’t last long before she burst into laughter.

“That is . . . impressive.” And she meant it.

Maybe it was the heat or the boredom of the day’s tasks, but Kipling found Mal’s atypical behavior strangely liberating.

Even though she had Taro back, she wasn’t ready to leave. And she noted that Mal had chosen to stay where she was though there was nothing holding her back from prowling the storefronts again.

Kipling paused in her thoughts. The stores.

She sobered and said, “Mal? Could you come with me? I think I might know how to help you.”

When Mal cocked an eyebrow at her, Kipling reached for her hand and added, “With eh . . . the noises you’ve been hearing. Panic dreaming, right?”

At that Mal relaxed and wordlessly allowed Kipling to guide her through the intersection. The shopkeeper that had asked for Kipling’s help watched on with eyes that begged her to quit leading Mal further and further into the plaza. But she ignored all of the judgemental stares until she reached the door of the innkeeper.

“Little Brother,” she called once they were inside, “I think I found the answer to your pest problem.”

Kipling’s instincts were right. Mal’s feral aura was strong enough that it gave her the ability to not only communicate with, but also draw animals to her. She was like a beacon for the colony of bats in Little Brother’s chimney. The whole market was completely awestruck as dozens of bats teetered across the cobblestones on all fours, marching blindly in Mal’s wake towards the woods. Kipling and Taro followed close behind, careful to watch out for any strays that might wander off in the wrong direction.

Once they reached the shade of the trees, the bats opened their eyes and properly flocked to a small, but conspicuous cave. When Mal and Kipling caught up with them, Mal strolled into the cave and peered around.

“Didn’t know this was here until they showed me. Cool.” She made herself comfortable in the mouth of the cavern, almost as if it belonged to her. Kipling also noticed how Mal’s aura seemed more relaxed than before, tamer even. Her gaze still traveled, but in reflection as opposed to fruitless searching.

Kipling held Taro against her chest and scratched behind her ears. “Aren’t you coming back? I’m sure the shopkeepers won’t mind having you around now.”

Mal shrugged and shook her head. “Nah. I like it here.” She exhaled. “It’s quiet.”

Kipling didn’t feel right about leaving her new friend here alone in a cave of bats and who knows what else.

“Do you have any plans for dinner?”

Swinging her bare feet and bobbing her head to some imaginary drum, Mal pointed to the ceiling of sleeping bats and declared, “I’ll just have whatever they’re having.”

Kipling glanced up and grimaced. Crickets and cave worms? I don’t think so.

But she realized that she wouldn’t get anywhere with the mother hen approach. So she tried another.

Kipling gathered Taro close and whispered, “Guess what we’re having, girl? That’s right! Glazed salmon. Your favorite.”

The mere mention of the dish activated Taro’s excitement. Kipling knew that Mal wouldn’t be able to ignore the lemur’s projection of all of those sensory delights.

For once Mal stopped wiggling her toes and looking around. She went absolutely still and fixated Kipling with a gaze so direct and an energy so concentrated that it practically tickled.

“You’re really going to feed me?”

Kipling granted herself silent applause as she nodded and held out her hand. Instead of taking it, Mal popped to her feet and rushed forward.

Kipling squeaked as Mal fastened a pair of wiry arms around her and hoisted her off the ground.

“The bats,” she said, “told me to thank you.”

Kipling suddenly became aware of Mal’s scent of lingering campfires. It stirred some sad ache on the inside when she sensed the solitude underneath. She surrendered to the embrace, leaning her head against Mal’s and breathing in more old firewood.

“You did all the work. I just showed you the way.”

It was getting late and Kipling wanted to go home. She attempted to disentangle herself so they could leave this creepy cave, but the beast whisperer had other plans. Kipling made another ungraceful sound as Mal spun around and hoisted her onto her back. Taro made herself comfortable on Mal’s head and chirped authoritatively.

Mal said as she marched forward, “Kip, you should get some rest. Taro can show me how to get there.”

It hadn’t occurred to Kipling that the shifty-eyed vagrant had picked up on her fatigue. She was tempted to say that she wasn’t tired, but she had a feeling that Mal would know better than to fall for that.

#kipling the apprentice #malon the apprentice #they are so cute #i think this is the start of a sweet friendship #and we cannot forget about taro #malon babe #kipling babe #the arcana #the arcana fanfic #my writing #fan apprentice #fan apprentice fic #kip of cups #🍵

12 notes · View notes

antiquatedfuture · 4 years

Text

Zine Care Packages (Antiquated Future Spring Newsletter)

What a challenging time. Things have felt pretty bleak and I debated about whether to send this spring newsletter a lot, but friends convinced me we're all in need of good news. If nothing else, I want to say two things: 1) We'll still be shipping orders (with plenty of hand-washing and sanitizing) several times a week. 2) While we always appreciate and need your financial support, we'd also like to offer the resources we have to any of you who are having a hard time.

In short: We're offering free zines (and tapes and books) to anyone who's currently struggling financially, mentally, or physically right now. No need to tell us details, just email and say "I'd like a package," and we'll send one your way. Let it be a surprise or make a list of what you'd like and we'll send you what we can. Feel free to spread the word to your friends and community through our Facebook or Twitter posts. It's not much, admittedly, but hopefully it's something.

In more general distro news: we have a few more calendars & planners in stock (and very very on sale), we’ve been restocking things as much as we can, and we accidentally left up our temporary store-wide cassette sale (that also includes a decent handful of LPs and CDs) as well as our zine sale on select titles. We also just posted a newsletter from the record label side of Antiquated Future. We're currently lending some small financial assistance to Portland writer Martha Grover as she recovers from a brain surgery by selling a fundraiser pack of her Somnambulist zine. And if you're in the Portland area, we're helping do porch deliveries of food, baby supplies, and various resources. Please reach out if you'd like one or you know someone in need.

NEW ZINES Antonia- A rare, almost-sublime zine about place, memory, and lost history. About the ways things change and stay the same. About how the place you're from shapes who you become. About growing up in a small Midwestern town without a zip code, a place not on most maps. ($5) Behind the Zines #9: A Zine About Zines- The latest issue of newest best zine about zines around. Within: the evolution of DIY comics culture, zine-fest history, imagined zines, One Punk's Guide to collaborative zines, a history of that one Crimethinc poster, The Most Unwanted Zine, confessions of a sex-zine zinester. Contributions from our own Gina Sarti, as well as John Porcellino and so many others. ($3) Brainscan #34: A Dabbler's Week of DIY Witchery- In the wake of the controversy surrounding a recent viral article about spending a week "becoming a witch," Alex considers what her guide to a witchcraft practice would look like. The results are a day-by-day guide to trying out her particular variety of secular witchcraft (that she lovingly refers to as "DIY witchery"). ($4)

Caboose #12: Jury Duty- A personal story of serving as a juror on a medical malpractice suit. As usual, Liz Mason's playful, endlessly curious take on the world makes this a ride worth taking. A peek into the court system through the eyes of this long-running zine-star. ($4) Clock Tower Nine #15- One of our favorite Seattle zines is back with tales from the record store counter, long walks in various locales, dangerous doppelgängers, and 8-track tapes. As Clock Tower Nine ringleader Danny Noonan describes it in the introduction: "This fanzine is like a bunch of people sitting around a fire in late fall, all taking turns telling a story." ($3) Cometbus #59: Post-Mortem- How does Cometbus, after 38 years as a zine, just get better and better? It's a mystery, but it does. Issue 59 is a deep dive into both death and longevity in the underground. In short: what does sustainability look like in counterculture? This question takes Aaron on a journey from the Epitaph Records and Thrasher magazine offices to hanging out at a punk-owned vegan donut shop and a tamale stand at the farmer's market with Allison Wolfe (of Bratmobile). ($5)

Doris #23- A back-issue fave from one of the best zines ever. Long personal stories that look both outward and inward in surprising ways. ($2) Doris #26- Shy-punk-girl comics, social ecology, the cynical hour, a grandpa who built malls, hammer and nail history, and more. ($2) Eulalia #3- Two issues of the art zine Eulalia in one. Grief and romance, hand-in-hand. Gorgeously designed! Letterpress-printed covers. Each issue is bound with a special do-si-do binding, so each half can be read separately. ($10) Fluke Fanzine #17- Since 1991, Fluke has been creating great variety zines covering all realms of punk and underground culture. Graphic novelist Nate Powell, skateboard magazine historians, Maximum Rocknroll, R.E.M., '90s women-led punk, the Soophie Nun Squad family tree, more. ($3)

Forever & Everything #5- Comics on parenting, depression, coffee, therapy, alcohol, Willie Nelson, Charlie Brown, and living in New Orleans. ($5) Good Days Gone Cold Days- A photography zine/art zine made while living and working in "a house without heat, without doorknobs, and without much insulation or electricity to speak of" for a late fall in western Pennsylvania. Comes with homemade bookmark, building permit, and banjo tab. ($12) Keep Loving, Keep Fighting #8- A reprint of this 2008 issue of Keep Loving, Keep Fighting. Forty pages of feeling at home in New Orleans, communication between friends, death, visiting Montreal, and moving away. ($5)

Learning Good Consent- An essential compilation zine about consent. From personal stories to worksheets, approaches, definitions, resources, and beyond, Learning Good Consent is here to help us all feel more comfortable and be more respectful. ($4)

Little Leagues #1- The companion comics scrapbook to Simon Moreton's epic Minor Leagues series. Prose, comics and photos about being in Japan, making chutney, experiencing autumn. ($3) Little Leagues #2- Comics about being in the snow. Drawings and photos of spring. A fold-out cover with facts about lesser-spotted dogfish. ($3) Our Lady of Near Death Experiences- Jodi Darby writes about becoming a cross-country truck driver as a 23-year-old woman in the mid 1990s. A mini-memoir told in vignettes, Our Lady is a twisted love song to the road in all its complexities. A gorgeous reprint of this zine classic from 1998. (And we have the last few copies before it goes out of print!) ($10)

The Paruretic #1: The Story of a Guy Who's Pee Shy- The first issue of one of our favorite new zine series. The Paruretic tells what the intricacies and complexities of life with parusesis, the social phobia of being pee shy. Illuminating, accessible, and worth reading every issue. ($2)

The Paruretic #2: The Story of a Guy Who's Pee Shy (College)- In this issue, Mark recalls figuring out the debilitating effects of his bladder issues when he goes to college and, for the first time, navigates living in dorms, drinking at college-town bars, and hooking-up. ($3)

The Paruretic #3: The Story of a Guy Who's Pee Shy (Vacation)- In this issue: searching out acceptable bathrooms while on the road, not urinating for ten hours while in the air, and a bathroom-by-bathroom diary of experiences. ($3) The Paruretic #4: The Story of a Guy Who's Pee Shy (The Search for Help)- In this issue, Mark reaches out, looking for help, and is met with a less-than-sympathetic medical system. Within: clueless medical professionals, almost losing a job over a urinalysis, and finally finding someone who understands. ($3) The Paruretic #5: The Story of a Guy Who's Pee Shy (Dating)- The dating issue covers how Mark handled (or avoided handling) dating in high school and college. It's a chronicle of, as Mark says, "how my shy bladder has driven every part of my love life." ($3)

Somnambulist Zine Pack Fundraiser- For the past 17 years, Portland memoirist and illustrator Martha Grover has been publishing Somnambulist zine, an expansive and playful look at the world at large (and easily one of the best zines running today). This pack includes all nine in-print issues of Somnambulist (a $40 value for $25!). All proceeds go straight to Martha's brain surgery recovery fund. Help a great writer, get nine amazing zines. ($25) Somnambulist #33: How to Survive the Portland Winter- A fun how-to guide from Portland-born writer Martha Grover. Within: dealing with all the rain, taking care of your mental health, venturing out, staying in, eating soup (with recipes!), and the truth about umbrellas. Illustrated by Liz Yerby. ($5)

Somnambulist #34: The Starfish- A single, long-form essay about Martha's journey through Cushing's disease and Addison's disease, and the lingering tumor she's chosen to not demonize or see as something separate. The Starfish is a surprising and exciting meditation on what it means to be in a body. ($3) Surely, They'll Tear it Down- A short zine letter about gender, race, identity, and not-knowing from the author of Fixer Eraser and We, the Drowned. ($2) Tattoo Punk Fanzine, Issue 3- A jam-packed new issue of Tattoo Punk, the fanzine about tattoos, punks, and tattooed punks. Edited by Ben Trogdon of everyone's favorite artsy punk paper, Nuts! ($15) Valentines Every Day- Weirdo anytime-valentines from zine-seller extraordinaire, Julie Wade. Funny, bizarre, off-kilter, occasionally unsettling. The perfect gift for that especially-odd someone. ($6) What Happened- A dreamy comic from UK artist Simon Moreton. Set in a '90s boyhood of meadows, sci-fi VHS tapes, MTV, crushes, first kisses. ($5)

NEW BOOKS & MISCELLANY The Collected Plays by Portland Preschoolers- In short: One of our favorite little books around! A modern classic, even. Five years of collected plays written by Portland, Oregon preschoolers. Hilarious, invariably bizarre, oddly brilliant, sometimes surprisingly profound. Perfect for putting out on the coffee table, reading aloud to friends, impromptu group performances. ($10) Four-Year Depression- A book about figuring out how to love your family in the Trump era. From Billy McCall of Proof I Exist and Behind the Zines. ($10) Zine Game- A long-time favorite in the zine community, now in a fancy, professionally-made version accessible to all game lovers. Playing like a cross between canasta and Magic: The Gathering, Zine Game is all about building your own zines. A really fun time with tons of possibilities. ($16)

NEW MUSIC & SPOKEN WORD Alice Notley "Live in Seattle"- An LP of one of the most adored living poets. Alice Notley pushes boundaries, and it's an absolute joy to hear her reading her work. (LP + digital download) ($16.95) Annelyse Gelman & Jason Grier "About Repulsion"- A collaboration between poet Annelyse Gelman and sound artist Jason Grier. About Repulsion mixes songs, sampled poems, textural walls, beats, noise, to create this EP of one-of-a-kind soundscapes. (LP + digital download) ($16.95) Eileen Myles "Aloha / Irish Trees"- The legendary poet Eileen Myles, on vinyl for the first time. Aloha/Irish Trees features nearly an hour of Myles live in the studio, reading past and present poems. Intimate, playful, raw. (LP + digital download) ($16.95)

Harmony Holiday "The Black Saint and the Sinnerman"- Harmony Holiday's record of poems and sound collage. Adventurous and accessible, twisting cultural images into something surprising, political, socially aware. In conversation with Charles Mingus’ classic 1963 album The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady. (LP + digital download) ($16.95) Rae Armantrout "Conflation"- Fifty-four surprising and gloriously unique poems from Rae Armantrout, a Pulitzer-winning poet of great gifts. (LP + digital download) ($16.95) Susan Howe & Nathaniel Mackey "Stray: A Graphic Tone"- Made in collaboration with Shannon Ebner, Stray: A Graphic Tone juxtaposes historic and recent material from poets Susan Howe and Nathaniel Mackey. An adventurous LP of spoken word delights. (LP + digital download) ($16.95)

Stay well, take care of each other as much as possible. Xo, Antiquated Future

#zine distro #new zines #zines #chapbooks #spoken word #vinyl #new lps #new books #care packages #zine care packages #free zines #portland

6 notes · View notes

scaredofthebasement-blog · 5 years

Text

When Love Walks In - Chpt 18

Chpt 18 - Auston Negotiates with Dr Quinn & Dr Quinn Reveals ‘So Much’

2281 Words

Dr Quinn reads Auston’s apology and feels the need to explain herself, “No Auston, I am the only one who owes an apology. I am so sorry that I did not come to see you last week. There are no excuses really which is why I didn’t give any. But if you would like to know part of the reason I didn’t come by I can tell you.”

“Yes, please.” Auston writes.

“Okay, as well as the off-site medical conference, I had meetings for a new education project I’m heading up with a couple of Universities and you know I recently got a life and went on a couple of dates. But, I assure you that I was checking on you, through Dr Wright. Unfortunately, Dr Wright neglected to mention that you were struggling emotionally. Auston, I would have made it a priority to come see you if I knew you were having a tough time.”

“Thank you”, He writes.

“I never want to let a patient down. I am so, so sorry.” She adds.

Let a patient down? Is that all I am to you? He mopes.

“I get it.” He writes, keeping his disappointment to himself.

“You said part of your reasons for not coming, but what are the other reasons?” He dares to ask.

“Oh Auston, …um…Auston I’d prefer not to get into that if you don’t mind”, She tells him.

What the hell is she referring to? I need to know! Is she conflicted? Does she have feelings for me? Did she figure out I have feelings for her? Fuck! Whoa! Be patient Man! It’s okay. You’re playing the long game. If she is conflicted, has feelings or has issues with us, then it’s best that they are not acknowledged right now when there is still more work to be done to heal me. I better not open that can of worms. He advises himself.

“No problem”, he writes.

Thrilled to be able to change the subject Dr Quinn asks, “So, Auston, did you have a chance to get that assignment done that I gave you?”

“Yes. I asked Alex to look after my social media. She’s working on it.”

“Great! Did you pick someone you’d be willing to talk with?” Dr Quinn asks.

“Yes.”

“Ha, Auston! You’re as evasive as I am. Can I ask who?”

“Ha! Yeah, I’m trying to be as mysterious as my doctor.” He looks up and winks at her joking.

“He’s a man I consider to be a second father to me. His name is Patty Marleau. He’s a retired Hall of Fame hockey player. We played together during some of my earliest years in the NHL and he’s been a mentor to me. He lives in California now”, He writes.

“Oh, great Auston! Have you reached out to him yet?”

“No. I want to wait till I can talk”, Auston writes.

“Oh, okay. I see. I understand. I can see how that would be ideal.” Dr Quinn realizes.

She looks at Auston, and he laughs at her. He gives her a smart ass look like ‘ya think?’

She laughs at herself. “Sometimes I forget that you can’t talk so you’ll have to forgive me. I was telling Dr Wright earlier that I am amazed at how well I’ve got to know you without you ever having said a word.”

“Are you surprised by that, Doctor? What about babies and dogs and other pets? You can get to know them without them speaking a word.” Auston writes, calling her out with his reasoning.

Dr Quinn takes the opportunity to tease Auston. “Are you comparing yourself to a dog or a baby, Auston? Is that what you’re actually comparing yourself to? Wow, Auston! Okay then, Auston, you’re like a puppy to me. I guess that’s it! That’s why I like you so much!”

As the words come out, she immediately realizes she slipped up. Oh, wha the Fuck did I just say? Whaaaaaa….The….Hellllllll? Quinnnnnnnn! Recover! Abort! She screams in her head.

Auston: Wow! Oh myyyyyyyyy Goooooooooooooddddddd!!!! Did I just hear her correctly? Oh myyyyyyyyyy Gooooooooodddddd! She likes me! ‘So much’!

“What did you just say?” Auston writes, clearly about to bubble over. He can hardly remember to breathe.

“Huh?” Dr Quinn is in a hot daze.

“The last thing. What was that you said?” He knows she won’t repeat it. He knows it was a slip-up.

“I don’t know; ‘you’re like a puppy to me’?” She plays dumb.

Wanting to push the issue but at the same time afraid of where it may lead at this point in their relationship as doctor and patient, he only gently teases, “No not that. The very last thing.” He can’t help his smirk.

She mumbles, “what do you athletes call it when you tease each other?”

“Sorry, what?” He writes confused.

“What’s the term for when athletes tease each other.” She asks again, only louder.

“Chirp?” He guesses.

He’s got her so rattled. She rambles. “I don’t know, but whatever the term is, I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not an athlete by my bad attempt at chirping. Can we just change the subject, please? There’s nothing good that can come from exploring that tidbit of information I just offered up on a plate, so let’s move on shall we? And yes, for the record, I think you’re a wonderful person, and anyone would agree so don’t tease me about it, Auston. Okay? It’s my observation. Let’s move on. Thank you very much.”

“OK”, he writes, clearly enjoying her revelation and the way it has made her so flustered and cute. He quickly adds drawings of four emoji happy faces, See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil and a Winky Face and turns them to face her.

“Auston! Enough! And where’s your sister anyways? She said she’d be back in an hour or an hour and a half at the latest.” She scolds him as she laughs at the mess she created for herself.

“It’s only been an hour Doctor Q.” Auston writes with a smile he can’t erase. He wipes his board dramatically and adds with a huge flourish of his marker, “So much!”

“Oh my goodness, Auston. You’re going to drive me to drink.” She jokes.

Auston bargains, daring to ask again, “In the meantime though, I know you said I could call you if I needed to talk or was feeling down. Does that mean you’ll be my Friend/Therapist?” He writes.

“I’m glad you brought that up, Auston. I was late for your procedure today because I was securing the very best therapist I know, Dr Moran. He is very busy but as a favour to me he is willing to come and see you when you are ready. He is really good, Auston! The best there is, in these parts anyway. I highly recommend him.”

“No. Thanks anyway. Not ready for that yet.” He writes to the point.

He continues to plot in his mind. You and I need to get to know each other better so a big ‘nope’ to that.

“Really Auston? He would be so much better than talking to a friend. He has a great reputation for helping people deal with life-changing accidents. As your doctor, I encourage you to use him as your Therapist.

Auston believes her. Sure this Dr Moran would be very helpful but I’m not giving up quality time with her by going to him. Maybe later.

“But right now, I really need someone, like a friend, to bounce things off of, and since we already know how to communicate and I trust and respect you, I was hoping it could be you? Plus you like me ‘so much’ right?” He writes teasing.

“Oh my gosh Auston! I’m never gonna hear the end of this am I?”

“Which? Me asking you to be my Friend/Therapist or me reminding you that you like me ‘so much’? Cause you’re right on both fronts. Never. Gonna. Hear. The. End. Of. Either. If you say no to Friend/Therapy, that is. But if you say yes, I’ll drop both. Pinky swear.” He writes and adds a winking emoji with its pinky up.

Dr Quinn can’t even laugh. She’s so lost in thought. She’s conflicted.

This is so not a normal request. What’s with this guy? Spoiled much? She thinks to herself.

When she doesn’t respond right away, he panics and writes, “Please don’t say no to Friend/Therapy! You promised you’d be there for me. Oh yes, I did just do that! I played the guilt card!”, he writes and adds a shocked emoji face.

“Friend-Therapy. That’s not even a thing! Eff!” She mumbles but can’t help but laugh at him. “You little Shi.!” She scolds him. “I hope you use this kind of stubbornness in your voice therapy, re-training and hockey games. Seriously, Auston. Wow!”

“Whaaaaa? What did my esteemed doctor almost say? I’ve got half a mind to report you to the Doctor Gods for almost swearing Dr Q.” He writes teasing, thoroughly pleased with the results of his creativity and sticktoitiveness.

Auston thinks: she’s so fun to tease!

He knows he’s putting both himself and her in a very awkward position. But he just can’t stop himself. It would mean everything to him if he could talk with her every day for long periods of time.

“Auston, I actually went out of my way to get you a top-notch Therapist and he will see you immediately despite a waitlist a mile long, but you want something you’re calling, ‘Friend Therapy’? With me? An unqualified Therapist. You’re kidding me? Right?

NO! Not kidding! I only want you! Why can’t you figure that out without me telling you that I’m crazy about you? Please, just go along with what I’m asking. He screams to himself in frustration.

Sensing he might not have her locked up, Auston now plays his last cards available, “No, I’m not kidding. I know what I need right now and it’s a friend to talk to that knows my situation, someone with whom I can communicate and someone that I trust. Those things are all you, Doctor Quinn. Like I said before, I don’t trust anyone knowing my shit. I have an image to protect, and if my insecurities or deficiencies become known to the public, it would be devastating. Do you understand?”

“Yes Auston, but this is a doctor who has taken an Oath to protect any information you give him.”

“I can’t risk it, Dr Q. I’m sorry. I appreciate you trying to help me by reaching out to him, but right now it’s you or nobody.” Auston writes appearing emotional.

She looks at him to see if he is serious or just bluffing. She shakes her head as if to say ‘well played my friend’.

“Okay, Auston, I will be happy to be an ear for you till you can speak with your friend, Patty or you are ready to see Dr Moran, whichever comes first. I will have to look at my schedule and try to come up with a time each day this week that I can come by and chat. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Okay?”

Auston is ecstatic. He maintains his cool though. “Thank you for considering it. I know how important your time is and wouldn’t ask without it being important.” He tells her hoping she’s not upset with him for pushing and appearing to be a bit of a spoiled brat.

“It is my pleasure, Auston. I know what you’re going through is very important. I trust that you know yourself very well and know what you need. I am sorry for giving you a hard time. I just want what is best for you. I’m not even qualified to be a Therapist, so just know that all you’ll be getting from me is the ‘Friend’ part.”

“You’re right, Doctor Quinn. I do know what is best for me. Thank you.” Auston writes.

And I’ll take the ‘Friend’ part of you, all day and every day till I leave this place, thank you very much! He cheers to himself.

“Well, I should be going now but will come by sometime tomorrow and give you a schedule so we can start chatting. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes. Thanks again. You made me feel better. I’ve been having a tough go recently.” He writes. After Dr Quinn has read it he wipes the board, writes something else and turns it upside down so she can’t see it.

“I’m sure, Auston. It kills me to see you hurting. I will do everything I can to help you. I’m so glad you’ve had this procedure now, and things are moving along. It’s getting exciting. We’ve almost got your breathing in order. Your voice is next. Then you're on your way. Very exciting!”

What’s ‘very exciting’ is I get to see you every day! Auston thinks to himself as he leans back to rest, very pleased with himself but exhausted.

“I’ll be sending a Nurse in to attend to you shortly. Please tell Alex I’m sorry I missed her return, but I will call her tonight.”

Auston smiles and lifts his hand to wave goodbye. Then he holds up his board for Dr Quinn to see what he wrote earlier.

“So much!” Is all it reads.

He smirks as she rolls her eyes, laughs and leaves the room.

“You’re a goofball, Bam Bam! Such a weirdo!” She calls out to him without turning around.

Auston: Yes! She likes me ‘so much’!

#auston matthews #auston matthews fanfiction #auston matthews imagine #auston #fanfiction #imagine #nhl #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #hockey #love story

47 notes · View notes